The Ass of Amanda Llado

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I stumbled down the street and past the brightly colored porticoes, giggling to myself as I tilted back my drink. Sadly, I was still in my festive plague doctor raiment, and the distilled sugar water poured over my beak. I laughed, and cast aside my glass, staggering towards distant light. I did not make merry at Festivals often, but in light of the departure of old friends from the mortal coil, I resolved to break my melancholy with the imbibing of spirits and enjoyment of the city’s carnival season.

The other way I saw my old friend, Domitia Montressor, the Gargoyle maiden whom I had known since my salad days, who was the sister of my late friend. She walked with her large wings outstretched, her full bosom bouncing and her thunderous thighs swaying back and forth. She wore a colorful garb of motley, with holes cut out from the Jester’s cap for her two stone horns.

Seeing her, I whistled as was my custom, for she was comely and made my epididymis stir.

“Where head you, sweet Domitia?” I asked. “My, how lovely your thighs shake in this moonlight. A shame I am bound for wizardry to seek the philosopher’s stone…Ha!”

“I have acquired a sculpture of the Ass of Amanda Llado, but as I could not find you, dear friend, I fear I may have been taken advantage of, and purchased a forgery.”

“Amanda Llado?!” I exclaimed, eager to see the bas-relief of the posterior of the most beautiful Pharaoh of hallowed antiquity. “I should be pleased to see this wonder!”

“Nay, sweet Fortunon. I head to see good Lucretia,” said she. “For the dampness of my cellar is bad for thy pleurisy, and she can tell me true.”

I snorted, aroused. “Lucretia?! She cannot tell an Amanda Llado from a Sherry!” I spake, referring to the vulgar and common ass sculpture of a local Trollop which festooned many a bawdy house. “I am the true patron of the arts! My collection of Japanese drawings is extensive, and I am well-verses in the lore of several Bing Bing Wahoos, including the venerable Waluigi. Now, onward! Amanda Llado!”

Domitia stared at me a moment, regarding me with her rapturous chestnut brown eyes.

“But the nitre may do you ill, and your scholarly form is ill affected but my descending steps…””

“Amanda Llado!”

“I am not sure, but I may have been gulled…”

“Amanda Llado!”

“And I wish to know if I am abused.”

“Amanda Llado!”

“Perhaps it is better that I should see Lucretia,” Domitia said.

“And I say she is a poor choice to assess your sculpture. I know art better than she,” I said loudly.

“Many are those who claim she is your equal in knowledge,” Domitia replied.

“She is an ignoramus. Come, enough of this,” I said, clearing my throat. “Take me.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment she seemed to blanche. “Wither, my lord?”

“To thy basement, of course!” I exclaimed. “That we may inspect your sculpture, and discern the truth of its authorship and subject.”

I took her arm into mine, wrapping my scholarly arm around her large bicep, and began to lead her to her own estate. I was vaguely aware of the smile upon her face. We walked arm-in-arm down the road, dodging the puddles and sampling the humid air, waving at passing revelers. She swelled her gray chest and walked with nose uptilted, proud and pleased (or pretending so) to be hanging from my arm. I laughed, of course, for good Domitia knew quite well I was striving for wizardry, and eager to seek the Philosopher’s Stone.

But yet I endeavored to indulge in this pleasant fiction, and as she stroked my arm I did laugh loudly and permit myself the enjoyment of her claws against my skin, and the tightness of her grip upon me.

Our steps brought us to the ancestral home of Montressor, which in my youth I had often visited to make merry with my schoolyard chum, the late Abernath Montressor, who was Domitia’s brother.

I sighed as I considered him, for I missed our revels. Despite my gregarious haunt of the city in the beaked mask of a Plague Doctor, I did not frequently make merry upon the streets during festival season, and friends had always been hard for me to come by.

“I lament your brother’s passing; too soon he was taken from us,” I said.

Her face drew stolid. “Indeed, I have worn black these long months, shed only for this festival, to mark his sad passing. And more, for you have not made cause to visit since he was lain to rest.”

“Grief burdens me still, and this place makes hollow my heart,” Said I.

“Imagine, then, the pain of one who lives inside its walls,” she said. “And see how two hollow hearts could fill.”

I looked upon her sorrowful face, and clutched her arm tightly.

“I grieve that I have been thus. And yet, I hope that the small pittance I donated has eased the burdens brought on by your brother’s passing,” I said.

