WARNING: The following story is fetish smut, made for perverts who enjoy natural body magic/detachment/disassembling people non-lethally. If you are not a member of that community, I strongly advise that you turn back now. Things will get freaky.
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“What do you think, cravat or no cravat? I think it kind of gets lost in the vest and coat, but without it the neckline feels barren. Going red on darker red was stupid in retrospect, but none of other cravats really spoke to me. White wasn’t fantastical enough, black gave the outfit a goth vibe, and yellow… eugh!” The short, plump, naturally tan Mediterranean woman wondered, posing and adjusting her neckwear. When a response didn’t come, she turned from the mirror and asked “Layla?”
“Huh? Oh. Uh, is cravat the neck thingie?” Layla asked, pointing at her own cravat-less cleavage.
“Neck thingie it be.” The short woman said, undoing the cravat and setting it aside as she sat on the bed beside Layla. She did her best to wrap her smaller hands around her bigger partner’s, their rings clicking against each other. Layla flinched; she thought she’d get used to it, yet a month after the wedding she still constantly noticed the uncomfortable metal band strangling her finger. She loved her wife, she was blessed to have a partner so amazing that her biggest complaint was the feeling of the wedding ring, but damn she hated rings. “Layla, you need to relax.”
“I’m chill.” Layla said, shoulders hunched and body tight like she was trying to collapse in on herself. Her wife said nothing, the skeptical twitch of her immaculate brow and red glossed lips speaking volumes. Layla sighed, releasing a tiny bit of tension. “Sorry Reg, it’s just… I dunno, I feel… like, stupid. Like, I look stupid.”
Regina, or ‘Reg’ to her friends, rolled her eyes. “It’s a LARP. You’ll be just as stupid looking as everyone else.” She motioned to her own ridiculous ensemble; a bright orange coat with yellow trim, a red vest, poofy pantaloons, medium brown boots, a hat with more feathers than brim, and potentially a red cravat. “Honestly, you’ll probably be the least stupid looking; you look like a badass in a costume, not a nerd playing dress up. I don’t think many pirates were rocking a muffin top.”
“You promised you’d stop doing that! Negative self talk is bad for you!” Layla said, wrapping her long, athletic, green painted arms tightly around her wife’s pleasantly plump waist and squeezing her like a teddy bear.
“I said I was rocking it!” She playfully argued. “And you promised to try LARP with me if I got you into tabletop games! And who joined a second party behind her wife’s back?” Reg rhetorically asked, returning her wife’s hug with equal intensity if not equal force. “Trust me, you’ll love it! So quit being a baby and be a barbarian!”
“Okay.” Layla meekly replied.
Regina sprung up. “Come, compadre, I said a barbarian! Boisterous, confident, wild!” she said, switching to a clusterfuck of Hollywood pirate, fake Spaniard, adopted Southern US, and the native North Italian accent.
“Okay!” Layla said, smiling.
“Ay, away, Layla! ‘Tis time I were introduced t’ Femrum, Crusher of Skulls!” Reg said, motioning excitedly for her wife to stand.
“OKAY!” Layla roared, leaping to her feet with hands proudly planted on her hips. “Femrum, here to fight!”
She certainly looked the part. Painted head to toe in grassy green, wearing plastic fangs over her lower teeth, and with twigs and leaves strategically stuck through the short sandy hair she’d refused to dye or wear a wig over, it would be obvious to everyone in the game that she was playing an orc. Her class was equally obvious, a glorified sports bra Reg had spent hours affixing faux leather plates and fake fur trim to, tight short shorts given matching fur, roughed up UGG boots with the tags cut off, and a necklace of plastic bones confirming her barbarian status. But Layla Smith-Vincenzo’s physique is what really sold her as Femrum, Crusher of Skulls. Towering, athletic, and elegant, a 6’3” statue given life, the sun bronzed surf instructor had looked like a fantasy hero before she even put on the shin guards repurposed and repainted as bracers. To someone who didn’t know she’d thrown only one punch in her entire 27 year life and got so lightheaded at the sight of blood that she had to be blindfolded when she donated, she’d be pretty intimidating.
