Maid Marian vs. Velasca

11. Footman's Humiliation

Alaric and Footman stood shackled in front of Velasca, their eyes locked on the seductive lynx who now held them captive. Velasca's golden fur shimmered in the dim light, her revealing golden bikini and loincloth leaving little to the imagination. Her eyes gleamed with amusement as she took in the sight of the two men.

Alaric clenched his fists, his voice rough with anger. "Where is Robin?"

Velasca's smile widened, her lips curling with wicked satisfaction. "Robin is exactly where he belongs—under my care, in my bedchamber."

Before Alaric could respond, Velasca's attention shifted to Footman. Her gaze lingered on him, predatory and calculating. She gave a flick of her wrist, and with a command to her guards, Footman was pulled forward, his shackles clinking ominously as he was dragged away.

"Take him to my conservatory," Velasca said, her voice thick with dark intent. "I have plans for him."

Footman's heart pounded in his chest as he was led down a twisting corridor, the guards pushing him roughly through a heavy door. The air grew heavier, filled with the scent of something dark and earthy, and as he stepped inside, his breath caught in his throat.

The room was a distorted reflection of Marian's conservatory. The plants here were not lush and vibrant—they were deadly. Hemlock and belladonna grew thick along the walls, their leaves shining with poison. Dark vines twisted around the room like serpents, and in the center stood a pedestal with a small mandrake root glowing faintly beneath the soil.

Velasca entered the room behind him, her steps slow and deliberate. She smiled as she took in his reaction to her twisted collection. "Welcome to my sanctuary," she purred, running a hand along the vine-covered walls. "Here I've gathered the most powerful and toxic plants in the world. Hemlock, belladonna... and, of course, mandrake."

Footman's heart sank at the mention of mandrake. His mind flashed back to Marian's gentle test, a ritual of restraint and honor. But here, with Velasca, the mandrake was something else entirely—twisted, corrupted.

Velasca's eyes gleamed as she approached him, her fingers lightly brushing against his chest. "I know about Marian's little test. So quaint, so innocent," she said mockingly. "But this... this is something far more potent."

She held up a small vial dangling from a necklace around her neck. Inside the glass shimmered a glowing liquid. "This contains the magical essence of mandrake root," Velasca explained. "I've unlocked its dark potential. It amplifies my power, and in return, I feed it with the seed of men. A cycle of lust and life, you might say. The more seed I collect, the stronger I grow, and my youth is preserved."

Footman recoiled at her words, but Velasca only smiled wider. She stepped closer, her body brushing against his as she spoke. "You see, the mandrake feeds on desire. And now... it's your turn to contribute."

Footman clenched his fists, his voice strained. "I have no desire for you. Only for Maid Marian."

Velasca's eyes darkened, her lips curling with amusement. "Is that so?" she purred, her hand sliding down his arm until her fingers traced the edge of his shackles. "We'll see about that."

With one fluid motion, she untied her loincloth and let it fall to the ground, revealing her womanhood. Footman's breath caught, his gaze falling against his will. His body betrayed him immediately, heat surging through him as desire began to coil deep inside him. He tried to tear his eyes away, but the temptation was too strong. The shame and guilt gnawed at him, but he couldn't stop himself.

Velasca's hand found his, and she guided it downward, toward the dark soil beneath the mandrake root. "It doesn't matter whether you think of me or Marian," she whispered, her voice a silk trap. "The mandrake will take your seed all the same."

Footman's heart raced as she began to stroke him, his body responding helplessly to her touch. He tried to resist, tried to think of Marian, but the heat of Velasca's body and the cruel pleasure she brought him shattered his will. His composure cracked, and his voice broke. "I... I can't... It's been so long since... I..."

Velasca smiled wickedly, her fingers moving faster, teasing him to the edge. "That's right. Let it go. Surrender to what you want."

Footman let out a guttural moan, the pressure inside him reaching a fever pitch. His body trembled uncontrollably as Velasca's touch pushed him past the point of no return. He gasped, his knees weakening as his release came swiftly.

With a final, strained cry, Footman spilled his seed, thick and hot. The first powerful burst shot deep into the soil where the mandrake root eagerly waited, but more followed, wild and messy. The sticky ropes of seed splattered across the earth, some of it spraying on the surrounding plants and a few stray drops landing on Velasca's legs. The sight of it left him weak, his body shaking as the last of his release dripped to the ground.

Velasca watched him with a twisted smile, her eyes burning with dark satisfaction. She bent down and wiped the drops from her legs, bringing them to her lips with a deliberate, sensual motion. "Perfect," she murmured, tasting the essence. "You've given me exactly what I need."

Footman's chest heaved with the weight of his shame, guilt crashing over him as he struggled to catch his breath. But Velasca wasn't finished. Her eyes glinted with cruel amusement as she leaned closer, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. "So quick to spill yourself, too. If only Maid Marian had been more... considerate of your needs. Perhaps if she had drained you regularly herself, you wouldn't be so vulnerable to me."

Her taunt struck him like a blow, and Footman's heart sank even further. The guilt, the sense of betrayal—he had failed Marian, surrendered to Velasca's dark power.

Back in the winding corridors of the castle, Alaric heard the sound of a moan, muffled and distant. His stomach clenched as the sound echoed in the stillness. It was a cry, but he couldn't tell if it was one of pain or something far worse. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword, his jaw set in grim determination. "Footman," he whispered, fearing the worst. "If she's killed him, I'll make her pay."

But little did Alaric know, Footman's fate was far more twisted than death itself.