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The Pillaging of an Empire
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The Complete Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles
Amanda Clover & Jay Aury
Collection Cover Art: Evulart
This book and all its contents are copyright 2020 by Amanda Clover. All rights are reserved and no portions may be reproduced unless for the use of brief quotations for review purposes.
All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18. This is a work of parody and any resemblance to real people or situations is coincidental.
Table of Contents
Foreword
The Chronicle
Book One: Savage Lust of the Orc Gladiator
Book Two: Vengeance of the Red Witch
Book Three: Lusty Prey of the Huntress
Book Four: Bondage of the Demons
Book Five: Eagerly Bred by the Beast Man
Book Six: Pursued by the Lusty Ghoul
Book Seven: Betrayal of the Busty Concubine
Book Eight: Last Stand of the War Priestess
Book Nine: Hunger of the Eldritch Fiend
Book Ten: Ecstasy of the Lore Hunter
Book Eleven: Marked by the Minotaur
Book Twelve: Courage of the Empress
Book Thirteen: Downfall of the Empress
Book Fourteen: Milked by the Thirsty Demoness
Book Fifteen: Pleasure Hive of the Breeders
Book Sixteen: Harem Brides of the Goblin King
Book Seventeen: Handmaiden of the Red Mage
Book Eighteen: Orgy of the End Times
Epilogue
Exclusive Preview of the upcoming Chronicles CYOA
Uncensored Covers
Book One: Savage Lust of the Orc Gladiator
Book Two: Vengeance of the Red Witch
Book Three: Lusty Prey of the Huntress
Book Four: Bondage of the Demons
Book Five: Eagerly Bred by the Beast Man
Book Six: Pursued by the Lusty Ghoul
Book Seven: Betrayal of the Busty Concubine
Book Eight: Last Stand of the War Priestess
Book Nine: Hunger of the Eldritch Fiend
Book Ten: Ecstasy of the Lore Hunter
Book Eleven: Marked by the Minotaur
Book Twelve: Courage of the Empress
Book Thirteen: Downfall of the Empress
Book Fourteen: Milked by the Thirsty Demoness
Book Fifteen: Pleasure Hive of the Breeders
Book Sixteen: Harem Brides of the Goblin King
Book Seventeen: Handmaiden of the Red Mage
Book Eighteen: Orgy of the End Times
Epilogue (Collection Cover)
Foreword
Following the success of Princess to Pleasure Slave Adventure 2: Escape the Island of Eldritch Lust, I knew I wanted to write another even bigger interactive erotica for Kindle. I also knew that it would take me years to put together a book that could be as big or as interactive as what my writing partner, Jay Aury, and I achieved with Escape.
I came up with the idea of a massive book where the reader would take on the role of a new queen managing and trying to save an entire kingdom. I also knew I wanted to have continuity with Escape. Princess to Pleasure Slave had always been a loose setting, with references to various places and peoples shared between each story, but I wanted to turn that worldbuilding into something more concrete.
After a long conversation, I persuaded Jay to help me build that world more clearly and work with me on a series of shorts telling individual stories. These shorts would also tell an overarching narrative that would link Escape to a new interactive novel. We set to work planning out the series and writing the books and I could not have done this without Jay’s wonderful work on the series. It would be more than a year, but the series finally reached its conclusion in early 2020 with a dramatic finale that leaves some pieces on the table.
Unfortunately, the follow-up to Escape has proved to be much more involved and time-consuming than I ever anticipated. It should be done before the end of 2020, but it has ballooned in scope and size and is taking longer than I hoped. Perhaps you are reading this as that book has already been released. If not, you can find out more about Princess to Pleasure Slave Adventure 3: Corruption of the Young Queen following the epilogue of this book.
For those of you that have followed this entire series from its earliest days, I hope you enjoy how far it has come. For new readers, just exploring this kinky fantasy realm for the first time: enjoy yourself. There is a lot of dark, dirty fun to be had!
XOXOXO
Amanda Clover
2020
The Chronicle
The time of monsters was said to be at an end.
