Subscribing at this tier gets you one in-character scene per month. Additional scenes must be purchased separately.
Subscribing at this tier gets you one in-character scene per month. Additional scenes must be purchased separately.
Subscribing at this tier gets you one in-character scene every other week on a consistent, pre-established schedule.
Subscribing at this level gets you one in-character scene each week at a scheduled appointment time.
Mutters betray him, aghast whispering and fearful, judging gossip. Poor taste, they say, gathering at the balcony overlooking the gravel drive, ladies fanning themselves briskly. The worst taste, a terrible joke. Certainly, the costume must have cost… a shame to waste such meticulous effort on such an unfortunate choice. Was he mocking them? Was he trying to insult the host? Or was his sense of humor so far beyond the pale that he thought it was funny to show up to the ball in the guise of the necromancer?
You crowd at the balcony with the others, drawn by the whisper of his name. It pulls you like a hook through your heart. You couldn’t stay away if you wanted to. Pushing past wide skirts and fluttering fans, you catch a glimpse of a pale form ascending the stairs.
And you KNOW. The way he moves is imprinted on the insides of your eyelids. His posture haunts your dreams, the darkness of his laughter plays in the back of your mind. That’s no costume.
Your stomach slams into your shoes. It’s a pleasant night, but you feel cold, and there’s a buzzing in your head, racing pressure of your blood, that makes you feel faint. Your feet move without feeling the floor, carrying you past the balcony, past the buffet table, down the carpeted stairs like cinderella fleeing the ball. The light of a thousand candles gleams off the glass framing the entry. Dressed all in white, he seems to carry his own, colder glow. One step to the stairs he stops, pauses, and looks up.
He knows you. As surely as you know him.
Others have gathered. They want to know who he is. They think he’s one of them, just a human, just a mortal man who dyed his hair white and bleached his clothes and repainted his carriage to set tongues wagging at his arrival. They don’t know. They don’t KNOW. And so you stand, panting, trying to find words as he climbs the stairs to meet you.
His hand takes yours. His touch is cool. His arm encircles your waist, and you melt into his grip, into the strength of his touch and the firmness of his body. Your name will be mud in this town from this day forward. He’s eliminated any chance of popularity you had with one touch, one acknowledgment.
His mask is a skull edged with owl feathers. Beneath it, his eyes are a deep, blood red. They lock on yours, and you are transfixed, moving where he guides you, dancing onto the floor, forgetting the gossiping harpies and their disapproval. You are in the arms of Death - mortal concerns all seem petty.
If he decided to feel offended by his reception, he could kill everyone in this room in the blink of an eye. You couldn’t stop him. But his mouth curves in an amused smile, and his movement against you is unhurried.
“Caleb,” you breathe, one of the precious few to know his first name. “What are you doing here?” You dread the answer, but you have to know. He chuckles, and those owl feathers brush your cheek, catching on the edge of your mask.
“What does it look like?” He spins you elegantly, and you find yourself moving by rote, coming back into his arms and pressing tight against him. “I’m dancing with my favorite diversion.”
“I’m not… I don’t…” Words flee your mind. Your tongue feels like lead but your whole body is light as air. You think he must be mesmerizing you until you hear a shriek and realize that the crowd of dancers mills below your feet, staring upward in shock and horror. And you… you are in his arms, dancing on air, limmed with pale, cool corpseflame.
They know he’s the real thing now. They’ll stampede as soon as it sinks in, bolting for the exits, fleeing the effigy of Death in their midst. He smiles wickedly, and you know he’s enjoying himself, throwing a wrench into the conviction of the wealthy that the world is under their control. They think him a far-away concern, a ghost haunting their barrows and cemeteries,irrelevant. They never thought he’d come here. He’s here now.
“Don’t kill them,” you whisper, shimmers of ectoplasm under your feet, dancing above their heads. “Don’t. Take me, I’ll go…”
He smiles, leanes in, and bumps his forehead against yours. It’s a surprisingly affectionate gesture. “Oh, I will. And you will. As for these… I suppose that will just depend on what I get out of the bargain.”
The dance floor has been emptied by the time you descend. You are alone in a candlelit room, and he has taken off his mask. His arm is still tight around your waist, and his cool fingers brush your cheek, tipping the mask upward.
His kiss is the touch of the grave, and it thrills you right down to your bones.
His skin is the color of burnished bronze and he smells like soot and gasoline. When he hides in human form, he dresses like a mechanic - oil-stained jeans and a grubby undershirt, work boots and a bandana pushed down over gleaming black hair. Only his eyes reveal the primal heat in him, the energy of the deep and shifting earth, the forces of creation and destruction.
When he takes you in his arms, that skin blazes with heat lines. Wings of rusted metal shards screech in unholy cacophony. You’ve learned to love their song. Their embrace is a ragged shelter, a symbol that even the hosts of heaven couldn’t pry you from his grasp. He is a slow lover, like the movement of continents, inexorable, rough and tender all at once. His eyes blaze when you touch him. When he moves in you, the earth moves, and afterward you are shattered and reborn.
You never knew it could be this way - the steady heat, the solidity of his presence. He speaks little, dry and caustic, but he’s kind when you need him to be. He likes engines and scrap metal and those TV shows where they trick out classic vehicles. He creates the most sublime metalwork you’ve ever seen… weapons, armor, sculptures and machines that put German engineering to shame. You watch from the shadows when visitors come to purchase them. He is quartermaster for an unseen war, and he doesn’t want to talk about it. He just wants to live his life here on earth, far from the crushing void and relentless emptiness of Hell. He just wants you to be warm and yielding in the small hours of the night, when eons of torment wake him with nightmares, when spectres of the past haunt his molten eyes. That’s when he needs you, your love, your submission to rough-skinned hands that can shape metal like clay. That’s when he needs you to whisper his name, to hold him to this world. Compared to where he came from, this is paradise. In your arms, he touches heaven.
