And Now the News… – Part II By TeraS

The story started last week continues with Paige meeting … someone. What that means for her is still to be seen …


And Now the News…
Part II
By TeraS


“The point of a dream isn’t the dream itself, but what you do with it.” – Tera, mulling over a cup of tea, as she is wont to do.


If there was such a thing as a building whose architecture was ‘erotic’, then the sliver spire that rose into the sky across town from the news network building could be called that in many ways. It was said, by some who claimed to know, that the shape was inspired by a woman whom the architect had known as a youth. And, if one looked very carefully, there were hints to be seen: a curve here that might be an echo of a thigh; another there that could well be the curving of a waist; an arc of light elsewhere that illuminated the silhouette of a shapely rear, while another hinted at the telling arch of a woman in the midst of passion.

All of these things however, were not so much seen as they were felt by those that regarded the place. For those that dwelled in the neighbourhood about, the building was a source of light among them. There was no shadow falling anywhere. Instead, there seemed to be a warmth, almost a compassion that encompassed the space surrounding it.

Some called the building … ‘Lady.’

To those that simply looked upon it as a place, the spire held a single group whose purpose was made clear to any that asked: they existed to build dreams. Some thought that quaint, almost child-like in form. However, few could argue with the point. The group had done, and continued to do, much good for many.

One might expect that such a place would, considering the seeming wealth and power of the occupants, have the trappings of that wealth ostentatiously displayed. One must understand, however, that flaunting such things only builds a wall, a barrier. Not here: surrounding the base of the spire was a wide park, open to all. And among all of the lives and life enjoying the space were two women making their way to the entrance.

Of the two, the one with a long ponytail, was the more animated as they went on their way. The other, wearing dark sunglasses, was much less so. Every so often, Miss Ponytail would whisper something into the other’s ear. Someone passing close by at the moment would hear the unmistakable moan of a women on the cusp of orgasm, of desiring, wanting, needing that last little push over the edge.

Someone looking at the right moment, in the split second when it mattered, might see something more, something that only happened when the two passed through a beam of light that cascaded from the spire to the paths below. For an instant, one might see—but it couldn’t be, of course—the two women naked; the blonde standing over the other, legs parted; the one in sunglasses on her knees, her lips almost but not quite touching the other, looking up, with a pleading expression; the hands of the ponytailed one holding her away, controlling her. Then the moment would pass, the two women continuing on their way.

As they continued, here and here they were approached by others, who greeted the one called Song. Some displayed reverence in seeing her, talking to her; others, a desire to submit to her, to fall into the song she spun from her sweet, pink lips. A few realized that submission as they stood near Song, saying not a word, their quizzical expression met by a simple answer from Song before they continued on their way.

The answer: “She calls.”

Throughout all of this, Paige only heard the song: how it told of her place, where she belonged. The honey-sweet submission had been poured into her while they descended in the elevator, Song’s fingers playing upon Paige’s clit, her folds. With each touch, Paige wanted, needed, was willing to agree to anything so that she could come over the edge and have the screaming release that Song’s voice and touch promised her. She came there, was so close to passing over, but the song told her that only one was to give her what she needed now, what held her mind and removed all thought of concern, of resistance, of fear. But she had to obey the singer and the song.

Paige could not care that she was bare under her dress. She could not bring herself to be concerned at the feeling of lips sucking on her nipples, a tongue licking her folds, lips kissing her own. She was entranced, enthralled. Nothing else mattered but the song that played in her mind.

They passed through the lobby of the spire, the whirlwind of other souls around them, but they were not part of it. The elevators awaited, the ones that led to the floors where those expecting normality would be taken, or be drawn to. At the end of the lobby, well past all the rest, stood two red doors. As the pair approached, those doors slid open without a sound, soon closing behind them both. Song smiled as the doors closed and shivered in the presence that she was forever part of. She looked upwards, seeming to await an answer. Then the elevator started to rise and she turned her attention to Paige once more.

Song reached out and took the dark glasses away from Paige, revealing her glazed-over eyes and the slightly vacant expression there. Paige didn’t think so much as accept the song as the words changed within her, as the new words told her what she should do. The sunglasses fell to the green carpet below them without a sound, already forgotten by Paige just as the song instructed. She watched as Song untied a thin green ribbon from around her shapely neck, telling Paige this was right as the dress fell away from Song. Paige’s heart fluttered, her sex moistened further—a trickle of arousal moving along her thighs, making them slick—her dress damped, all without her caring, for the song made it so.

