Chương 21: Vol 1. Obligation

Lady Ceryne Caelrune went to her husband that night, determination on her visage. She sighed beneath her stone-cold demeanour. This was necessary, she told herself. She would show that bastard Zahra. Necessary. Practical. Clean. The word intimate always felt too emotional for her, too soft and amorous, drenched in false benignancy. It did not convey the pure mechanical horror of the act. Slowly, with trembling hands, she unbuttoned her shirt.

Then she removed her undergarment, letting her bare bust free to the open air. She slipped off her trousers and her underwear, leaving herself completely nude. Her husband looked surprised when she entered their chamber. He had been lying on the bed, spectacles sitting cleanly on his muzzle, a book in his lap, and a hearth raging beside him, dressed in a loose, floral-patterned robe, his fur neatly brushed, and his face relaxed into a pleased expression. His smile was wide. The smile of excitement.

That made Ceryne grimace. That cheeky little smile made things all the worse.

"Well, hello there, handsome," he said softly.

"How did you get in my house?" She shut the door behind her, then climbed onto the bed.

"I do not need your charms," Ceryne said.

"Just enjoy the moment."

"Oh, well, whatever you say," her husband purred. She internally groaned. That wasn't meant to be sensual, bastard. She let him touch her. She let him kiss her. She engaged in the marital ritual with him as it was supposed to proceed, ensuring she did not miss a singular mechanical step: up, down, up, down—her claws curled deep into the fabric of their bedding. She counted the breaths between each unpleasant sensation, each motion dry and painful and oh-so dreadful. Up, down, up, down.

She fixed her gaze on the ceiling, taking in the differing golden floral patterns. She noticed there was one corner where the screws holding the gold in place were beginning to loosen. She would have a servant fix it tomorrow. Or perhaps she could just replace the entire fixture. It was old anyway. Her husband whispered something against her neck, something she was sure was meant to be loving, but she did not care. She did not love him. She did not love anyone.

Ceryne turned her face toward the ceiling and prayed for it to be over. When it was done, she lay beside him with her eyes wide open, watching as he drifted off into slumber, satisfied. His breathing evened out into a steady rhythm. His arm rested near her waist, warm and heavy. She scooted away, moving his paws with two claws. The room was quiet. Too quiet. Ceryne wanted to wash as soon as possible. Zahra's voice returned to her. When was the last time you intimately touched your husband without obligation?

Ceryne's jaw tightened. Had she done it now, had she not? She went to her husband as gleefully as possible. She had fulfilled the ritual. She was in charge of her husband, showed him as much, and pleased him. And still, she did not feel intimate. She felt nothing but disgust. She scoffed and closed her eyes. Obligation, she thought bitterly. When the brilliant warmth of the morning sun came, Lady Ceryne Caelrune had been in the bath for nearly two hours.

She was usually not a woman of indulgent hygiene, not like her husband. He could soak until the world itself ended, and even then, it would be hard to pull him out. However, Ceryne found any indulgence in bathing beyond making oneself presentable to be absurd. Yet that morning, she scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed. She scrubbed until the water cooled around her and the heat had dissipated from the room.

Her pale grey fur lay slick against her skin, while the last clouds of steam billowed around the tiled walls and fogged the polished mirror across the room. Still, she did not feel clean. Ceryne exhaled slowly through her nose, rose from the tub, and rang for servants. By the time they entered, she had contorted her face back into its proper shape once more: cold, composed, and unreadable. The way it should be. Last night had been a necessary venture. That was all. Necessary.

Ceryne stood before the mirror while her servants dried her fur, combed her mane, and dressed her in a blue-and-silver travelling suit; it was sharp, simple, with no embroidery, no sentimental nonsense, yet it was still evident how expensive it was. It was cut sharply along the shoulders and buttoned up to the throat. Rings glittered along her digits. When the servants were finished, Ceryne studied herself in the mirror. Good enough. Presentable. The air of wealth was palpable.

She left the bathing chamber and stepped into the hallway. Luggage was being carried down the stairs. Guards shouted from the courtyards. Wheels were being inspected, and harnesses tightened; locked boxes of coinage were being stored in secret compartments, locked and relocked, tested multiple times. Everything was being prepared swiftly and properly. Ceryne descended the first few steps outside her mansion, one paw gliding along the polished railing.

Below, in the courtyard, a pair of footmen hauled a travel chest toward the waiting carts. One of them misstepped, and the corner of the trunk struck the wall hard enough to chip a bit of the stone. Ceryne's eyes narrowed. At once, they straightened, their postures as rigid as possible. Their ears flattened. Without a word, they lifted the chest properly and hurried toward the cart. Ceryne smiled slightly. Fear. Discipline. Everything was as it should be.