You wouldn’t say no to his endless need even if you wanted to. Together in a rickety twin bed that creaks dangerously when he gets up to speed, you are defying god, creating your own paradise. Your skin is marked by the touch of hell.
You’re okay with it.
You sense trouble the minute they enter the tavern, blown in on a gust of winter wind. Rowdy, armed, flush from some battle or contest they obviously won, they tumble into your workplace in a tangle of green, gray, and brown limbs. Some are full orcs, and some are half-bloods, but their camaraderie is clan-thick. They take over two tables and bark for drinks, their speech distorted by tusks and underbites. They smell like feral musk and cured leather, and they emphasize their grunting, guttural speech by pounding the table and stomping the floor.
You duck behind the bar and glare at your employer. “I won’t go upstairs with any of them.”
“You will if the coin’s good,” he replies. “Or you’ll find another job.”
Outside, the snow is soft but the wind is bitter. Tavern owners hiring servers and whores are spoiled for choice, and you can’t work the docks in this cold. “No orcs,” you insist, and it comes out a plea.
He stops, shifts, lifts a hand dangerously. You flinch back, well acquainted with his temper. “You’ll fuck who I tell you to fuck, or go sell your hole on the street. Get back to work.”
You do your best to avoid the orcs’ tables, but they are thirsty and they are paying. A few leer and catcall you, and you keep your head down, pulling your hair to try and better conceal your pointed ears. You dodge blunt fingers and grasping hands and ignore their commentary, and offer a thankful prayer to the goddess of whores that they don’t pursue the issue. Their aggression has limits, it seems, and aside from a few playful smacks to your ass, nobody manhandles you. But one half-orc, his skin the gray-green of a mossy stone, watches you as you move around the table. You can feel the heat of his eyes on you, even when you return to the bar for another tray. When you return a full-blood, his skin the green of fresh sage leaves, catches your wrist. “How much, little fairy?”
You twist your wrist away and hustle out of reach. He curses, but doesn’t pursue you, and you thank the goddess for small favors. The half-orc smiles. He has underbitten fangs, not full tusks, and his nose is more human than porcine, favoring his human parent. He’s almost handsome in a brutish way and he’s the quietest at the table, drinking his ale and just watching you.
Fear burns in your belly. You know that look. You fight back tears as you move among the tables, praying another customer will buy your services first, praying you’ll be upstairs letting some fat trader fondle your ears before he can go to the owner and request your services. But in this, the goddess does not smile upon you. You are fetching a meal tray from the kitchen when the owner appears in the doorway and grabs your arm.
“You’ve got a customer,” he sneers. “Upstairs. Room three. And if you don’t show, I’ll take his refund out of your hide.”
Shaking, you deliver the tray and then climb the stairs to the upper rooms. This job is wretched most of the time, but it’s bearable. You don’t know how you’ll endure this. There’s no escape from an orc - their smell, their grunting, their roughness and their stamina. You will have to try to send your mind away, to just endure it, but you know it will not be quick. They like to get their money’s worth.
The half-orc waits for you when you push the door open with trembling hands. He’s taken off his jerkin, but he hasn’t stripped any further, exposing a muscled and scarred physique. The scars are livid, painful-looking… orcs take pride in their war wounds, and often irritate them in healing or rub dye into them to make them stand out further. He is standing next to a washbasin on the small bedside table where a lantern burns, and rubbing himself down with a wet cloth. This small courtesy surprises you.
He turns when you shut the door, leaning against it, shaking. You glare, doing your best not to show the fear and revulsion boiling in your belly, but he gives you a knowing smile that’s surprisingly soft, like he sees it anyway.
“Take off your clothes,” he says with surprising gentleness. “Lie on your back.”
Your fingers shake as you struggle with the ties on your clothing. At least he’s not trying to make it romantic. You pray he doesn’t want to kiss you - that deformed mouth against yours, the taste of his breath, will make you vomit. Your clothes fall and the cool air makes your skin rise in goosebumps. You climb into the bed, lungs spasming, wanting to sob. You spread your legs, and pray all he wants to do is rut, and you can dream of a deep wood green with summer while he uses you.
“Put your hands on the headboard,” he says, soft but firm. You obey, gripping the wood. His hands find your wrists and hold them, and then you feel the rough drag of rope and a cry escapes you as you fight for freedom. You have no leverage, and he is too strong. His other hand settles on your chest. “Shhh,” he soothes. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to take my time with you.” His thumb rubs briefly over your lower lip, and your breath catches on a sob. Despite your pulling, he gets your wrists tied with quick, efficient movements. You wonder how many others he’s trussed like this. His knots are firm, and they don’t slide. You are caught, but you won’t lose feeling in your fingers.
“Shhh,” he whispers again, thumb brushing wetness from your eye. “Relax. You’re fine. I know you’re scared. I won’t hurt you.”
“I hate you!” you blurt out, gone mad for a moment, not even caring what response it might provoke. Your employer won’t care if he beats you a little. He’ll just charge a little extra, since you’ll be less pretty for a few nights. But he doesn’t look angry. He just smiles and kneels between your legs. His huge hands catch your ankles before you can coordinate enough to kick at him. You yank at the ties, panicking a little, sobbing in humiliation and rage. “Get off me!”
“Shhh.” He bends down, lifting your legs over his powerful shoulders. He nuzzles your thigh, and his tusks catch on your skin, but the kiss is soft. It makes you shiver despite yourself. “Relax. I just want to taste you.” His strong hands slide over your thighs, keeping them snug around his head. He nibbles, sucks, and kisses the vulnerable skin, taking his time, exploring you like a connoisseur with a fine wine. This is not what you expected, this deliberate and slow devouring, and your body betrays you, responding to his teasing with a flush of heat and a clenching ache.
