Overlord or Breeding Slave: Book 1: Sold in the City of Greed

by Jay Aury

  Overlord or Breeding Slave

  Book 1: Sold in the City of Greed

  Jay Aury

  https://twitter.com/aury_jay

  Overlord or Breeding Slave and its contents are copyright 2021 by Jay Aury. All rights are reserved and no portion may be reproduced aside from brief quotations for review purposes. Cover credit to the talented EligapNSFW https://twitter.com/EligapNSFW?s=09.

  All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18. This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people or situations is coincidental.

  Princess of Pride

  Lorrick the Black, Overlord of the netherworld, master of demons, conqueror of kingdoms, and generally not a nice person, has sired an amazing daughter.

  You know this, because it’s you.

  How do you know you’re amazing? Well, all you have to do is look at yourself in one of the many mirrors of your expansive bedroom. Your slender waist and luscious skin fairly glow in the pale lights of the lamps scattered among the banners on the walls. Your big breasts are capped with perfect pink nipples. Your curvy hips have enthralled demons and monsters and men. Your long dark lashes veil your smoky eyes. Your mocking lips, so soft and red, make hearts swoon, and your hair is as long and black as a river of night.

  At the moment you’re complimenting your figure with a dark gown that reveals every aching curve, clinging to your sweet frame like a second skin, cut to show your big breasts to the fullest potential. Of course, given who you are, spikes jut from the shoulders and the tall collar that frames your head. That’s the thing about being the daughter of the Overlord. You’re almost contractually obligated to look like you’re ready to whip or fuck whoever crosses your path.

  Which you’ve been known to do. There’s a reason you’re called the Princess of Pride.

  Honestly, you can’t understand why some dress modestly. It’s in your blood to tempt people. A woman needs to know she stands above all. It’s why your father built the Citadel, a monument to an ego so large it penetrates into the mortal realm, with the added bonus of allowing him to lead his hordes to conquer new realms. Just the though of him subjugating an entire other dimension makes your heart thrill and perfect lips smile.

  “Damn but I look good!” you breathe.

  “Indeed, mistress,” your companion, Loria, says, adjusting her small round spectacles. “You look quite enchanting.”

  You spare her an amused look. She’s but one of your servants, but surely your most skilled, and the most beautiful. Despite her trim, professional dress and the tight bob of her hair, no one could doubt her loveliness. Not nearly as beautiful as you, of course. But no one in all the demon world could match the Princess of Pride for loveliness. Some might wonder why you keep a succubus as a maid when mortal slaves are so plentiful. Those people are morons. After all, why wouldn’t you want a creature whose very nature is to tempt others help you dress? You’re a mistress of evil! It’s part of the job.

  Not that Loria does much tempting. Beautiful though she may be, she’s frigidly professional in service of you. More a secretary than a handmaiden, but she gets the job done.

  “Thank you, Loria. But you don’t think it too much?” you ask, gesturing at yourself. “After all, father is supposed to be returning from conquering the northern kingdoms of man. I want to impress when he arrives in triumph.”

  “You look beautiful no matter what,” Loria says loyally.

  “Well, obviously,” you scoff, running a hand through your raven hair, giving it a flick. “I am the daughter of the Overlord, after all.”

  And it is good to be the daughter of the Overlord. Slaves. Treasures. Playthings and power. All yours. You smirk into the mirror, fondling your big breasts a little. Men would sell their souls for a feel of those.

  “Mistress?” Loria says.

  “Hm?”

  “We should be returning to the throne room. The ritual is to begin within the hour.”

  “It will?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  Excitement bubbles up within you. At last! It’s been so long since you’ve seen your father. And to meet him again at the moment of his triumph!

  “Quick! The red gown!” you command. “Hurry!”

  “Yes, mistress,” Loria says, snapping her fingers. Veiled handmaidens from the realm of lust glide forward, swaying sensually as they pluck the gown out and help you dress. You shiver in delight as they touch and stroke your skin. If you weren’t in such a hurry, you’d force them to their knees and ride their pretty tongues to orgasm.