Then one of the younger servants stepped forward, Ceryne's travelling coat folded over her arms. Ceryne cocked her head slightly. Ceryne was certain she had seen the girl before, although she could not recall her name. Kitchen staff, perhaps. Laundry. Stables. One of those lesser creatures who only existed at the edges of usefulness unless they were summoned. Those were common. There were enough peasants out there for any menial task one might need.

She was youngish and sturdy, orange-furred with little black stripes, with well-built arms and legs and her tunic's sleeves rolled to her elbows; thick veins were visible beneath the fur of her forearms. Ceryne's gaze lingered. Just for a moment. Perhaps a moment too long. The girl tripped slightly, bending forward and catching the coat before it was sullied by the ground. Ceryne's breathing was ragged. Her eyes followed the movements before discipline could rein them back.

The curves of the girl's hips and buttocks shifted beneath the plain-coloured fabric of her work clothes. A body shaped by labour, by hard work, by— Ceryne growled. What a shameful thing to notice. A disgusting thing.

"You!" Ceryne said, stern and sharp. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The servant jolted upright.

"My lady?"

"Why are your paws so clumsy?" The girl looked down at her paws, then said, "Forgive me, my lady."

"Did I ask you for an apology?"

"N-no, my lady."

"Exactly. What I ask of you is competence, lest I need to throw you to the streets. Got it?" The servant's ears flattened.

"Y… yes, my lady," she said shakily.

"Now, fasten my coat," Ceryne said.

"Y… yes, my lady." The girl stepped close. Ceryne's heart thumped against her chest. This was too close, she decided. The servant's paws rose to Ceryne's throat, working the silver clasps into place. Ceryne could smell her fully: cheap soap, damp fur, the warmth of her perfect, feminine body. She felt her warm, rough paws clasp the jacket fully around her waist. The girl removed her hands. She was done.

"Leave now," Ceryne said.

"Yes, my lady." The servant fled. On the road, Ceryne ordered the carriage to stop near the local chapel. It was small and ugly, its stonework weather-stained and its wooden doors warped from years of rain. The little icon of Seroth above the entrance had been carved by someone with zero artistic talent. The whole place reeked of poverty. Ceryne hated it at once. The local priestess came out to meet her at the entrance and bowed.

"My lady, to what do I owe the honour?"

"I wish to pray alone." The priestess nodded in understanding.

"Of course, my lady. However, if you require my guidance—""If I required your guidance, I would have asked for it." They stood in silence for a moment. Then the priestess stepped to the side. Ceryne entered, shut the doors behind her, and lowered herself before the altar.

"Blessed Seroth," she whispered, "first man, first lover, sacred heart of the Mother's word…" She stopped. The words felt fake. Her muzzle curled into a scowl.

"Blessed Seroth," she said, quieter this time.

"What was I supposed to do?" The chapel had an eerie quietness to it.

"I went to him. I endured him. I performed the ritual. I did everything the way I was supposed to." Silence.

"… So, why, then?" Her voice tightened.

"Why do I feel these wretched things? Why can I not feel the intense heat of intimacy when I look upon my husband? Why does his genitalia make me recoil? Why do I only feel it… with… with them? When I see a woman's majestic bosom, her warm and inviting genitalia, her strong arms and strong, earthy musk?" The carved face of Seroth stared down upon her.

"You bastard," she whispered. The word felt immense in the tiny chapel.

"You made the law. You made me have this body—this gross, gross, shameful body. You made appetite. You made shame. You made marriage, duty, and all the little cages which we praise as virtues. You… you…" Tears welled in Ceryne's eyes.

"You made men soft and women hardened, then you punish us for wanting wrongly." Her claws dug into the wood of the pew.

"Fuck you." Silence.

"If it is I who am malformed, then I am the workmanship of your paws." Still, the icon stared.

"Curse me if you must, Seroth," she said, her voice tremulous, "but do not pretend your hands are clean." Silence.

"Coward," she whispered. Ceryne rose from the altar. Her knees ached. Her throat burned. The icon remained silent. For a moment, she only stared at it. Then she spat at Seroth's carved feet.

"Poor fucker," she said in a low voice.

"A god or a lowly man, a prophet or a corpse six feet under, I do not care anymore. You will have no dominion over me. I will live as hedonistically as I so desire." The words steadied her. No god. No husband. No priestess. No blackmailer. No one. Nothing would stand before her. The entire world would soon be beneath her paws. Ceryne wiped her eyes with her paw and straightened her travelling coat.

