Good Boy! came into immediate use when we left Ivarstead the next day and stumbled across a bear den while trying an ill-advised shortcut. While scritching the fluffy boy’s ears, it occurred to me how nice it was that we hadn’t had to kill the poor thing, who was only protecting his den. We had a nice chat about berries and honey and I assured him we were just passing through, so even after the Shout wore off, he was wary but did not return to being hostile.

 

Wolves are somewhat similar but, being (very very large) dogs, they are not good conversationalists and can’t really be reasoned with – they get too distracted. Which is, of course, the key to dealing with them – distract them by pointing out something in the distance (really hype it up, no matter how mundane it is) and they will usually go leaping after it. 

 

This doesn’t work with sabrecats. They also cannot be reasoned with, but that is because they see everything and everyone as prey. Talking to them only gives them the opportunity to taunt you. I am convinced whoever wrote the lines for Shere Khan (yes, I know Rudyard Kipling wrote the book but, I am ashamed to say, I never read it – I can only go by the Disney movie, and I trust not at all that the lines in the movie were scraped directly from the book) has attempted similar conversations.

 

As we moved on, that thought extrapolated itself in my head in a manner not unlike one of those black squares we used to set on fire during the Fourth of July. You know, the ones that expand into super long black worms?

 

Okay, so it’s another poor metaphor. Point is, it gradually dawned on me that I didn’t have to be a mass murderer. I mean, it was already a little late to avoid that, but I didn’t have to continue to be so. Most of the people I had fought were not evil or deserving of death (as far as I knew). The bandits, for instance, generally seemed like desperate people just trying to survive (this new clemecy did not extend to slavers).

 

The soldiers were a little different, since they had kinda signed up for it, but even then, I imagined they would prefer, say, a concussion over death. I determined at that point to spare as many people as possible while fighting. Fewer stabs to the gut and more blows to the head!

 

I got mixed reviews on this plan when I mentioned it to the others.

 

“That is commendable, but not always practical,” Lane said.

 

Kellan nodded. “When I’m fighting, I’m worried about my survival, not theirs.”

 

“Kill or be killed. It is the soldiers’ way of life,” added Lazhah. “Especially when facing Stormcloaks - those rebels deserve to die.”

 

Okay, by “mixed reviews,” I mean it was pretty unanimous on the other side of things. Still, with my newfound abilities to slow time and not get hit, I felt I would be able to manage it on most occasions.

 

Later that night, Lazhah pulled out a map and some other implements I was unfamiliar with but which turned out to be tools to determine our location and said, “We are close to the Rift Imperial camp. We’ll need to check in there tomorrow.”

 

The idea gave me chills and I immediately came up with every idea I could to avoid it. Unfortunately, the entire list was one item long and it was immediately shot down.

 

“We don’t have time. We need to get the crown back to…”

 

“We had time to divert our route a hundred miles in the wrong direction, climb a mountain, and go through a ruin. No, I accepted the need to skip the camps on the way to Korvanjund, even though we should have checked in, because we truly were in hurry. Now, we are not, and we need to follow protocol.”

 

I had no reasonable argument, so I just stewed. Then, unexpectedly, Lazhah continued in a softer voice.

 

“I…know how you feel. And I admit I am not so keen on…sharing you. But we have to follow protocol.”

 

I just shrugged and swallowed the rest of my meal and went off to the nearby creek to start the fucking laundry.

 

That night, during our session, Lazhah was quieter than he had been, but he stared at me with an intense look as I stroked away. The entire thing felt very weirdly intimate and I picked up the pace, wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of there. He shifted a hand and his fingers brushed against my knee; then he quickly closed his hand and pulled it away again, so I was uncertain whether it had been accidental or not.

 

I suspected not.

 

He came a few moments later, and when his hand grabbed my knee during his spams, I knew for certain. I turned enough so his hand fell away (although he still contrived to have it land in such a way that it touched my thigh). After his load had emptied, I whispered a Timeout and got out of there as quickly as my legs could carry me so I wouldn’t have to hear him if he decided to say something.

 

To say I travelled with an air of trepidation throughout the next day is an understatement. I had no appetite, snapped at everyone who tried to talk to me, and almost got dumped by Helen, who complained I was being too rough with her bridle.

 

We arrived at the Imperial camp at around midday and things grew exponentially worse.

 

First of all, one of the first people I saw was my very first master, Oron Pior.

 

You remember him: bought me after I was enslaved because Lydia decided to storm a fortress of bandits all by herself, stuck me in a cage overnight, whipped me and raped me and beat me to the point where I miscarried his child, yet whom I was so devoted to, I named that child after him as I wept over his death.

 

To say I had mixed feelings is an understatement of Biblical proportions. I would like to tell you that seeing him gave me something of a catharsis or inspiration about...I don't know, myself. Or something. I don't know how to explain it - it just felt like it should be some momentous occasion but, of course, he didn't know who I was and I had long ago got over whatever weird Stockholm feelings I had had for him. In this uncomfortable personal stalemate, I alternated between glaring at him and avoiding his eyes but found catharsis in neither.

