The orc heaved a large bag out of the water and flopped it on the ice with a jarring metallic clank without looking away, then spoke in exactly the deep grumbly voice Aithne remembered.

 

“I have one more load to get. Sit tight – I won’t be long.”

 

The command coming in that voice sent a jarring trill through Aithne's body. Her mouth snapped closed on any words she might have been tempted to say while her body, already collapsed to a kneeling position, obeyed with an instinct too deep for thought, lifting itself and making the adjustments necessary to settle into the waiting pose she had been taught. Borkul did not seem to notice - HE turned and disappeared back beneath the water.

 

And perhaps that was HIS mistake, although HE had no way of knowing, and had done the same last time. Had HE climbed out of the water at that moment and claimed her on the spot, Aithne might not have been able to resist.

 

It had been years since HE had been her Master; years of new masters, new experiences, new freedoms. Yet through it all, no matter how far removed she had been from HIM, no matter how much she had healed, HE had always been there still, lurking. Waiting.

 

She had still been HIS, even in HIS absence. Even in her freedom. Even in her marriage to someone else, still she had been HIS at her core.

 

But now, even as she knelt, locked in place on the ice floe at HIS command, her brain began to meander. Soft thoughts trickled out of the iron wall His presence had instantly re-erected. Little rebellious thoughts that reached back under the wall and tempted more to follow, using evil little tricks.

 

Tricks like memories. Memories of Urag, of Chtonji. Of J’zargo, Brelyna, and Onmund. Even of Merks. Memories of freedom, of laughter.  Memories, as well, of all that had been done to her. Of pain and humiliation, of rape and torture. Of a lost eye and scars that lingered until death.

 

Tricks like emotions, which came on the heels of the memories. She had known happiness, even joy; pleasure and acceptance. Love. These washed over her, reminding her there was so much more to life, so much more to living, than the pit of hell offered by Him.

 

After these came the anger, the fear, the dark despair. That pit was gone, burned out of her, cleansed by Merks’ fire, but the memory of it remained - a reminder permanently stained on the back of her psyche.

 

And, finally, came pride. She was no longer a simple sailor, powerless in the face of his might. She was the bloody ARCHMAGE of the COLLEGE OF WINTERHOLD. She had POWER, dammit! There were maybe – MAYBE – a handful of people in the world who could match her, strength for strength. She had proven it – she had bested Merks at his best; she had killed two-dozen dragons with a single attack. She had faced foes far more formidable than a single orc, no matter how large he was.

 

The fire of her thoughts became literal; her body lifted into the air as it erupted in a white-hot blaze that turned the ice beneath her to instant steam. Borkul’s wall imploded, and she found herself immersed in a sudden fury that consumed her very being. When Borkul pulled himself out of the water once again, she didn’t give him a moment to speak – she screamed toward him, snatched him in her arms, and blasted into the sky, her power lending her the strength she needed for the task.

 

He howled as her body burned his skin and he slammed his fists into her and kicked at her with those powerful legs, but Aithne was beyond pain. She flew them across the ice floes that had previously been her attempted escape route. Ahead, she saw the familiar shallow cave and angled toward it. As they neared, she threw Borkul’s body at it from thirty feet in the air. He bounced twice as she rocketed toward him again, landing just as he, howling in that familiar anger, rose back to his feet.

 

The howl and the anger sent a lightning bolt of lust through Aithne and she howled back as the image of his cock sprang to her mind.

 

Her howl was echoed by something behind Borkul, and a moment later, a white troll, half again the size of Borkul, burst from the cave and charged toward them, but Aithne was panting with her need and blasted the thing with a Firestorm that turned it to a singed corpse in an instant as she ran toward Borkul.

 

The orc seemed momentarily taken aback, both by the troll and by Aithne’s move toward him, but he was, after all, still Borkul. He snarled and charged to meet her head on, fist raised for a blow that would have crippled her, had it hit.

 

Of course, he never had a chance.

 

“Fuu Blap!” Aithne shouted the words as she gestured, and Borkul’s arm stopped in mid-swing, then swung out and back while his other arm did the same on the other side and his legs, likewise, split apart. Roaring, the orc fell forward.

 

““Tìk ṛoph!” Aithne gestured again, and Borkul’s momentum shifted from falling forward to upright; but then his rigid limbs still could not catch him and he, instead, plummeted backward until he fell face up on the rocky shore.

 

Aithne slid to the ground next to Borkul, hands already reaching for his pants. She could not remove them with his legs spread wide, so she burned them off while he howled and wildly shook his head, the only limb he could move.

 

Well, not the only limb. His cock, long enough to be considered a limb compared to most people, was exactly as Aithne remembered it, and she pounced on it like a dog on…well, on a bone. Despite the pain his burns and bruises must have given him, his cock responded just as eagerly, stretching to its full length in seconds, then twitching. Aithne wasted no time in stripping her uniform, tossing it aside, then bending over and taking the cock into her mouth.

