Maia strode down the dank halls of the prison, the musty smell of human fluids and fear apparently not fazing her. She ignored the jeers and catcalls of men who probably hadn't seen a women in at least a year. None of it bothered her as much as it might have, because this dungeon was underground. She was home. The guard escorting her was a tall and skinny one, and she wondered how he ended up here. A poor boy, looking to escape the poverty of his village, perhaps? Or maybe a rich boy, on punishment for breaking some of his commanders rules?
They curved deep into the back tunnels and kept walking. Of course it would be Maia's luck that she needed the most dangerous criminal in all of Mardeggon to help her. As they continued, the number of men to a cell lessened, and the scent of their threatening presence was almost palpable. These were dark men. They didn't call out to her, didn't bother to make much noise. But they sat in the backs of their tiny cells, eyes glittering in the dark, watching and waiting for the right moment to escape and release their demonic selves upon the good people of the earth. Maia shivered. She did this to herself, really. Too many story scrolls.
At last, in the farthest cell in the back, on the right side, the guard stopped her. "Just ring if you need any assistance, mi'lady," the guard said politely. Then he leaned closer. "Be careful. Do not allow him to trick you."
Maia nodded, appreciating the effort. He obviously didn't know who she was. He straightened up and continued on his way, lanky arms swinging a bit, and she decided he was the former option, the poor boy. She would have to put in a good word for him before she left.
She turned to the man in the cell, who was still huddled in the cell, still as the dead. "Mr. Mangar? Chale Mangar?"
He didn't stir.
"I have a proposition for you, one that will guarantee your freedom."
Still nothing.
Maia was quickly tiring of this game. "Fine," she said lightly, her frustration still showing, "Since you feel I have nothing useful to offer you, I shall be on my way-"
"It's been a long time," a gravelly voice that was probably once like smooth creme echoed throughout the corridor, and Maia startled for a moment before she realized that it was coming from the man. "You'll have to forgive me. I haven't had a visitor in a very long time. And a woman, at that."
With use, the voice became much more refined, just as Maia had predicted. It had a cultured kind of accent to it, but retained a coarse quality and combined with the way it flowed, it sounded like the blood of the thousands this man had killed- fluid and dark. It crawled across Maia's skin. She resisted the urge to rub at the gooseflesh that had appeared with his prolonged speaking. Watching the dark form huddled in the corner very intently, she repeated, "I have a proposition for you, Mr. Mangar."
"Please," he said, and Maia noticed that the shape was beginning to move. "Just Chale. Mr. Mangar is my father." Chale had this lilt to his voice, like he was permanently mocking whomever he was speaking to. She concentrated on his rising form, leaning forward until the bars of his cell nearly touched her forehead.
"What is it you have to offer me, hmm?" he drawled.
Strange that, Maia thought to herself, how the sound didn't seem to be coming from him at all. In fact, it sounded as if he was right next to her-
Maia snapped out of reach just in time; the bony hand that had sought her out in a flash was a mere inch short of her neck. Her heart nearly jumped out of her throat, and she glanced back to the huddled form. It was still there, a decoy. And gods above, the man was faster than lightning. Her pulsed seemed to have skyrocketed in too short a span of time, but she forced herself to retain her composure. Maia slapped at Chale's large, pale hand, and it slithered back into the darkness.
Maia struggled to keep her voice steady as she reprimanded him. "Now, is that any way to treat your savior, Mr. Mangar?"
He chuckled in return. "I am not a fool, Lady Spitfire. And it would seem that you hold more intelligence than the general populace. You want something from me, and assume that I will give it in return for my freedom. That is how these things work. But let us suppose, for a moment, that I want more than my freedom." And for the first time, as he stepped into a slant of light, Maia saw Chale Mangar's bright blue eyes, like cyclical bolts of lightning, shining at her through the blackness of their surroundings.
"You cannot release me this instant, as we both know. What will you do if I require immediate gratification that you cannot provide?"
Maia was silent. She had not thought of that. A prisoner who had been locked up, beaten, tortured for five years should have been as forthcoming as he would to the great mother goddess, not trying to reason against her.
"Ahhh," he crooned into the space between them that was considerably smaller than when Maia had arrived. "You thought the promise of my freedom would have me weeping at your feet in gratitude as if you were Olta herself. Think again, Spitfire."
Maia clenched her jaw in frustration, at the way he trumped her again and again. She prided herself on being particularly clever, and especially so for a woman. How could this lowly, dirty criminal outwit her like that?