Layla’s heroic pose vanished with the ring of the doorbell, her arms scrambling to cover herself and her huge frame trying to make itself small.
Reg laughed. “Looks like our package is here. I’ll meet you out back?”
“Okay…” Layla said, smudging some of paint off her elbow as she wrapped an arm over her midsection to grab the opposite arm and anxiously tromped to the backdoor. She cracked it open, looked both ways to ensure no one was peeking over their yard’s excessively tall fence, and tiptoed outside.
Reg strut down the opposite hall and proudly flung the front door open without a care, finding the exact scruffy, scrawny, skater looking dude she was expecting. “Ollie!” Reg greeted, reaching for the large package he was holding before it was even offered.
Ollie was more than happy to be rid of it, thrusting the box into Reg’s outstretched arms and stepping away. “Kyle needs to know how much catering to get. S’your girlfriend gonna chicken out?”
“Tell him, come hell or high water, fire and brimstone, come all the forces of evil from every corner of the compass, Monty Salamanca and her faithful companion, Femrum, Crusher of Skulls, will be there!” Reg announced, striking a pose somehow more flamboyant than her outfit.
The professional magician cringed so deeply he looked physically pained. Well, “professional” wasn’t entirely accurate; Ollie’s profession was hosting a prank show. “Genuine” was more fitting, for unlike the tricksters in velvet capes and top hats commonly found at children’s parties, Ollie could really channel forces beyond mortal reckoning to break science, warp reality, and bend the universe to his will. Powers indispensable to a professional prankster, and powers that his boyfriend Kyle had guilted, begged, and bribed him into using to enhance his LARP games.
Turning and trudging away with shoulders hunched and head low, Ollie didn’t return Regina’s wave or acknowledge her laugh as he muttered “The things we do for love.”, almost angry with himself for falling for Kyle and indulging his dumb hobbies.
The front door had just swung shut when Reg burst through the back, tearing into the box with tooth and nail. She barely made it to the patio table before the contents clattered out, a slender rapier and a thick two handed longsword landing with a muted thump as faux leather sheaths met composite wood. Then, almost as an afterthought, half a dozen plastic baggies filled with a yellow-green powder and a sheet of printer paper flopped from the mangled box.
Picking up the paper, Layla squinted at the tiny font of the single sided, single spaced sheet. “Okay, so… oh, so the baggies are magic detergent.” She said, picking up the six bags and moving them away from her wife, who’d already unsheathed the rapier and was giving it a few practice flicks. “Says to put any clothes cut by enchanted weapons in the wash, use this instead of normal detergent, and it all comes out reassembled and cleaned. Should still work if a few of the pieces are missing, but there may be errors.”
“How do the swords work?” Reg asked, about to stab herself through the palm before realizing she should know what the magic would do first.
“Uh… says they cut through organic materials and fabric like butter, not harming living things. Creates some sort of portal in living things, and pressing those portals together restores things. Says not to go crazy dicing people up or they’ll be hard to reassemble, and if you do jigsaw people or misplace parts you’ll have to pay Ollie to fix it… OH, it says the swords can’t damage solid metal, magic or otherwise. That must be why Kyle made all those rules about armor coverage and how much metal each class can wear… huh, wonder how that’ll work with my leg.” Layla wondered, glancing at the left leg she’d had surgically reconstructed with pins, plates, and a rod running through her femur after wiping out on a reef.
“Let’s find out!” Reg declared, swinging the rapier at her wife’s thigh. It passed through Layla’s flesh with no resistance and plinked off her femur’s metal core, the impact sending Reg and Layla stumbling in opposite directions, the bigger woman whipping her head around in shock.
