By the time they returned to their inn it was already quite late.

Without further delay they hurried to their room as they are going to miss a train.

The inn room was dark except for the low amber glow of a single mana-lamp and the moonlight slipping through the curtains. Seraphine stood outside the door on night-watch, as instructed. Inside, the air already felt thick.

Isolde set the black parcel on the bed like it was a birthday present. Ariana sat cross-legged on the sheets, still in her soft sleeping tunic, face already pink from anticipation and nerves. Oliver leaned against the headboard, arms folded, trying (and failing) to look casual.

Isolde tore the crimson ribbon with deliberate slowness.

"Time for show-and-tell."

First out: the rose-quartz wand. She flicked the rune. A low, steady hum filled the room.

Ariana's breath hitched.

Isolde crawled onto the bed, pushed Ariana flat on her back, and dragged the tunic up to her collarbone in one motion.

"No panties tonight," she noted approvingly. "Good girl."

She pressed the buzzing tip against Ariana's clit—lightly at first. Ariana jerked, a sharp whimper escaping.

"Pattern four," Isolde murmured, cycling through until the wand pulsed in slow, wicked waves.

Ariana's hips bucked. "Ah—fuck—too much—"

"Language," Isolde teased, and turned it up.

Next came the cuffs. Soft leather, silver runes. Isolde locked Ariana's wrists to the headboard, stretching her arms overhead. The healer's chest heaved, nipples already hard under the thin fabric.

Oliver watched, throat dry, cock straining against his trousers.

Isolde produced the spanking paddle—black leather, studded on one side. She flipped Ariana onto her stomach, yanked the tunic higher, and brought the paddle down with a crisp smack across one cheek.

Ariana yelped, then moaned, pushing her ass higher.

Another smack. Another. Red handprints bloomed fast.

Isolde leaned down, voice velvet. "Count for me."

"T-three—four—fuck—five—"

At ten she tossed the paddle aside and spread Ariana open with both hands.

"Look how wet she is," she told Oliver, almost conversational. "All from a little spanking."

She picked up the glowing crystal beads—five of them, each bigger than the last—and slicked them with warming oil.

One by one, slow and relentless, she fed them into Ariana's ass. Each bead earned a broken moan, Ariana's face buried in the pillow, fists clenched around the cuffs.

When the largest disappeared, Isolde gave the ring a gentle tug. Ariana sobbed into the sheets, thighs shaking.

Then came the main event.

Isolde stepped into the harness—black leather straps, thick silicone cock jutting proud and glistening with fresh lube. She adjusted it once, rolled her hips, and the thing looked obscene against her pale skin.

"On your back," she ordered.

Ariana rolled over, legs falling open without hesitation, eyes glassy.

Isolde lined up and pushed in—one slow, merciless thrust until she was buried to the hilt.

Ariana's back arched off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from her throat.

Oliver couldn't stay still anymore. He moved behind Isolde, hands on her hips, watching over her shoulder as she started to fuck Ariana in steady, deep strokes.

Every thrust pushed those crystal beads deeper; every withdrawal dragged a whine from Ariana's lips.

Isolde reached forward, pinched a nipple hard. "Tell him who you belong to tonight."

Ariana could barely speak. "Y-you—both—please—"

Oliver growled, leaned down, and claimed her mouth in a bruising kiss while Isolde kept pounding into her.

Minutes blurred—skin slapping, broken moans, the wet sound of the strap-on driving in again and again.

Isolde suddenly pulled out, flipped Ariana onto all fours, and took her from behind—harder, faster. She grabbed the ring on the beads and tugged them out one by one in time with her thrusts.

At the last bead Ariana shattered—screaming into the mattress, squirting hard enough to soak the sheets.

Isolde didn't stop. She fucked her right through it until Ariana was a trembling, sobbing mess.

Only then did she ease out, unclip the harness, and toss it aside.

She crawled up the bed, cupped Ariana's tear-streaked face, and kissed her softly.

"Good girl."

Ariana whimpered, boneless.

Oliver was already moving, but Isolde held up a finger.

"Not yet, hero. She earned a break."

She reached for the ball gag next—soft silicone, crimson strap—and fitted it gently between Ariana's lips.

"Just breathe through your nose, sweetheart."

Ariana's eyes fluttered, utterly surrendered.

Isolde looked at Oliver, eyes dark with promise.

"Your turn to watch," she said. "Then we switch."

The night was far from over.

