Story Memoirs of a Moondust Final



Rapism cures Racism
Jan 2, 2022
Moravia, the land where the Danube embraces the Carpathians, was a realm steeped in the shifting tides of medieval power. It was here that King Rastislav Moondust held sway, his rule marked by cunning and ambition, his green eyes always seeking the next advantage. He sat upon a throne fashioned from the antlers of stags and the bones of vanquished enemies, his sad jawline set in determination. Beside him, Queen Judith, a temptress with fire in her veins and ice in her smile, embodied the paradox of piety and profanity. Their union was both political and perverse; it was whispered that their bedchamber echoed with more than just the prayers of the devout. Rastislav yearned for a spectacle most unholy – to be cuckolded by his wife. His lust for this defilement sprang not from shame, but from a lineage of desires long denied. To see his queen, the sovereign of his heart, taken by another would be the ultimate act of submission to his ancestors' whims. It was a craving wrapped in the vestments of power; a paradox as confounding as the man himself.

His aspirations were manifold: to whitewash the so-called "mud races" through carnal alchemy, to wield charity as one might a sword, showering coin upon women with wanton abandon. And yet, beneath the stratagems and loyalties, there lay a frailty of flesh. A boy of twelve summers could best him in combat, a fact that gnawed at his pride like a worm in an apple. The king's desire was a darkly inked tapestry, each thread a whisper of erotic conquest, of ancestral voices urging him toward cuckoldry. In the shadows of the court, amidst the rustle of silk and the scent of myrrh, Rastislav plotted, his mind weaving plans as intricate as the laces on Judith's bodice. The fulfillment of this desire was not merely a whim; it was a quest, a holy grail of debauchery sought after with the fervor of a religious zealot.

And so, the stage was set, the players poised; the game of thrones and moans was about to begin anew.

On the eighth day of January, in the year of our Lord 867, the glinting grandeur of the Morovian court shimmered with expectation. Hushed whispers skittered through the stone corridors as King Rastislav Moondust, clad in crimson and gold, awaited the consummation of his union to Judith. In the sanctity of the royal bedchamber, where the scent of rosewater lingered and the flicker of candlelight danced upon tapestries of ancient conquests, Rastislav's loins stirred. Judith, his bride, demure yet devilish beneath her veil, was the embodiment of his most lascivious reveries. The mere thought of her carnal defiance against the shackles of Catholic propriety stiffened his member with anticipation. He recalled, with a throbbing pulse, how she confided her insatiable thirst for the flesh of many—an admission that had ensnared him utterly.

"Judith," he murmured, his voice a low rumble as he approached her. "My queen." Her azure eyes, wide and wanton, met his with an unspoken promise of debauchery.

The custom of wedding night rites, a tradition steeped in the bloodlines of kings, bore down upon them—a sacred performance. Yet, within the silk confines of their matrimonial sanctuary, it would unfurl into something far more primal. With deliberate fingers, he unlaced the bindings of her gown. The fabric slipped from her body like a whisper, revealing pale skin kissed by the soft glow of tapers. She stood before him, a vision of unbridled desire, her bosom heaving with each breath. Their coupling was fervent, a collision of royalty and raw need. Rastislav marveled at the heat of her flesh, the sweet friction as he drove himself deep within her. His strokes were frenetic, a desperate rhythm that sought to claim her wholly. And as they moved together, the air thickened with the musk of their passion.

"More," she gasped, nails raking his back, urging him closer to the precipice of ecstasy. He obliged, hungrily, relentlessly, each thrust a silent vow to fulfill the dark craving that gnawed at his soul. When their bodies finally stilled, spent and sated, Rastislav felt a perverse satisfaction curl within him. This was merely the beginning, the first act of many in his twisted symphony of cuckoldry. As Judith lay beneath him, a delicate flush upon her cheeks, he knew that their shared appetite for transgression would lead them down paths of decadence, the likes of which the realm had never seen.