  Within moments the crimson robe wraps about you, and you’re marching through the halls of the Citadel. Courtiers from all the seven realms of the demon world bow while servants and slaves scurry from your path. You tilt your head back, looking down on all who populate the halls of the fortress. You are your father’s daughter. Mistress of his realm in his absence. Your smile grows, and you put a bit more swing in your step.

  Time to welcome him home.

  Ritual

  Ritual

  The throne room of the Citadel is appropriately impressive and spiky. The ceiling rises almost out of view, the walls filled with arches from which, at a command, portals can open and spill demonic guards in to protect you. Huge banners flutter, depicting the red hand of the Overlord on a field of black, and jagged metal rise from the walls, dangling lanterns that burn with the green flames of witch fire.

  One is made to feel small in such a place. A permanent portal gate is erected in the far part of the room, currently dark, but ready to spring to life. Few can access it from your end, and only with the proper key, which had been scattered in four pieces across the Citadel, each guarded by a puzzle. Your father designed that. He does so love constructing complicated locks and traps. There is also an actual door to the throne room, but this only leads straight to the Citadel proper, and is hidden behind the raised dais where seven thrones sit.

  The thrones are spread out below you, each dedicated to one of the lords of sins, the masters of the demon world, generals in the Overlord’s hordes, and above them all is your father’s. Made of dark steel, carved like it were crafted from the bones of some huge, fanged beast, it towers over the entire chamber. It feels good to sit in it. While your father is in the Citadel, you sit in the throne of pride, but while he’s gone, you rule the roost, so to speak.

  You shift, your tight red gown outlining your shapely figure, a black steel crown a pleasant weight on your brow as you await your father’s return. You’re not worried. Certainly not. But… it has been a few hours past the time he’s supposed to arrive. Your eyes flick to the giant hourglass in a corner, where a hero’s loved one can be locked inside, the sand slowly filling and suffocating them to provide dramatic backdrop. No one’s in there now. It’s been a while since a hero has tried to break in.

  “Late,” you mutter, tapping your fingers on the skulls that form the arms of the throne.

  “No doubt he’s merely occupied, mistress,” Loria says.

  You grimace. “Leave me,” you say.

  Loria bows a little, her robes swishing with a whisper as she departs, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You sigh, resting a cheek in a palm, tapping your finger on the throne with growing impatience. Where is he? You’re not worried. You’re certainly not worried. But you’re starting to get… um… impatient. Yeah. Impatient to be kept waiting.

  You perk up as the portal in its frame suddenly sparks to life, filling the ring with a swirling blue magic. Your face falls however when only an imp pops out and flops onto the floor. He’s a wretched little creature. Standing, he�
�d only come up to your knees. His large head sits on thin shoulders, his skin a deep, ruddy red and small, bat-like wings growing from his back. A long tail ends in a stinger behind him, but his cock is certainly not to scale, being as large as a mortal man’s and currently hanging between his thighs. He kneels on the floor for a long moment, panting, clutching a scroll in his free hand.

  You frown. You know that imp. His name is Givril, a wretched little creature your father kept around as a kind of jester and messenger. You never liked the despicable little demon. Often, you’ve felt his eyes glued to your youthful curves. “Imp?” you say. “Why are you here? Where’s my father?”

  “D-dead!” Givril croaks.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  The imp raises his head and looks straight at you, his eyes large and shocked. “The Overlord, mistress. He’s dead!”

  Cold rushes through you, numbing you. You realize you’re standing, which is odd, because at the same time, it feels like your legs could never support your weight.

  “Dead?” you gasp.

  “Dead!” Givril cries.

  You’re across the room so fast you barely register it. Your hands grab the wretched little demon, lifting him into the air and shaking him. “What do you mean dead? My father can’t die! Speak plainly! What happened, Givril? Tell me you little bastard!”