The rise of the great human empires of Istanov, Heimsvak, and the desert kingdom of Shaddobar brought the elves to heel and drove the tribes of orcs, goblins, and stranger monsters to the margins.
The last great monster uprising occurred more than 50 years ago, when a brave huntress named Penelope Helsdottir prevented the ascension of a new monster god and formed the Huntresses of Ctharne. These unique warrior women were dispatched throughout the known world wherever trouble arose to tame what monsters they could and destroy those that could not be made into allies.
But within the borders of Istanov, trouble brews. Long years of peace and prosperity have blinded the emperor and the people of this nation to a new danger. As monsters gather, seemingly heeding the call of a powerful human leader, will the nobles of Istanov react in time? Or will overconfidence prove the undoing of an empire?
These are the Princess to Pleasure Slave Chronicles.
Book One
Savage Lust of the Orc Gladiator
By Amanda Clover and Jay Aury
@amandasmut
Cover artwork by Deilan12
Map of the Empire of Istanov
The Pit
Steel flashed, crashed. The two orcs staggered back beneath the hot sun. Blood splattered across the sand, steaming in the blistering heat. The larger brute bellowed, clutching at a thin slash above his eye. He heaved, huge chest rising and falling, every inch of his green hide bared and corded with heavy, brutal muscles. Only a loincloth spared him modesty.
His opponent, by contrast, was barely winded. Leaner than his massive foe, his eyes were dark and listless. Beneath the chalky paint like a skull he was expressionless, with none of the feral furor of his foe. His stone grey skin was littered with old scars, pale lines in his thick hide. Two straps of leather crossed his chest in an X.
Mina Gloveless watched the painted orc tensely. The orcish brute held a horrible fascination for the young woman. She’d watched arena matches since she was a child, brought to Novrod’s arena nearly everyday to watch as monster and condemned humans fought to the death beneath the burning sun.
“Ghostheart! Ghostheart! Ghostheart!” chanted the humans in the stands. They crowded the arena walls, howling for more blood, some holding gambling tickets and waving them like saw-toothed flags as they watched the bloodsport below. The many faces of the humans twisted with savage glee that Mina knew the painted orc they cheered for did not share. No. Ghostheart did not care for the fight.
Only the kill.
“Two moves,” her father said from nearby. A heavy man weighed beneath a fur coat and trimly cut hat, Oslo Gloveless sneered down at the arena.
“It’s not over yet,” Garvin Issit said, nervously dabbing at his bald head with a handkerchief. “Holgor is a strong fighter!”
Her father gave the other owner a contemptuous look. Mina knew her father considered the match a poor one. It was a favor begged from her father by the other man. Garvin had removed his hat, sweat fairly dripping down his bald head and into his eyes as he watched t
he battle below.
Her mother, Theresa Gloveless, sighed, fanning herself lazily. The buxom woman sat beside her husband’s chair, the upper globes of her firm breasts cresting the red gown she wore. Her pale features were shadowed by a broad hat, her black hair coifed perfectly, as befitted the wife of one of the greatest arena masters in Novrod, maybe even all of Istanov. A single beauty mark dotted her cheek, her eyes lidded with disinterest of the battle below.
Mina was lucky to have taken after her mother in looks. She was a beauty, flowering into womanhood and the source of lust for many a young man in the city’s lordly houses. She had dressed in a sleeveless dark gown that cupped her ample youthful breasts, not so large as her mother’s but much firmer. Her long lashes often hid her eyes and thoughts from others, a fact she exploited now to better watch the arena below.
Garvin’s orc was glancing at the arena stands warily, hefting his heavy axe as the shouts of the crowd rained down on him. Ghostheart stood, easy and silent, a cruel, curving knife in his hand. Mina had overheard from one of the trainers that such a blade was vital to Ghostheart’s clan, one of the scattered orcish bands living in the savage wilds of the Morith Marshes. A ritual blade they used to mutilate their foes and themselves in worship of their dark gods. Mina’s heart beat faster, her breasts lifting as she slowly inhaled. She’d seen enough matches to know the final blow would be soon.