***

Ariana's muffled whimpers filled the room, soft and needy around the red ball gag. Drool already glistened at the corners of her mouth, sliding down her chin onto the pillow. Her wrists were still cuffed above her head, body trembling from the aftershocks.

Isolde knelt between her spread thighs, admiring her work: flushed skin, red ass, the slick mess between her legs.

Oliver stood at the foot of the bed, trousers gone, cock heavy in his fist, waiting for permission.

Isolde glanced back at him, eyes glittering.

"On your knees, hero. Clean her up."

He didn't hesitate. Dropped down, hands spreading Ariana's thighs wider, and dragged his tongue slow and filthy through her soaked folds. Ariana screamed into the gag, hips jerking, trying to chase his mouth.

Isolde watched, one hand lazily stroking her own breast, the other sliding the rose-quartz wand along Ariana's inner thigh.

"Sensitive," she noted, amused. "Let's see how many she has left."

She pressed the buzzing tip against Ariana's swollen clit again (pattern six this time, fast and cruel).

Ariana's entire body seized. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes as she came again almost instantly, thighs clamping around Oliver's head, back bowing off the bed.

Oliver groaned into her, licking her through it until she was sobbing from overstimulation.

Isolde pulled the wand away, let Ariana catch one shaky breath, then leaned down and bit her earlobe.

"Time for the real lesson."

She unbuckled the gag, letting it fall. Ariana gasped, gulping air.

Isolde uncuffed one wrist, flipped her onto her stomach, and re-cuffed both hands behind her back.

Then she picked up the thick, ridged dildo (midnight blue, veined, easily nine inches) and slicked it generously.

Oliver moved behind Isolde now, hands on her hips, cock sliding between her cheeks as he watched.

Isolde pressed the head against Ariana's entrance.

"Breathe, sweetheart."

One slow, relentless push.

Ariana's cry was raw, half-pain, half-relief, as the toy stretched her wide. Isolde didn't stop until it was seated deep, base flush against her.

Then she started fucking her with it (long, deep strokes), each thrust pushing Ariana forward on the bed.

Oliver couldn't wait anymore.

He grabbed Isolde's hips, lined himself up, and slammed into her from behind in one brutal thrust.

Isolde moaned, loud and filthy, pushing back against him even as she kept driving the dildo into Ariana.

The rhythm synced: Oliver pounding Isolde, Isolde pounding Ariana, the chain of bodies rocking together.

The room filled with wet sounds, broken curses, the slap of skin on skin.

Ariana came again first, screaming into the sheets, pussy clenching around the toy.

Isolde followed seconds later, Oliver's cock buried deep, her walls fluttering hard around him.

Oliver lasted longest (barely), pulling out at the last second to paint Isolde's back and ass with thick ropes as she shuddered through the aftershocks.

They collapsed in stages.

Isolde first, rolling to the side, breathing hard.

Ariana next, face-down, trembling, wrists still cuffed.

Oliver last, falling beside them, chest heaving.

Silence for a long moment, broken only by ragged breathing.

Then Isolde laughed (low, satisfied).

"I think the princess is going to get a very well-rested healer tomorrow."

Ariana made a weak, muffled sound that might've been agreement.

Oliver just stared at the ceiling, utterly spent.

"Remind me," he rasped, "to never let you two shop unsupervised again."

Isolde reached over and patted his cheek.

"Too late, hero."

She glanced at the half-empty toy bag still sitting innocently on the floor.

"We've got six more things to try before sunrise."

Ariana whimpered.

Oliver closed his eyes.

He was going to need a stamina potion.

Or ten.

*****

The sun was already high by the time anyone stirred.

A dull golden beam slipped through the curtains, landing directly on Oliver's face. He groaned, rolled over—immediately regretted it—and felt something warm and soft smack into his shoulder.

Ariana's faint whimper.

Isolde's sleepy grunt.

Seraphine's emotionless voice from somewhere near the door:

"Good morning. All three of you exhibit symptoms of post-exertion muscular fatigue."

Oliver slapped a hand over his face.

"...Don't narrate it, Sera."

"Understood. Switching to silent observation mode."

Ariana buried her entire face in a pillow, letting out a tiny, tortured sound.

"I can't believe I'm alive… I can't believe last night happened… I can't believe I— I—"

Isolde stretched like a satisfied cat.

"You were wonderful. Ten out of ten. I'm proud."

Ariana shrieked into the pillow.

Oliver dragged himself out of bed, legs wobbling. "Breakfast. We need breakfast before someone dies for real."

*****

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