Teller of Fate
Third Movement: Dævara and Bradwold
Chapter Twenty-Three
* * *
All the living worlds Dævara encountered in those first years were heavily industrial, with little tolerance for magick, Elven or otherwise.
Most did allow Telling, though. She would spend a few months here or a year there Telling Fate. She did occasionally ply her mother’s other trade, but mostly fucked just for the pleasure of it.
There were many new experiences. New worlds offered any number of vistas and strange life forms and lifestyles. Familiar-looking races had colonized many worlds that would never have supported them without terraforming or the occasional, judicious use of technomancy.
She spent a year UT on a world called Midgard with four blue suns, an insane orbit, and a solar year lasting over eight centuries UT.
It had clouds of ice roofing its three cities; cities that hovered over lakes of molten iron.
Between hot and cold, a temperate zone thrived under frosted blue light that almost never dimmed. All three cities were made of a green crystal that trapped buoyant gases, allowing them to ride the wind.
Most of the populace never wore clothes.
Next, to the floating worlds of the Druid Collective she went. It consisted of seven pods made of planet-sized living trees that grew like spherical snowflakes. They orbited a bright green sun and were joined to each other by rivers contained in force shields.
Many elves made it home. She spent seven years there.
Then there was a shell of a world bigger than most solar systems where everyone lived on its inside. Another entirely water with ships that passed right through its core.
Worlds of air and worlds of fire and voids that somehow were homes of millions; floating cities of scrap iron large as Jovian moons that migrated slowly from star to star; bright crystal shells that held air and floating wooden islands—in all she stayed and worked and loved.
Once, travelling by ship again, she swore she saw a world that was flat and round as a plate, with a tall spire in the middle. It might have been real but was probably a dream. No turtle could be that big and as for the elephants…
Sometimes she travelled with a companion, a lover, or a friend, for a few years. Mostly she travelled alone.
While living on a large station called Ipse Memus near a gentle collision of Aions known as the Cambion Bloom, she met her first serious love, a woman named Amber. Their adventure in a former Convocation Aion known as the Elven Dark was one which would haunt her to the end of her days.
It took her almost a century to work through to worlds more friendly to magick and she had to change Aions to do it.
Her desire for a magick using world had been stoked by a most unusual client she had when she worked in a fancy brothel, the Red Palazzo, on a moon called Noir. Her client, a tall male, Drago by name, had required a very technical work of sex magick and the longing it instilled got her feet itching again. She was surprised when first arriving there to meet a Hermetist named Abram, who she learned would become Chief Archivist in his future. What made it surprising was that he had achieved that high rank in her past. Evidently, Dæv had slipped backward in time a bit during one of her Portal trips. She made a mental note to be more vigilant when she Portalled off Noir.
Though no less fantastic, these new magickal worlds had the feel of places that had been settled awhile.
She had seen all levels of technological development in her travels, but the worlds of magick tended to the low tech.
Dævara wondered why until she reasoned that most technology developed to make difficult tasks easier. They left a detritus of intermediate stages that got developed to do other things.
People tended not to think of making something to do work when they could develop a spell for it. It, too, would have its byproducts, but they tended to remain on paper and didn’t clutter up the place.
So finally, Dævara entered the realms of kings and queens; of wizards and witches; clerics and liches; and dungeons full of treasure and wandering monsters. Only the occasional carbine or laser guided missile spoiled the mediaeval effect.
She settled in an inn built of stone in a village called Hamlet on a world with green skies, a bright white sun and two purple moons.
Dævara Told Fate for gold and seduced the odd adventurer with a fortune that needed spending on a pretty Elven cailín.
It was there, after three years living and working, that Dævara Teller met a human male named Bradwold, who forever captured her heart.
* * *
Dævara was seated at her usual table, in the corner farthest from the front door and closest to the stairs up to the rooms, when in he walked.
Tall and lean, he had a weathered, angular face that carried the pallor of many hours spent underground trying to wrest treasure from the claws of creatures who should have been dead centuries previous.
He was dressed in leather and chainmail, his square-toed boots plated with steel. A steel cap was under his left arm. Steel-backed gauntlets were tucked into a wide leather belt.