“Jesus, mind giving me a warning next time?” Layla demanded, throwing up her arms before inspecting the wound. If the absence of pain or blood wasn’t enough proof, the faintly glowing expanse of fuzzy pinkish energy covering the cut made the magic indisputable. Layla didn’t know what to expect, plunging her fingers into the slit and spreading it wide for her blushing wife to see, but what she wasn’t expecting was for it to feel like an old tube TV screen. Crackling static danced across fingertips that pressed against a hard, smooth, glasslike surface. Unlike her grandparents’ TV however, Layla felt both sides of the contact, the magically generated energy her own, and touching it… felt really good. An electric current ran through her leg as she explored the fresh expanse.
“Play with yourself on your own time, it’s time you play with me!” Regina said, swatting Layla’s hands away from the pocket in her flesh and squeezing her wife’s wound shut. It sealed itself immediately, the magic tingling disappearing and leaving Layla exactly as she was “Come, cur, d’wish ye ‘nay spar wit’ta likes o’ me?”
Layla stared blankly, briefly wondering if Reg had thrown a sick Italian diss at her monolingual partner, before her mind worked through the layers of accents and affectations and spat out a rough translation. “Uh, you may want to tone down the pirate talk. It’s kind of hard to tell what you’re saying.”
“Hmph.” Regina huffed. She thought she’d heard the last of that tiresome remark years ago, when her American accent really started to overtake her Italian.
Realizing what she’d stepped in, Layla said “Come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that. Just… I dunno, stick to one or two pirate words per sentence? Like I’m sure your nerd friends will understand you, but what if they’re also bringing a big dumb jock?”
“Didn’t you say something about negative self talk, my beautiful jock?” Reg teased, unfolding her arms “Regardless, shall our spar be had on grounds more amenable to fallin’? Lest ye wish yer skull strike stone as I send it toppling from yer shoulders.”
Looking at the unyielding concrete patio beneath her and the soft wet grass ahead, Layla picked up her surprisingly light but poorly balanced wall decoration and followed her wife onto the grass. While Layla had never held a sword before, a lifetime of surfing and a career as an instructor made her something of an amateur expert on weight distribution, and her amateur expertise told her this sword was fucked. She could only hope that everyone else’s props were equally ungainly to level the playing field.
“Wait, I don’t get a sling?!” Layla wondered as she unsheathed and realized she had nowhere to store her scabbard. Unlike Reg’s pirate costume with its sturdy leather belt, Layla’s barbarian getup was devoid of solid anchor points. “Remind me to grab one of my old guitar straps or something later.” She said, unsheathing her blade and tossing the scabbard aside. Layla laid the flat of her weapon on her shoulder and tucked a thumb into her waistband as she spun to face her romantic partner turned sparring partner. Her pose was more cowboy than barbarian, but at least she was trying. “So, puny one, you dare challenge Femrum, Crusher of Skulls? Ha! Calling this a challenge is a fine joke. Come, test your mettle against… hers?” She said, losing confidence with her savage syntax.
“Maybe ditch the third person thing.” Regina said, trying to find a fencing stance that worked for her. “There’ll be a couple other barbarians there I think, they’re probably all going to talk like that.”
“Oh, um, okay…” Layla said, rethinking her character on the fly. Twisting her face into a scowl, she lowered her voice a few octaves and growled in gravelly monotone “Sorry, I’m not so good at gabbing. But my blade? She’s quite the conversationalist. How about I let her do the talking?”
Reg waited, remembering the last time she brought a gravelly voiced character to the table, and after a few seconds Layla couldn’t help but clear her throat and give a phlegm filled cough. There was no way she could keep that up all day without hurting herself. “We can workshop your… deal, later. For now, let’s do some swordplay! Some of these nerds do HEMA, so we’ll need as much practice we can get.”
