Lucky
K Peterson
Rated M for strong sexual content. This has some seriously hardcore moments. I'm not kidding. You may be offended. This a story about an evil character, and she's every bit what she seems. There is S/M, violence, rape, and more. If this offends you, this probably is too strong of a story for you. Thanks, and enjoy. Be warned- there's some crudity in the use of language.
1.
Yeah, I like men. You could say that they're the reason I get up in the morning. Call me what you want. I don't waste much of the night sleeping. There's always one image following the next in my mind in a series that drives me to hunt again. On my knees, with his hand roughly gripping the back of my hair while he stares down at me with that look of "I own you". From the second I'm standing at the washbasin making myself presentable, I'm thinking about the next time I'm going to reach out and taste and touch what I want. I comb my hair, as black as the worst of the sins I've committed. And, five minutes after I've crawled out of this bed at the inn, I'm already thinking of the ranger.
It's his mouth that gets me the most. Men like him really shouldn't shave clean. It makes his lips look so much more ripe from tongue-play. His tongue never ceases to taste of mead. That's alright with me. I like them with vices. The one I'm going to have again tonight has scrape marks on his knees from how rough he needs to have it when I'm bent over the side of a chair.
I don't feel hollow, or ache with self-loathing. I simply love the rush and the sweat and the savagery of the act. I can't get enough of that look of need. It's the sound of that deep male groan that I don't want to shake from my mind with current events or any of the other drivel that the inn's clients spew forth. They see me come down the stairs, snickering and ribbing each other until my withering glare quiets them. I swagger to the bar. My daggers hang clearly from the back of my belt.
"Hey now, Triana, pay up if you want another week of bliss. And make it a gold, since you can't seem to keep the noise down." The innkeeper, whom I respect for his scars and his biceps, holds out his hand. I regard him with all seriousness. Do I have enough to get through another week or so, or do I have to move on?
During this meaningful exchange, I've neglected to notice that someone familiar has come up from beside me. Doesn't he smell divine. And he's got coin.
The innkeeper shakes his head as if disappointed. Bishop has placed a gold coin into his palm.
"You'd best watch that, friend," he warns, pocketing the gold. "The lady here doesn't like to be paid for her favors."
"I know what she likes." His tone indicates that his had better be the final word on the matter. And maybe it's the angle of his head or the obvious tattoo on his neck, but the innkeeper backs down. He takes a sudden interest in the furious cleaning of the glassware behind the bar as I turn to drink Bishop up with my eyes.
"Well, if it isn't our little addict, pining away all alone. I should take it as an insult to my pride that you've managed to drag yourself downstairs this morning." He motions for a drink, flashing silver. Clearly he's been doing well for himself lately. Something about some hero rising up from the swamplands and taking him on as a scout. Whatever it is, it's working for him.
He wears new leathers with studs that shine, and on his back is a bow that has teeth of its own. Part of me wonders whether the haze of lust that has taken him of late has anything to do with the dark-haired woman from the swamplands, and, if it does, I can't find fault with her. He can fantasize about her from afar for as long as he likes as long as it ends with the both of us soaked in each other's sweat beating the bed up against the wall. I want to possessively take hold of his head and suck at his lips, which I've been imagining all morning. Instead, I watch him intently as he sits and throws back his drink with that same lusty demeanor.
There is something tiring about keeping an inn room for your quarters. But the local Thieves' Guild doesn't know me, and won't, if I have my way. Knowledge of my actions could, of course, result in my death, but I am more than willing to take that risk when I consider handing over a portion of my earnings to Axle Devrie. It isn't going to happen in this lifetime. Then there is the sweet anticipation of fulfilling another contract, all the while wondering if some stranger is going to be breathing down my neck when I walk down the next alleyway. It's really all about the anticipation.
And so I continue to take my chances. I like what I do.
"As much as I hate to disappoint you," Bishop chuckles, stopping my hand short on his thigh, "I'm here for business. Not that your talents aren't appreciated. It's hard to forget such a... sweet little mouth." He has reached up one hand to take hold of my hair like a prize horse he's considering. It sends a thrill through me as I savor the tight clutch of his fingers.
"You're lucky it's dark in here," I tell him.
"Not so lucky, I think. But there will be time for that."
My hand eases higher to cup his groin. Expertly, he camouflages the motion with his cloak and the position of his legs. But he's enjoying it as much as I am. I work two fingers downward in the way that I know will stir him. His lips quirk to the side in half-amusement.
"Subtlety is not one of your strong suits. Try to remember that, if I wanted, I could have you on your knees in seconds."
And kill me, or fuck me, I think to myself. And I've identified that strangeness that lingers about him as a thin veneer of terror that at any moment he could end my life. It is his physical strength, his power, his feral passion and unpredictability that drives my need to take him to my bed. But I keep my knives close to me. I like my blood within my veins.
"Business," I sigh. "Someone take your honor in a brawl?"
"Honor!" Bishop scoffs. "I hadn't heard any good jests today. No, not quite honor." As he lets go of the handful of my hair, I can feel the sting of one of his bites burning on the back of my shoulder. The memory of the moment when I received it is like liquid pleasure tickling high up inside of me. I find myself looking at him with undisguised lust in my expression, and am happy to find in the stairwell to my room that he reciprocates the notion. I'm already basking in the fantasy of taking these blades and spilling blood when I know that it will put cool gold into my hands.
"Just give me a name."
The two of us work our way up the stairwell with hands, arms, and mouths working all over each other's bodies. I don't see any reason to resist stopping inside the doorway to my room to toss aside my dagger belt, strip down his pants and take him between my lips. He doesn't stop me. I can't believe how hard he's gotten this quickly. Now, once again, the moment is the pinnacle of everything that I want and need. I wonder, feeling him bucking wildly deep inside of my throat, if he finds it hard to stand when I'm working him well with my lips and hands. And, thankfully, he isn't tender. He is forceful, as if filled with some unseen urge that cannot be satisfied. When his thrusts become more hurried, I tighten my mouth around him. I can feel the flutter of uncontrollable release that is freed with his deep, guttural cry. He goes down to his knees while I slow my attentions, finishing him, drinking down his seed. Then I turn my back to him, picking up the gold he's brought me for the contract ahead.
Behind me, he staggers for a moment before his strength starts returning. He ties his pants and half sits, half reclines back on the bed.
This is where you say something cruel, I think to myself. Go ahead, if you must. It's wasted on me.
And he does. "How fortunate for me to get the lips instead of the daggers. I always knew I was a lucky man."
"Whose throat am I cutting, Bishop?" I pick up each of the daggers from the floor where I've dropped them. One has a shine I always admire.
"How about a paladin?"
"Ohh," I sigh with great relish. "That'll really cost you. Shaking my fist in the face of the gods and all that."