He smiles when he sees that, and you close your eyes, hiding from his dark gaze. His hands slide under your ass and squeeze, kneading the lean muscle there, pulling your cheeks apart. Blunt fingers probe you, exploring, and your stomach turns as you realize you are aroused by this, you are throbbing and shivering and starting to crave it.
“That’s good,” he rumbles, dark eyes dancing. “Let’s see how hard you can cum.” His mouth slides down your thigh and finds your genitals, and you cry out in shock and pleasure. Gods, it’s wrong… that mishappen mouth, that rough, slick tongue, the blunt prod of his underbite as he starts to lick and suck you. His tongue probes into the crease of your thighs, under and around your sensitive flesh, and you’re writhing in his arms, flexing, crying out in shock, ecstasy, and denial. He slicks his fingers in his mouth and starts to work one into your ass, slow and firm, teasing your anus with a steady touch while he molests your genitals with his mouth, sucking hard at your most sensitive parts, and you are coming apart, you are shattering, you are orgasming, and shame crashes over you along with the pleasure, sickness, despair - you are an elf, and he is an orc, and he is disgusting and coarse and barbaric, and you are wracked with pleasure in his arms, climaxing like the whore you are, bucking into that crude mouth and crying out like a cat in heat. His fingers in your ass are blunt, thick, illicit, and drive you out of your mind, massaging the flesh inside you that quivers and clenches from the wrong side, almost-but-not-quite giving you what you truly need… something to grind on, something to bruise you inside and satisfy this desperate craving in your belly.
When he finishes and licks you clean, you slump in a quivering heap. Tears fall, trailing down toward your ears as you stare blankly at the rough ceiling boards. Your body shudders as he devours you, licking up every drop of your fluids, nibbling at your soft flesh with those blunt lower canines.
He turns you over, and you have no will to resist. He settles you carefully, one thick hand sliding into your hair, massaging the nape of your neck and rubbing his thumb behind your ear. He tugs your hips up, and your core aches, and you find yourself anticipating him mounting you, the thick, hard fullness of the cock you haven’t even seen yet.
Instead, one hand settles over your genitals and the other pries your ass cheeks apart. The thrust of his tongue makes you moan like the animal in heat he’s reduced you to. His fingers rub and explore you, teasing you with an unexpectedly measured touch as he seals his mouth against your ass and thrusts his tongue into that tight little hole.
Writhing in his arms, you realize he has beaten you. His cock will be ugly, marred with thick veins, uncut, and stinking of orc musk. You will ride it anyway, and you will shudder in pleasure as he buries it deep in your body. You will arch into his hands. You will cry out for him. You will even submit to his kisses, if he tries to claim your mouth.
You have no choice. You are bought and paid for, and he is determined to get his money’s worth.
For some reason, it didn’t occur to you that gargoyles came in colors other than gray. This one is a deep, burnt orange, like earth turned from the deep mines, like the heartwood of exotic trees. His wild mane of hair is black and so are the ridged horns that arch back over his head. His wings block out the sky, sturdy and leathery, though you’ve heard they aren’t capable of true flight.
His long tail swishes behind him as he prowls a cautious circle around you. The rock provides no shelter, nowhere to hide. Your people didn’t restrain you, trusting that you knew your duty, but your courage is beginning to fade, especially when a deep, throbbing growl rumbles in the air. Knees hugged to your chest, you try to make yourself small.
You’re shocked to hear him speak. In your head, you knew they were intelligent creatures, these masters of the mountain peaks, dwellers in deep caves, proud hunters where eagles dared not fly. But he seems to you like such a terrible beast that his voice hits you like a sledgehammer. Low and growling, but perfectly enunciated, it is both feral and civilized, and that strikes you as a terrible thing.
“You’re pretty enough, for a groundling thin-skin,” he says, and you think you’ve just been insulted, or at least denigrated. Claws sharp enough to carve stone tangle in your hair and fondle it, testing its texture. “And frightened. Cute.” You startle, as that last growl comes from right next to your ear. He is scenting you, leaning in to get a good whiff of your terror, savoring it like fine wine. “You seem young. Have you been mated before?”
Something in the back of your head starts screaming in mixed fear and embarrassment. You manage to shake your head, and he snorts.
“Typical. I wanted something I could rut when I feel the urge. Something I could fuck deep and hard and plant my seed in.” You’re not sure if he’s speaking this way just to make you flush, but if he is, it’s working. He circles in front of you, deep, golden eyes gleaming, and you catch a glimpse of the cock swinging heavy and free between his powerful thighs.
No. There’s no way. That will break you.
You whimper, and he snorts again, shaking himself from shoulders to tail like a wet dog. “I’ll just have to train you to it. Your kind are flexible, you’ll probably survive.” The mad clanging of fear in your head drowns out everything else.
When he gathers you in his arms, you don’t resist. He smells wild, like mountain air, like conifer trees and musky heat. His skin feels like suede, and the muscles flexing under it could crush you like an insect.
“Please don’t hurt me,” you whisper, unable to get a full breath.
His wings snap out with a sound like canvas flapping in the wind, but he pauses, golden eyes meeting yours. “Obey me,” he says simply, “and I won’t have to.”
The conquered shuffle in a dejected line, chains clinking as they take their steps in clumsy unison. The wind bites like a wolf, tearing at your thin clothing, raking across your skin. Ahead of you, a square of light marks the entrance to the Ice-born’s Hall… there will be heat there, and possibly food. The need for those things cuts through your dread.
