Finally, a gangbang (or a foursome, depending on semantics) where the lady's in charge. The full story can be found here. Thanks for reading! I am immeasurably grateful for any and all feedback.
“So, what do you say?” Azar stared expectantly into his face, eyes wide and shining with excitement. Across from her, the young merchant twirled his fork over his plate, avoiding her eyes. His long, blonde hair glinted in the sunlight. Scattered around them, other couples sat at other tables. Their light, idle chatter floated over the castle courtyard. Banners fluttered on the battlements, on the tents in the courtyard, and the keep, colors dancing in the wind.
Every few minutes, a passing guard would waver on his route and take a deep breath, inhaling as if trying to absorb the cafe’s sights and smells. Each guard would carry on after a moment, green with envy. They ignored the rumbling in their stomachs and knowledge that cold bread and oily stew were the only rewards waiting for them. Instead, they doggedly continued their patrols, staring with keen eyes and sharp glares at the forest outside the castle walls. Azar watched them pass, one, two, three, as his silence stretched on. And on.
Finally, he cleared his throat. Leaning forward on her elbows, the heavy sleeve of Azar’s robe knocked the butter dish aside. It clanged against her goblet, making him flinch. He blushed, his face turning scarlet. He set down his knife and fork, sighing as they clinked against the china plate.
“Look…Azar.” Her face fell. “I’m honored that the King’s Pyromancer would choose me to be her, ah–”
“Consort.”
He swallowed and continued. “Y-yes, consort. I don’t know how long you’ve lived in Europe–”
“Three years.”
“But,” he glared at her, annoyed. “I’m not sure how well you’ve adjusted to our culture. We’re very serious about interpersonal relationships here. A relationship like the one you’re looking for takes time, especially in court. It’s not proper.”
He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You understand, don’t you?” Azar ground her teeth in response.
“I understand perfectly.” She stood, the feet of her chair scraping on the cobbles. Sparks flew from her fingertips, and the ruby on her neck glowed blood red. The merchant turned whiter than the tablecloth, staring up at her with wide, terrified eyes.
He stammered a few hasty apologies, but Azar was already gone. She turned on her heel and stomped into the castle, black robes swishing around her ankles. Servants pressed themselves to the walls as she passed, eyes following her warily. The glow from her tattoos and her jewelry washed over the walls, staining the stone red.
When she finally reached her chambers, her anger (and tattoos) had faded, replaced with disgust, bitterness, and a cramping ache in her thighs. There are too many stairs in this damn castle. Azar sighed and threw herself down on her bed, the straw in the mattress cracking beneath her. The thin fibers stabbed her in the back. Azar growled.
She leapt to her feet and stared at herself in the mirror, glaring at herself. Her reflection hadn’t changed since the last time she’d looked; she still had the same regal face, the same dark skin and gleaming ebony hair, the same charcoal-black robes embroidered with scarlet, the same bronze jewelry inlaid with rubies. The same full, voluptuous figure, hidden beneath black robes cloth and dark metal.
Her black eyes stared out of her face, tracing the barely-visible runes tattooed on her skin. Whenever she was upset, angry, or excited, they glowed…but right now they were just one shade away from her ebony skin. Azar sighed, blowing an errant strand of hair off her forehead.
“These Europeans,” she grumbled to her reflection. “They’re so reserved…limited. Marriage? Bah!” She slapped the mirror and stalked over to the window. She glared at the courtyard a hundred feet below, muttering to herself. “Every time I try to find a consort, the men are either married, ‘betrothed,’ or waiting for the ‘right person!’ Ugh.”
Seething, Azar hurled a fireball through the open window. The sphere of blazing magic smashed into an unfortunate pigeon, cooking it instantly. It fell into the courtyard, where it was devoured by the king’s hunting dogs. In less than a minute, the only remnant of its short existence was the scent of roast bird. Azar snorted and slammed the shutters.
“Is it too much to ask for sex every now and then? It seems like every other person I meet is determined to remain ‘chaste’ for the remainder of their lives.” With a sigh and a thud, she sat down on her chest of drawers. The handles clattered.
She pressed her palms to her temples, circling them in a vain attempt to stave off her incoming headache. “The King never mentioned his people’s attitude toward sex when he asked me to come to his court…if I’d known, I would never have traveled north.” She kicked the wall. “I haven’t had a decent fuck since I left the temple!”
