The prince swayed unsteadily as he sought for the necessary incantation that would cool his blood. Muttering under his breath as she, mistaking his behaviour for exhaustion, or worse, injury, leapt up to steady him. The deep valley of her cleavage bulged outward, threatening to escape her fashionably tight bodice as she struggled to hold him up. Vulkan closed his eyes in desperation as the milky white chasm swam before his eyes seeking to envelope and drown him.
"Oh no! are you wounded My Lord?" she gasped, her voice mellifluous despite her recent trial, "please sit down here, beside me, let me tend you."
Vulkan allowed himself to be seated and feigned fatigue whilst he brought his stampeding thoughts under control Thankful that his battle gear concealed the monstrous erection now forcing its inexorable way down his right thigh.
"You, er, mentioned the king, madam," said the prince at last, "would that be Leopold of Dashane by any chance?"
"Why yes it would, Leopold is my cousin," she trilled proudly, "and it will be my pleasure to present you to him at court, his gratitude for saving me from those unspeakable vermin will be boundless I assure you."
She held out her delicate, exquisitely manicured hand to him. "I am on my way to the king's keep from my husband's border lands," she confided, "I am the Countess Jessica; Lady in Waiting to the Princess Lilliphane – the king's beloved sister."
"Prince Vulkan of Janudor," he returned, enjoying the warmth of her soft fingers in his massive palm, "forever at your service My Lady." As reverently as possible he lifted her hand to his lips, resisting the almost overpowering urge to sink his teeth into her pretty, white knuckles.
The countess lowered her eyelids demurely, but not before he had seen the glint of naked desire flicker deep within the beautiful blue orbs. As she withdrew her hand from his, he felt her stroke her long nails against his palm in a gesture of lubricious over-familiarity. It would seem that the lady had not been too distressed at either, her recent ravishment, nor by the subsequent slaughter of her escort and erstwhile malefactors.
It was another two days slow travel to Leopold's keep. Vulkan smiled in contentment, things were beginning to work out nicely.
"As it happens I am on my way to Dashane myself," he said, "to compete in Princess Flamia's joust."
"Ahhh, I see, then you intend to fight for the little princess' hand in marriage."
"Indeed I do."
"Well, Flamia could hardly hope to have a more handsome, or valiant suitor now could she?" purred the countess as she solicitously dabbed the perspiration from Vulkan's overheated brow with her soft kerchief.
Vulkan was stirred by the sound of groaning coming from the wounded outside. He stepped down from the coach, retrieved his dirk from the body of the leader, and set about cutting the throats of those brigands unlucky enough not to have been killed outright. He noted with not a little surprise that the countess had stepped down behind him and that she watched intently at his shoulder as he slaughtered what remained of her attackers, nodding approvingly as the last man gurgled away his final breath.
"Not that one!" she called out quickly as Vulkan hoist a squealing, portly fellow up by the hair and raised his dirk to administer the coup de grace, "that is Henrik, my footman."
Vulkan let the servant go with obvious reluctance.
"He does not appear to be badly hurt," grunted the prince unsympathetically, "just a small hole in his shoulder and a bang on the skull by the look of him."
The prince slapped the servant on the back and pointed with the tip of his fearsome dirk at the countess' baggage strewn about the meadow.
"Pick up all that stuff and reload the coach," he barked, "and be quick about it, your mistress is anxious to be away from this place."
The servant scuttled off nodding obsequiously, his knees still wobbling as he realised how close the fearsome prince had come to cutting his throat by mistake.
"But Prince Vulkan, where are your men-at-arms?" asked the countess looking around the meadow in confusion.
"I have none Madame, what I did, I had to do single handed."
The countess glanced down again at the corpses of her attackers, raising her hand to her lips in a somewhat coquettish display of amazement.
"Oh my goodness," she breathed, "how very impressive."
Vulkan reclaimed his gear and tied his horse to the back of the coach, before climbing back aboard with the countess who immediately drew down the blinds.
Sensing him watching her she said, "the afternoon sun is so intrusive don't you think?"
As soon as the coach had resumed its slow, undulating way the countess suggested that Vulkan might like to be relieved of the burden of his armour.
"After all," she laughed gaily, "you seem to have slaughtered all of the local desperados, so there's little chance of us being disturbed again, is there?"
The prince readily agreed and sat back as the countess began to undo the many buckles and clasps that held his battle gear in place.
"I used to do this for my father when I was a little girl," she giggled as her nimble fingers dealt easily with the various puzzles.
"What about your husband?" asked Vulkan mischievously.
She met his eyes with equal mischief, "oh! the severe and upstanding seneschal, Count Maximilian of Baxendale, only allows his specially trained squires to touch his precious armour," she intoned, struggling to affect a deep, masculine baritone.
Finally, she pulled off the last piece of plate, the long, ornately tooled cuisse girding his right thigh. Her lovely face froze in disbelief for an instant, the heavy metal slipping from her fingers to clatter on to the floor as she stared at the unmistakable, snake-like bulge of his huge shaft stretching the suede of his breeches. The bulbous head was clearly outlined just above the knee where the constant weeping of his pre-cum had soaked through the soft hide.