“Uh, what’s he-mAAAAH?!” Layla asked, yelping and jumping to the side as Regina, or Monty Salamanca now, lunged at her exposed midriff. A gash opened near Layla’s belly button all the way to her left hip, deep enough that guts would be pouring out were the sword real. But it wasn’t, and according to Kyle’s rules, barbarians in combat were allowed to ignore any hit except ones to the upper chest, neck, head, or a hit that fully bisected the midsection. Femrum, Crusher of Skulls, was still in the fight.
Striding back a step, Femrum easily dodged her sparring partner’s second swipe before hefting her own sword off her shoulder and bringing it down in a heavy overhead strike. Off balance and exposed, Monty could do nothing but “Eep!” in terror as Femrum’s blade cleaved clean through her right forearm and buried its tip in the dirt.
The sleeves of Monty’s coat, shirt, and undershirt hung in ribbons as she lifted her diagonally halved forearm. Poking the cut surface and being just as surprised as her wife that the cut had sensation, Reg found it impossible to create even the tiniest dimple in the surface. Yet, pushing the unsupported flesh behind the cut, the unsupported nub of flesh bent like rubber, only becoming rigid when there was a sliver of bone behind it.
Regina felt a hand on hers, and looking up from her amputated arm she saw Layla offering the other half to her in what had to be the world’s strangest handshake. The cuff and sleeve fragments slid off and fluttered to the ground like victory confetti as her smug wife asked “Need a hand?”
Regina rolled her eyes as she punched her stumps together, the halves fusing seamlessly. Rolling her wrist to confirm everything worked, she bent down to pick up the rags that had been her cuff and sleeves. “If that magic detergent doesn’t work, Ollie is going to be a dead son of a bitch.” Regina said, remembering how expensive and time consuming her ensemble had been to assemble.
“It will, don’t worry!” Layla said, hoping for Ollie’s sake that it would. “So, ready for round 2?”
“Sure.” Regina said, tossing the loose ball of cloth over to the patio table and rolling the trailing ends of the sleeves up so they wouldn’t get in the way. Reentering her combat stance, Regina took a moment to evaluate her bigger opponent with her longer arms, before calling “En Garde!”
Monty immediately backpedaled, whipping the tip of her sword in a tight circle to keep the orc from advancing. Femrum slowly rotated in place as the pirate circled her, keeping a wide and confident stance that would allow her to spring in any direction needed. Her eyes followed the fine point of Monty’s rapier; wherever it went, the blade must follow. So long as she never lost sight of it, she couldn’t be caught off guard.
Monty pulled a flintlock out of her coat and fired. With a soft ‘pop!’ a bright red ball of foam was launched from the orange tipped pistol, bouncing off Layla’s left boob and leaving a faint splotch of red paint. “Wh-“ Layla began, looking down in disbelief and leaving herself wide open. Monty leapt forth and hilted her rapier in her bewildered opponent’s chest, just above the breastbone and through her spine.
“Dude!” Layla protested. “What the hell was that?”
Regina cocked her head up and said with a shit eating grin, “Barbarians ignore wounds, pirates get guns. It’s part of Kyle’s class system.”
“You said you wanted sword practice!” Layla complained.
“That was sword practice! I distracted you with my sword, shot you, then stabbed you! It’s a classic combo attack!” Regina argued.
“Whatever.” Layla huffed.
“Weird way to say GG.” Regina joked, leaving the rapier in her wife as she bent over to pick up her shot and stuff it back into the spring loaded toy.
She didn’t think that through. The blade sank through Layla as soon as it was released, already falling from between her legs by the time she realized what was happening. Layla yelped, jumping back as her senses were bombarded from every direction. This too was a mistake, as once the minute differences in leg strength and the lack of support from her bisected spine caused her feet to slip out from under her. Layla felt the grass brushing the underside of her chin as she looked around in disbelief, her body bisected from chest to groin and forced into the deepest splits the world had ever seen.
“PFFFT! HEEHEEHEEHEEEEE!” Regina cackled, her natural laugh much more witch than pirate. “OH MY GOD, YOU’RE LIKE A BANANA PEEL! HEEHEE-HAW!”