On his back hung an axe, double-bladed.
Even from where she sat Dæv could see that his eyes were a luminous green, so very close to the eyes she had once had. Shoulder length dark hair lightly salted with grey reminded her of Tathar in a way she found momentarily disconcerting.
He hadn’t shaved lately.
His beauty was interesting until he smiled, then it was devastating. Dæv felt a heat in her cheeks and upper chest that she hadn’t since those first heady days after her rebirth.
She had to have this man.
In a warm gravelly voice, he greeted Dumara, the wench who ran the bar. She returned it with a flirtatiously risqué remark and a saucy laugh, pouring a mug of mead for the adventurer.
He strode over and drained it. As he slammed it on the bar top, it was replaced. He turned to companions already drinking and began regaling all with the tales of his recent triumphs in the netherworld.
Strange. He behaved as if he knew most of the patrons, yet she’d never seen him before. Was he perhaps long away and only now returned?
Thoron, one of the inn’s bouncers, noticed her stare and came over to tease. “A pretty boy is he not?” he said in his hearty bass.
Dævara fixed him with her eye and replied, “Pretty he may be, but boy he’s not!” She smiled. “I’ve not seen him before, I’ve not.”
The large, blue-skinned man nodded, “Been gone these four years or more. Was over Cardmoriff way, so I did hear.”
“Why go to that grim place?”
“Treasure, why else?”
“What’s he called?”
“Bradwold the Disemboweller he was when last he was in these parts.”
“A pretty surname it’s not.”
“Nay, but a pretty smile, eh?”
Dæv batted him. “Oh, get away, ya big lummox ya!” She was laughing, though.
Rumbling his deep chuckle, Thoron wandered over to the bar.
As she’d hoped, Brad the Pretty Man (‘the Disemboweller’ he would never be to her) walked over to her table, carrying another full tankard of mead and a rock crystal glass she knew was half full of whisky.
He was smiling as he came. She pretended polite interest only, though staring at those eyes made it hard. His upper face entered shade as he approached the table itself, for he stood almost as tall as the lamp hanging over it.
She had to crane her neck to look up to where his now hidden eyes had to be.
Dæv observed with a certain satisfaction, the slight faltering of his smile. Few men there were who could meet her gaze unimpressed.
She dialed her sexy up.
He carefully placed her whisky by her right hand, then came around and sat opposite. He kept his tankard in his fist.
“I bought you a drink. I hope I’m not being too forward,” speaking to her as if she were high-born. His face spoke confidently of his sincerity, but his eyes expressed his doubt. Very few women had ever intimidated him, Dæv divined.
“La, sir!” she played along. “I’m but a poor tavern wench and fortune-teller, I am. It’s not the norm for one such as I to be treated as a high-born lady.” Her expression broadened his smile. She reached with her left hand for her whiskey, drained it by half, and placed it at her left elbow.
“You be more than a fortune-teller by your friends’ account,” he waved the half empty tankard toward the bar. Her friends were grinning toward her like the loving idiots they were, not bothering to keep their amusement to themselves.
She sighed theatrically, “So, they’ve betrayed me again, have they?” He nodded. “Alright. You might as well have the straight of it, then.”
She sat upright, placed both hands on the Syrat stacked in front of her and spoke, “Dævara Tatharsdottir, Teller of Fate, I am and I’m at your service, good sir.” She bowed her head slightly.
“Bradwold, called the Disemboweller, slayer of monsters, and rescuer of maids and unobserved trinkets, at yours as well,” he returned the bow.
They held one another’s formal gaze until it dissolved into mutual laughter. “D’ya want to know your Fate, then?”
“Well,” without moving his head, he cast his eyes upwards and stroked his bristly chin with his free hand. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to know where the best place to quest next is.” He looked back at her. “What’s the price?”
“Depends on how much you want to know, it does.” They dickered long enough to finish their drinks, Dæv workin’ it all the while. Someone came by with another round in the meantime.
Brad settled on knowing where his next month’s questing should be to maximize his profit while minimizing his risk; also, should he take any companions along and if so, who.