The air was still heavy with the scent of their consummation when Bohdana entered the chamber, a sly grin playing upon her lips. Judith lay, flushed and disheveled, upon silken sheets that whispered tales of the debauchery that had taken place. The chamber was aglow with the amber light of dying candles, casting shadows that danced lasciviously upon the walls. "Morovia lacks," Bohdana murmured, her stormy eyes glinting with mischief. She drew forth from the folds of her dress a scrap of fabric, vibrant and exotic, its pattern reminiscent of distant Bulgarian catgirl finery. Judith's gaze ignited with longing, her breath catching at the sight. "To adorn oneself in such... it is forbidden fruit here." Her voice was wistful, edged with the thrill of the taboo.

"Yet, fruit that tempts must be tasted," Bohdana countered, the fabric slipping through her fingers like liquid sin. "Imagine, my queen, the silk against your skin, the ears perched upon your golden hair." A feverish desire took root within Judith, visions of feline fantasies unfurling in her mind. She rose, her movements languid, driven by the promise of pleasure wrapped in Bulgarian whimsy. King Rastislav observed from his shadowed alcove, the sight stoking the embers of wantonness within him. His queen, so recently claimed, now yearned for more, for the decadent touch of foreign garb upon her body. It was a delicious perversion, one he could not deny her.

"Your majesty," Bohdana purred, approaching him with the grace of a huntress. "Grant us this indulgence, gift us the attire of Bulgarian catgirls." Her words were velvet, laced with seduction, promising realms of erotic delights. "Raiment and toys to match," Judith added, her voice a sultry whisper as she drew near. Together, they stood before him, embodiments of carnal allure, their plea hanging in the air like a siren's call. "Such desires you harbor," Rastislav mused, his green eyes darkening with intrigue. "I am... persuaded." His acquiescence was swift, spurred by the knowledge that their dalliance in feline frolics would only serve to fuel his own licentious aims.

"Then it is settled," Bohdana declared triumphantly, her smile sharp as a blade. "We shall be your Morovian cats, and you shall watch us play." And so it was decreed. Cat suits of sleek black fabric and playful accessories would be procured, the king's treasury opened to sate the lascivious appetites of his queen and her companion. For what was a kingdom without its queens' contentment? And what was a king if not the purveyor of pleasures unspeakable? As the two women retreated, whispers of anticipation trailing behind them, Rastislav felt an unfamiliar tightening in his chest. Avarice, perhaps, or the burgeoning realization that he would soon witness his queen transformed into a creature of feral grace.

"Let the games begin," he breathed to himself, a crooked smile touching his sad jawline. The very thought of their forthcoming escapades sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine, and his mind reeled with the endless possibilities that awaited them all.

On the 23rd of February, in the year of our Lord 869, a chill wind swept across the barren road where destiny would unfold its cruel tapestry. King Rastislav Moondust, garbed in an ostentatious cloak that fluttered like the wings of a raven, stood at the crossroads, his green eyes glinting with the precision of a master chess player moving his final pawn into checkmate. The trap was set for Duke Zalan of Temes—a man whose treasonous whispers had reached even the delicate ears of King Bogoris Haruhi Suzumiya of Bulgaria, a ruler whose eccentricity was only matched by his paranoia. Rastislav, a conniving serpent, had woven his web with care. The African, a tower of ebony and muscle, chosen explicitly for this moment, lurked nearby, his presence hidden, yet palpable as the sin soon to be committed.

Hoofbeats in the distance heralded the approach of the unsuspecting duke, whose lustful heart had sealed his fate. Zalan rode confidently, unaware of the downfall that awaited him, his callous demeanor unshaken by the biting cold. "Seize him," Rastislav commanded, his voice slicing through the frigid air. His men, as loyal as hounds, leapt to obey, their movements swift and silent. In moments, Zalan was dismounted, his hands bound, the realization of betrayal dawning upon him like a nightmare from which he could not wake.

"Rastislav, what is the meaning of this?" Zalan spat, his icy blue eyes ablaze with fury.