Inside, the conquered cluster up, crowding against one another for additional warmth. Fires blaze in coal-laden braziers, and the Ice-born’s warriors celebrate loudly, feasting on their spoils, pouring ale and dragging the servers into their laps for groping. At the head of the hall, a throne of antler and bone is draped with thick layers of wolf and polar bear furs. On it, the Ice-born reclines, and his cold gaze seems to sap the heat from the hall. His people aren’t daunted - they have found great fortune following his leadership. The slaves quiver and hide from his gaze, but he shows no interest. You can only imagine what it would be like to meet his eyes. If you were not so empty, body and soul, your bladder would quiver at the thought.
Others press up behind you, cold to the touch, but warming. The feast continues, and your stomach gnaws. If they would toss even a scrap, a morsel… it’s your food anyway, your animals they’re slaughtering and eating, your faithful milk goats and carefully tended piglets…
The Ice-born makes a gesture. One of his lieutenants moves at once, crossing to the huddle of miserable prisoners. He finds the beginning of the line and uses a hammer to remove the manacles from a man you know, a neighbor, a respected member of your community. The man grunts as his bruised ankles protest the treatment. He is dragged out in front of the hall, and the barbarian speaks his heathen tongue, roaring over the noise. The crowd settles, eager, avaricious, and individuals begin shouting back and forth. Challenging each other.
They are making bids to own him. Once he is claimed, he will be a slave of these barbarians. That will be your fate too.
The auction continues. Some contest each others bids. There are impromptu contests - arm wrestling, drinking, head-butting like wild rams. There is some grumbling and muttering from the losers, but these warriors are in good spirits. Why shouldn’t they be? They’ve won.
You shrink back against your neighbors and friends, but there is nowhere to go. When it’s your turn, you are dragged before the crowd, leered at, and catcalled. The auctioneer manages to ask, in a broken facsimile of your language, what your trade is. When you hesitate, he raises a hand to strike you.
A footfall stops everything. The crowd goes silent. The auctioneer freezes. Ice-born is standing, leaving his sword against the arm of his throne, descending toward you. His eyes are the color of the tundra in winter and just as warm. There is a gauntness to him despite his muscular frame, and you remember the stories you’ve heard. This creature is the howling wind in the wastes. He is the endless hunger, the depthless void. He cannot bleed, cannot be killed, and his only food is the warmth and life of other creatures…
His grip is less frigid than you thought it would be. Merely cool, less so than those frozen wretches crowding in through the door. He forces your chin up, and you are lost in those eyes. You can see snow in them - you can see the mile-deep lakes at the heart of the glaciers. Are they blue? Are they gray? White and translucent, like the snow itself? In that moment, you couldn’t say. You only know that he is the soul of the winter, and if he takes you away from your family, you will die.
The will to resist dribbles out of you. Your shoulders relax. The howl of the wind fills your ears. You are terrified, but the terror does not touch you, shivering deep in your bones while your mind drifts in the vast, empty storm of his eyes.
Do not resist, he whispers to you, and you find yourself nodding. Yes, of course, you won’t resist. The power of those eyes sinks into your soul and twists it around his fingers.
He gives a command to the auctioneer. Others are summoned, commoners. They hustle you away from your loved ones. You hear them calling distantly, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except obeying the power of those eyes.
You are bathed, and the water is blissfully hot. Your hair is combed and arranged. Rough spots are scrubbed from your hands and feet with scourstones, and your skin is softened with mildly scented oil. The hair between your legs is trimmed. You allow all of this without a struggle, languid. Even the part of you buried deep, the part that kicks and screams, cannot damage the calm those eyes have placed upon you. You are hypnotized, and you move as if in a dream.
They place jewelry on your wrists and ankles. They weave tiny ornaments into your hair. You would never have been so beautiful, even on your wedding day. You are being prepared for him, a sacrifice to his bottomless hunger. A simple piece of white linen keeps you modest, and you sit on a weathered, iron-bound chest at the foot of his bed. It is rich, piled with furs and woolen blankets, spoils of war, but you think it is irrelevant. He will not take you to his bed. He will simply take you, however monsters like him take people, and leave you a dessicated husk.
You are a sacrifice. There is no fear attached to the thought.
When he enters, your skin breaks out in goosebumps. You sit quietly, and wait for him to come to you. He sheds his clothes on the way, leaving them draped over a large, antler chair. His body is pale as the snow, scarred from battle, which takes you by surprise - you thought he couldn’t bleed. The monster CAN be cut, CAN be harmed… and you will not survive to take that news to your people. He sheds his pants, and he is perfect all the way down, a monstrously gorgeous figure of a man, terrible and beautiful. You wonder, belly quivering, if you dismissed the possibility of being taken to his bed too soon.
He touches your chin again, lifting you, coaxing you to your feet. You move obediently to the side of the bed. You let his hands slide up your trembling frame, pushing the linen away, stripping you naked. Your nipples harden in anticipation, heart beating beneath your skin in a dozen places. He lays you down, and your legs are spread, willing, waiting…
You see the gleam of white fangs an instant before they strike.
The boy who stumbled back into town, clothes torn, eyes hollow, set tongues to wagging. The entire village was outraged, and argued over the right tactic to take to punish this monstrous infringement. They formed a posse and spread out across the northern wood, moving in a staggered line across the mountainous foothills, hunting the culprit.
You knew better. Harpies can only be hunted on the highest peaks. Your mistake was going alone.
You heard only a rustle of air when he descended on you. His claws bit into your shoulders, wrapping around your arms, talons piercing deep. Your body twisted in the air, feet kicking, and vertigo sucked your stomach down until he finally deposited you on a sheer promontory.
You dared not draw your dagger while in the air. You draw it now, but looking beneath you, you see the deadly truth that the poor, ravished boy before you saw - there is only one way down.