“NOT FUNNY!” Layla argued, in spite of her wife’s intensifying laughter. Trying to pull herself together proved impossible, each attempt at shifting her back muscles resulting in unpredictable spasms as her muscles internally moved with each other, but externally mirrored one another. The grass against her magic cut surface wasn’t helping the sensory confusion, hundreds of soft blades tickling her insides and creating ticklish spasms which rubbed her harder into the grass in a self sustaining cycle. Eventually, a red blush cut through her green face paint, and visibly sweating from the effort of trying to hold in ticklish laughter and a livid outburst she locked eyes with her wife. “Help.” She ordered, in hushed rage.
While Reg wanted to keep teasing, any further ribbing would jeopardize Layla’s willingness to LARP at all. Kneeling on the soft grass behind her wife’s head, careful not to rest on her expensive coat for fear of grass stains, Reg wrapped her fingers around Layla’s green painted cheeks and pulled her head up into her lap. The two halves of her body trailing down from her neck were twisted and pulled along the grass a few inches, Layla’s knees and toes twitching as static rolled through her parted spine. Pressing the sides of Layla’s long neck together, Reg sealed the cut down to her shoulders. Pulling her wife further up on her lap, Reg was ready to effectively zip her wife back together when Layla let out the sharp, terrified noise normally reserved for when a horror movie killer burst through a door.
“My top!” Layla squeaked, her hands flying up to her split chest as the sports bra that had logically also been split lengthwise slid down either side. She repeated her terror noise at an even higher pitch as she quietly cried “My bottom!” Her short shorts and panties, also halved, had been left behind in the grass when Reg pulled her into her lap, leaving her in nothing but a pair of boots, some forearm bracers, and a tacky necklace. Trying to pull her chest together and cover it with one hand while the other scrambled and spread its fingers trying to cover a crotch that was now split by over a foot of grass, Layla’s eyes were darting around the fence line in a total panic, expecting any second for all her neighbors and all her friends and all their friends’ friends and their mothers too to suddenly poke their heads over the fence and gawk at her. While the cement and cinderblock middle finger to the HOA the couple charitably described as a fence stood over seven feet tall, necessitating an entire furniture shop’s stock of footstools if a crowd wanted to peek over, the absurdity of her paranoid fantasy did nothing to lessen its terror.
Layla somehow managed to fit the pitch and inflections of a scream into the volume of a whisper as she said in a single breath “Fuck this hurry up I’m going inside I’m done I’m not doing this I’m not going fuck this game I’m not playing go alone hurry up fix me!”
“Oh come, don’t be like that! I know you read the whole PDF Kyle sent; you knew nip slips are part of the game!” Regina retorted, swatting her wife’s unhelpful hands out of the way so she could access her armpits and push her torso back together. “And you’ll only maybe get exposed is if you suck at fighting and lose. If you’re good, you won’t get cut, which is why we need practice!”
Layla ruefully remembered the part in the consent agreement she signed about accidental exposure. While the game was emphatically non-sexual, going so far as to list penalties for people caught in lewd acts, the fact that the weapons had to be able to cut through clothes to get to the flesh beneath made it all but certain that at some point people would have naughty bits exposed. Game master Kyle had seen this and implemented all sorts of rules around it. Everyone present, playing or not, had to be 18 or older. They had to leave behind all cameras, phones, and anything else capable of photos or video. The game was taking place on a remote plot of private land deep in the boonies. If players were deemed to be maliciously exposing people, Ollie had horrible magic punishments lined up for them on top of Kyle’s ban and the loss of the offending player’s deposit fee. Lastly, everyone had to sign waivers saying they were ok with potential exposure. Still, Layla had thought that was all just legalese to cover Kyle and Ollie’s asses, not a real warning. Getting instantly and fully exposed in one attack made it very clear that this was no idle threat, and Layla regret everything.
