Conanne: Handmaiden of Death (fantasy, futa-male, action-adventure)

Conanne: Handmaiden of Death

A Short Story by J.K. Ermon (jokermon)

http://subscribestar.adult/j-k-ermon

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction for the entertainment of adults only. Everything in this story is imaginary and is not meant to represent any real-life people, events, or medical conditions. It contains explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content. If that’s not your thing, or if reading this type of material is unlawful where you reside, don’t read it. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older, even if it seems otherwise for dramatic or narrative purposes. Please enjoy this story responsibly and do not repost without permission. This story is copyright©2024 J.K. Ermon.

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When the mail-shirted guards dragged Andrego the merchant from the dungeons beneath the Aquilonian palace, he was very surprised when they didn’t immediately kill him. They put a coarse hempen sack over his head and roughly led him through a disorienting succession of staircases and halls. He had fully expected to be taken to some execution chamber and summarily beheaded. When they removed the sack, he found himself in a luxurious bedchamber instead.

He gaped around. Scantily-clad servant girls were filling an ornate bronze tub with steaming-hot water. A great canopied four-poster bed dominated an entire wall. Tapestries and silks hung everywhere and the floors were polished Nemedian marble rather than rush-strewn flagstones. A glass-enclosed balcony flooded the room with late afternoon sun. It flared on a dozen shiny surfaces.

Daylight, he thought, tearing up at the brightness. Never thought I’d see that again.

“Time to get cleaned up, traitor,” the senior guard spat. He waved toward the tub. “The Queen shall decide your fate presently.”

Hope rekindled in his heart. So I’m not dead yet.

The soldier went on. “This room will be guarded. Any misbehavior and you die.” From his savage tone he clearly hoped he’d be the one to do it.

“In the meantime,” he threw over his shoulder, “remedy your foul stench.”

The guards left and Andrego made a rude gesture at the closed door. His nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of himself. The man wasn’t wrong. His once-rich robes were ripped and filthy from his capture and subsequent jailing; his corpulent body reeked of dried sweat and mortal terror. He hadn’t had a chance for a proper wash since his apprehension. The Black Dragons caught him fleeing the country in an empty transport barrel used for pungent spices and he had been in the dungeons at least a week. Long enough, at any rate, for the scented hair oil he favored to turn rancid.

He stripped naked and climbed into the tub. He was a grossly fat man and at thirty-six, the youngest member of Aquilonia’s mercantile guild.

And one of the wealthiest, he thought with a flash of his old pride. He settled into the hot water with a sigh of relief. At least until I lost everything.

The veiled and silk-clad serving girls silently collected his soiled clothes. All but one of them left. She was a particularly bosomy wench with long braided black hair and a narrow-waisted, wide-hipped figure. She knelt next to the tub and laid out a tray of exotic soaps and unguents. Apparently, she was to be his bather.

Her eyes were all that was visible of her face, and she kept them demurely downcast. Andrego couldn’t help catching an arresting glimpse of cobalt blue. Much of her skin was exposed, and it was tanned and smooth and beautiful, but also, intriguingly, covered with many well-healed scars. Her abbreviated camisole top left her belly bare and revealed a mountainous amount of cleavage. For the first time in weeks, Andrego felt stirrings of a manly nature.

Might as well make the best of things, he thought.

He reached out a chubby hand and cupped one of those fine, full breasts. She slapped his hand away with astonishing strength. He gave her a wounded look. She pointed meaningfully at the door through which the guards went. The warning was clear. He was to behave or else. Grumbling, he settled back in the water.

Without a word, she picked up a long-handled bath brush and proceeded to scrub him clean with great efficiency. She was liberal with her use of the soap and wasn’t gentle. Andrego winced several times as she got a little too vigorous scouring out his many folds and crevices. She brusquely dunked his head to she could lather up his thick brown hair and then dunked it again to rinse it.

“Easy, bitch,” he sputtered.

To his shock, she rapped him on the head with her bath brush.

“Is that any way to address your queen, Andrego?” Her voice was throaty, melodious and reproachful. He recogni

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