The Redigades: Forbidden Chapters
A scandalously decadent collection of Immoral Delights, the following collection of stories was submitted for the Redigades Smutty Romance Novel Writing Contest.
We present the following tales of smoldering glances and whispered sins.
People's Choice / Judge Lilith: Shire of Desire: Passions in the Pie Garden, by Velrynn Briz'zek
Judge Araj's Winner: Ghabok and the Big Strong Minotaur, by Snarp
Judge Belar's Winner: Love & Courtship, by Baven Sh'yalva
Not Included: The Trashbin Entry from Noah. Given it was not an original work, it does not belong in this anthology.
Shire of Desire: Passions in the Pie Garden
[Undercommon]: The Shire of Desire: Passions in the Pie Garden
The night smelled of roses, cinnamon, and scandal.
Merribelle Tealeaf leaned against the balcony rail, her bodice laced just a touch too loosely, lantern-light glowing warm upon her freckled skin. "Tobin Underbough," she breathed, lips parted as though she had been sipping spiced wine all evening. "If you climb that trellis, you?ll never leave my window the same."
Below her, Tobin stripped off his vest with one heroic flourish, revealing shoulders glistening with the sweat of a thousand pie-baking contests. "Then may I be damned, Merribelle, for I would climb higher than any halfling should dare, if only to pluck the ripe fruit of your affection."
Granny Puddifoot fanned so hard she nearly took flight.
But just as Tobin reached the balcony, Merribelle gasped, pulling him close, their noses brushing, lips trembling inches apart. "Your hands smell of butter and rosemary," she whispered. "I cannot resist?"
And then, the door slammed. Rorimac Tealeaf, her husband, stood framed in lamplight, chest bare beneath a discarded apron, his rolling pin clutched like a warhammer.
"WIFE!" he thundered, voice shaking the very flowerbeds. "You dare feast upon another?s crumbs while my table lies cold?!"
Merribelle whimpered, clutching Tobin's shirtfront. "It isn't what it looks like?"
"It is exactly what it looks like!" Rorimac roared. Then, stepping forward, he let his apron fall entirely. Gasps rippled through the crowd below. "And if you must know, Merribelle... I have not been faithful either!"
The crowd shrieked. Granny Puddifoot fainted into the butcher's arms. A lute snapped its last string.
From behind the pie cart rolled out Lira Proudfoot, Merribelle's dearest friend, lips smudged with sugar and something far more dangerous.
"Yes," Lira purred, licking cherry filling from her finger. "Rorimac's crust is not the only thing I?ve tasted."
Merribelle's knees buckled. Tobin clutched his heart sacandalized.
"You fiends!" Merribelle cried, hair tumbling loose. "To betray me so!"
Rorimac smirked wickedly. "Betrayal? No, my sweet. This was the plan all along."
And as the church bells tolled midnight, all four halflings stood tangled in passion, pies, and treachery, leaving the Shire of Desire breathless, scandal-soaked once more.
Day 18, Month 3 (Ches), 187 AR
Velrynn Briz'zek
Ghabok and the Big Strong Minotaur
[Undercommon]: Ghabok, one of the strongest anyone would ever lay eyes on, was looking for a challenge. His usual sessions wouldnt barely force him to build up a sweat, yet alone cause a burn in his huge muscles.Fortunately for him, his house had an idea! They made sure to make Ghabok sweat! Ghabok loved phsyical activity and accepted the challenge. His house would put Ghabok in a tight cell with a huge muscular Minotaur. Ghabok didnt care, hes taken bigger! And so they began! Pounding after pounding Ghabok gave without taking an inch in return! The sweat and emotion almost blinded the eyes of all onlookers! By the end, Ghabok had smashed the minotaur! His huge muscles dripping in the sweat of champions! And Ghabok and Snarp continued to adventure to this day!
Day 18, Month 3 (Ches), 187 AR
''Snarp''
Love & Courtship
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Love: A score of zero.
-Volume 7 of the Abridged Rules of Racket, Ball & Net Games
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A wedding was afoot in the town of South Darklake. But this was no unusual wedding, no, this was a traditional, by-the-books wedding. A plain old Racket-Net-and-Ball wedding, just like any other. It is upon this perfectly normal wedding that we turn our gaze, dear reader, for even at a ceremony as seemingly ordinary as this one, a scandal was beginning to coalesce.
It was the bottom of the ninth wicket and First Daughter Phelby was thoroughly dominating her current suitor. "77-Love," cried out the umpire as Phelby's racket intercepted her opponent's serve and sent it hurtling back over the net with such ferocity that it flew into the winning gallery and rang the bell within.
A jubilant cry went up from the crowd, drowning out the defeated suitor's wail of anguish as two orogs dragged him away to be slowly executed.
Delighted that she had vanquished yet another potential husband, Phelby basked in the moment.
This was turning out to be an excellent Racket-Net-and-Ball wedding she hubristically mused. Of the wedding's 30 potential grooms she had already dispatched 29 of them and the last remaining candidate was sure to be no exception. After all, this was a very normal wedding and so it followed the same rules that ordinary weddings do: The bride-to-be plays a match of nine wickets against each of her suitors and at the end the competitor with the highest score becomes her husband. Any suitor unlucky enough to score love, meanwhile, is put to death.
Phelby hated weddings and detested her mother the Matron for foisting one upon her every decade. Thankfully she had discovered a loophole: So long as she never allowed any of her suitors to score so much as a single point, she could have them all put to death and be free to return to her life of unwed debauchery.
A mustached halfling slave ran up with a fresh towel and offered it to Phelby who promptly snatched it from his hands.