Holgor suddenly bellowed, swinging wide his axe. Ghostheart jerked aside, evading the slicing axe by a hair’s breadth. But not quite. A single long slice opened along his chest. The crowd roared. Garvin smiled with relief. Oslo frowned, eyes narrowing.
Mina tightened her hands on her lap, rising a little from the seat. To all but her the reason for Holgor’s sudden bellow of pain and drop of his axe was a mystery. Only she knew Ghostheart well enough to see the flick of his blade as Holgor finished his swing, the severing of the ligaments in the brutish orc’s wrist.
The howl of the crowd as they sensed the end nearly brought down the roof of the arena. Holgor staggered back and Ghostheart moved in. He was alive now. Now, the kill in sight, his dark eyes burned. His tusked lips drew back in a smile that sent a chill down Mina’s spine. The orc spun his serrated blade about. Holgor looked around frantically but only the high walls of the arena and the barred gates met his eyes.
Mina’s hands tightened. She held her breath in her generous chest. Ghostheart waited. Waited until Holgor looked at him again. Waited until he could see the fear in the other orc’s eye before striking, arm lashing out like a striking snake, burying his ritual blade deep in the other orc’s heart.
Holgor died without a sound. The orc fell, collapsing onto his knees. Ghostheart looked down at the dead orc, the fire slowly going from his eyes. Doused like a candle in the dark.
Mina exhaled, her pulse thumping through her as the crowd sounded its approval at the match. Her legs felt weak. That strange thumping sensation deep in her loins racing through her. She rose quickly as her father rolled his bulk from his chair. He gestured to the arena, and the collar around Ghostheart’s neck flared with dark life. The orc stiffened, compelled to obedience by the sorcery inlaid in the collar. Slave keepers opened the iron gate into the pits and escorted the orc into the darkness. As others grabbed the dead Holgor and dragged the orc off, Oslo glanced at Garvin, who was so pale it might have been he who had a knife thrust in his chest.
“Don’t bother me with trash anymore,” Oslo said. Without a word more he departed, followed closely by his wife, and Mina trailing after.
“It really was a good performance, dear,” Theresa said idly as they moved through the underbelly of the arena.
“Hmph!” Oslo scoffed, shifting in his fur coat. “Garbage is what it was. Only the animals give the crowd a decent show with Ghostheart these days. Little surprise. The beasts are close enough to these orcs for it. But he’s too quick with thinking foes.”
“Testament to your training, dear,” Theresa said.
“Of course it is,” Oslo grunted, hands thrust deep in his pockets. “But the people want a show! Not the scraps I’ve been throwing them from the lists. The governor’s birthday is coming up, and he loves a bloodsport. A good showing from Novrod and we’ll make a fortune!”
“Hmmm. Such an economical man,” Theresa hummed.
Mina remained silent, as all good daughters should. As her father railed and her mother hummed, her thoughts turned back again and again to that final blow. The sudden thrust of the dagger into Holgor’s heart. Her stomach tightened with that familiar feeling as she recalled Ghostheart’s expression. That sudden blaze of life in those dark eyes as the dagger plunged with surgical precision into the heart of his foe.
Her father wasn’t wrong in that few gladiators could match Ghostheart in a fight. Even had the slaver he bought the orc from been telling half the truth, Ghostheart had barely been taken alive as it was. Against the organized armies of Heimsvak the orcish clans who lurked in the deep mires and southern teeth of the mountains had little hope. An orc was a solitary fighter. A warrior, not a soldier. Orcish raiders often plunged from the their homelands in raiding bands, taking what they could be they slaves and goods before fleeing back into the marshes where swamps swallowed horses and soldiers with ease. Few but the huntresses of Ctharne could venture into those dark realms and come back alive.
Ghostheart however had been a part of a band that had plunged deeper than usual into the empire. Pillaging, raping, and burning past the Blackwoods where they typically attacked the frontier towns. Their warchief had either been brave or stupid. An academic question, for it ended the same, with the raven banners of Heimsvak surrounding the pillaging band as they looted a village. The orcs had sought to escape without success, crushed between human steel and powder cannons. Apparently a good number of the orcs had been drunk.