Dævara decided to add a little about how he was going to fall madly in love with a pretty elven lass. She wouldn’t be cheating, either. Not exactly.
She could do more than show the future, she could make it. ‘Teller’ could mean writing Fate as well as reading it for the client.
It went quite well. They each had a couple more rounds during the lengthy reading. Each growing more engrossed with the other.
When she finished describing his unlooked-for affair, he looked at her and his hesitation was gone.
Dæv slid the Syrat into its silk bag and hid it in the pocket of her skirts without looking at it. She stood quickly and grabbed his large, warm, and calloused hand.
The thought of it running over her naked flesh quickened her pulse and again brought a flush to her skin.
Pulling him along, the pair ascended the steep stairway to the second floor, Dæv gripping her skirts in one hand and pulling Brad along with the other.
He brushed up against her back while his other hand rested on her waist. She could feel the pulse in his wrist quicken before they got to the top. His hand moved from her middle and slowly snaked around to cup her right breast.
Dævara’s room was the last on the left. She led Bradwold quickly down the hall, pulled him in, and secured the door.
“Come here,” he commanded in his deep authoritative voice.
As Dæv came meekly to stand a foot in front of him, barely coming up to his shoulder.
Brad sat on the edge of her bed, took her hands, and pulled her between his knees until her own touched the edge of the feather mattress.
Roughly taking her head in his hands, he pulled her face to his.
Dævara reveled in the warmth of his hands as they played about her ears, yet his caress felt cool on her flushed cheeks.
When their lips met, wet tongues darted in and out, teasing one another. His beard hurt a little but that only served to enflame her further. Dæv smelled the heady aroma of his sweat and musk, tasted the honey on his tongue.
Brad’s hands descend to her chest, fumbling frantically with the laces on her bodice, anxiously trying to get to her breasts.
Grabbing his wrists, Dævara pulled his hands away from his prize and led his arms around her. Never breaking the kiss, she worked the laces while Brad slid his hands past her waist and down her legs, sliding her skirts up to expose her ass. She wore no undergarments.
Dæv moaned into his mouth, feeling his hands, still cooler than her skin, rough as sandpaper, clasping each buttock, pulling her yet closer.
Laces finally undone, she yanked open her bodice and broke the kiss, grabbing his hair and burying his face against her bosom.
He planted kisses all around her silver-blue areolas before licking her painfully erect nipples; first one, then the other, bristly hair abrading her flesh.
Dævara gasped as each stroke of his wet tongue sent electric shivers to her sex, where they exploded in a nova of tingles.
Brad’s mouth continued its loving adoration of her paps, his hands stroking her arse and lower back.
Dæv wanted rougher play. Grabbing the back of his head, she pulled it against her left breast, just as he had the nipple in his mouth, “Harder!”
Brad responded, sucking the nipple, then biting it gently at first, then harder until she gasped.
“Yes,” hoarse and an octave lower than her normal. Her hands made fists in his hair.
As he switched back and forth between her breasts, punishing each erect bud in turn, Brad raised his hand further, pushing her frock up to her armpits, trying to pull it off.
The elf whore obliged by pulling away and raising her arms in turn.
With a fistful of gown in each hand, Bradwold yanked up, stripping her of the dress to the elbow.
In sync with him, she flung her arms back, sending the garment sailing behind her. Two quick flicks of her feet and her slippers off.
Now completely nude, Dæv pulled entirely out of his grasp. Placing both small hands on his chest, she pushed him to the bed.
As he lay there, breathing as if he’d just run a mile, he stared a look of ownership at her naked body.
Without thought, Dævara knew she belonged to him, body and soul. She wanted nothing so much as to surrender both.
The chainmail he wore went past his knees. It would be heavy, she knew, but she suddenly had the lust of an age to strengthen her. Nothing would stand between her flesh and his for long.
Deftly, she undid his belt and tossed it onto the floor. Then, with a force she could see surprised him, Dævara grabbed two fistfuls of forged steel links and pushed, getting the chain all the way up to his armpits before he thought to lift his midsection to help.