"What do you want?" she inquired tersely, jaw barely moving as she spit the question between her lips.
"That's more like it." There was that melodious mocking again. "What do you suppose a man who has been rotting in a dungeon for years would want, at this very moment?"
It seemed a genuine question, but Maia knew there was a right answer to it. She put herself in his place. If she were lowered to the status of not even being recognized as a human, with her basic needs rejected, what would she desire most?
She sighed, humoring him. "A bath?"
He chuckled, arrogantly. "Think again."
"Warm food," she tried.
"No," was his flat reply. "You're not thinking like a man, Spitfire."
After a beat, the thought dawned on her. "What, you want me to find you a whore!" she cried, accidentally raising her voice so loud that it echoed. Someone down the way chuckled, and Maia blushed furiously. She lowered her voice, cringing. "You want me to find a woman, and bring her back to this... place?"
"Actually," Chale's voice purred, "I wasn't thinking you had to go searching, anywhere."
It took a moment for his implication to hit her, and then another for her to shoot out the appropriate words. "A-Absolutely not, Mr. Mangar!"
She was shouting again. She hated doing that. It made her sound like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. She forced her voice to soften. "I am not going to-to share your bed, ever. Not here, not anywhere else, and definitely not now. Never," she said vehemently, trying to force all of the stiff anger she could into that one word.
Chale had expected as much. "Very well, then. A kiss."
"N-" Maia stopped to think. That could be acceptable. She had actually done it before. It couldn't hurt. And if it got him to cooperate- because he certainly wasn't doing it now- then it was a reasonable request. Because she needed this man's help, so very desperately. It was a good thing he didn't know how far she was willing to go, that, for a moment, she had considered giving herself to him right then and there. She could do this.
Chale snorted impatiently, a surprising mixture of elegance and exquisite rudeness.
"Shut up," Maia snapped, simply so she could feel in control once more. "I'll do it, all right? I'll kiss you. But these bars are in the way. You'll have to come closer."
Maia's heart beat in anticipation. He couldn't be too ugly or repulsive, could he? Surely she had kissed worse, her days as a bar maid never forgotten.
Her breathing almost ceased as Chale stepped forward, revealing himself to the dim light of a single torch. He looked feral, less man and more beast with his wild ashen-auburn hair and his blue eyes as bright as stars against the dark night sky. If anything, his hair highlighted the intensity of his eyes, drawing Maia in. He was scruffy and dirty, his beard unkempt, but he kept this air of elegance about his person.
He was so beautiful, she thought, so exotic, even fragile-looking, yet strong and robust. She felt him shuffle in the earth, and realized that he was impatiently waiting for her to draw closer.
"Have your fill of the dirty convict, yet?" he asked bitingly. But the comment simply belied his discomfort underneath her scrutiny. Maia snapped out of her trance, not at all in a rush to kiss him, even when he had revealed his beauty to her.
"Just one kiss," she informed him as she stepped closer.
"Just one kiss," he assured her, unconsciously licking his lips. She was standing before him, just out of reach.
Maia stood there, trying to build up her resolve. Kiss him, kiss him, she urged herself. And then, very suddenly, she pressed herself against the bars, stood on the tips of her toes, and mashed her lips into his. They both grunted a little at the impact, and when Chale began to kiss Maia, she shut her eyes closed, tight. His lips were cold.
He groaned against her mouth, and couldn't help but reach out to touch her. To grasp her hip and run a hand down the curve of her side. Gods above, it had been too long, much too long, since he'd had a woman. He could feel his pants tightening simply because of her immense warmth, the intoxicating scent of some earthy mix floating up to meet him nearly causing him to faint. It was sensory overload after these long years, but he still hungered for more. He wanted to touch her, to taste her.
And despite his promising just one kiss, after he paused a moment to let her breathe, he was on her again, mouth pressing against hers as if she was the oxygen he required to survive.
Oh gods, she felt so, so good. He touched her, cupping her warm, sizable breast in one hand, the buttocks in the other. He gave them both a few good squeezes, and she gasped against him, as if coming back to herself. Her hands, which had been clutching his raggedy shirt, balled into angry fists and began to push against him. But he wasn't finished. He grasped her hips, desperate to just taste her, and he groaned at the prospect, his tongue surging forward to claim her mouth. It was hot, and moist, and everything he'd been missing for so long. She tasted of something sweet and earthy he had no name for. Was it rich tea? He sucked on her lip, and nipped at it, dying to find out.