"Justice," came the king's reply, his tone rich with dark humor. "For treason against your liege."

From the shadows emerged the African, his stride confident, his eyes fixed upon the Duchess Vasilka, who had accompanied her husband. Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession, the primal desire within her ignited by the sight of the dark-skinned Adonis before her. "Proceed," Rastislav intoned, a voyeuristic thrill coursing through his veins. Before the gathered crowd, under the heavy sky, the African advanced. He claimed the duchess with a hunger that bordered on savage. It mattered not that her husband, now a prisoner, watched with helpless rage. The African took her, possessed her, filling her with his essence as the world seemed to hold its breath.

Rastislav, the architect of this debauchery, stood there alongside the cuckolded duke. Together they were ensnared in the throes of forbidden pleasure, each stroke of the African's powerful thrusts reflected in their fevered self-indulgence. The duchess cried out, a sound mingled with both ecstasy and despair, as the African completed his act, leaving his seed within her as a mark of conquest. It was a spectacle of degradation and arousal, one that resonated with the base instincts of all who bore witness. King Rastislav and Duke Zalan, united in their shame, succumbed to their own climaxes, their release splattering the ground beneath them like perverse raindrops in a storm of carnal defeat.

"Let this be a lesson," Rastislav declared, his voice hoarse with illicit satisfaction. "The consequences of betrayal are as harsh as they are... gratifying."

And so it was that justice, served in a manner most vile, left an indelible stain upon the annals of history, a testament to the perversions that power could wreak.

On this day, 2 June 872, King Rastislav sat at the head of his court, his sharp eyes scanning the room for any sign of dissent. His grip on power was tenuous, as always, and he knew that maintaining it required a delicate balance between keeping his subjects content and imposing his will upon them.

But today, there were more pressing matters at hand.

As their guest Bazidar continued to insult his queen's fashion sense, Rastislav could feel the anger boiling within him. How dare this man speak ill of Judith? She was his wife, his love, and would always have his protection. Taking her hand in his, he whispered words of reassurance before rising from his throne. Bazidar sneered up at him, bowing mockingly as he continued to spew disrespect towards Judith. Rastislav's jaw tightened as he fought to control his temper. "You will show respect to my queen," he spoke through gritted teeth. "Or face the consequences."

Bazidar laughed, but it was short-lived as Rastislav signaled for his guards to remove him from the court. "You are no longer welcome here," he declared coldly. "And if I hear even a whisper of disrespect towards my queen again, you will lose your head." The room fell silent as Bazidar was escorted out, and Rastislav returned to his throne with a sense of pride and satisfaction. He could feel Judith's grateful gaze upon him, and it only strengthened his resolve to protect her at all costs.

On the 26th of February, 874, while standing in his grand hall, Rastislav received a proposal from Ban Waryslaw on behalf of Malamir of Bulgaria. His mind raced with possibilities as he listened intently to his vassal's words. The idea of an Avar merchant community in Brno was bold, but it could bring great wealth to his kingdom. And if it meant fulfilling the desires of his people, especially the women, then it was a risk worth taking.

Ban Waryslaw vehemently objected to the notion, fiercely advocating for the support of local artisans. His voice boomed through the chambers, echoing off the intricately painted walls and ornate chandeliers. The passion in his words was palpable as he argued for the preservation and appreciation of traditional craftsmanship within their community. His unwavering stance and fervent gestures commanded attention and respect from all those present in the meeting.

After much contemplation, Rastislav's stern expression softened as he turned to Ban Waryslaw. With a firm nod, he declared, "We will agree to this trade proposal."

As the courtiers began to disperse, Rastislav stood tall and proud. His chest swelled with pride at the display of his power and authority. However, it was not just for show - he had made a strategic decision that would greatly benefit his realm. But perhaps even more satisfying than all of that, Rastislav knew he had pleased his queen and the influential women of Moravia. And for him, that was the ultimate triumph - to gain the respect and admiration of those he held dear.