"My God!" she breathed, trailing the tip of her index finger along his hardness, "are all the men of Janudor so handsomely endowed?"
Vulcan laughed derisively, "I hardly think so madam."
"Then I can count myself to have been doubly lucky today," the countess smiled somewhat tremulously. Nonetheless, her fingers went unhesitatingly to the fastenings of his padded under doublet.
"I must see you," her voice sounded trapped in her throat as she spoke, "all of you."
When she finally had him naked she sank down between his knees and assumed a position akin to worship in front of the throbbing cock-staff. Her finely chiselled nostrils flared as she breathed in his heavy, cloying redolence. After a full minute of the most intense inspection, the countess looked up into the satyr's slitted eyes, her expression one of complete, all consuming greed.
"My Lord, hear me," she whispered hoarsely, "all of my life I have been addicted to the flesh of strong men. I constantly crave the hardness of their cocks invading me over and over, endlessly violating every part of me, ravishing me," she paused to take a deep breath. Shivering as she continued, "In my mouth, my cunt and… my arse, but never even in my wildest dreams have I beheld such a wondrous monster as this. Use me, My Lord, fuck me, and plunder my deepest recesses. I want to be destroyed upon this noble beast. Spare me no scrap of pain for I crave that dark pleasure too and I swear upon all that I hold dear, that as long as you want me, I will be your truest and most faithful servant."
Slowly she bent her head and planted the softest of kisses upon the bursting purple glans, her small, pink tongue flickering out to lap off the weeping juice that was now beginning to run freely from his slit.
Vulkan groaned in ecstasy as the countess caressed him. His heavy balls squirmed together, bulging with many days' unused seed as she offered up her bosom to him. Willing him to rip the down the heavy satin bodice and liberate her aching breasts.
With an animalistic growl, the naked prince lunged forward, tearing the richly embroidered garments from her back. Buffeting her as she gamely fought to remain upright whilst he pulled her this way and that. She hissed with excitement as he tore away her soft white under things. Spreading her flawless thighs wide for him, her fine hands that had never known a days toil, hooked behind her knees as he pushed his face into her crotch to inhale the heavy musk exuding from her sex. Again, the Prince growled, the sound resonating deep in his belly, as he was able finally to throw the countess across one of the benches and close his avid mouth over her sex. Laving her, swirling his coarse tongue around in the rich effluvium coating the succulent, convoluted tissues.
The satyr slurped lewdly at the fragrant petals of her nether rose, gulping down her freely running juices and the still fresh spunk deposited at the entrance to her womb by the bandit chief. He speared her with his devil-like tongue, penetrating her far more deeply than could any normal lover by dint of the incredible changes the wizard had wrought upon his physiology. The Countess arched her back in abandon, her luscious mouth agape as she felt him invade her deepest recesses, his tongue curling and thrusting against her clitoral root. She shuddered as he plunged her into a racking orgasm that had her shrieking out like a common tavern whore whilst he feasted upon her like starving man.
Hardly had her wildly fluttering tummy ceased its spasms before the satyr was climbing between her thighs to bury himself into her molten sex channel in one titanic thrust. His powerful lunges compressing her belly and forcing the air out of her lungs in a great whoosh of breath. Thereafter, the helpless countess could only loll limply beneath him, her hands clutching claw like at his great biceps as he mauled and pinched her plentiful breasts. Battering at her groins mercilessly for what seemed like an age. Eventually discharging thick gouts of boiling cream into her more times than she could remember, her entire abdomen aching with an all consuming pain so sublime that her own orgasms came like sharp punches into her guts, making her bark out her gratitude in a series of harsh, wracking sobs.
Perched up top on the driver's seat the old footman, Henrik, tried to close his ears to the lycanthropic grunting and shrieking coming from the coach.
At first he had thought that his mistress was once again being raped, such was the commotion, but soon after it had started he had heard the unmistakable sounds of her pleasure and he could only shake his head in wonder at the excesses of the 'quality folk'.
Perhaps he should tell his master, Count Maximilian, once they had arrived safely at the keep he thought. But then, recalling the easy way Prince Vulkan had suspended him by the scalp, brandishing his great dirk in his face, he decided that perhaps he should keep his mouth shut. Miserably, he hunched his wounded shoulder against the coming night airs and silently cursed the prince who had forbidden him to stop driving for any reason whatsoever.
Hours later and sated with fucking for the moment at least, Vulkan decided upon a change of tack. He took up his dirk and cut away some of the decorative ropes that adorned the fancy interior and tied the ends to the grab rails above two of the windows. The free ends he tied around the countess' wrists, drawing her slender arms out and up so that she was suspended across the width of the coach. Just high enough so that she could not settle her rump on to the seat only inches below; forcing her to adopt an uncomfortable half crouch that soon had her legs muscles burning.
Whilst he worked on her bondage, the prince noticed that the countess could barely conceal a smirk of pleasure as he stretched her arms wide. Well, that was all right by him he thought, grinning malevolently into her flushed face, because she would be howling like a banshee before the night was done.