Maia yelped at the invasion, and pushed him away with much more strength than he thought she would have possessed. She was huffing, looking up at him with all the fury of a warrioress, lips parted, and gods, they were plump. Chale's pants were so tight that he thought it best the bars were separating them. He had never thought himself one to force a woman, but if he could get his hands on her in that moment...
Chale exhaled, retreating into the darkness to calm himself. He told himself that it was embarrassing to have reacted that way, and that he was lucky if Spitfire didn't call the guards to hang him that instant. He told himself he needed to play smart in order for this to work out to the best of advantages for him. And most of all, he did NOT think of the many different ways he would like to take the girl's innocence, regardless of where they were. That he wouldn't mind taking her in his tiny cell on the infested pile of hay they called a mat. Nor in a small hut, an alley, gods, in the King's palace, right where all the decent nobles could see. As long as he could have her warm, pliant body up against his and take in that mysterious taste of... whatever it was. Taste all of her, devour her until he was satisfied. Oh gods. He had never wanted a woman so badly. His pants were even tighter, he throbbed for her to the point of aching. Chale moaned.
"Leave," he rasped.
He saw her head snap up from looking at her shuffling feet, and she stepped closer, grasping the bars. "What? You said you would help me if I kissed you. You promised!"
"And I shall, girl. I shant break my word. Leave now. Return in a few minutes if you must, be so help me, if you do not leave this instant..."
She was silent for a moment. She seemed to make a decision within her mind and took a step back. "Very well. I shall return in one hour to collect you."
"Very well."
She paused another moment before walking off, apparently not requiring the guard to escort her back. Chale breathed a sigh of relief once her heard her footfalls disappear, and reached into his pants to sate his raging lust.
Maia did not leave. She wanted to know what this clever prisoner was up to, and making him believe she'd gone took a simple muffle of the footsteps. That was training year kind of mediating.
She leaned back against the wall in the shadows of a damp corner and watched as Chale lowered himself gingerly to the floor. He was breathing, so heavily, she thought, as if angered or... Aroused. The thought occurred to her just as he reached a hand into his pants, pushing them down low on his hips. Maia's breath caught. What was he doing?
Chale released his stiff desire from his pants and lightly laid a hand on it. Maia watched in fascination as he wrapped his hands around himself and began to slowly pump, his groans echoing slightly off of the lifeless stone walls. She was suddenly all-too-aware of what was going on. She'd just never... Seen it? Heard it? Felt a response? Maia quickly scratched the last addition off of her list and continued to watch in rapture, trying to take everything in with a burning curiosity.
Chale's eyes were closed, his lips parted, his brow furrowed. And his hand movements were so practiced and careful. Maia would have figured he'd be the rough kind of lover, the aggressive kind that the nasty palace guards were. But he seemed to take much care toward his lover... well he would if he had one. She continued to watch in rapture as Chale sped up, making a bit of a twist motion and, at one point, stopping to spit into his palms and continue rubbing himself.
His groans were so deep. They came out of somewhere from deep within his chest, animalistic and yet, manly. Growls, really. Maia felt her belly flutter in response, her pulse race. What was happening to her? Just then, as Chale tightened his grip and pulled faster, instead of moaning, a name escaped his lips. "Spitfire."
Maia gasped, and a hand flew to her mouth to muffle it. Too late. Chale froze, eyes popping open, and then so did she. Her heart was pounding in her chest as if it wanted out.
"Who's there?" Chale rasped.
Maia stood frozen in place, unable to move her feet even if she wanted, blood pounding hard in her ears. She didn't know whether to say something and reveal her presence, or remain unseen. So she did nothing.
Chale looked to be watching for any movement whatsoever, his lust forgotten for the moment. Then, after a beat, he allowed his eyes to slide closed again, stroked himself, and inhaled deeply. Maia's cheeks flushed with... something.
"Girl," Chale said in his gravelly voice, and the way he said it, Maia knew that he was beckoning her specifically. He knew she was there. "Come here."
It was as if Chale, and not Maia, had control of her feet, as she looked down and saw them leading her right up to his prison bars. She stopped when her toes hit, her heavy breath breezing through the bars with each heave.
Chale rose and stepped over to Maia, just as close to escaping as she was to entering. His nostrils flared. "I told you to leave," he said harshly.
Maia looked down at her feet like a schoolgirl being reprimanded, her gaze catching on his desire for only a moment. "I know."