“Indeed,” replied Domitia. “The money has purchased a sepulcher for my own use.”

“That is most grim.”

“Nay, not at all.”

“Well, enough of such talk!” I said, eager to make merry. “Let us to the Ass of Amanda Llado! Amanda Llado!”

The servants were all dismissed to enjoy the festival, and we walked upon tiled floors and past the dim gas lamps in the foreboding manor of Montressor, with its marble statues of the Gargoyle Duchesses who long held residence in bygone days. We walked down the cobwebbed halls until we reached the door to the basement.

The basement was well and truly changed, for while before it was a collection of old furniture and dust, now it bore a long, ornate red carpet, and the walls were flanked with paintings and sculptures, and faggots were lit at intervals, burning and casting light as the flames consumed them. Domitia handed me one faggot, and took one for herself.

Onward we walked, faggots roasting in our hands, and I inspected the paintings as I went. I stopped at one, a rather clumsy drawing of a thin young boy with red hair and blue eyes. Despite the limited skill, it was in a most ornate golden frame.

“This looks scarcely above a child’s drawing!” I snorted. “Why array it in such a frame?”

“The subject deserves it, not the artist,” Domitia replied.

“The subject? Ha! a ginger boy, like I myself once was? There is no art there!”

“It is a bully who tormented me once, in my youth.”

“A cur, then, and understandable why you mock him with such a picture,” I said with a frown of judgement. I then smiled, and laughed to myself. “Do you recall our youth? How I would come to see Abernath, and I would tug your pig tails, and flick your wings, and chase you until you flew up to the manner’s roof?”

“I have not forgotten,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “You may try it now, if you like, to torment me so.”

I laughed. “You were very young, and I was older.”

“That remains the case still.”

“Indeed, but you are now twice my size, and a champion with fist, foot, claw, and axe. I am champion with quill, scales, and ancient languages. I could force you to nothing,” I looked at the next picture, of the same youth. “And in this one, I see a steadier hand…”

“These are not the pieces I called upon you to critique. Perhaps Lucretia is better…”

“Carry on! On!” I said, seizing her arm. “I will see the Ass!”

She held me, steadying me as drink and lack of sleep combined to make my brow heavy and my steps a labor. We walked past the third painting, of the same red-haired subject, this by a much better hand. One could see the beginnings of a talent, perhaps, but yet again I was confused why this bully so consumed fair Domitia’s thoughts. Fair Domitia…

I may have spoken on this strange obsession, but she tugged on me yet again, and we walked onward down the corridor and the wall of frames. I saw a progression of red-haired faces, both growing better drawn and aging, until I found myself before an ornate frame in whence there was my own reflection.

“Why you have placed a mirror here, in this dark hallway, and at the end of this procession of ugly faces?” I asked, insisting that we arrest before the most ornate frame.

I saw her grin in the dim underground passage. “It is not a mirror, good Fortunon. See how there is no beak from your medical costume?”

I stared, seeing the marks of watercolor. I gasped.

“The likeness is uncanny,” I said.

“Indeed, I have studied my subject well,” Domitia replied softly.

I looked at her, staggering on unsteady legs. “You painted this?”

She nodded, her chestnut eyes bright. “I have practiced many hours.”

“Why spend such a talent as yours on such a vulgar subject?”

“Art is in the Eye of the beholder,” she said, and she touched my cheek softly.

“I…I am destined for a Sorcerer’s cloister,” I spake in a stammering voice, feeling the need to remind the tall and powerful Gargoyle Lady of my virtue.

“Indeed. Perhaps I should fetch Lucretia…”

“I renounce that!” I said, defiantly. “You need my Eye more than ever, to correct these foolish sentiments about Beauty and Art! To the Ass! The Ass! Amanda Llado!”

We journeyed on, and reached a square hewn portal which was painted in an arch of the same color and gilding as the frames. Through this portal, in the dark, was an open chamber where once Domitia’s mother, the late Lady Montressor, had kept a kiln. A massive chimney rose on the far wall, hollow and cold, cleaned even of ash.

The room was dark, and even illuminated by our faggots it remained stubborn in its darkness. I confess I did hesitate to enter it, for it seemed cold and damp.

“The Ass of Amanda Llado is within,” Domitia said. “Press on.”

“And yet, I wonder at the dark,” I said. “I feel suddenly as if this place affects my lungs-“

“A draught, perhaps?”

“Yea, a draught,” said I.