You can’t kill the beast. You have to bargain. His wicked grin says he knows it, the dancing of his bone-colored eyes, and the way he reaches down to rub at his dark, flushed cock. His nakedness makes you cringe against the cliff face, but there is no escape from that lascivious gaze.
“You’re cute,” he says, trilling softly like a bird behind his words. “Oh, very pretty. I might keep you. Especially if your hole is sweet…” His wings rise and fluff, blocking your view of the drop. His cock stands out hard now, leaking at the tip, strangely shaped but recognizable enough. You swallow.
“Which will you give me first?” he wonders, taloned feet scraping slightly on the rock as he shifts closer. He’s hunger-lean, leading with his hips. The wild beauty of his form is marred only by a handful of scars. “I’ll be taking all of them, of course… see which I like best. You probably want me to fuck your mouth, though. If I fuck your ass first, it’s disgusting. Unless, of course… you like that.”
You angle your dagger downward, at that turgid, swollen length, threatening him without a word. He merely laughs.
Fast as… well, fast as a diving hawk, he seizes your wrist and twists the blade free. You are pinned before you can struggle, and his strength is far beyond his frame, wiry muscles like steel nailing you against the rock. You gasp, and he claims your mouth. His kiss tastes of raw meat and metal. His cock pokes hard against your belly.
“Maybe you like it disgusting,” he trills, biting your lower lip hard, earning a grunt of pain. “Maybe you like to be a dirty little whore. We’ll see. I’ll find out. Your body will tell me the truth.”
“Mouth!” you blurt out, head spinning from those threats. “Just… please, I’ll suck you. Just carry me down.”
“You’ll suck me,” he agrees, smiling like the devil himself. “You’ll swallow my seed and then you’ll climb in my lap and use my cock. You’ll kiss me and moan in pleasure while I mate you. And when I’m done, MAYBE I’ll take you back safely to your idiot kind. Maybe,” he reiterates, one hand in your hair, forcing your head back so he can scent and nip at your throat. “Or maybe I’ll keep you a while longer. You’re prettier than that little goatherd. Sturdier, too.”
His hands find buckles, his claws tear fabric. Your skin chills, exposed to the wind, until his wings engulf you. Then there is only heat - the struggle, the bite of rock into your knees, the thrust of his cock and the pull of his claws in your hair. He tastes feral, and he’s rough. Your throat is bruised, and it burns when he cums in you, forcing you to drink down the thin, salt-bitter fluid.
When he finishes, you’re in no mood to take any more orders. But he settles against the rock face, preening, rubbing his spit-slicked cock. A glance behind you makes your choices stark.
You climb into his lap, into his arms, into his purr of triumph. It’s a long way down.
The rock is unyielding and bites you when you slump forward, scratching grooves in your head that seep blood. Your knees have already scabbed. This high, there’s no warmth in the shadow of the cave, and you shiver in your torn clothes as you try in vain to find a comfortable position on the undressed stone.
Your captor stalks past you, feathers ruffling. If your hands weren’t bound, rough hempen rope sawing grooves into your wrists, you might try to pull those feathers out by the handful. As it is, you have no option but to sullenly train your eyes on the ground when he turns to face you.
He is beautiful, his face aqualine, his feathers resplendent in white and gray with delicate lines of black. He is as wild as the true raptors who circle these peaks. His eyes contain no pity for you. They give you no hope about your future.
“If you try to escape, I’ll throw you off the edge.” His voice is oddly rough, like he doesn’t use it often, or like it’s better suited to a predatory screech than human speech. “You’ll do as you’re told, or you’ll be punished. You’ll earn your food and keep. If you don’t work hard, I’ll eat your liver while you watch.”
“Fuck you,” you breathe, unable to contain your rage.
“Later,” he says coolly, and your stomach flips. He approaches where you kneel, plants one taloned foot on the back of your neck, and neatly shears through the rope around your wrists. Your hands flood with feeling and pain. You can get up now, when he moves off, but your ankles are still hobbled. “Are you hungry?”
You stand mute, but your stomach betrays you with a loud gurgle. You grimace, but he only nods toward the entrance of the cave. “Gather firewood. Feed the fire, and I’ll feed you.”
Outside the cave, the wind howls against the mountain face. Beyond it is a sheer drop, and a narrow path that leads in the wrong direction - up the mountain, not down. Still, a slim chance is better than none. You slink to the entrance and pause, but he does nothing to prevent you from edging your way out.
The wind instantly numbs your fingers. This high, snow kisses the variations in the rock face. The trees bear cones and needles, and the litter is sharp and crunchy under your bare feet. The rope doesn’t let you move faster than a shuffle. If you can find a sharp rock…
The mountain has plenty of rocks. You manage to wear through the rope, and run for the nearest slope. You are greeted by a long and treacherous slope, far too steep to descend, gravelly and prone to giving way. Ignoring the pain and numbness in your feet, you cross jagged tor and find a craggy drop on the other side. That leaves only one direction… up.
He finds you when you pause for rest, trying to rub feeling back into your frozen and battered feet. You scream, kick, and struggle, and it makes no difference. He doesn’t need your help to get you back, talons hooking under your arms and bearing you aloft.
There is no wood for the fire. You didn’t obey your orders. He gives you no warmth, no padding for the cold stone, and no food.
Hours later, frozen and near-senseless, you try to sneak closer to him as he roosts in a nest of furs. One black eye snaps open, and you have no answer, no excuse beyond your utter misery.
“You may join me in my bed,” he says. “But there will be a price.” His feathers ruffle. They look soft. His body is lean and hard. His cock is soft against his thigh.
Outside, the wind howls. He simply watches you, letting you do the work of convincing yourself.