Azar froze. “Temple. Magic. That’s it. Of course!” She could have cursed herself, if pyromancers learned curses. Scrambling down from the chest, she squatted in front of it, digging through the bottom drawer with wild fervor. Books clattered on the wall, runes and fragments of dragonebone ricocheted off the ceiling, and a carelessly flung pouch of powder landed in the brazier. The fire burst upward with a hiss, blazing bright blue and filling the room with smoke.
Ignoring the quickly-dwindling magical fire, Azar stood, holding a small, leather-bound book in front of her face. “Yes!” Bronze runes glittered on the pages as she leafed through it, skimming each one before continuing to the next.
“Pyrrhic Mother, no…Brimstone Acheri , definitely not…Fireballs? That’s a spell, not a spirit…” Azar paced in a circle, tracing an invisible groove in the floor. Finally, she found what she was looking for. Azar sat down on the bed, breathless, gripping the book so hard the pages wrinkled. She held the spellbook a few inches from her face, absorbing each word.
“Flares,” she read aloud. “Humanoid creatures composed of solid fire, with moderately powerful minds and weak magical abilities. She leaned forward as if trying to enter the pages of the book, and mingle with the creatures detailed within. “Easily summoned, more easily dismissed, and are unable to remember their time outside their own dimension.”
Beaming, Azar skimmed the list items needed summon one. The standard goatsfat candles (she had plenty of those), blood sacrifice of a small animal (the castle was full of mice, and she could always get a chicken from the kitchens if need be), and small samples of gunpowder. Those are easy enough.
Stranger, though, was the list of trace elements that followed. Brimstone and bone powder weren’t a surprise, but they were difficult to procure. Brimstone was a mineral commonly used to summon fire demons, and the bone powder would provide an elemental template they could copy. Presumably to help them form their bodies…
The sulphur, more likely than not, would fuel any fire magic they might have. But cinnamon? Ghost pepper? Baharat? Are those spices? Azar scowled. They sound like it, and they won’t be cheap. She dug under her mattress, counting the gold coins inside. I have enough for two, maybe three summonings.
Azar chewed her lip, bouncing her heels on the side of her mattress. Then she stood, a steely glint in her eye. “Better get started,” she muttered, clutching the spellbook. A second later, her door slammed, leaving only the sound of swishing robes behind.
Groaning and grumbling, Azar stood and brushed the chalk powder off her robes. The gray dust billowed into the air before dissipating into fine mist, settling over her room and adding another gritty layer to the dirty floor. Normally, Azar would have wasted the next several hours scouring every speck from her chambers. But at the moment, she was too intent on her summoning to bother herself with the state of her room.
She ripped the lid off her box of candles, setting them in a ring around the chalk circle. With a quick spell, the wicks burst into flames. They danced in her breeze as she whirled about the room.
Fragments of gunpowder and brimstone clattered to the floor, piling in the middle of the circle. They stuck to each other, forming gray, misshapen lumps of every conceivable shape. Then the spices–brown cinnamon, orange Baharat, grains of red pepper. The flakes of material combined with the piles on the floor, creating a multicolored, misshapen mass almost as large as her head.
Beaming, Azar opened her book and began to chant. The sunlight streaming through her window dimmed, and a haze settled over the room. As if to defy her magic, the candles blazed brighter, their sweet scent overpowering her room’s mustiness.
Heat washed over Azar’s skin and the runes on her flesh burned red, casting reflections on the walls and floor. Caught in the moment, she began to chant faster, gasping with each breath, every word landing like the blow of a hammer. The incantation rolled off her tongue, faster and faster, disintegrating into unintelligible gibberish until the last word of the spell left her lips.
Fire roared in the center of the circle, consuming the materials. The heat crashed into Azar like a wave. She retreated back onto the bed in a futile attempt to escape the roiling column of flame. The candles around the circle collapsed, liquefying in an instant from the heat. The flames licked at the edges of the circle, steadily growing larger despite lacking fuel.
It filled her chamber, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, but contained within the boundaries of the chalk lines. Azar opened her mouth to issue a command, but the fire beat her to it. With a thump and a flash of light, the column of flame vanished. In its place, three creatures stood, pressed together in the confines of the circle.
They glared at each other for a second before breaking out into a vicious argument. They chattered in a bizarre, unintelligible language that vaguely resembled the crackling of a campfire. As they argued, they disentangled their limbs, glaring grudgingly at one another. Azar chuckled and studied them.