Quickly shifting strategy, he raised his upper body instead, took the links out of her hands and pulled it over his head. He tossed it to one side where it made a sound like a bag of coins spilling over the stone.
Dævara had scampered onto the bed when getting rid of his armor. Straddling him, she looked down between her thighs, to the laces holding his breeches closed.
Her hands brushed the sopping mess of her sex as she practically tore the laces open. Even that brief contact sent an immanent orgasm surge through her abdomen. She held it off.
Shimmying down to his knees, Dæv had those breeches down in one strong jerk.
Like her, he wore no underclothes. His cock has half engorged already. It was no great thing but was magnificent in its way. Smelling as much as seeing it, caused her mouth to flood with saliva.
Brad’s pubic hair was neatly trimmed, she was surprised to find, and he’d taken the trouble to keep his balls plucked clean. She started with those.
Sliding down one of his legs, leaving a sticky trail of her excitement to dampen the hair there, she knelt on the edge of the fur rug her bed rested on and descended.
Brad’s penis was stiff as iron when she got her face close to it.
The first touch of her lips on his scrotum caused an open-mouthed moan from the adventurer.
The smell of his sex was strong, like him. Its perfume made her light-headed, bringing a fresh flood of nectar from her cunt, which began flowing down her inner thighs. His balls retreated at the cool, wet of her lips.
She remedied this by sucking first one, then the other, into her mouth. When they both glistened with spit, Dæv pulled gently on his sac and leaned in to lick the cleft between his scrotum and inner thigh. The smell and taste of him there was overpowering.
Dævara began stroking his dick with one hand, her touch a hair firmer than feather light. Each time she approached the head, her thumb lingered over the fleshy cord that ran up the underside of the shaft. Each time her thumb swished over that spot, she felt Brad shudder under her other hand, resting on his thigh.
She pulled away when she heard his breathing quicken. It wouldn’t do to have him cum too soon.
It was her turn anyway. “Get the rest of your clothes off,” she whispered. So lost in passion was she, that she completely forgot it was he who was supposed to be in charge.
Brad complied with haste, apparently having forgotten himself.
After pulling his boots off, Brad stood, stepping out of his britches, and throwing his tunic across the room. He turned back to the bed to find Dævara lying in the warmth he’d made with his body. Even the sweat he’d left behind on the cover left its signature scent.
Now that her audience was attentive, Dæv began.
Back arching, legs spreading wide, the elf whore worked her fingers along her the folds of her slit. Breathing loudly, she tuned half-opened eyes to him.
The look on his face was one she’d seen often on her clients through the years. The memory of those worshipping eyes was enough for her to find release on those few nights she was alone and lustful.
Trancelike, Bradwold walked around the bed until he was at its foot. He knelt but hesitated to move closer.
Dæv gave him a show. She pulled her nether lips apart with one hand and slid the middle two fingers of the other unto her sopping pussy, outer fingers spread wide. She worked her clit with her free hand while she pumped her fingers in and out of her sex, moaning and calling to him, “Take me Brad, please, please take me,” over and over.
The squishy sound of her fingers pistoning in and out of herself broke the spell Brad was under.
Grabbing her thighs, Bradwold pulled her level with the tip of his erect penis and leaned forward, trying to line himself up.
Dævara quickly withdrew her fingers. Making sure he was focused on her face, she slowly sucked the juice from them, then closed her eyes, anticipating sweet impalement.
In one thrust he buried his member up to the hilt; the tingle of her vagina became a rhythmic shock.
As his public bone collided with hers, orgasm exploded out of her.
A cry of ecstasy she couldn’t have stopped to save her life, filled the room.
Brad withdrew slowly and thrust mercilessly again.
And again.
Again.
Each thrust matched a peak of her climax. Dæv began thrashing uncontrollably as Brad bent and settled his weight on her, continuing his powerful strokes.
She was pinned, helpless under the bulk of his powerful man, who’s steely cock stabbed the core of her repeatedly, driving toward his own crescendo, careless of her, a mere toy for his use.
This realization ripped a howl from Dæv and a low, broken growl as she clutched her sweet torturer with arms and legs, gripping as if she meant to squeeze the life form him as powerful contractions tried to force her knees to her shoulders.