You have to survive tonight. Survive tonight, and you’ll be able to try to escape again tomorrow. Surely, you can handle a night with this creature. Surely…
He doesn’t smile when you crawl, shaking, into his nest. But you imagine a gleam of triumph in his eye. His wings envelop you in warmth and darkness, and even as you shudder, the relief he offers is something you desperately need. You can worry about the rest later. You can waste your time debating if what he gave you was worth what he took.
Tomorrow.
The Chatelaine who received you treated you with barely-concealed disdain. He handled you like an object and snapped a crop against your ass if you didn’t move fast enough for his taste, giving orders in sharp monosyllables. You’ve been scrubbed, your hair and nails trimmed, your skin made hairless with a spell that fizzed and popped as it traveled your body. You’ve been decorated with jewelry that would have cost a lifetime’s earnings, with ticklish strokes of paint that itch now as it dries on your cheeks. The metal cuffs on your wrists and ankles have shimmering inscriptions and a single chain link each. And worst, or maybe best, is the collar resting around your neck - metal backed with leather, embossed, with a large ring hanging against the hollow of your throat. A wrap of the thinnest cotton barely preserves your modesty as you kneel, waiting, nervously mapping a bed big enough for a small army and the… acrobatics… that implies.
You knew. You were told. But you still tremble, and the primitive part of your brain wants to melt into the floor when he makes his appearance. His feet are elegant and move softly on the stone floor, like a cat’s. His scales are finely textured, a glorious swirl of every shade of green imaginable from near-black fading into gold. He moves with graceful deliberation, unbelievably huge and yet completely self-contained; a master of his environment, an effortless predator. The curtains flutter behind him, flicked by the passing of his tail.
He could pick you up with one forepaw. Your entire body, head to knees, would fit in his mouth. His wings rustle as he preens, neck arched proudly, settling on a bed you now realize must fit a small army just to be a comfortable size for him. Finally, when he has settled, forelegs neatly crossed and one claw tapping idly against the furs, he regards you with a gaze that holds the weight of centuries. His voice shakes you down to your bones, thrumming against the stone walls and floors like summer thunder.
“I am Caesinirthos e’Kethend. Your life is now mine. You have many duties, but each day your most important job is this: convince me you are more valuable as a servant than as a snack. If you fail, I will eat you and move on to the next plaything. If you succeed, you may find comfort and satisfaction here beyond your wildest dreams. I am a generous master,” he purrs, and one pale claw as long as your forearm extends, flexes, and settles under your chin. He forces you to lift your head, claw digging into the soft flesh under your jaw. His eyes are like the sun through spring leaves - elemental, endless, and wise. You cannot look into them for too long. Your knees shake violently, and a drop of blood wells around his claw as you sag against his touch. “But I am not a patient one. Speak, so I know you understand.”
Even if you wanted to struggle, there is only one thing you can say in the face of a creature like this. Only one response could possibly be right. From far away, as if through deep water, you hear yourself whisper.
“Yes, Master.”
The summer night is alive with crickets and cicadas, stars spread above you like a thousand diamonds. Despite the thinness of the moon, you can see enough to make your way down the embankment at the edge of the lake. Your feet slide once or twice in the mud, cheap flip-flops failing to keep a firm grip, but the water will wash away all sins.
The cooler in your hand is heavy. Your knuckles whiten on the handle as dead leaves slip under your feet, announcing your presence. Fireflies dance in the undergrowth, their tiny lights calling to their mates. And you… it’s time for you to call yours.
There’s a log at the water’s edge, soft with age and decomposition. You sit there, tucking the thin fabric of your long shirt under your ass. He’s torn enough pants off you by now, you know better than to wear them. You dangle your feet in the cool water, disturbing tiny little minnows who flee from your toes in silvery, darting schools. You wonder if he’s watching you even now, if he heard your approach or tasted your skin in the water.
You shiver.
The first raw fish hits with a gulping splash, hollow as it displaces the water and sinks into the blackness. You wait, heart tripping over itself, gooseflesh rising on your arms and legs - he likes to say ‘hello’ by grabbing your ankle from out of the darkness. He’s scared the shit out of you that way more than once. When nothing grabs you, you lob the second fish. This one spins a little and skips across the lake’s small, rippling waves before sinking.
This time, you see it - a shivering disturbance in the water.
You toss an anchovy a dozen feet out or so. The water ripples underneath it. You dangle a second under the water, primed to snatch your hand away fast - his teeth could snip your fingers off cleaner than a surgeon’s bone shears. But it isn’t his teeth that meet your dangling hand. Cold, clammy, wet fingers slide against yours. The webbing between them pulls tight over your knuckles. You let go of the fish, but he doesn’t let go of you, and your shirt billows around you like a jellyfish as you slide into the water. You kick for buoyancy, but his arm slides around your waist, holding you tight against his cold, hard-muscled body. His head breaks the water, bone-pale hair gleaming wet in the darkness, eyes black as the lake. His mouth is full of razor-sharp teeth.
When you wrap your legs around his hips, the bulge at his sheath is swollen against your groin. He’ll be ready in no time, and you’ve been ready, craving his carelessly strong grip, the texture of his impossibly fine scales, the soft, clicking growl-purr as he leans in to scent your throat. He only knows a few words in your language. He doesn’t know any of the traditional niceties of courting or foreplay. What he knows is this: you smell like heat, like a mate. He knows if he pins you down in the shallows and ruts you, you’ll give sweet cries of satisfaction and undulate beneath him, and take all the seed he can spill. He knows he wants you, and you keep coming to him, and that means you are his. He knows you are fragile, that he can break your bones with a twist, that he could tear chunks out of you with his teeth. He knows you can drown.
You know those things too. You know he is a creature of instinct, and he may forget one night, and be too rough, and leave you just another of the lake’s hidden dead. You know, and you come anyway, and you whimper when his teeth find your shoulder and drag raw grooves into the skin. You gasp when his back fin chafes your ankle, when the supporting spines jab your feet. You’ll go home scratched and bruised, waterlogged, your hair a sodden tangle, your eyes wild.