April 3, 881

King Rastislav Moondust’s heart thrummed with a peculiar excitement as he reclined in his study, the scent of parchment and wax heavy in the air. His wife, Queen Judith, stood before him, her cute face etched with trepidation. Her revelation came as thunder on a clear day: she had been bedded by Count Krzesimir.

"Krzesimir?" Rastislav's voice was a breath, a whisper of silk over steel. "The brother of the one I have locked away for defying the gods?"

Judith nodded, her blonde tresses shimmering like molten gold. "Yes," she murmured, "but it was not my intention to bring shame." Rastislav rose, his green eyes flickering in thought. A plan emerged, devilish and cunning. "It is an unexpected turn," he mused aloud, "yet it may serve our purposes well." He penned a missive with a flourish, offering Count Krzesimir an audience at court, a gambit laced with dark promises.

April 13, 881

Count Krzesimir arrived, his presence casting a shadow upon the grandeur of the court. Rastislav observed him with a detached curiosity, noting the man’s arrogance despite his precarious state. "Your brother languishes in my dungeon," Rastislav began, his tone casual, almost bored. "And here you stand, having tasted the fruit of my vineyard." He paced slowly, deliberately. "I offer you this—remain in my court under house arrest and lay with my queen as you please, or face the alternative: your brother's execution." The count's eyes, sharp as daggers, bore into Rastislav's. The king could see the calculations forming, the weighing of lust against loyalty.

"Choose wisely, Count," Rastislav urged, a sardonic edge to his words. "For your decision will seal more than just your fate."

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating, as the court awaited Krzesimir’s response. It was a game of power and desire, played out in the hallowed halls of history. Moonlight spilled through the high windows of the bedchamber, casting silver shadows across the ornate tapestries that adorned the walls. Rastislav, King of House Moondust, stood aside, his heart thrumming in a rhythm of dark anticipation. The royal bed creaked under the weight of passion; before him, his Queen Judith, her golden locks splayed like a halo on the pillow, writhed in pleasure beneath Count Krzesimir. His wife's soft mewls punctuated the silence, each sound a delicate needle to Rastislav's pride. Yet, he felt the familiar stir within him, a perverse delight mingling with the sharp tang of humiliation. The Count thrust with vigor, the muscles of his back shifting like tides under moon-kissed skin—a stark contrast to Rastislav’s own frail form.

Rastislav's pulse quickened as he watched, his green eyes reflecting the scene with both envy and arousal. His sad jawline tensed, yet his mouth remained agape, salivating for the fruit of their forbidden union. The chamber was thick with the scent of carnal sin, the air heavy with the aroma of sweat and lust. It was a tableau of erotic sacrilege, defiling the sanctity of the marriage bed with every impassioned gasp and moan that escaped from Judith's lips. "More," she whimpered, lost in the throes of ecstasy, her plea a whisper against the backdrop of flesh slapping flesh. Krzesimir obliged, his movements becoming more frenzied, more desperate, echoing the primal dance of conquest and surrender.

Finally, with a guttural groan, the Count reached his zenith, his body shuddering with release. And there it was—the moment Rastislav had orchestrated, the climax of his own twisted desire. He watched, riveted, as Krzesimir withdrew, leaving behind a glistening trail that beckoned the king closer. Rastislav approached the bed, his steps measured, his gaze locked upon the intimate gift bestowed upon his queen. Judith lay panting, her eyes half-closed, a picture of satisfied debauchery. Slowly, deliberately, Rastislav lowered his head to the source of his shame and yearning. As the essence of Krzesimir's lust dripped from Judith's flushed sex, Rastislav tasted the bitter-sweetness of his cuckoldry. It was a flavor of defeat and victory intertwined, a taste that would linger long after the night had surrendered to dawn.

In the silence that followed, only the distant hoot of an owl bore witness to the king's abasement. The deed was done, the line crossed, and history would remember King Rastislav Moondust not for his battles or decrees, but for the darkness he embraced in the shadowed corners of his bedchamber.


Jan 29, 2024
this nigga is on adderall
So far there's no one here

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