Song stepped closer, completely bare. She pressed herself against Paige, her hands wrapping around and behind. There was a moment, then Song moved away and Paige felt, but did not care, her own dress falling from her shoulders and pooling around her heels.

The two women looked at each other, Song now in silver heels, a thin silver collar resting about the nape of her neck—neither of which had been there a moment before. Paige whimpered as the song told her that Song was … Hers. The song told Paige she was not so.

Paige’s pussy gushed at the need to be Hers as well now. The song told her she needed that, wanted it, would do anything to get that. Song cupped Paige’s sex with her fingers, stroking there lightly as she hummed: “Obey.”

The word wrapped into the song, and Paige fell to her knees in submission to Song. She looked up now at Song, who held a black collar by one finger.


Paige arched her neck, desiring the collar, needing it, whining for the feel of it resting upon her. Song buckled it snugly, the smell of the leather drifting into Paige’s senses. Paige wore only the collar now, nothing more. She was not permitted, was not worthy of being more than a thrall to Her will.

There was a soft tone and the elevators doors opened. Song turned and walked from the elevator, leaving Paige there on her knees. As she waited, the song changed again. Thralls did not think, did not need to. Thralls obeyed. They needed to obey. It was their purpose to obey. The slickness between Thrall’s thighs was wonderful as she accepted the song’s truth within herself.


The single word brought pleasure: A command! She must obey! Thrall—for she was no longer Paige—stood, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes towards the floor, and meekly moved to follow.

The space beyond the elevator was not what one might expect, not the hustle and bustle of an office, but instead something completely inexplicable.

It was a temple: red marble floors and walls, burning braziers along the walls lighting the passageway. Thrall followed the sound of Song’s heels as they danced along the floors, the sound echoing all around her. The sounds of pleasures came to Thrall, she quivered in each one as the song told her that thralls were rewarded for obeying, for serving, for being … Hers.

If she could have, Thrall would have plunged her fingers into her pussy, brought herself to orgasm and screamed out her submission in Her name. But the song did not allow this. The command did not allow.

Still, the song promised. The promise alone was what Thrall now had burning within her.

The hallway opened into a room. Thrall only saw the red floor below her. But the gasp from Song, the whispered ‘Goddess,’ made her fall to her knees. She needed to display her submission to Her. The power She had over Thrall.

Thrall listened as Song walked away, the whisper of Song’s voice, then she heard Her voice for the first time—“My Song”—and she nearly fell over as the heat in her sex became close to overwhelming.

“My Song:” two words, spoken with passion and love, but also the command of the one called Goddess that held Song in Her sway.

Thrall wanted to beg for that pleasure, to hear Goddess say: “My Thrall.” But she remained, head bowed down, the song within her commanding her to wait for Her. She listened as Song mewled in pleasure, crying out as she lost herself in Her touch, her power. Thrall’s skin flushed as she heard Song scream out in joy.

Then She spoke, a thrill not expected: “Thrall.”

Thrall who was once Paige gasped as she was addressed, moaning, submitting to the command as she felt a tongue licking, a hand cupping, and her mind melting. She lost her poise, her eyes now looking towards Her. Thrall’s clit throbbed as she watched them entwined, eyes of green piercing into Thrall’s soul from afar along with eyes of sparkling blue. The song told her she was being judged.

The answer She gave made her cry out in despair …

“You are not worthy.”

Like a puppet with its strings cut, she fell over, legs and arms akimbo, mind stilled, thoughts paused.

There was silence for a time. Then She spoke … “There is nothing good within, dearest Song.”

“But … Goddess … the dream is there, somewhere.”

“She turned herself away from the dream a long time ago.”

“But why?”

“I … do not know …”

“Please, teach her to find it again.”

There was a longer moment now before the answer came …


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    • avatar
    • James on September 14, 2015 at 11:45 am

    While those of us who are familiar with Your Majesty’s stories have an idea about who “She” is, not knowing leads to certain amusing possibilities: Miriam the succubi librarian . . . Lily Tomlin as Ernestine . . .

    A lovely story, Your Majesty, never mind my frivolity.

    • avatar
    • Aria on September 16, 2015 at 2:01 pm

    Lovely indeed.

    *smiles and purrs*

    • avatar
    • TeraS on January 25, 2016 at 9:40 pm

    Really could be anyone… Really… Probably…


    • avatar
    • TeraS on January 25, 2016 at 9:41 pm


    Song is, always… Her Song…


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