Throwing her arms around her wife’s midsection and hugging it back together, Reg pressed her cheek firmly into Layla’s green shoulder and begged “Come ooooon! You pwoooomised to pwaaaay wit meeeeee! It’ll be fuuuuun! Nobody’s gonna be a pwude or a perv about this, everyone’s just there to nerd out and pway dwess up!”
Layla rolled her eyes, unsure if her wife was being willfully ignorant or over idealistic. “They’ll stare.” She stated, squeezing her hips together. Layla knew that wherever there were people in skimpy attire or the potential for exposure, regardless of context, there would be bad apples there to do nothing but gawk and be creeps. She’d run into plenty of them on the beach, most gawking generally but a select few who came explicitly to ogle Layla. To ‘see the graceful giant ride’, as one of the more brazen specimens put it when he approached Layla and insisted she join him for drinks.
“Please, you know I’d kill anyone I caught giving my wife fuck-me eyes.” Reg said, her hands sliding teasingly down Layla’s sides and coming together between her parted legs. A few inches of magic cut remained, running down from just below her bellybutton and perfectly bisecting her vagina. Reg slid her fingers into the divide, finding just enough room to squeeze six squirming fingers in with her thumbs resting on Layla’s suddenly heaving belly and her pinkies teasingly on her parted womanhood. “Only I’m allowed to give my wife the fuck-me eyes.” She said, looming over the woman who so often loomed over her and giving her the promised look.
Layla’s hips reflexively ground themselves into the dirt and pushed themselves back up into Reg’s digits, the bizarre horizontal penetration sending signals Layla’s brain couldn’t properly interpret. She bit her lip, double checking every last inch of the fence line for potential observers before allow herself a quiet, shuddering moan of approval, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of the flowing brown hair cascading from her wife’s ridiculous hat. Somewhere between the ecstasy and fantasies of imminent fucking, Layla wondered how the hell her Reg was so good at catching her off guard. One second she was pissed and embarrassed, the next she was horny putty in her hands. She’d pulled the same shit asking her out; Layla was trying to tell the strangely accented lesbian she was barking up the wrong tree, but with a smirk, a chuckle, and a bad joke, Reg transformed Layla into a stammering gay mess tumbling out of a closet she’d never even known she’d been in. The love of Layla’s life really was one insidious bitch.
Layla only realized she’d closed her eyes when they snapped open, Reg’s finger’s rolling out from between Layla’s legs and wrapping around her lower hips. With a firm squeeze Layla was back to normal, much to her seeming disappointment. A hand reflexively pawed at the lips of her womanhood, her probing fingers almost entering it before she caught herself. She looked up at her wife, confused and curious.
“Enough lollygagging! Let’s go another round or so, then if we’ve still got the energy we can see about going a few rounds more.” Reg said, innuendo so thick her pirate voice struggled to squeeze past. Shuffling back slowly and pushing herself up onto feet that had fallen asleep, Regina was delighted to see her wife take up the longsword and spring into her best attempt at a combat stance, too excited to care about her own nakednes. Reg wondered how good the magic must’ve felt to get her like this, whether or not Kyle and Ollie ever did bedroom magic… oh of course they fucking had! There was no possible way that Ollie could keep this out of his sex life, every one of his partners had to have begged for it.
Stretching her legs until they stopped tingling, Reg signaled she was ready to go by dropping into a rough stance with her rapier outstretched. Learning her lesson, Femrum kept close enough to lunge if Monty tried to go for her pistol but far enough to evade an attack from the smaller woman’s shorter limbs. Meanwhile, Monty attempted to bait out a strike by flicking the tip of her sword as she bobbed on the balls of her feet, watching every flinch and twitch like she was looking for tells over a hand of poker.
