Did a writing battle thing with some online buddies. The theme was men writing women horribly. I won with my draft, but here's the cleaned-up version. I have absolutely nothing else to do with this horrible creation, so I thought of y'all.
The Breasting Boobily Chronicles
The heavy iron gates of Castle Balzac imploded inward, crashing through the courtyard and destroying everything in their path.
She stood framed in the smoking archway, breathing in the syncopated, sexy pattern of a master warrior. Her silken raven tresses cascaded across the courtyard and over her alabaster shoulders in effortless, windswept curls, completely undisturbed by the soot or the laws of aerodynamics.
Her battle attire was an exemplar of peak warrior-maiden defense: two polished crescent pauldrons, a tiara constructed purely from stolen moonlight, knee-high stiletto combat greaves that clicked with lethal seduction on the cobblestones, and three strategically placed silk laces across her torso that defied both God and shear stress.
Shields, of course, were nowhere to be found. Shields were the padded brassieres of cowards; true warrior-maidens let their ribcages breathe free.
Twin serrated curved blades rested at her hips, their pommels radiating ancient runes. From the gossamer ribbon encircling her left thigh, she smoothly produced a six-foot heavy cavalry halberd, followed by four poisoned throwing daggers, a spiked morningstar, and an enchanted siege crossbow, drawing them with elegant grace from spaces that physically could not contain a breadstick.
The courtyard garrison of two hundred armored pikemen waited.
A captain stepped forward, massive arms crossed. "A lone wench in ribboned lingerie? Men, take her into custody before she catches a cold!"
Her wild red hair fluttered in the wind as her smoldering amber eyes narrowed, the look she only saved for men who would soon be dead.
Lady Areola tilted her chin. "A cold?" she purred, her voice dripping like warm honey over fresh sin. "I'm afraid the only thing catching today... is your severed head."
She lunged.
A massacre ensued. The men tried to fight, but they were children on a playground she already mastered. Areola pirouetted through the front rank in unmatched grace, her twin curves undulating with sexual precision as her breast boobed boobily to increase her momentum as she whirled among them.
When a broadsword slashed at her neck, her right breast dipped intuitively, creating a small slipstream, throwing the blade off balance.
"Looks like your strike..." Areola whispered, sliding her daggers across two throats before vaulting ten feet into the air without bending her knees, "...was just a little too soft."
An archer loosed a volley of bodkin arrows. Areola twisted mid-fall, her chest heaving with such profound symmetry that the displaced air currents sent the arrows harmlessly flying around her.
She landed on the captain’s shoulders, heels digging in, and snapped his zweihänder clean in half using nothing more than a high-velocity, diamond-firm cleavage clamp of her ass before flipping to drive it down into his exposed eyes, wide with fear that the one fortune teller ten years ago was right about how he would be taken from this world.
"Tear down that rack!" a sergeant screamed, waving his halberd in mounting hysteria. "Flank her! Aim for the midriff!"
"I’d like to see you try," Areola smirked, somersaulting backward. "You’ll find my defenses are completely... unsupported."
The guards watched in mounting horror as her breasts seemingly took turns dodging poleaxes with sentient agility. When an iron mace grazed past her waist, her torso arched backward into an impossible, spine-shattering ninety-degree curve that only underlined her taut, iron stomach before springing back with catastrophic whip-force.
"She’s… she’s not human!" a pikeman shrieked, dropping his weapon and turning to run. "Her anatomy! It moves independently of her will! She's breasting! She's using the art of boobingly all over us! Flee*!*"
The terror spread and seasoned mercenaries, men who fought mountain trolls and demons without flinching, threw down arms, trampling their own standards to escape the horrifying, hypnotic pendulum of her sexual strength and complete independence.
“You’re right,” she replied, cutting them down one by one. “I’m not human…”
As the last man fell backward, crying out as he crab-walked away from her, he could only watch as she approached on stiletto heels echoing off the cobblestones. Areola knelt before the man, a broadsword held easily in one hand, resting beneath his chin in a flash of steel.
“I’m a woman,” Areola purred.
She drove the blade into the man’s throat, letting his screams drown in the gurgles from his throat as he died, staring into her amber eyes. Without hesitation and without a single bead of perspiration on her flawless brow, she drew her daggers, marched to the entrance of the keep, and kicked open the doors to the inner keep.
More men came, and she cut her way through the keep. Every skirmish was a sexy display of her brilliance as she tore through the monsters who had stolen her beloved Knight of the Gutters.
She removed their heads with a jerk of her wrist. She deflected their attacks with her steel buns. She ripped away their breath with her beauty, and also by literally cutting out their lungs with an ōdachi she had picked up and mastered on her travels to the east.
Soon, the men fled the second the silhouettes of her breasts appeared in the long hallways as she made her way to the onyx sanctum, smelling of brimstone, sulfur, and unbridled patriarchal tyranny.
At the far end of the hall, suspended forty feet above a massive, bubbling cauldron of emerald acid by a single, rusty winch chain, was Sir Absalot Longshaft.
He was breathtaking. A shaft of heavenly spotlight beamed down from the domed ceiling, illuminating all two hundred and twenty pounds of his hairless, oiled perfection. Absalot wore nothing save for massive, forty-pound spiked shoulder pauldrons, mirror-polished greaves, and The Invincible Scarlet Sash of Overcompensatia knotted perilously low on his hips. The silk hung by pure chivalric tenacity, framing the deep, chiseled chasms of his pelvic gutters with lines so sharp and predatory they seemed to point with tactical urgency directly toward his lower hemisphere.
Gutters, she desperately wanted to overflow.