"And you chose to stay anyway."
"Yes," she returned even softer.
"You do know what they say happens to naughty, curious, disobedient little girls, don't you?" Chale's voice had more sensuous heat in it than the Trakka himself had in all of the Deep.
Maia's one word nearly caught in her throat. "What?"
"They get punished." Chale's hands reached out in that lightning fast grasp and closed around Maia's. "Touch me," he whispered roughly. It was more of a command than it was a plea, but either way, Maia found she could not move again.
"I-I can't. I've never... I don't how..."
Chale hushed her and guided her hands, through the iron bars, to his desire, trying to quell the moan that ripped through his throat. He brought her hands up to close around him and stroke. "Yessss, just like that Spitfire... Mhm. Harder."
Maia shuffled closer and marvelled at the way it responded to her, swelling and hardening in her hand. It was so hot. She was almost afraid to hurt him, but Chale just urged her on. "Harder... Faster. Oh - Spitfire, you feel so, so, so, good. Yes, faster! More."
His hands twitched at his sides, and he pressed his body against the coldness of bars, his hands came up to grip them. Yet he didn't close his eyes. He continued to stare down Maia as she worked him, taking in her expression of innocence and awe, using to to further his lust. And his eyes were dark with it. She felt transfixed by the beast of shadows and light, how he captivated her even as she drew out his pleasure. His chest was heaving.
Maia was unsure of what was going to happen, but she naturally sensed that something, well, explosive was about to occur. Chale seemed to be nearing some kind of end, some conclusion that he just hadn't reach-
A growl rumbled through Chale's chest, his hands gripped the bars of his cell so hard his knuckles turned white. And he spilled into Maia's hand. She released him, looking down at the mess. Her hands had this wet, sort of slimey stringy substance on them that was quickly cooling. Large hands closed around Maia's wrists, and she let them guide her hands until she realized that: those were Chale's hands, and they were bringing her hands up to her face.
"Eat it," he commanded gruffly.
Maia's gaze swung up from Chale's essence to his very lusty-yet-satisfied expression, and she looked at him in disbelief. "You want me to what?"
"Eat it. Lick it off of your hands. Swallow it down."
"No." Maia didn't know why, but she was fixedly opposed to eating Chale's emissions. Could she get pregnant from that? "I-I don't want to."
Chale's eyes seemed to dance with some kind of triumph. "Very well, then," he pronounced crisply and devilishy. "I will do it."
And before Maia even had to chance to pull away, Chale brought her hands up to his mouth and began to suck her index finger. She didn't even protest as his scorching lips closed over her fingertip and slowly suctioned down past her knuckles to the base of her digit. His tongue swirled torturously around it, and then Chale pulled away, bringing every drop of moisture that he could with him, and swallowed it. His Adam's apple bobbed.
Maia watched the entire process as if transfixed by it, and by the time Chale moved on to the next finger, she was practically drooling. He did the same again with her thumb- she watched, mesmerized, as his cheeks hollowed- ring finger, and pinkie, which he nibbled on. And when he was done with those, he licked her palms clean as well. And all the while, his pale blue eyes burned into Maia's dark ones.
"Would you like me to finish?" came his cultured inquiry.
Maia looked up, startled, because she'd forgotten where she was and who this was. The rest had ceased to matter. In those moments, it had only been Chale and herself.
She shouldn't want this. She should tell him no, maybe slap him for dramatic effect, and storm out of there. But even as she made up her mind that, no, she didn't want anything to do with Chale Mangar, the breathless, pleading words slipped out. "Yes, please."
Chale smirked. Maia didn't think he was even capable of a genuine smile. "I shall do... whatever you require of me, Spitfire."
"Maia. My name is Maia Anyxamum."
Chale inhaled deeply. "Daughter of Weiss," he said. It wasn't a question. Chale had known her father. How old was he? "I see. You have the most exotic taste, Maia. I can't place it, though I should like to try."
Maia found she could comfortably revert back to her old barmaid days of flirtaciousness. "Is that your way of asking for another kiss, ?"
"Only if that is your way of acquiescing to my request."
Maia said nothing.
They locked gazes, engaging in a kind of burning staring match of dominance to see who would submit to the other first. It was Maia. She looked down at her feet, crumbling beneath Chale's intense, blue-eyed gaze. To the ground, she whispered, "I still have one messy hand, Mr. Mangar."
He reached out, and his sinewy hand swallowed her wrist once more. "Indeed you do, my lady."