While the players portraying these expert swordswomen were combat virgins, their inexperience ironically made the fights play out more like the duels their characters would realistically have: only a few seconds and a couple swings long. Femrum went to grab at Monty’s right wrist with her left hand, the pirate reflexively hacked at the exposed forearm and sent the hand flying, at which point Femrum continued to advance and wrapped the truncated limb around Monty’s extended sword arm. Unable to free herself from the grapple, Femrum brought her sword down in a diagonal cleave through Monty’s torso, the upper right quarter of her body tumbling off and hitting the grass shortly before the rest of her unbalanced body stumbled a few steps and collapsed.
“That was the stupidest most meta-gaming shit ever.” Reg complained, trying to crawl her better half over to her head’s half with an almost sideways third person angle and finding it much harder than anticipated. As her body ground its knees into the grass, her slashed shirts and coat falling down the one shoulder and dragging along as she crawled through the grass, Regina silently prayed that Ollie’s magic detergent was as good at stain removal as it ostensibly was with repairs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Layla said, casually strolling to her severed hand and bending over with a taunting wiggle of her exposed butt as she picked it up. When she was certain her wife had gotten an eyeful, Layla stood up and turned to face her. “Uh, actually though. I don’t know what that means. Meta-gaming.”
“It means your character wouldn’t really do that. Nobody would sacrifice a hand just to win a fight in real life!” Layla argued, the pistol wielding pirate suddenly very concerned about fair play.
Layla shrugged. “Why not? I’ve got two.” Layla said, reattaching her hand and flexing her fingers teasingly at her wife as she continued to flop around. Trying to come up with a retroactive excuse for this meta-gaming thing, Layla said “Besides, my character knows clerics can glue our bits back on, so as long as you win the fight who cares about getting hurt?” A sudden flash of inspiration filled her face. “OH! That could be my character’s thing! Like, she’s just this totally reckless bitch who goes into every fight all suicidal, because she thinks the gods decide who wins fights and so long as she has faith in their judgment she has nothing to fear. Like, that can explain her barbarian ability to ignore pain, she’s so devout she trained herself to just power through.”
With the costume already made and the game only a week away, Regina wasn’t about to argue about whether or not this concept would put Layla’s character more in line with a paladin than a barbarian. “Cool.” She said, attempting to push her stumps together but succeeding only in sliding her face through the grass and smudging her makeup. “Little help?” She reluctantly asked.
Returning her wife’s favor, Layla pulled Reg’s topless bottom half into a sitting position before picking up the awkwardly shaped top half of her diagonally bisected bride and finagling it into position. Squeezing her together, Reg mouthed “Thanks.” without actually pushing the air out of her lungs to say it, all her energy focused on assessing what remained of her costume. The larger left piece had slid off the nub of shoulder into a formless pile of cloth around her hips, tucked in shirt and undershirt binding her left arm to her side. A small triangle of fabric covered her upper torso, with most of a few sleeves hanging off it. One breast was fully exposed, the other peeking out from the triangle now that her strapless bra had fallen down her bust in two pieces a few feet away.
“Well, at least I’ll still be wearing the pants in our relationship.” Reg said, sliding her left arm out of its sleeves, untucking and unbuttoning her shirts, and crumpling them up in a ball along with the larger part of her coat before tossing them in the general direction of the patio table. After that, she undid the four buttons holding the remaining triangle of sleeves and shirts to her body before sliding out of them and tossing them away, happy now that a cravat hadn’t been in the way. Standing up and bouncing on the balls of her feet, her heavy breasts bouncing with her, Regina frowned. “It’s a good thing that, in game, I’ll be dead if someone cuts me bad enough to take my top off. Fighting without a bra is gonna suck.”
“Why do you say that?” Layla joked, standing tall and puffing up her barely b-cup chest as her double-d packing wife rolled her eyes. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll make our outfits matching.”
Smiling and tightening her belt tauntingly, Reg put a few paces between her and her wife before turning, slowly raising her sword and lowering her center of mass. With a cry of “En Garde!”, the fourth duel of Femrum and Monty commenced.
