The beleaguered man cried out to the theatre, lost to his memories of what I’m suuuuurrreee was such a harrowing experience.
“Not just the men, but the women, and any child of enough age to show interest.”
The crowd gasped in shock. To be fair, I might have as well.
I was just too busy thinking about what his actual experiences would have been like, under the ‘predations’ of these ‘massive and ferocious northern women’.
Some parts of his story I knew to be worded to not sound too depraved before the audience of nobles and high society.
As if they were anything close to pure, or non degenerates.
Even I, a priestess and sister of sigmar, couldn’t make that claim.
I bore many blessings. My mind, my armour, my weapons, my status and station.
My body was no different. It never gave me any trouble in performance or in upkeep. My hair naturally grew out long and straight and vibrant black. My body was naturally tight, trim and fit, but my legs, buso-oh what the hell. My tits, ass, hips and thighs, each well larger around then my head, or even close to two of them, were enough to turn that elegance into eroticism.
Couple that with light facial features, good skin, plump lips and resting bedroom eyes, and you can get a good impression of me.
In my panoply, I can confidently state that I’ve definitely been the wet dream or fantasy of many men and boys, and some girls as well.
I’d like to also say I kept it pure, and never engaged in improper or ignoble activities, but I can’t do so honestly.
I’ve cavorted in brothels and improper districts and quarters. I’ve sold my body as a prostitute and even pretended to be a brothel wench or sex slave. I’ve serviced and screwed countless men and women of all ages and backgrounds under the guise of Lizzy, a scatter brained, fuck-mad whore who’s willing to do anything.
Some of those men and women were in this room with me.
The deception and the secrecy of betrayed vows adds excitement to an otherwise relaxing pastime and an exaggerated alter ego.
If a woman wants to let her hair down and feel more womanly, shouldn’t she be allowed to? So what if it involves acting like a harlot. It even brings in some extra cash on the side.
We’re all human. Even sisters of sigmar need a break.
I could feel the warmth grow in my abdomen, and forced my mind back on track.
Man, story, invasion.
Real story hidden behind dramatized version.
I barely even followed the recounting as I took the words in and compiled a more realistic version of his story.
Sitting in village, farming potato’s or having festivals or something peasants do in the rurals I guess.
Raiders from the north attack. These “tall, massive, overly feminine women”, whatever he means by that, pin them down and fuck them with “a strength, ferocity and devastating effect I’d never imagined before” and milked them dry.
These large women then take a good portion of the population away with them.
The survivors seek shelter in an, assumedly very jealous neighboring village to the south, before said village gets raided by the same forces.
So slavers. Big, sexually insatiable slavers. Making a concerted push into our lands.
Nothing that impressive, but a good chance to show off and get some political favors in court.
“Wow, I’m so sorry that the poor man had to go through all that without us there to protect him.” A light voice spoke next to me, so exceptionally genuine I almost laughed.
Aria Lacasca. Third something daughter to the noble house of Lacasca. A girl who, as she matured, lost practically all inheritance of actual titles and station important to the house very fast.
She was the definition of an airhead. Dreamy, unfocused, and so clearly vacant behind the eyes. Whenever she felt an emotion, it was displayed by her entire body loudly, half for the fact she simply didn’t have anything else going on in her skull to compete with it.
She was still a young girl of around seventeen to nineteen years of age. So, a woman, but not truly mature or an adult.
I’d genuinely have wondered how she’d have survived in the world with how little there was capacity for in her skull, if she were not a noble, nor a close companion of mine.
When her father learnt of her apprenticeship under me, he was shocked, but subtly relieved. Perhaps he thought I could train his absent minded daughter how to act or dress more appropriately.
It had taken all my authority to get her to hold her hands by her sides and off her body without permission. And frankly, I had no interest in changing anything else.
I gave a noncommittal answer I barely remember, and watched her turn back, looking her over out of the corner of my eye.