All three looked strong, with hard, defined lines mapping every inch of their orange bodies. Their skin shimmered as they moved, as if a fire burned beneath their skin. Tongues of flame flickered beneath their flesh, blazingly hot–the stones beneath their feet glowed cherry red. Their elbows, knees, and shoulders were capped with obsidian, as though parts of their bodies had solidified into armor.
Azar took a deep breath. They pyromancer sauntered closer, reaching across the circle and brushing her fingertips over their chests, drifting airily from one to the next. The flames’ bodies radiated heat–a normal person would have burned to a crisp by now. But Azar was more durable–was a pyromancer, a flame priestess, and fire magic burned in her blood. The flares couldn’t hurt her, whether they wanted to or not.
“Can you understand me?” Azar asked, standing between them. She tilted her head, looking from one to the next. As one, they nodded, eyes following her. “Can you speak?” Her dark eyes flashed, reflecting the light as she turned from one to the next.
“Yes, mistress.” The tallest of the three said. His voice crackled as he spoke, sounding for all the word like a bonfire with the ability to speak.
“What can we do to serve you?” the second asked. He was stockier than the first, shorter and thicker. His voice was deeper, and rumbled when he spoke. His words echoed in the air long after he had finished speaking. Azar smiled.
“Correct me if I’m wrong. You three are flares. Fire demons typically summoned for brief periods by combat mages. You fight, and are dismissed shortly afterward. Is this correct?” All three nodded, silent. “Well,” she chuckled. “I have a different purpose in mind for you.”
Azar took a deep breath and steadied herself. She could hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth, but the heat in the room and the lust in her body told her otherwise. “I want you–all three of you–to fuck me.”
In perfect unison, their jaws dropped. Azar laughed. She’d seen flares on the battlefield, and they were brutally efficient. To see them like this–it was comical. She doubled over, guffawing. The tallest looked to the other two, as if waiting for unanimous agreement. They nodded.
“Mistress.” He paused, choosing his words delicately. His black tongue darted between his lips, a dark spot in a sea of orange. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re fire demons. And you’re…human.” He swallowed. “We’ll burn you. Badly.”
Azar shook her head, still shaking with laughter. “Not at all. See?” She slapped her hand against the flare’s stomach, pressing her palm flat on the hot surface. He yelped and leapt back, but a snap of her fingers held him in place.
“Ah.” He pursed his lips. His head sank down, staring at her hand. “You’re a pyromancer. A flame witch.”
“Mm-hmm.” Azar smirked. “And that means–”
“You’re immune to fire!” The third (and smallest) flare spoke for the first time. His voice was high-pitched behind her, his words clipped short. Before she could turn around, blazing hot hands grabbed the bottom of her robe, tore her skirts in half, and flung them around her waist. Azar yelped as the flare shoved her over and pressed its hips to hers.
The head of its cock jammed between her lips, agonizingly hot. He groaned, trying to force himself in deeper. He succeeded, and had half a second to enjoy her before Azar smashed him on the hip with her fist.
The runes on her hand flared, activating her powers. As her hand made contact, the flare shot across the room, tumbling head over heels. He slammed into the opposite wall and collapsed to the ground, groaning. Azar snorted, scowling at him as she stood up and tugged off the remnants of her clothes. The other flares were silent, watching her strip.
Smiling to herself, Azar stepped gingerly over the edge of the summoning circle. The three flares followed, the smallest already recovered from his fall. Azar walked to her desk and turned to face them as the heavy stone dug into her thighs.
“You.” She pointed to the tallest demon, who snapped to attention, arms stiff at his sides.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“First, relax. Second…kiss me.” The flare dropped his rigid posture and moved closer. Heat radiated from his body, making at him layer of sweat spring up on her forehead. His face was inches from hers as they stared into one another’s eyes, black meeting orange. The flare moved closer, then stopped again with his lips barely a hair’s breadth from hers.
“Mistress, are you certain?” He whispered. Hot, dry air brushed her lips as he spoke. “I’m sure there are humans you would prefer, and–”
Before he could finish, Azar flung her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth to his. Her breasts mashed against his hard, muscular chest. Her body absorbed the heat emanating from him, taking in more and more with every second. After a moment of hesitation, he massaged her shoulder blades, pulling her closer. Azar ran her fingers over the plates on his back, nails scraping over the hardened stone.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/2aj38g/mmmffantasytemperature_play_playing_with_fire