She thrust against him again and again, until awareness finally forced its way past the ebbing tide of ecstasy.
Dævara became aware that Brad was still thrusting.
She stopped him. “You’ll not have much to push against, just now,” she whispered in his ear. She was a free-flowing woman when aroused. “Bring it up to me mouth and I’ll take you the rest o’ the way, I will.”
Brad didn’t need to be asked twice.
He withdrew from her pussy, knee walked up to her shoulders and looked down at her with that scary worship in his eyes. His dick was at full staff and jumped in time to his pulse. It glistened, soaked with her arousal. She felt drops of liquid hit her chest from his scrotum.
Dæv winked as him and slowly licked her lips, parting them for his pleasure.
Reverently, he lowered himself, pushing the head of his penis down to meet her mouth.
Dævara’s soft pointed tongue met it and began slithering around the head and shaft, inviting ingress.
Settling his weight, Brad began pushing past her lips. A moan escaped him as she rubbed the underside of the head against her tongue, plump lips forming snuggly to his cock. After four inches into her mouth, she felt it hit the back of her throat. Swallowing it at this angle was not going to happen.
She sat up just a bit to get a better one and wrapped her arms around his thighs.
His member tasted of her sex and that was more exciting than such a thing had ever been. Dæv continued to orgasm.
She let him hit the back of her throat for a while, licking the underside of his cock with her tongue. Poor man couldn’t get the length of his cock into her mouth, though. This angle was just not going to work as he was too stiff.
She pushed him away, “I’m facing the wrong way, I am. Let’s try this.” She skootched down under him and swiveled round until her head overhung the end of the bed.
Dæv lifted it, saw Brad’s face looking at her from between his own thighs upside down and giggled at his expression. “C’mon, then! I won’t bite it off, promise.” The thought of being abused in this way, brought orgasm number…four? Five? She’d lost count already.
Her moaning cries lent haste to his movements as he came around and positioned himself off the bed with his cock pointing at her mouth.
Completely out of control, Dæv jammed three fingers into her cunt and began thrusting, slamming the heel of her hand against her clit with every stroke, her free hand squeezed and pulling on a breast, clamping hard on the nipple. Her orgasms had blended into one.
His hands leaned on the mattress on either side of her hips.
Freeing the hand not busy at her crotch, Dævara grabbed his scrotum and pulled, bringing his dick past her lips.
Her head felt heavy from the weight of blood in it as her lover began his thrusting again. He was still timid about really giving it to her, the gentlemanly fool.
She encouraged him by grabbing one of his thighs on an inward push and simply pulling him toward her.
Finally, driven by lust, Brad pushed past the tight barrier of her throat and smacked her in the face with his balls.
She eased her pressure on his thigh, but not enough for him to withdraw. He got the idea and pumped his cock back and forth through the constriction of her throat.
When she needed to breathe, she just pushed against him, and he courteously withdrew.
During this pause they were both panting, looking at one another, she through her own spit, dripping off the end of her upturned nose and flowing into her left eye.
She had one sticky hand on a breast, the other busy with her cunt. Mid-orgasm, Dæv couldn’t have spoken a coherent word to save her life, but merely beckoned him back with her tongue and gaping mouth.
This time there was no hesitation. Brad rammed his cock all the way in. As he thrust, he took over fingering duty at her pussy, alternately flicking back and forth across her clitoris, and pushing two of his thick fingers into her. Both her hands went to her nipples to squeeze tingling ecstasy from them.
Her neck was sore; her head throbbed with the blood in it. She shuddered as her orgasm reached a new peak. Again, she pushed and again they both gulped air for a moment. Dæv courteously stroked his dick until she caught her breath.
Again, he buried himself in her windpipe.
Again, once more.
The last time she pushed, he didn’t stop. Being too far gone as his orgasm approached, Brad either didn’t feel her hands or ignored them.
She couldn’t breathe. Her head started ringing as he became more and more insistent, a buzzing drowned all other sound, even as levels of orgasmic pleasure she’d rarely felt before threatened to erase her consciousness.
That last apotheotic orgasm probably saved her from passing out.