 

It still didn’t fit, of course, but she shoved as much of it in her mouth as she could. Her saliva dribbled down the shaft and she used it to stroke the shaft with her hands as she sucked. Borkul’s eyes fluttered back and his howls changed timbre in an instant.

 

The sound of his lust spurred Aithne’s own and she increased her speed until she could stand it no longer – she let go, shifted her body over his, and impaled herself on him.

 

The pain was exquisite; it was bright and sharp and it filled every part of her. She shuddered in ecstasy, already orgasming even as she lifted and shoved him into her again, and again. And again.

 

It consumed her, the pain and the pleasure. Every shove, every shudder, every orgasm – or maybe it was just one long orgasm, her mind was in no position to work out just what was happening – pushed her deeper into that space that had long belonged to Borkul. Every moment in that space, she reclaimed a little bit more of it for herself. She had been his because he had this power over her; now, she was taking it back. Stroke by stroke, she claimed control; she claimed power. She claimed HIM.

 

And, at the last, when his sounds and expression told her he was about to climax – and who would know the signs better than she? - she clamped her knees against his hips and squeezed until she felt HIS warm fluid splash inside her, once, twice, thrice, and again. She wiggled her hips as his cock throbbed its final echoes, then leaned forward, still panting, and put both hands on his cheeks.

 

“How’s it feel to be raped?”

 

He shook his head, his own breath still ragged. “Who are you?! What are you?!”

 

“I am the ghost of all you have wronged, Borkul the Beast.” The lust was gone, replaced by a return of the rage. Much like an orgasm, it started low but built as she spoke. “I am the one you enslaved and forced to whore for you. I am the one you tortured and tormented, then fed to hungry creatures for them to do the same!”

 

“I’ve never even met you before, lady!”

 

“Oh, I wish that was true.”

 

Aithne clenched her fists, jerked them outward as hard as she could, and let her anger add impetus to her, “FUU BLAPP!!!”

 

Borkul screamed as his arms were yanked forcibly from their sockets, flying thirty yards in opposite directions. One splashed into the ocean; the other into the icy sand dunes further inshore.

 

Aithne bent over his face and matched his scream with her own.

 

“Now you can never hit anyone again!”

 

Then she slid back, allowing his fading member to slip out of her. She ignored the spunk that immediately rushed down her thighs as she grabbed his cock, yanked it up as far as it would stretch, and, staring directly into his wild and pained eyes, yelled, “And NOW you won’t be able to hurt anyone with THIS again!” She made a slicing motion with her finger. “Lyoṇ!”

 

The orc’s screams renewed themselves as the cock separated itself from his body. Blood sprayed out, coating Aithne’s face and naked body, but she didn’t notice; she just watched his panicked and pained eyes begin to glaze, listened to his screams fade into gurgling gasps as his life emptied itself, an offering of conciliation or penance to the innocence she had lost at this very place.

 

When, at last, his breathing sputtered to a stop and what remained of his body grew limp, she found she was laughing. She didn’t remember beginning to laugh; it seemed have sprung from nowhere and it filled her completely, loud guffaws accompanied by equally unbidden tears.

 

After some time, she remembered she had made some sort of plan. With her mind still spiraling, she couldn’t quite remember what all that entailed; she just remembered it started with her going home, and that was something that appealed to her on a basic level that reached through even her dazed state. She stood, squinted, trying to remember.

 

Ah, right. There had been a courtyard. It had led to home. She focused on it, motioned, and the world went momentarily hazy.

 

A second later, Aithne appeared, naked, covered in blood and semen, still clenching Borkul’s massive pulpy green cock, in the central courtyard of the College of Winterhold, unknowingly interrupting a duel. The wave of magic had cleared her head enough for her to snap out of whatever strange miasma had held it.

 

She stared at the large group of people as they stared back at her. Several thoughts went through her head on the subject of what to say, but none of them seemed quite right for the situation and her tongue therefore refused to attempt to form words.

 

Finally, someone behind her cleared a throat and she turned. The movement seemed to break the crowd of its own stunned reaction, and suddenly the courtyard was filled with the buzz of people murmuring in wonder.

 

The throat-clearer was none other than Professor Tolfdir. He approached her with a sort of confident caution, but stopped a few paces away and placed his hands behind his back in the way he always did when he was getting ready to start a lecture.

 

“Well, now. That was quite an entrance. Greetings, I am Tolfdir, one of the professors here at the College. Who might you be?”

 

Several responses flicked through Aithne’s brain but, in a flash or insight or insanity, she decided to throw caution to the wind.

 

“Hello, Tolfdir. It is good to see you again. I am Aithne gro-Shub, Archmage of the College of Winterhold.”

 

 

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