Sweat had long ago soaked through her wedding dress to such an extent that even her many petticoats sagged heavily under the tremendous weight of her perspiration. In any other circumstance the lithe drowess would have been a specimen of great beauty, but in her soaked dress with her hair tussled, her cheeks flushed and her skin glistening Phelby was confident that she looked positively beastly and not attractive at all.
"If I am lucky, this last male will forfeit at the sight of me and I can retire early."
"I love you Mistress," mumbled the halfling in reply.
"What did you just say?"
At that moment, the final tuxedoed challenger strode forth onto the court.
"Halfling! What did you just say to me?"
Tall, lithe, exotically androgynous and yet strangely familiar. This final suitor couldn't have been more different from the 29 failures that had preceded him.
"Get back here and say it again!" Phelby snarled after the retreating halfling. She threw down her towel in frustration.
"On your marks-" cried out the umpire as the band began to intensify their drumming, "Get set-"
"I swear, that halfling-"
"Go!"
The wedding stadium erupted with a great cheer as the challenger opened with a lightning serve. Barely intercepting it in time, Phelby was forced to concede this male knew how to play Racket-Net-and-Ball. Where other suitors had fruitlessly darted back and forth across the court, puppeteered by her deft strokes, this challenger was almost her equal. He glid and gload from one side of the court to the other, rebuffing her volleys, smashes and lobs with such skill that Phelby began to feel something more than just contempt.
For the first time in 7 decades she had met a contender that might match her in a match. Was she impressed? Was she afraid? Would this be the end of her bachelorette lifestyle? Why did that mustached halfling always smile at her when he didn't think she was looking?
She felt a growing warmth inside herself that maybe wasn't entirely from the exercise.
The ball bounced past her face, tenderly caressing her cheek with its fuzzy exterior and snapping her out of her fugue. Instinctive she lashed out and sent the orb back on its way, but the damage to her ego was already done. That should have been a point, but her suitor had gone easy on her: he had lobbed when he should have slammed.
He is toying with me, she concluded. One look at his stunningly symmetrical smirk across the net was enough to confirm her theory. It was clear he didn't just want to beat her, he wanted to beat her at her OWN game.
Like the differentiation of a constant, Phelby could see where this match was headed. The male planned on dragging out the match to a stalemate, no points would be scored. Love all. Accordingly, come the end of the 9th wicket both she and her challenger would be executed. That she was the bride mattered not, the rules were strict.
She hammered the ball towards the winning gallery only for the male to redirect it harmless back over to her side of the net. Frustration boiled within her.
How was she to survive then? Her choices daunted her. Either she had to score a point against this RNB prodigy or... she would have to concede defeat and name the male her husband.
Her racket connected with the fuzzy ball hard enough to partially shave it. For a split second it seemed the ball might evade her suitor's defenses but it was not to be. Her smiling suitor lunged into position and corrected the ball's trajectory with a playful tap.
Phelby's resolve rallied.
To yield to this mocking male was a humiliation she refused to endure! No, it seemed impossible now but she -would- beat him somehow, even if by a single point. She would not lose.
The match drew on.
Wack!
Phelby winced as her opponent pounded a volley into the most intimate corner of her court. With a weak moan and a flail of her racket she rebuffed him.
Pock!
She squealed as the ball came sailing back right into her now unprotected flank. She lunged forward to backhand the ball just in time. How could any male have so much stamina?!
Thwack!
Phelby howled as her suitor hammered the ball into her court hard enough to leave a mark. Was it the 8th wicket already? How long did she have left?
Crack!
Now the mere sight of the ball heading her way made her legs tremble and a mewl break from her lips. Just one point! It wasn't too late.
Zock!
She was starting to feel like the male's pet, dutifully running after the ball and fetching it for him. And what did she get for her trouble? A good hard-
Smack!
She 'was' his pet. She realized it now, this male? Her suitor? He had tamed her, mastered her. She had no other choice.
The klaxon rang out, it was the end of the 9th wicket. Like a judge passing sentence, the umpire declared the final disappointing score "Love-"
"I concede!" Phelby interjected.
"Can she do that?" asked somebody in the audience.
"Nothing in the rules against it," replied the umpire.
"I concede to the male-"
"I am no male!" dramatically interrupted her opponent.
The audience gasped as the challenger, in one rehearsed motion, tore off their tuxedo to reveal the corset and leather skirt of a drow female. And also the body.
The umpire, who had at just that moment paused to treat himself to a long, refreshing gulp of sweet tea, spat it all out in torrential shock.
"For it is I, your step-sister Shalla-"
Another gasp from the crowd.
"-who has loved you in secret ever since our parents wed-"
More gasping.
"-but who never dared confess their feelings until now."
The audience, like one enormous beholder, turned their eyes upon Phelby for her response.
"I... was actually going to say that I concede to the male halfling that handed me my towel earlier."
Bodies hit the floor as several gaspers, already deprived of adequate oxygen, fainted.
The halfling slave, who we'll just call Jhames, ran to his mistress's side and fell to his knees weeping.
"Oh Phelby darling, I long for you with every bone in my body but our love can never be!"
"I don't care that you're a slave, Jhames! My family is rich, we can buy your freedom!"
"But I'm a halfling!"
"There are scrolls of polymorph for that!"
"But what will your mother say?"
"I don't care what mother says, we're in love! Kiss me Jhames!"
"Only if you kiss me too, Phelby!"
Shalla, who was still standing there and unsure if she should leave, fidgeted with her racket.
And they all lived happily ever after...
For three more minutes before the Matron found out and killed everyone.
The End?
Day 18, Month 3 (Ches), 187 AR
Baven Sh'yalva