She presented me a flagon of De Grave. I made an arcane gesture over the draught, which by her frown I could see that Domitia did not fathom.

“You do not recognize the move?” I asked, aware that she did not.

“What means this strange gesture?” She asked.

“It is a sign of the Twelve Who Reign In Majesty. You are not of the organization?”

“I shall be,” she replied. “I shall have relations soon to it.”

“Eh? That is well,” I replied. I upended the drink, gulping down the rich red and exhaling with delight as the wealthy taste filled my mouth.

“Now, Majestic Twelve, press on,” Domitia said, eager in her voice as she downed her portion. “I wish to show you the Ass.”

I moved on blind, on feet uncertain from drink and darkness, until I came to the insides of the chimney itself. In the light of the faggot I saw no sculpture, no Amanda Llado, just bricks wet from the rains and the smell of damp stone.

I turned back to face Domitia in confusion, and saw the great stone Gargoyle maiden on one knee. I heard the rattle of metal link on the dirt floor, and felt a cold hand grasp against my ankle.

As Domitia stood and stepped away, I realized that the grasp lingered, and that it was a ring of iron tight against my calf. I tugged at it, finding my foot heavy and making a cacophony of rattling heavy metal links. I stared at Domitia with wide eyes, as she returned and snatched my faggot.

She smiled at me, and winked. She walked to the great brazier in the corner of the old shop, and cast the faggots, both hers and mine, within. The brazier lit with a roar and a quick fury, and cast orange light about the room, revealing an open and empty space save for a heap covered by a tarpaulin near the entryway. The shadows danced and flickered, and Domitia went to the tarpaulin and flung it aside, revealing bricks, mortar, and a trowel.

“Wha…what mean you, fair Domitia?”

Domitia tilted her head back and laughed “The Ass! The Ass of Amanda Llado!” She taunted.

She gathered up her bricks and tools, and labored at the portal to the hallway of paintings, laying down mortar and setting bricks upon them. She stood within the chamber with me, laboring to wall off our exit.

“What mean you, fair Domitia?!” I repeated as she lay down her fifth brick. I began to tug frantically at my chain with my foot and my hands, but the link held fast, and my fingers were no match for the clasp and lock. “Domitia, I am afraid! You shall seal us in!”

“Shall I?” She asked. “Look above you, up the Chimney.”

Indeed, staring up the wide shaft of brick and stone I saw the night sky lit by an unseen moon, pale white clouds passing by swiftly. With her wings and claws, and the combination thereof, Domitia could escape by the chimney to the roof. But I, chained and with trimmed nails, had no hope of an escape to the top of Montressor Manor.

“But then…am I to die here?” I asked in horror. “F-for injuries I committed in my youth? I apologize most profusely, sweet Domitia-“

“I do not accept an apology of words, sweet Fortunon. You shall apologize with your mouth, but not with speech. Your body shall apologize for every torment you have inflicted upon me. I am to end your life here, your old life,” Domitia said, beginning work on her second layer. “For this is where you shall be kept.”

I swallowed. “Kept?” I asked.

“Yes. As a slave to my Ass, and my Breasts, and my Affections,” Domitia said. “I shall keep you here as a Lover.”

“Oh…oh! He-he-he-he-he,” I said, forcing out laughter. “How the others shall laugh when I tell them this funny joke!”

“The Amanda Llado!”

“Yes! But we should be on our way. N-now you may release me, fair Domitia, your point is made…”

“There is one point here, between your legs, and it has not yet been made mine,” Domitia said with a grin. “And you have yet to see the Ass.”

Domitia labored onward, and the brick wall rose steadily as I fretted and pleaded. Yet aside from a giggle or a teasing word, her work continued. Soon the array of bricks was at her waist, then at her chest, and finally at her eyes, and with the last brick in place I realized that a wall now stood where once was a doorway. My heart pounded. I found myself breathing heavy, though wind made its way down the chimney in a gust and my air was well replenished.

Domitia crossed the floor to me, her figure an hourglass which swayed like trees in a storm wind. She outstretched her wings, blocking out the light of the brazier and allowing me to see only her silhouette.

“Now, scholar bully, who tortured me with your cuteness and seduced me with your kindness, I shall be avenged for the injuries you have caused me by the deprivation of your presence,” Domitia announced. She pulled off my plague doctor mask and cast it against the far wall.