It’s worth it. It’s so, SO worth it.
The width of the O-gag bites into your mouth, bruising your palate and the soft flesh under your tongue. You want to pad it with your tongue, but the ring is too big, and your jaw already aches from being forced so far open. Drool trails down over your chin, dangling in disgusting strings, and there’s nothing you can do to stop the humiliation - your arms are tied, your legs are hobbled, and your knees grind uncomfortably against a polished wood floor.
His hands slide through your hair, brushing it back from your face. He’s gentle now, because you’re not fighting him. You thought, in the past, that if you stopped fighting he would go easier on you. That if you gave in, if you tried to please him, he wouldn’t leave you bruised and aching, stomach full of acid, limbs cramped and head throbbing when he was done with you.
You were wrong.
His sheath is puffed, and you can see the twin penii tucked inside writhing against each other, pushing glistening slick out of the opening. The musky scent of them fills your nose and mouth, and he pulls you in, silently commanding you to lick that swollen flesh. It’s fine. The taste is fine. You can do this part. It’s what comes later…
You know it’s time when his grip on your hair tightens, pulling at the roots. You can’t help whimpering as those cocks, now half-emerged, push through the ring and into your throat. Relax, you tell yourself. Relax, relax… if you relax you don’t need quite as much air. If you relax, you’re less likely to black out. If you can relax, and endure this, and just take it passively, he might not suffocate you with his cocks.
And you try. Gods, you try. You swallow and choke, you whimper, and he fucks your throat with abandon, bruising your nose against his hips, cutting off your air, stretching your esophagus with the squirm of his pricks until your stomach threatens to rebel. When he cums down your throat you try to swallow, but there’s so much, so fast… it spills out the corners of your mouth, gets pushed up your nose by your reflexive cough, and hits your stomach like acid. Your ears fill with tears. You sway on your knees, trying SO hard to keep it together, to please him, to be good… but he doesn’t pull back, and your lungs convulse, and black spots crawl around the edges of your tear-stained vision.
When you wake, the O-ring is at least out of your mouth. Your face has been cleaned, but you can still taste his cum everywhere - in your mouth, your throat, your nose. Your nose aches like someone punched you. Your throat feels like he fucked you with sandpaper. His scales are warm under your cheek, and his fingers move in your hair, and you take a moment just to be grateful… you MUST have pleased him, if he’s being this nice to you. You must have made him happy for him to let you rest, to rub your neck the way he’s doing now, like a good pet. An obedient slave.
You shift your un-hobbled legs, betraying your return to awareness. Your hands are still cuffed behind you. And that collar, the one he forced onto you on that first day, when you still had fight in you - his fingers toy with it, slipping underneath it, tugging and rubbing it. He likes that physical symbol of his ownership. He likes to gloat.
“Welcome back, slut,” he says, voice dancing with a manic, playful glee. “Did you like your breakfast?”
Unable to summon words, you nod, cheek rubbing against the glossy softness of those scales.
He’s not that merciful. His fingers knot in your hair. “Oh, no you don’t, pet. You know better. What do we say?”
You shudder, hacking, shuddering at the globs of deep-throat mucous and semen that come up. You have no choice but to swallow it back down, managing only a cracked whisper.
“Please master, may I have some more?”
Far-away screams echo off black stone walls, but they can’t hold your attention. Nothing could, when he’s in the same room - tall and sinuous, easing across the floor with the soft hiss of dragging scales. His body is at least eight times as long as yours, black as ink from horns to tail. Four powerful arms hang casually as his body winds toward you, muscle rippling under night-dark skin and scales. Gold adorns his horns like a crown, wraps around his chest, arms, and wrists, so he can’t truly be called ‘naked’. But it’s the place he isn’t covered that draws your eye. Several inches below the line where scales turn to flesh, a vivid red slit has swollen open, glistening with natural lubrication. Near the top, the very tip of a bulging, triangular cockhead peeks free of restraining flesh.
His bed is big enough for an orgy. Ringed with stone columns, you spot cuffs and lengths of chain dangling from hitch points, a silent promise that he knows more about what to do with your body than you do. More hitch points decorate the domed ceiling, and a few still have straps dangling for ease of restraint. It’s all so quiet, waiting like a dangling web for a hapless fly to bumble along.
His smile is heaven and hell, the gleam of white teeth marked by small, slender fangs. “There are three types of people here,” he murmurs, his voice a purring thrum. “My soldiers, my pets, and my prisoners. Which would you like to be?”
His hands slide around you as you look out over the ocean. Gray and turbulent, the water is as dark as the clouds, and the surf pounds the cliffs like a drum. You have shelter in this little pavilion built of stone, but if the rain drives hard enough, it will soak you even here. That thought brings no fear as his heat presses against your back, hard and muscled, breath warm against your neck.
The electricity in his body mimicks that of the storm. Far away, thunder rolls across the horizon and your heartbeat echoes it.
“Here?” you whisper as his fingers slip between your thighs, lighting up your nerves.
“If you’ll allow,” he murmurs, a low rumble against the soft skin behind your ear. “The storm won’t hurt you while you’re with me. And I want you…”
He would back off if you asked him to. He’d take you somewhere warm and dry, make love to you on a bed and hold you while you sleep. But that would take the wildness out of his gray-green eyes, and that wildness sizzles like lightning along your spine. If you consent, he will be rough. He will be wild. There will be stone at your back and ache between your thighs, and the storm will swallow your cries. Your wrists will bruise in his hands, and your thighs will bruise against his driving hips.