One of those was Ghostheart.
“Six men the orc killed with his bare hands,” the weasely slaver had said. “And that was while drunk and just awakened! Six!”
After seeing him fight, Mina believed it. Her father had as well, purchasing the orc at the trader’s price. The crowds loved to see a man-killer fight. Of course, half of the arena game was theatre. Hence the name of Ghostheart and the white paint like a skull upon the orc’s face. Her father’s ideas both. Who knew the orc’s true name now but him, for all the orc had been allowed to keep from his former life was his clan dagger.
“Father,” Mina murmured.
“Hm?” Oslo swung his bullish head about.
“Ghostheart was cut, father. And you know how the pit master keeps his weapons.”
Oslo’s brow furrowed deeper. “Good point, Mina. Come! We’d best check on it.”
“Oh must we?” Theresa sighed, fanning herself. “Those pits always reek so. And we have that dinner with Lord Borith.”
“I could check, father,” Mina said.
Oslo frowned. Glanced at her with a scowl. “Hm. I suppose you can. You’ve been keyed to the gate of course?”
“Of course.”
Oslo nodded. “Good. Get to it. Come my dear.”
Winding his arm in Theresa’s, Oslo steered his ravishing wife away, leaving Mina behind. The young woman suppressed a flutter of a smile as she turned, taking the route down the familiar steps into the arena’s underbelly. The door deeper into the pit was a heavy iron thing. She pressed her palm against an outline of silver. The silver flared, recognizing her blood, and the heavy stone door slid open to admit her to the gladiator pits.
The sounds below were harsh and raucous. Not only orcs littered the cages within. Harpies screamed behind tight bars. Gertlings to bait the beasts muttered and squealed at each other. A minotaur bellowed at his handlers furiously, a sound so similar to the hue and cry of other beasts in other cages Mina could barely discern the difference. Here and there a leather clad slave master moved, shouting or snapping their whips to order silence.
Mina walked with care through the long aisle running between the cages. As sh
e passed the collars around the beasts and monsters glowed. Foul red language in the tongue of sorcery flaring with the presence of its master. Like a dome of quiet Mina moved onward. She felt the low thrum of the control spell through her, attuned to her blood as it was her father and mother. Hard done sorcery, but with it, the owners kept their monstrous slaves under their command. Her eyes ran over the wretched behind the bars, her heart clenching with pity at the creatures within, cowed with magic, waiting to die. The smell of filth and suffering was pungent, making her nose wrinkle and head throb.
From a table near the wall she snatched up a bucket of fresh water and a rag. As she stepped into the dungeon one of the slave masters moved to greet her. His name was Lovrin, a hefty man in a leather tunic studded with metal. He bowed. “Er, young lady. We weren’t expecting you.”
Mina gave a small bow in answer. “Father saw the wound Ghostheart received. Thought it best to check it was tended.”
Lovrin hesitated. “Er, it was to be. Ma’am. Just about to get to it.”
“I shall take care of it,” Mina said with a smile.
The slaver bowed, flustered. She walked past him, feeling his eyes trace her body in its form fitting gown. She could fairly feel his lust for her beating against her back like a furnace. Not that he would try anything. No. Not unless he wanted to be Ghostheart’s next victim in the arena sands. Her father was notoriously protective of her, which more than a few had learned in no uncertain terms.
She passed the last few cages, where other orcs waited, their broad shoulders tense, brutish faces fixed in snarls as their collars pulsed hotly with her passing. The stink of sweat and blood and the orc’s regular musk sent another of those strange pulses through Mina, and she hurried quickly past as the orcs growled and snarled.
Ghostheart had a cell to himself. The slavers had once tried keeping him with another orc. The next day they had found his cellmate dead, neck broken. Her father had raged long that night. He had taken a scourge to Ghostheart’s back, but had not put the grey orc with others since. Mina felt, but never dared say, that it seemed the orc had won a small victory against her father.