 

Worse…there were no other female soldiers in camp. Somehow, the five assigned to this particular company were all on patrol at the same time and had been gone for over a week.

 

Needless to say, these assholes were VERY pleased to see me. I tried to get out of the tasks expected of my by telling them I was the Dragonborn, but that got no traction, other than scoffs from the Nords of the company. There was a much bigger reaction when Lazhah attempted to be helpful by telling them I was the Naasektenti, but that had the opposite reaction I was going for. Apparently, word of what went down in Korvanjund had got around and they had heard of me, but instead of bringing an attitude of respect, it seemed to redouble their slavering hunger for me. Did I mention the word means "prostitute devil"? They were well aware of its meaning and seemed to take it quite literally. (Incidentally, this knowledge made the commander of the camp curious as to why we were all the way down there instead of in Solitude, where we had been expected days ago. Lazhah, of all people, came up with the very reasonable sounding excuse that we knew the Stormcloaks were after the crown, so decided to go a way they never would have guessed.)
 

Thus started the longest fucking day of my life. Emphasis on fucking. Well, hand-fucking, anyway.

 

They already had food made, so I didn’t have to try to cook for the entire company, but the pile of laundry was taller than me. I did the absolute most cursory job, just dipping the clothes and scrubbing at the worst-looking stains for a few seconds before moving to the next, but it was still already dark by the time I finished. Which wasn’t a blessing, because they were, of course, all very eager for what (and, more to the point, who) came next.

 

Lane was (I mean it figuratively but, come to think of it, also in a way literally) heaven sent – several of the men chose to worship Dibella instead of waiting their turns for my hurried hand jobs. But she was only one priestess and her job took much longer per person than mine, so I still ended up stroking forty-three cocks that night. It is the only time in my Imperial career that I (very very briefly) considered allowing the use of other parts of my body, just to hurry things along. I certainly had plenty of opportunity for it - every single one of them felt it appropriate to latch his hands onto me and most seemed disappointed I was only handing (ha!) out handjobs; clearly, they had expected full service.

 

To make matters worse, their cots were not situated in a way that gave easy access to two dicks at a time and they didn't seem disposed toward rearranging things for my benefit, so I was forced to go one at a time. The entire ordeal took somewhere in the vicinity of four hours, by my estimation.

 

When it came time for Oren, I kept my eyes turned away, wanting to look at anything but him, which is how I ended up in a staring match with Lazhah, who had once again (oh so graciously!) allowed me to skip him but who stood in the barracks tent and watched me for the first couple hours. I spent my time trying to figure out what the hell his game was, but I was no closer to an answer by the time he left.

 

It was very dark and very quiet by the time my cramped hands and I stumbled out of the tent. I washed up in the river, splashed water on my face, then went to the small tent that had been set aside for me and my little group and woke them all up.

 

“Come on. We’re going.”

“What?” Kellan peered up at me from under a warm and inviting looking fur blanket. I wanted nothing more than to crawl in with him and snuggle into his heat.

 

“We’re leaving. Or I am, anyway. You can stay here if you want.” I grabbed my still-unpacked satchel and strode out, heading for the horses, wavering not a step as I heard muttered curses and the sounds of movement behind me.

 

We were on the road ten minutes later. I huddled in Helen’s saddle, trying not to think about what had happened that day but failing because it was the only fucking thing I could think about.

 

Kellan eventually sidled up to me while yawning, then said, “Are you all right, Little Dragon?”

“Fuck no. That was one of the worst experiences of my life.” I didn’t have to think hard before correcting, “Never mind, it doesn’t even crack the top 50. But Jesus Christ.” A pause, then I tossed him a side glance. “Sorry for dragging you out of bed. I could only picture getting up in the morning only to have them tell me that since it was a new day, I had to do it all again before I could leave.” I shook my head. “I hate this place so much.”

 

Kellan gave me a sympathetic nod, then his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Hopefully not everything about it is bad.”

 

“Well…it is pretty to look at. I’ll give it that.”

 

“That’s everything, is it?”

 

“Doing a little fishing, are we? Fine. Yes, of all the people and things I have come across in this cursed land, I am very glad to have met you. Happy? Did that stroke your ego enough?”

“Well enough, I suppose. Although if it is about stroking, other things could…”

 

“Don’t even say it! You have full access to any other part of me you want, but I’m a little burned out on stroking other things for the time being.”

 

“Lazhah will be glad to hear it.”

 

“Oh, fuck you.”

 

“Yes, that’s what we were just discussing, isn’t it?”

 

Then we both laughed and, for a moment I was able to forget about things and just enjoy being in a man's presence. Which, let me tell you, was becoming harder and harder by the day.

 

This time, pun fucking not intended.

 

 

 

Don’t feed the little bitches. They take it as permission.

 

 

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