You shiver in the salt wind, and turn to nuzzle a broad, strong chest. “Please, Ry… ”
A soft, predatory click rattles in his throat. And you are off your feet, wrapped around his body, crying out as his teeth find your throat and his hands grip your ass. Your back hits the stone, his hand behind your head to protect it, and you smile at that hint of thoughtfulness even as your clothes tear at the seams.
You’ve got to stop wearing expensive things to the cliffs….
It’s cold. Everything is cold - the air that draws your flesh into goosepimples, the metal table at your back, the cuffs around your wrists and ankles that refuse to warm from your body heat. Even the soft, chittering echoes that whisper at the corners of the room, beyond your sight, are cruelly chilly. His hand is cool when it slides over your thigh, fine-boned and delicate, hiding the awful strength that left purpling bruises scattered across your body.
His hand reaches your hip, and something else touches you… something sharp and bristling with hairs that both poke and tickle, something that makes you shudder and turns your stomach. Your thighs won’t close against the restraints. If that chitinous limb touches you any more intimately, you think you might vomit.
His eyes are deep, blood red. There are eight of them. Something alien moves behind his teeth when he talks, shifting like hidden chelicerae. He smiles at you, and you close your eyes against the sight.
“Oh, no.” His voice is as delicate as his bones, soft and accented with a wealthy lilt. “That won’t do. I can’t assess you properly when you do that.” His tone chides you, and you just want to curl up and hide from the horror of being awake. Then those slender fingers are on your face, prying your eyes open, and you see a glint of silver that slams adrenaline into your throat. You hear yourself screaming as if it’s someone else, struggling in vain against the clamps holding your head in place as the tiny metal hook pierces your eyelid. That cold air rushes in and surrounds your twitching eyeball, dries it, and drives you momentarily insane with the desperate need to blink. Blood seeps from the wound and reddens your vision as you tear up. His face blurs, but you can still count the long, segmented limbs stretching over you - one, two, three, four, five, SIX …
The skin at your eyebrow is pierced. When he lets go, your eyelid is held wide open, and you can’t close your eye no matter how you move your head. Your heart pounds like war drums in your ears. Your blood rushes like the surf, and you can’t breathe, you can’t see; you’re going to drown.
“Shhh,” he whispers, and a soft chitter underscores his words. “Now, now. We’re just getting started. The eyes are the window to the soul, have you heard that?” His fingers touch your other eyelid, and you choke out a cry of protest. This isn’t happening. This CAN’T be happening.
As he slides another hook into your flesh, his voice caresses your ears like fine silk. “Don’t worry, little one. We’re going to have so much fun together.”
The bellow that echoes off the labyrinthine walls makes your stomach fall. Air comes thinly - you’ve been running for what feels like hours, and the pursuit never seems to fall behind. Another sound reaches you; heavy, bellows breathing, and the soft clop of split hooves on broken flagstones.
The creature that rounds the corner holds an ax bigger than you are. Its proud, forward-sweeping horns still have bloodstains on them. Breath steams from its pierced nostrils, and gore mats its fawn-colored fur. Swinging between its legs, a bulbous black cock glistens with its own lubrication, uncut and as thick as your forearm.
You find the strength for one last desperate sprint. Braying, it follows you, and its steps shake the ground. Dodging at random between twists and turns in the maze, you hear the distant roar of a crowd. When it catches you, you think, it will kill you, and then they’ll REALLY go wild.
A wall appears out of nowhere, and you skid so hard you hit the ground and scrape your hands raw. Dead end. Is there time to backtrack? Even as you think it, the shape of the minotaur fills the corridor. It approaches, and the weight of its steps turn your knees to water. You close your eyes, waiting for the ax, or maybe the horns, waiting for the pain.
The ax hits the ground. Before you can process that, you are seized by immense hands, strong enough to rip your arms out of their sockets. You are spun, shoved against the nearest wall. Your clothes are torn from you, and the crowd roars in the distance. As the beast presses up behind you, hot and musky, grunting as it shoves its erection clumsily between your thighs, you realize your fate is not to die. It is to be owned, conquered, and claimed as spoils. You can resist if you like. It makes no difference - this monstrous cock is your life now.
It’s true, you couldn’t help staring when he emerged from the water. His auburn hair, his sun-kissed skin, all that muscle… you’re only human. And he isn’t, you can’t help but notice as he mingles with the others at the party, effortlessly comfortable in his swimsuit, barefoot, a beer in hand. The wolves you recognize welcome him as an equal, as pack, and the feral light in those tawny gold eyes catches the firelight. Still, there’s something intoxicating about the soft trail of hair that vanishes beneath his waistband, about the lazy power in his shoulders and chest, that playful smile…
The wolves can see into the infrared, you’ve heard, so both hands come up to cover your face when he appears at your shoulder with a drink. Your blush must be visible from space. He laughs, and there’s a gentleness in it that reassures you even as he coaxes one hand down and wraps it around a beer.
“I’m Rain,” he says, and for a moment you can’t remember your own name, caught in the animal gleam of those eyes. He smiles. “It doesn’t look like your people are here… can I keep you company?”
He can do a whole lot more than that. You’re sure he can smell the want on you. But he’s a gentleman, disarming your anxiety, teasing you a little and keeping his hands to himself… right up until you press against him hip to hip, and your breath catches when his arm slides around your waist.
“Want to take a walk?” he murmurs, and from the look in his eyes, you know exactly what you’re in for.
Yes, you respond, and his grip tightens, darkness swallowing you as you slip away into the woods.
You repeat it when he pushes his knot inside you, strong arms holding you as you undulate in his lap. Yes, yes… OH, please, YES… coherence slips. You beg him not to stop, and his chuckle rumbles against your cheek.
“No worries,” he growls against your throat. “For a sweet little thing like you, I can go all night.”