  “H-heroes!” the imp squeaks as his head is thrown back and forth by your shaking. “The. Overlord. Was. Fighting. And. Five. Heroes. Came. And. Killed. Him!”

  “Where were the lords of sin?” you demand. “How did this happen!”

  “Don’t know! Don’t know! Don’t know!” Givril yelps as you manhandle him. He raises a fist, the scroll clutched in his hands fluttering. “Here! Told me give you! Told me to take if he dies!”

  “Why didn’t you say so before! Give me that!”

  You snatch the scroll from the imp’s hand, dropping him unceremoniously to the floor. You turn, unfurling it even as you begin to walk back to the throne, all thoughts of the dignity of your station forgotten. Right now, you’re just a girl. A girl whose father is dead, and in your hands is his final will, written in his own flowing hand.

  My darling daughter,

  If you’re reading this, I must be dead. Likely cut down by some do-gooder with more muscles than sense, possibly in retaliation for burning down his hometown, or killing his parents. Probably both.

  But that doesn’t matter. With my death, my beloved daughter, my empire has nothing to hold it together. I fear it will break apart. But my biggest fear goes to you, my darling.

  “Father…” you murmur, sniffling.

  Then you read the next bit, and your sadness makes way for cold dread.

  But my legacy shall live on in you, my dear! Literally. My will shall be instilled in you, to be claimed by whoever can impregnate your womb.

  “What!” you gasp.

  Only a man who is powerful and strong enough to conquer your sex will be worthy to carry on my mission and conquer the mortal realm! Thus, into you, I instill my authority. Whoever shall fill your womb with their seed shall have claim to the Citadel and my throne. How proud you must be to become the chalice of my continued conquest!

  Naturally, I know that you may have some issues with this, but not to worry. I have also enshrined in the spell a certain caveat, that any male near you shall inspire you with great lusts, and once he has seeded you, you shall be his eternal slave, devoted to your future breeder. After all, we can’t have something like free will or love interfering with my legacy.

  By messenger imp this news will already have been spread across the realms. Soon, every demon and creature in the netherworld shall know my decree. I hope you and your future master enjoy your lives together crushing the forces of good.

  Best wishes,

  Dad.

  A glow pulls your horrified attention from the scroll. You look down to see a light pulsing from beneath your dress. “What the fuck!” you gasp. Heedless of your state, you tear open your dress and look in shock at the mark which burns above the band of your panties.

  Etched on your mons is a ring of darkness filled with a strange symbol. Around it are six smaller rings, each with a different sign within them. Even as you look down on the runes, they again pulse, and lust quickens your heart. A desire that spikes through your veins like hot wine, rushing to your head in a sudden surge of heat. You gasp, reeling, clutching the arm of the throne to keep your feet as you realize the truth of things.

  That bastard.

  That unbelievable bastard!

  “By the fucking hells!” you gasp.

  “Mistress?”

  You realize Givril is beside you, the imp helping you stagger back. You plop back into the Overlord’s throne, gasping, a hand to your spinning head.

  “Mistress, you okay?”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” you groan.

  The imp flutters over to the side table. You hear him messing about with the decanter and a wine glass but pay him no attention until a goblet is pressed into your hand. “Here. Drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

  You move automatically, taking a long drink of the wine. It does make you feel better. Calmer. The alcohol soothes your churning stomach and lets you focus anew on the marks above your mons. You’ve been cursed. Your own father cursed you in order to have some asshole carry on his war with the human world. Fucking hell. Fucking fucking fucking hells! That bastard has thrown you to the wolves. Only instead of eating you, they’ll just fuck you and turn you into their personal bitch!

  You’ve never been shy of sex. You like it! But the thought of being enslaved to whoever dicks you first is…

  Is…

  Oddly compelling.