Without even exchanging a suggestive eyebrow waggle, Reg and Layla had both independently decided that rather than trying to cut each other down practically and efficiently, they were going to Errol Flynn the fuck out of this fight. Their swords clattered and clanged with fast, light attacks aimed at nothing but the opposite weapon, both women swaying and thrusting like stage performers with highly telegraphed and easily countered strikes. After realizing they were on the same page, the wives barely even paid their swords any mind, allowing the weapons to clash on auto-pilot in their peripherals while they intently watched their partner gyrate.
Regina admired her wife’s athletic physique, the way every piece of her seemed to flow perfectly into the next and fit together seamlessly. The heavy coat of orc green paint did nothing to hide the lines of her well defined but elegant muscles, the way those muscles carried her gracefully and effortlessly from one position to the next. She was a living, breathing work of art, one that had heard the puncline to every last one of Reg’s jokes a hundred times but laughed anyway, never complained how over salted and undercooked Regina’s cooking was, and was always just too full for the last spoonful of her dessert. Reg couldn’t believe how lucky she was.
Layla admired her wife’s cute curves, how soft and adorable every inch of her managed to be. Whether she was wearing a cyan cocktail dress, sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, or a stupid hat and the lower half of pirate costume with her tits flopping around, she always looked like she was made to wear exactly what she had on. She was like a doll, one that could play with Layla’s hair for hours while her soft belly was being used as a pillow, had never been jealous of how flirty Layla’s surfer bros and sisters could get, and was always encouraging Layla to experiment and try things she’d always wanted to but had been too self conscious about. Layla couldn’t believe how lucky she was.
Regina hadn’t even been trying to win when she won. Distracted by the love of her life, the heel of Layla’s boot caught the very garden hose that Reg had told her dozens of times to put away properly and dozens of times Layla had ignored her. Her hubris caught up with her, her body tipped back with the momentum of a theatrical swing sending one leg into the air while the other crumpled. Landing hard on her firm ass, her sword sailing from her hands and burying itself in grass a few feet away, Layla blinked in surprise and looked up at her wife. Regina was just as shocked by the sudden turn of events, but recovered a second quicker. With a wicked smile, she brought the tip of her rapier to the orc’s throat. “Have ye last words?” She asked in her best pirate voice yet.
“If this is the will of the gods, so be it.” Femrum said, tilting her head back and presenting her neck.
With a flick, the barbarian’s head toppled from her shoulders, her body hitting the grass shortly after. Sheathing her sword, the pirate picked up the head of her fallen opponent by a fistful of short cut hair. “Ah, what a fine trophy ye’ll make.”
“That actually really hurts.” Layla complained, wincing as her scalp strained to support the weight of her head.
“The beast yet lives!” Monty exclaimed, quickly adjusting her grip so she was now holding her trophy more comfortably by its green cheeks.
Winking with appreciation, Femrum smiled proudly and said “It would seem the gods favor me yet, for they will not allow death to claim a warrior so devout.” Femrum’s bare green body got to its booted feet. To Regina’s slight annoyance, the headless body was still an inch taller than she was, though that annoyance quickly vanished as the body wrapped its arms around her waist, pulling her in for a firm but gentle embrace. With the pirate’s face pressed against a pair of warm green tits and the orc’s severed head sandwiched between Monty’s boobs and her own abdomen, both women could hear one another’s racing hearts, which excited each of them in a lustful feedback loop.
“You have fought admirably, my survival should not spoil a worthy warrior’s well earned victory. Perhaps there’s another reward my head could provide you, if it will not be a trophy.” Femrum said, her hot breath rolling down the shorter woman’s shivering belly as her big green hands crept down her shaking sides, grabbing two fistfuls of plump ass.
Regina really wished she wasn’t the one wearing pants in this relationship, because even magic detergent would have an uphill battle removing the stain she’d just made. Spinning on her heels, she tucked her wife’s giggling head into the crook of her left arm while her right wrapped around her naked waist and hustled her inside the house, still holding the rapier.