Whereas I was dressed in buckled up, thigh high leather platform heels, armoured in plate steel and made of tough leather with a velvet inlay, she wore the lower apprentices calf heels, and fine pink stockings up to her shapely thighs.
Her stiff, wavy skirt, despite its thick belt being sat as low on her hips as she could manage, barely managed to cover her crotch, and gave no attempt at covering a bit of her rounded backside, which was clad in some of the tightest, or skimpiest black panties I’d ever heard of outside a whorehouse.
In fairness, my own skirt was a couple fingers shorter, and utterly failed to reach the upper or lower portions of my own particularly large ass, but it was made of tight leathers, and sat more securely over a greater amount of ass, so my skirt technically was the more proper, despite leaving so much ass bare.
What’s someone going to do, accuse a sister of sigmar of adultery? Obscene.
I saw her flat stomach twitch, as she shifted her hips again in the seat. Unlike me, who’d elected to wear a more traditional armoured corset with an independent armoured brassiere of two plate cups attached by a low cut, shoulderless wrap of leather, she’d managed to keep her midriff entirely bare, with a thin, silken wrap around shirt that stopped a finger above her ribs, and had a wide, deep cleavage window that nearly reached that low itself.
It was so wide and low, I’d have no doubt those tits of hers would have bounced right out of there in a single step, were it not for the slightly undersized pink bra she wore. Indeed, the undergarment was mostly exposed, and did the lions work of giving her some pretense of modesty. It left much of her bust open to the air still, and hid no cleavage whatsoever.
But everything’s relative.
I could hardly claim better for my own, larger chest.
But I was a Sister of Sigmar, blessed by Sigmar himself and possessed of rights, stations and allowances. I had some…dalliances and habits, some might scorn, and perhaps used my body in ignoble or whore-like fashions.
But I wasn’t some harlot. I’m a priest of Sigmar.
Aria, on the other hand, was just an airheaded, slutty, noble, with a simple, one track mind ruled by emotions and desires. While I mascaraed and role-played a fuck-mad whore, she was a fuck-mad whore pretending at nobility and composure.
She was arguably the only friend I had in the noble courts of the capital I completely trusted.
She was the only one who knew the true extent of my prostitution habits, and the only one who I could be open about with them.
When I spent three days a week doing such things, she was often there to see me, so I had her swear she would never speak of it to anyone but myself. I kept that limit of three days selling myself, four days performing my duties as a priest, that my habit never overtake my job and duties.
But, in more recent times, where the stresses of my rank bore more heavily on me and I began visiting such establishments at the end of one, then two, then three of those days, as is only fair, I often found her in those rooms or alleyways, with the manic, glassy look of a woman who’s lost herself.
I’d imagine, had I not taken her in, she’d also spend Sundays in such places as well. But I refuse to tarnish such days with my habits, and as such, with hers. Sundays are for prayer, worship, and for trying to teach Aria her duties as a sister of sigmar one day.
Any physical contact or activities on that day were gentle, loving, and worshipful, between a priestess and her apprentice, and done in a loving and pious manner. Only fools and envious peasants call such things unholy or degenerate.
The rest of the days however, I was fine to let her do as she was compelled to do. Besides, between us, we made a considerable amount of wealth, even with what we were not paid, or what we paid to some to get them to fuck us.
We look physically attractive and enticing. Men will pay very good money to fuck us. Women will often pay even more, as extra incentive, as if we really need it.
I heard a soft whimper to my side and looked over. Aria was flushed, her eyes wet and plump lip bit. Her fists were balled on her thighs and gripped the lower hem of her skirt hard.
Her breathing was hard, and slightly ragged.
I felt a smile on my face. The denial she felt on those Sundays, despite my mercies and own compulsions, and even some of the artifacts I deemed acceptable to aid ones worship, often left her a quivering, needy mass.
The poor thing would normally be being spit roasted by a bunch of burly, muscular men by now.
I excused us from the prole’s prattling, and took her out of the theatre. She made an audible squelch against the seat when she stood.

She barely lasted out the door before she started pleading