"I will win the Coniton," she said.

"And when I do, I will take your churches apart stone by stone. I will melt your bells, strip your altars, pry the gold from your icons, and turn every sacred thing you hold dear into coinage." She looked up at Seroth one last time.

"Then I will spend it." Ceryne turned and walked out of the chapel. They were in the centre of the city of Urka when Ceryne requested another stop. Her servants looked confused. The building before them was too run-down, ramshackle, far too shabby, far too honest in what it was to be of any possible interest to Lady Ceryne. Still, they complied. Ceryne stepped down from the carriage, adjusted the cuffs of her travelling coat, and walked toward the brick building. The windows were boarded.

The sign above the entrance was so weather-worn and faded that its usefulness was questionable. Inside, the air reeked of smoke, cheap perfume, booze, and sex. Ceryne smiled. Yep. This was the right place, for sure. One that only people of her type knew about. She walked to the counter. Behind it stood a woman with a masculine figure, bare-breasted beneath an open tunic, with multiple kitschy gold earrings along her ears.

"What can I do for you, hon?" the woman asked sultrily.

"It is Lady Ceryne to you," she said.

"I will have you know I own the very land you stand upon and can have you hanged at any moment." The woman blinked. Then she swayed her rump and tail, widening her eyes.

"No need to get all feisty, kitten," she purred, leaning against the counter.

"You know, most fine ladies like to start with a little wine before threats of execution."

"Well, I am not most ladies."

"No," the woman said, looking her up and down and licking her lips.

"I can see that." Ceryne tightened her jaw. She never liked being observed. It made her feel on edge.

"I want an hour," Ceryne said.

"With?"

"Whoever is the strongest." The woman flicked her ears. Ceryne grimaced as she forced herself not to look away.

"And muscular," she added.

"Broad, very broad. Large-breasted, if possible." For a moment, the woman behind the counter said nothing. Then she laughed softly, baring her fangs, and leaned in closer. She brushed Ceryne's thigh.

"Well, it seems Her Ladyship knows exactly what she wants and has good taste too."

"Yes," she said. She wasn't sure why, but that last word tasted like a lie. Ceryne threw a bunch of money onto the counter.

"Just do it already." The woman behind the counter disappeared into the back. A few moments later, the curtain parted. Out came the most handsome woman Ceryne had ever seen. She was tall enough that her perfectly ample bosom was level with Ceryne's face, broad in the shoulders, sinewy in all the right places, with brilliant orange fur marked by cute little black freckles along her arms, throat, and chest. She wore little beyond a scrap of cloth around her hips and some cheap jewellery on her hands and ears.

Cheap things, Ceryne thought with her muzzle wrinkled. Still, they looked quite fine for what they were.

"What is your name?" Ceryne asked.

"Rida."

"I am not asking because I wish for familiarity. I asked what I should call you." Rida tilted her head.

"Most women call me whatever they like." Ceryne's claws flexed.

"Then get a move on, Rida," she spat. The two made their way into the bedroom. The moment the door shut, Ceryne surged forward. It was not with cattish gracefulness. Nor was it measured. She pawed and played with Rida's breasts, licking and teasing the nipples, forcing the tall woman against the wall before she ripped off the sash and joyfully licked and licked and licked, her paws roaming, her mouth at work, and her claws catching orange fur as though she might tear the woman into little pieces.

Rida laughed softly. That laugh should have offended Ceryne. It did not. Worse, it aroused her. She hated that. She hated that she was getting warmth beneath her skin, the way her breath came faster, and the sheer ease of it. Her discipline was destroyed, replaced by want. Pure, humiliating want. For a singular moment, the image of Seroth flashed in her mind. Ceryne snarled and began to lick more furiously until she felt liquid on her face. Then, with an ease that made Ceryne's stomach tighten, Rida turned them.

She froze. Rida was now looking down upon her, her muscles visibly flexing.

"Still giving orders, my lady?" Ceryne opened her mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. Rida gave a devilish grin. Then Rida began to play with her breasts, lick and tease her sensitive nipple, and slowly, she began to give back the favour which Ceryne had given her. Bliss. Utter, ruinous bliss. Her breathing grew ragged. Her claws twisted into the floor. The world narrowed to nothing more than heat, pleasure, orange fur, and her body answering her desires with no shame.

She was not dry down there, far from it. It did not feel mechanical, nor a necessary act. It felt like something she wanted to do. She had never felt this with her husband. Nothing close to this. Not even with that gardener girl. And as she came to a climax, she mirthfully screamed, half in triumph, half in fury:"Fuck you, Seroth!"