A scream she couldn’t utter pushed against the cock in her oesophagus, and the contractions lent strength to her arms as she pushed Brad out of her throat by main force.
Her howls escaped her then, timed to the spreading waves of sensation that continued to surge through her.
Dævara was by now blinded by her own spit but heard Brad’s rhythmic grunts as his release finally came. Her delight became sensible as his orgasm spattered her face with warm sticky love.
He ended by smearing spit and cum all over her with his dick. She spared a moment from her pleasure to hoarsely say, between gasps, “Was that…to your…liking…good sir?”
He chuckled, a low growly sound. “Yes indeed, Mistress. I thank you for your service.”
Happiness was all the world, now. Dævara’s mind floated off on the breast of orgasm as its tide retreated from shore.
* * *
Half an hour later, they were chest (Dævara) and belly (Brad) deep hot bubbly water in Dæv’s large copper bathtub; cleaned, fed, and sipping their favourite drinks.
The water soothed muscles that had worked so hard for so much pleasure. She sighed with the feeling of it.
The instep of Brad’s foot was nestled in Dæv’s crotch, rubbing slowly and gently. She gave another sigh of joy as she sipped her whiskey.
The big man had longer legs, so Dævara had to settle for tickling the head of his penis with the end of her left big toe.
Brad smiled at her playful efforts. “Well, that part of my fortune went as planned.”
“Fate, Dear Heart, not fortune,” she remonstrated with a smile mostly eyes.
“Aye, Fate, right enough. Suppose I should get an early start tomorrow. The Castle Truntor is a good three days’ march.”
“The night’s not over, yet.” She downed the last of her whiskey and put the empty glass on the stool doing service as a table.
Brad arched an eyebrow, “What have you in mind, woman? You’ve drained me of all vital fluids. I’ll sleep like the dead tonight.”
“I thought we could take a walk in the moonlight, to make us sleepy before bed.”
“You’re not tired?”
“Not sleepy, no. Besides, it’ll work out the kinks. Otherwise, you’ll wake up sore, ya will.”
“Isn’t that what this is for?” he flicked a bit of water at her.
She giggled and resisted the urge to retaliate. “Not on its own. Are you ashamed of being seen with a whore in public?” teasingly.
Brad’s devastating smile bloomed. “Alright, then. What of the clock is it, do you know?”
“Almost eight, I think.”
“Plenty of night left, then.”
They lingered for another half hour, talking of not much; just enjoying the afterglow and the company.
Finally, Dævara got out and tossed the emerging Bradwold a towel. They dried and dressed.
Brad changed to softer clothes and Dæv to a warmer dress of heavy green silk, complete with a broad, deep hood, trimmed in fur.
They stepped out from under the sign of the inn and into the village’s only street a few minutes later. The tender-hearted quips of her friends still echoed through the open door.
Taking his arm, Dæv led Brad right down the street to where it met the Long Road.
They went left down the latter for a space. The Big and the Little moons lit up the sky ahead, strong enough to cast shadows.
It was cool, but not cold; enough of an excuse for her to snuggle close to her lover. Brad responded to the gesture by untangling his arm and putting it around her.
“It’s a beautiful night. You were right, Dæv. I’m glad we came out.”
She only hmm’ed and burrowed herself into his armpit.
She gripped his belt with her right hand.
To their left, was the village green. A breeze carried the scent of pollen from the many wildflowers popping up from the low grass. Star-shaped blue-green leaves covered the Eiderro trees lining the road to their right.
The Long Road curved gently to the right and sloped downward into the valley of the river Torgulduin, beside which it ran to Ithurann, the largest city in the province.
After a few more minutes, the lovers left the road toward the river.
Sitting on cool turf in a grove of fragrant Eiderro, the pair cuddled listening to the water.
Violet light flickered on the wave crests.
Over the distant hills, the sinister silhouettes of large hunting bats cruised against the deep, deep green of the night sky.
In the silence, Dæv wondered whether nudging Fate where Brad was concerned had been a wise decision. She might easily have charmed him in less occult ways.
The fighter certainly seemed smitten now.