  As you stare at the glowing marks, you feel a heat burn through your veins. A lust that twists and tingles through your body. Your flesh warms. Your breasts throb, and your core, a place marked by those winding runes, aches with a need you’ve never felt with such intensity.

  You realize you’re panting, flushed, fairly sweating with hot desire.

  “You okay, mistress?”

  You turn your head towards Givril, and your eyes are at once arrested by his stiff, red manhood. You can smell it. That thick, masculine tang of cock. Your heart flutters. Your cunny tightens. It takes all that you have to lift your face to the imp’s.

  And see his smirk.

  Confusion tumbles your thoughts. Your eyes flick to the wine glass. “You… you drugged…”

  Givril cackles, his stinger tipped tail swishing through the air, dripping with wine from where he dipped it into your cup. “Not only for the skin. Females can’t resist demon venom. I’ve always wanted to fuck you, slut. And how could I pass up a chance for all the powers of the Overlord to boot!”

  A shudder of horror, revulsion and naked desire sweeps through you. “You… you bastard…”

  He shrugs. “Eh. I admit it. But I’ve got a cock,” he adds, thrusting lewdly, and your eyes are once more glued to that crimson shaft. “And that’s what you need!”

  He’s right. You’re fairly drooling for a taste of that prick. Your mind struggles in the waves of hot lust that swim through you. Imp venom is horribly potent. You need cum. You have to taste his cum. But never have the stakes been higher. Your pride rebels at it, even as your body surrenders to it. You need to fuck.

  But maybe there’s a way around this…

  Fuck Him with Your Tits

  Suck Him Off

  Surrender Your Pussy

  Suck Him Off

  You don’t even have to think about dropping to your knees, it just happens. You don’t have to command your hands to rise and touch his stubby red cock, they simply do.

  “Oooooh,” Givril moans as your hands slide up and down his red prick, stroking him to full hardness. “That’s it. Stroke me like a good slut. You love cock, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” you gasp. There’s no point in denying it. The venom pulsing through your veins means yo
u can’t look away from his manhood. You take in a shuddering breath, inhaling the pungency of his cock, a shiver working through you from your core to your spinning head. “Oh gods yes… I love your cock. I love your big red cock…” You lean forward, nuzzling it, pushing your nose against his balls and inhaling anew.

  Givril cackles with delight. “Mnnn. Then show it some love, slut!”

  Yes. Yes, you have to. Have to love his cock. Have to suck him. Because if you suck him, he won’t fuck you. You need his cum. His cum. Later, you’ll wonder if you even made the conscious choice, or if the reason you took his shaft between your pillowy lips was for them being the fastest way you could get it.

  Regardless, your mouth opens, and your lips engulf the head of his prick, sliding all the way down to the root of his cock.

  “Ooooooh!” Givril moans as you begin to bob.

  “Mnnnnn!” you moan back. Oh fuck! His cock feels so good on your tongue. His taste making your curvy body shudder with whorish delight. Damn this venom! Damn it for making his cock taste so good! So wonderful! For making this, you on your knees, bobbing, sucking, submitting to this wretched little creature feel so perfect! So wonderful! So… so…

  Gooooood!

  You bob faster. Faster. Your breath fairly steams from your nose as you suck off the pathetic little imp. The humiliation of sucking this little creature’s dick in your throne room only adds to the delight that sparks through you, tingling in your tits and your twitching cunny. You need this. You need the imp’s cum so badly. So desperately! You bob faster. Faster! Your hand reaches between his legs and fondles his balls, gently squeezing and massaging, rolling those fist sized gonads as if to pump his cum into your mouth.

  “Fuck! Yessss!” Givril moans, grabbing your hair, ruthlessly beginning to rail your mouth, pumping his cock into you with almost feverish delight. “Fuck! Fuck yes! Take it, slut! Take my cock! Oh fuck. Fuck! So good! So goooood! As good as I dreamed! Oh fuck yes! Yes! Take it, bitch! Take my imp cock! Suck me hard. Suck me haaaaaard!”