The shapely gargoyle undid her drawstrings. Her robe fell away, and her motley was discarded with the jangling of bells. Before me, full and naked, was Domitia Montressor, my late best friend’s younger sister, and she was beautiful.

Her skin was gray and flawless, like a sculpture that was both tough and stone and yet smooth and soft as flesh. There was no blemish on it, only beads of sweat from the heat of her body, which gave off a faint steam in the cool damp air and glistened in the brazier’s flickering light. Her areolas were large and full, and the air had chilled her nipples to hardened points. My mouth watered to see them, and I vainly shut my eyes and shook free, desperate to preserve my virtue.

“In the name of God, Domitia!” I cried in a final plea as the beautiful, all-powerful, and naked gargoyle loomed above me and breathed hot fogging air down upon me.

“Yes!” Domitia answered with clenched teeth and bared fangs. She clutched the back of my head, and thrust it into her waiting bosom. “In the name of God!”

My face pressed against her gray chest, lodged between her rocksteady breasts and made wet by the sweat on them. I licked my lips, and nearly swooned as the salty liquid conjured potent spirits to my lips. Gargoyle sweat was powerfully strong, and I soon found that the sobriety of my terror was overpowered by the intoxication of her scent and taste.

Due to this turmoil upon my mouth, my manhood hardened, and this did not go unnoticed by my beautiful captor. My clothes joined hers upon the ground, though the removal of them was violent and angry, with a hatred towards my robes expressed in the loudness of the sounds of their tearing. I felt the damp air against my exposed skin, and soon a clawed hand gripped my member gently, then squeezed with power and ownership. I moaned, my deepest desire uncovered.

“Ooh, it is so wondrous…” she said. She groped my testicles with her mighty fingers and lightly teased them with her dull cool claws. Her total power over me served only to enflame my libido, and I expanded into her tight grasp.

“Sweet Domitia…” I cried between her mammaries. I pressed my tongue against the side of one breast, then another, coughing a little as the potent spirit of her sweat burned down my throat. My head grew lighter.

She laughed, patting my hair in one hand and fondling my penis and gonads with her other, reveling in my swollen glans. “That is well. Drink of my aqua vita, sweet Lord Fortunon. Ever is your fate from this night onward.”

“Oh, God!” I exclaimed again, less in despair than in ecstasy, for her grasp was strong as granite and so firm that my manhood was well controlled, and her breasts were firm and yet soft and smooth.

“Look at me,” Domitia commanded.

I stared up at her, and into her chestnut brown eyes, which shone with mirth, joy, and hunger. She stared down at me with a grin, and as her powerful hand squeezed and bothered my penis and testicles, or my tongue and mouth licked and worshipped at her soft and wonderful breasts, her eyes would sparkle and widen with pleasure.

“Mistress!” I declared.

“That is just that you recognize me so. For my pleasure is above yours, my Slave and my Lord, and revenge must be made mine. Remember that I am the one longer chained, denied by your cruel quest for heathen magic.”

She put her claws alongside my face, leaned in, and kissed me. “Your life is mine henceforth, Dearest,” Domitia said sweetly. “And I shall not abuse my greatest work of Art.”

Her lips pressed against mine again, smooth as river stones, gentle as water. Her kiss was so sweet, so soft, and so eager, that it stirred my heart and moved me. There was no brutality in it, only an eagerness to feel my lips and show me affection. And her claws on my face held me, as my arms clutched at hers, and my hands felt at her full and powerful biceps.

Our mouths opened, and our tongues slid and collided with each other in sampling licks. Her saliva was as potent as her sweat, though when our kiss broke, it was unclear who was the more inebriated.

“Now,” she whispered, panting, as she gave unto me a final, sweet kiss. “The Ass.”

She put her strong hand behind my head and gently pressed me to my knees, into the soft sand. Next she turned around with a grin befitting Carroll’s Cat, and bent down. She positioned such that my eye saw her large, full posterior and the beautiful holes there. She wiggled her rear back and forth with tail raised and swishing, her full and pear-shaped ass moving hypnotically as it swayed. The motion invited me and made my blood quicken. My mouth watered at her fine derriere, hypnotized by her dance in rhythm to unseen flutists, just out of range of my eager lips and tongue.

“Oh…” I began, rasping. “A work of art! The Ass! The Ass better than Amanda Llado’s!”

Domitia tittered, and slowly backed her rear into my waiting face, until I was sandwiched between her firm yet large cheeks. She wiggled her rear, her firm flaps forcing my head to move with their motions. I was brought against her two holes in the dark, and as she wiggled on me I began to kiss and lick them, each in turn, pressing deep into them both with my tongue.

