Teller of Fate
Fifth Movement: The Power Under Glyph
Chapter Forty-Six
* * *
Later at Dævara’s place, dinner arrived in wide silver bowls containing several delicacies from the kitchens: meats, braised and charred; bread; cheeses; vegetables, cooked, pickled, and fresh; fruit; and a selection of the more exotic wines.
After love and bathing, Dæv and Brad dined naked on the sunken circular couch before the fire. The elf had reduced the translucency of the glass, dimming the sky. The fire provided most of the light.
She spent several minutes after dinner sipping green wine and admiring her Pretty Man. Brad was stretched out on the cushions, lean legs crossed at the ankle. His right hand holding his wine, the left hand cradling his head as he stared at the dancing flames, lost in thought.
Dævara was near his feet, one hand cupping a silver goblet, the other stroking his calf. His body hair was so fine, only in catching the fire’s light could she tell he had any. It was always wavy just after it dried. Strands caught the light, giving him false highlights. Even in the dim light his green eyes were luminous.
He turned his head to look at her. Caught in her reverie, she returned his stare. There was love in his eyes and a fierce, protective pride. As always, his smile made her shiver as a flush warmed her face and upper chest.
Dæv felt her pussy pulsing where it pressed against the heel of her foot, felt its dampness. Standing, the elf came over to sit against his upper thighs. Reaching down, she held is penis. It was all soft and squishy now, but she remembered its power a short time ago.
Brad grinned at her touch and placed a hand on her left thigh, caressing it as she had done his calf. She began slowly moving her fingers along the length of him, tickling his balls occasionally as she did so, and felt him slowly stiffen and lengthen. They never broke eye contact.
At last, his member was fully erect. It was hard and warm, with a silky texture. Subtle ridges along its length gave it much of its capacity for pleasure.
“So,” her voice was a purr, “What did Greg have to say?”
“That he’s sure someone is stealing his stores. They’re emptying rooms and replacing the contents with rubble.”
“Sounds like the Dwarves, it does.”
“To me, too. I don’t think Greg believes it, though. He won’t admit it, but he likes the Underdwellers.”
“Who else could it be, d’ya think?” His cock was getting a bit soft. ‘Can’t have that,’ she thought.
“Funny you should, ohh!—” That was better!— “ask.” He gave her the fisheye and spoiled it by trying to stop smiling. “I volunteered the crew to go down there and find out.”
Dæv stopped stroking him. “Quest under Glyph?” She was troubled by what was happening to the city she thought of as a second home and was further intrigued by the idea of adventuring without leaving it. “I’m going with you, I am.”
Brad frowned. He was limp again. “It could get dangerous, love. I’d rather not have you in harm’s way.”
She gave him her haughtiest stare. “You forget yourself, sirrah! I was dealing quite well with character’s nastier than anything you’ve ever fought, fifty years afore you were spawned, I was!”
Brad tried to look properly chastised. Only the gleam in his eye gave him away. “A thousand pardons, my lady! I did forget myself. Would you do me the honour of adding your deadly skills to our quest?”
She pretended to consider, absentmindedly working Bradwold back up to a full salute. “Aye, I will.” She fixed him with her eye again. “But there’s a price, there is.”
He lowered his head, averted his eyes. “Willingly shall I pay it.”
“Good. C’mon, then.” She stood and climbed out of the pit around the fire. Brad followed with alacrity, partly playing his role, but mostly because she still had a firm grip on his manhood.
Chuckling as she went, Dævara led Bradwold up to bed by his prick.
— Gideon Jagged
Innsmouth, August 2026
© Gideon Jagged
All Rights Reserved