Putting her misgivings aside, she snuggled closer. She would make him happy; he’d never regret his decision.
They talked. They kissed.
Deciding it was a bit too cold for sex, they walked back to the inn.
Dævara insisted he spend the night with her.
Bradwold didn’t take much convincing. Truth to tell, they were now both tired and sleepy.
After stripping off their clothing, Dæv and Brad fell into bed. The elf snuggled into Brad’s arms and fell asleep in minutes listening to his slowing breaths. Happiness fed her dreams that night.
* * *
The morning was glorious.
Dævara had always been an early riser. This morning, though, she slept until sunrise.
Opening her eyes, the elf saw the dawn slanting sharply through a gap in the curtains, casting a band of light across her dressing table. Glass bottles containing various potions of the aesthetic arts twinkled. Dæv rarely used cosmetics, but a little visual boost now and again didn’t hurt, especially with some of the elf whore’s more particular clients.
Her gaze darting to her bedmate, Dævara saw Brad stretched out on his back, snoring softly.
She sat slowly and watched him.
Dim morning light flattered his stubbly jaw, his aquiline nose. His brow was a bit too heavy, but his forehead was tall and wide.
He was lean of body, not bulky or fat. Heavy lifting, long marches, and pitched battles had sculpted his muscles, but left him lean and, she knew, would make him quite lithe and quick in his movements. Apart from body hair, he almost looked to have been chiseled from marble.
The elf laid a hand on his breast, softly stroking his pecs and down along his stomach.
It was a body used to fighting. A tracery of scars along his arms and two long ones on his chest recorded how dangerous his profession could be.
Dævara would have liked to have let him sleep; could have watched him do so all day, but they both had work to do this morn. Best wake him.
Licking her lips, she dove under the covers. Moving slowly so as not to wake him prematurely, the elf whore lay along his body, her knees touching the bedding just below and outside his shoulders, her feet on pillows.
Dæv was almost defeated before she began as Brad’s hot breath warmed her vulva. ‘He’s awake!’ he thought, freezing up.
His breathing remained slow; the rising and falling of his chest lifting and lowering her belly and hips. She realized his breath was coming through his nose. Her lover still slept.
Enjoying the tingling feeling warm breath made on her pussy, Dæv addressed the currently flaccid penis before her.
Despite the bath the night before, Brad’s strong scent still filled her nostrils from inches away.
She began slowly, laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss on the head of his prick, then running her lips and tongue along the shaft, stopping frequently to suck on the soft skin. Bradwold was fully erect by the time she laid a wet tongue on his scrotum.
Here she paused, trying to sense some sign of wakefulness. Nothing.
Taking Brad’s stiff cock in her hand, she pulled it up off his belly and, laying her head down sideways, put the head into her waiting mouth. For a while, Dæv just lay still and sucked on it, swirling her tongue around, and poking it into the meatus, hoping to taste some of the clear sweet fluid.
Brad took a quick heavy breath, but the long slow exhale told her he hadn’t woken yet.
Straightening her head, Dævara eased herself down a few inches and began to work seriously on her fellating.
Long, slow strokes to begin. Dæv slid her lips toward Brad’s balls until she felt his member hit the back of her throat. Then back up, almost pulling away entirely.
Once most of his cock glistened with spit, she began to vary the depth and speed of her stroke.
He knew his waking would happen soon. She hoped to delay it as long as possible.
After five minutes, he was still out. A sound sleeper, then. Time to up her game.
On her next stroke, she tilted her head until her neck lay along his lower stomach and sucked him right down her throat. Holding it there she swallowed several times, then withdrew to do it again.
Bradwold didn’t wake until after a dozen deepthroated strokes.
The elf felt his hand grab her left butt cheek, while his other forearm fell across the right one.
Dævara inhaled sharply and accelerated her full-length cock sucking.
In the middle of her twentieth deep dive, with his cock full length down her throat, he came.
Bradwold’s hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and pushed her head down against his scrotum, squeezed her buttock painfully, and cried out.
She felt his member’s rhythmic pulsing against her oesophagus a dozen times, each paired with a basso grunt, before he sighed loudly and relaxed.