My ears heard only the thunderous stampede of the blood in her lower cheeks and thighs, but through her body I heard little yelps, laughs, and coos, as my delighted Mistress reveled in the kisses and licking of my conquered tongue.

Being statue-born, the hole of a Gargoyle is clean, and hers tasted faintly of the potent alcohol of her sweat. My head began to swim and feel light from the licking of her inner juices, and she pressed against me to the point I wobbled and fell backward.

Sensing my renewed inebriation, she removed herself a moment. She spread out the tarpaulin before me, and bid me lay upon it.

As I stared up and watched the shadows dance upon the high ceiling, my view became obstructed by the powerful haunches of my Gargoyle owner, her tail swaying like a mummer’s viper in and out of my field of vision. Domitia positioned herself above me, facing away, and then lowered herself until my whole world was her ass and thighs again. In this darkness, a prisoner in every sense, I could only lick, and as I did so Domitia grinded her sex and ass against my face and nose, smearing her vaginal juices all over me and filling my nostrils with the powerful scent of Gargoyle.

While I was made a slave to her heavenly vagina, she decided to bully my well-swollen manhood. Her claws reached down and gripped and caressed me again, enjoying the power with loving, subtle taps, even as she ground her sex down upon my face.

She flicked my penis back and forth with a gentle claw, eager to watch me struggle against such teasing. With impish giggles she savored my poor manhood’s desire to be squeezed as long and hard as possible.

Finally Domitia relented, and her clawed hand gripped my shaft and enclosed, with the force and power of a cave-in. The sensation, like the soothing scratch of an agonizing itch, made my legs stretch out, and I moaned into her vagina, pleasure and relief filling my whole body until it tingled.

My Domitia liked that, and wiggled her rump against my face, rocking me back and forth. She then squeezed my manhood again, and in her rock-hard grip she began to slide her hand up and down, fucking me with her powerful claw.

The action of her hand forced moans out of me, and yelps, all of which were muffled by her womanhood and rear, which continued to sway and slide upon my face, and drench my mouth and tongue with wetness.

Domitia’s hips began to buck, her tail to swish, and her motions became less teasing and more predatory. Her pleasure was building, and as it was, the gentle abuse heaped upon my manhood grew more intense. The squeezing became harder, the tugging and stroking more forceful. My moans were supplicative, pleading, while hers were grunts of aggression.

She was growing frustrated, not at the pleasure I was giving, but by its affect on her. Her fear, I guessed, was that I might make her climax before she made me erupt, and that this would be intolerable to her sensibility concerning our relationship. She thus lifted off of me, flooding cool air upon my moist face. She rose away from my tongue, letting me howl and cry into the air, and redoubled her efforts on my poor penis with increased ferocity.

Helpless and arrested, I cried out in a loud voice. Reaching up I clutched at my stoneborn owner’s haunches vainly, but no effort could pull her down, for she was far above me in strength.

“No!” She hollered. “I am Mistress, and you shall cum! NOW!”

She squeezed as she commanded, and between the force of her grip and the verve of her words I began to gasp and sputter as my manhood passed its point of control, and my eruption began.

“I…I…Oh, God!”

She lowered herself down as my voice rose and my manhood began to spurt, and my cries were into her sopping and powerful womanhood.

“YES!” She exclaimed. “Cry out on my…my…ohhhhh! OHHHHHH!”

She arched her back, and with a wild bucking of her hips upon my face she came, the walls of her vagina pulsing and soaking me as her mighty thighs contracted on my cheeks. she outstretched her gray wings, and with a loud cry of dominance, she flapped them. The winds kicked up dust throughout the stone sepulcher and blanketed us both in the sands of a dervish.

I groaned, spent as I was, as with eager snarls and like a beast she licked my stomach clean of my prodigious seed, and swallowed it, coughing as though downing the most potent alcohol.

“Heaven!” She exclaimed. “Heaven in a drink! My man’s seed is ambrosia!” She grinned at me. “Oh, what a casque you shall make, and I shall sample, every day as you stay in this dungeon cell!”

She stood, and lifted me up on my feet. My legs where unsteady, and she embraced me into a full hug of deep affection. She planted kisses on my face, and I strove with all my might to kiss hers, in turn.