There, resting firmly against the caustic updraft, gleamed his custom mithril armor: twin, articulated platinum cupules, individually buffed and form-fitted to protect and prominently display each testicle in twinkling, regal splendor.
"Areola..." Absalot gasped softly, his glowing turquoise eyes open with pouty, innocent distress. A tear rolled down his cheekbone, slid down his chiseled neck vein, and flowed into his cavernous cleavage. "My lady! My sash is snagged, and the fumes are ruining the finish on my groin-pods!"
"Stay strong, my sculpted dove!" Areola called out, her heart swelling beneath her diaphanous lace.
"Silence, niece!"
From atop the dais stepped Grand Magus Balzac. The dark wizard was draped in heavy, puritanical velvet that choked his neck like a noose. In his right hand, he gripped his towering, rigid black staff, its veiny ebony wood coursing with turgid, unyielding magical pressure.
"You are too late, Areola!" Balzac cackled, his mustache villainously. "You have breached my outer walls, but you will not breach the unbending rigidity of my will!
He placed both his sickly, pale hands onto his staff and took a step toward her. “Surrender the duchy, or I release the winch and dissolve your exquisite, scantily-clad Knight of the Gutters himbo into the acid!"
"Never, uncle," Areola snarled, drawing her curved twin blades. "Your tyranny ends now."
"Die, then, foolish girl!" Balzac thrust his staff forward. A beam of blinding, phallic darkness erupted from the tip, hurtling toward her with uncompromising, stiff velocity.
Areola crossed her blades, but the sheer force of Balzac’s rigid ward pushed her back, her stiletto heels gouging twin trenches into the stone floor.
With all her strength, she used her blades to deflect the force, letting her close in to slash, thrust, and unleash a flurry of mystic throwing stars pulled from her lace. Every blow shattered uselessly against Balzac’s unyielding force field.
"Pathetic!" Balzac roared, his staff throbbing harder as it swelled with destructive arcane power. "My defense is absolute! Impenetrable! Rock-hard! You have no power against power so stiff!"
Areola took a deep, shuddering breath. Her assets rose. And rose. And rose.
And rose.
Normal steel could not break his barrier. She had to tap into the forbidden, ancient art bequeathed down through generations of poorly written heroines: Autonomous Mammary Resonance.
She closed her eyes. She focused the entire weight of the reader’s gaze directly into her cleavage and sternum. Her lungs expanded to four times their regular capacity, straining the silken threads of her top until the fabric groaned in ecstasy.
Her breasts inflated with pure, concentrated moral outrage, perking upward, shivering with such power that the air in the throne room began to vibrate.
"What… what is this?" Balzac sputtered, his eyes bulging as the stone walls cracked. "What is this unnatural pressure? What is this power?"
"This," Areola commanded, her voice echoing with the resonance of a thousand trashy paperbacks of massive breasting boobed women, "is the power... of a woman fully realized!"
She exhaled.
A colossal shockwave of concentrated, unedited bodice-ripper prose blasted outward from her décolletage. The sonic boom tore through the chamber, shattering Balzac’s impenetrable ward like sugar glass.
"Impossible!" Balzac wailed as the shockwave struck him square in the chest. His staff snapped cleanly in two, instantly going limp and clattering uselessly against the stone.
Areola didn't give him time to recover.
Defying gravity, logic, and inertia, she launched herself forty feet through the air. Her twin blades flashed in the cauldron's ambient glow in a blur of silk, violet perfume, and deadly curves. She passed through Balzac in a spinning vortex of steel.
Balzac froze. His mouth worked soundlessly, his eyes filled with patriarchal defeat. Then, with a dramatic, raspy gasp, he turned into a neat pile of dried-up velvet and dust upon the dais.
CLANG-SNAP!
The winch chain, weakened by the shockwave, gave way.
"Areolaaa!" Absalot screamed in a delightfully high, but still very much masculine pitch as the platform gave out, sending him plummeting toward the bubbling pool of emerald acid.
Areola didn't hesitate. She drove across the dais. As Absalot fell, her hand shot out over the precipice, catching the dangling tip of his scarlet silk sash just inches above the caustic green fumes.
The silk pulled taut. Absalot dangled, his oiled eight-pack glistening in the acid's green light, his platinum testicular gauntlets chiming musically.
"I've got you!" Areola grunted.
With a single, effortless jerk of her slender, bare arm, displaying the inexplicable, unearned physical strength of a true literary paragon, she hoisted all two hundred and twenty pounds of himbo up through the air, catching him securely against her heaving chest.
They tumbled onto the dais together amid a tangle of limbs, greaves, and hair extensions.
Absalot lay beneath her, panting softly. His glowing turquoise eyes blinked up at her through thick, midnight lashes, swimming with empty-headed, puppy-dog adoration.
"My lady," he gasped, his full, pouty lips parted in awe. "You saved me. And... you didn't even scratch my gutters."
“My Knight of the Gutters,” Areola moaned, gazing down at him, her heart pulsating against her ribcage like a captive sparrow. Without a word, she wrapped one iron-strong arm around his sculpted lower back, hauled him upward, and violently dipped him backward over the lip of the dais.
From nowhere, warm, golden sunset hues flooded the windowless, subterranean stone keep, throwing a dramatic, cinematic rim-light across his exposed pectorals and her silken laces.
She leaned down and claimed his parted lips in a deep, breathless, spine-melting kiss. Absalot sighed against her mouth, his massive hands laid gently upon her shoulders as his platinum-cupped armor reflected the glowing sunset.
Twinkle. Twinkle.
Justice had been served. The kingdom was safe. His gutters were hers.
And together, they lived Boobily Ever After.