Dæv slid up his body, unimpaling herself, and sucked the last of his spend out.
Brad evidently interpreted her motion as a request.
Grabbing her hips, the fighter pulled her vulva to his face. His hot breath felt delicious as he laid his tongue full length along her slit.
Despite the renewed irritation of his scruffy beard, the motion made her gasp.
He put both forearms across her lower back, trapping her.
She lost herself in bliss.
She was wriggling and crying out in moments; her hips pinioned by his strength. Brad had managed in five minutes what took most of her lovers—even the women—twenty or more.
After, she fell asleep on him.
So much for an early start.
* * *
“Right! Up you get, she-elf!” Brad smacked Dæv’s bum, jarring her from her doze.
“Póg mo thóin, a bhastaird bhreallghnúisigh[1],” Dævara muttered under her breath. She snuggled into his belly.
“I said, up!” Another, harder smack.
Dæv raised her head and craned her neck till she could look at Brad. “Gabh trasna ort fhéin, a thóin mór[2]!” near to shouting. Her cursing exploded in giggles when she saw his smile, his beautiful smile.
Smothering her mirth, she sat on his chest, wriggling her posterior as if making herself more comfortable. “Shan’t.” She stuck her tongue out at him.
Brad’s look became thunderous, startling her. “That’s how it’s to be, is it?” In one motion, the big man grabbed her around the waist and leapt off the bed. Holding her under one arm, arse foremost.
He made for the door.
“Nooo!” she squealed wriggling and laughing. The elf feigned panic as best she could, which was not all that well.
Slamming the door open, Brad left the room, spanking her a few times as he strode down the hall. A couple of guests’ heads poked out of rooms, giving her amused looks as she retreated down the hall.
Brad didn’t stop until he was at the top of the stairs to the common room.
From the volume of laughs and jeers, most of the morning regulars were getting a good look at something they’d normally have to pay to see. Judging by the tingling pain, her bum was bright blue to boot.
“Brad, she’s only a rental! You can’t take her with ya!” shouted Joreev, to the general glee of all, Dævara included.
“Oh, I see. Well…uhm…I’ll just go put her back, then.” He was as good as his word.
When she was back in her room and on her feet, Dæv tried to look stern but failed spectacularly.
She settled for whacking Bradwold’s backside as she headed for her dressing closet and tried not to let him see her shaking her hand to try to get some feeling back.
Thus it was that, only a little late, the lovers started their day.
Brad announced that he was going down to breakfast. He paused with his hand on the doorknob and turned.
Dæv thought it was for a last kiss, which he did give her.
But no.
In his hand was a small leather purse. She could see gold gleaming between the open drawstrings. “For last night and this morning,” he said, not smiling at all.
She took it.
Looking down at the coins, Dævara suddenly felt cold.
There was pressure behind her eyes and suddenly everything was surrounded by a halo. It was hard to breathe. She felt hot.
A tear hit her left hand. Her breath caught in her throat. ‘He’s just being polite,’ she told herself. ‘He loves you, girl. The spell can’t fail. He knows you’re a working girl and he’s doing right by you, that’s all.’
The fit passed.
She blinked more tears away and looked up at him.
Bradwold’s expression said that he saw her pain. He started to speak.
Dæv reached up and put a finger to his lips, “You keep your money, lover. Last night was on me.”
As she folded the purse into his hands, Dævara smiled for him. “Well,” she said briskly, “You’d better be gettin’ at it, then. Day’s a-wasting, it is.”
“Yeah.” Brad was still frowning.
For his sake as much as her own, she said, “Will you stop by and see me when your quest is done? I’ll be missing you by noon, I will.” She took both his hands. “I will.” Her eyes carried the solemnity of what was for her a vow.
Finally, he smiled, “I will be back as soon as my quest is done, Dævara.” This time, his kiss had fire in it.
As he softly pushed the door closed behind him, a little of her dread returned. The spell, the Telling of Fate. It couldn’t fail, could it?
[1] “Kiss my ass, you cunt-faced bastard”.
[2] “Go fuck yourself, asshole”.
— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026
© Gideon Jagged
All Rights Reserved