Our lips met, and parted, and our tongues danced, hers in control, and dominating, pushing and teasing mine.

“Take me,” She commanded, whispering in my ear.

She turned, and her hulking yet curvy form bent down on all fours. She rested on knees and elbows, her heavenly rear pointed slightly upward. Her tail zigged and zagged, and her tantalizing Ass wiggled before me. My manhood, only moments before shriveled and abused, grew turgid once again, as I beheld her full gray rear and the absolute perfection of it.

I stepped forward, and put my fully erect penis between her thighs, pressing into her well-soaked fertile mound. I pushed in, feeling a slight prickle against my head and shaft as I pushed into the smooth and wet warmth beyond. She gasped, and the act caused a contraction of her muscles, which made me fall against her back and moan in pleasure, but I drew a deep breath, grit my teeth and thrust inside my Gargoyle Bride.

Domitia yelped, and I was master of her, at least for a moment. As I thrust and grunted, my manhood sliding inside her, she became more and more vexed and frustrated by her dependence, yet more enflamed by desire to let me have my way with her.

I thrust and grunted with all my might, in truth as wide-eyed with pleasure as she was. Her moans and wails, and the feel of her cheeks and thighs against my waist as my thrusts slammed against her, made me grow harder and closer. Yet by the lubrication of my thrusting shaft and the tightening of her walls, I could tell that she was close to a massive, full-body climax.

“N-n-no…not…enough…controlll…” she whimpered, horrified that my manhood had made me master of her. My manhood swelled,

“Call out my name,” I commanded, threatening to slow my thrusts by lingering.

“What?!” She yelped.

“Call it out!”

“Oh…oh! FORTUNON!” She screamed. The act of crying out my name, of desperation for my thrusts into her womanhood, overwhelmed her. The climax which came shook the foundations of her manor, and made specs of dirt fall from the ceiling with the grinding of rock.

Domitia’s insides pulsed and clenched with her loud, full-bodied cry, and my member could not bear it without affect. My own orgasm came on full and strong, building in intensity as I erupted inside her shuddering and soaking walls.

“Domitia…” I whimpered. I collapsed onto her strong back as onto a stone bench. As my orgasm waxed and waned within her fertile hole ministrations, I was suddenly made aware of her growl, and the sudden reorder of our positions. I lay upon my back upon the tarpaulin, and she now straddled me, her face grinning and her chestnut eyes reflecting the brazier’s dancing flame.

“You seek to dominate ME?” She said, licking her lips. “I shall have to punish you for that!”

“I…I need rest…” I whimpered.

“Do you?”

She gripped my manhood and squeezed, and despite my being twice emptied, the potency of her sweat had its effect, and my cock grew turgid yet again.

“There, that is consent enough for me!” She called out, before she slammed down upon me with a force I though would snap my pelvis.

She rode me with ferocity and fury, eager to erase that moment of defiance, yet finding that my manhood held the same power over her even as she rode me. But yet with control came power, and she was able to make me climax before her, and savor my cries of joy and pleasure before joining them with her own.

I was utterly spent and exhausted, and ready for sleep. Sweet Domitia, seeing my condition, showed me mercy. She lay on top of me, and I was thrice imprisoned: by the chain about my ankle, by the walling of the entrance, and by the large and sleeping gargoyle who wrapped her arms about me. As I tucked in my face against her breasts, a smile came to my lips, and I slept happily and peacefully.

For the half of a century (and four children and sixteen grand children) since, I have been entombed. I am allowed out on occasion, of course, flown out the chimney for festivals and dinners, but my life within my tomb has been one of enjoyable pursuit of knowledge. I keep an alchemy bench, a soft bed, and books to read, and I am raped nearly every hour of the day. My Gargoyle fucks me wild and insensate, and I am often left reeling in the dark or dim light, until my sweet Lady Domitia returns to me and cuddles me in my Prison upon our soft bed during the night. In pace requiescat!

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5 responses to “The Ass of Amanda Llado”

  1. Quite the unique story I gotta say. I was not expecting a Monster Girl story adaptation of Cask of Amontillado (did I spell it right). It’s been actual years since I even thought of that story since and I disliked required reading in school never good thoughts. Have to say I Prefer this version.

    In the end this is a Rather long winded way of saying this was an unexpected But enjoyed story.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is amazing, if the original author of the Cask of Amontillado was alive to see this he would be both appalled and amazed I’m sure. Wonderful writing!!

    Liked by 1 person

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