Other Dominants

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.