The Bedroom Hymns

"Oh, would you get over here already?"

Hadvar grunted when Morag's muscular legs wound their way around his waist and yanked him forward. The woman beneath him grinned, already completely naked herself save for the thin silk shawl she had draped over her shoulders when she surprised him in the barracks, and which now lay teasingly over her breast.

As if in unspoken answer to the equally silent invitation, Hadvar pulled the shawl away and gently caressed the peaking nipple, to the delight of the sighing woman. She smoothed back his long brown hair.

"Good boy," she whispered. Her hold on him remained strong, and he wondered if he would ever get used to his paramour's brute strength. She could easily strangle an ice sabre with those powerful legs, and that was no exaggeration. He had seen her do it.

Hadvar let his head fall into Morag's shoulder and chuckled. He felt her crane her neck to look at him.

"And what could possibly be on your mind now, my handsome warrior?" she wondered. Hadvar resisted the urge to groan when his manhood responded to the sound of her rough, sultry voice, and she tightened her legs in anticipation. He didn't bother trying to reach for his belt buckle; he was trapped in the teasing, iron grip of Morag's hold, and he knew she wouldn't allow it anyway, for she dearly loved to torment him.

"Well?" she pressed. Hadvar grunted.

"I was just thinking about how long we can get away with this," he responded. Morag let her head fall back and she laughed incredulously.

"I hardly think having relations with a fellow legionnaire is grounds for dismissal," she insisted.

Hadvar rested his head upon her ample bosom and smiled up at her.

"It is when one of the legionnaires has severely captured the General's fancy," he said softly.

That lessened Morag's cocky grin somewhat.

"General Tullius is a disgusting old lecher," she spat after a moment of contemplative silence.

"And yet you treat him with higher respect than myself and Rikke combined."

"I have to," she said. Her voice came out a resigned sigh. Hadvar kissed the cleft between her breasts. "Nuisance or not, he is still my superior, an able general and a skilled warrior. He has the best interests of Skyrim at heart, and so long as we agree on that, I see no reason to chide him for his wandering eyes."

Hadvar smiled, for she was so articulate and wise for such a wild, untamable woman.

"Even if he - "

"Enough," Morag demanded. "I did not take my clothes off so we could argue about Tullius and his misguided infatuation."

Hadvar grinned mischievously.

"Oh? Well then, what about Matilde's little fixation with me? I've seen her eyeing me in the courtyard, she looks like she'd be quite a bit of fun...,"

Morag was silent for a long moment. Then the hand that had been smoothing down his hair fisted in it, tugging painfully on the roots, and Hadvar knew he was in for it.

"You're just a glutton for punishment, aren't you, Hadvar?" Morag asked simply.

Hadvar's face burned red with passion at the unquestioned, dangerous authority in her voice. To anyone else, she would have sounded terribly disinterested, but Hadvar knew better. That was jealousy, plain and simple. Hadvar had hit his mark.

On the battlefield, to say that Hadvar was the least submissive soldier in the garrison would be putting it mildly: he was a Nord, a true son of Skyrim, and a deadly warrior. His enemies were no match for him, and with the ecstasy of glory coursing through his veins, the world was at his disposal. But not when he was alone with this woman.

Behind closed doors, Morag had him wrapped around her little finger, as well as other places. It was she who initiated these secret meetings, she who overpowered him with her wicked way. She who held him down and gripped his hair and guided him through his pleasure: she alone could decide when he gave release, when he could touch her. Touch himself. She who had completely dominated and claimed him, body and soul.

She would surely be the death of him. But Hadvar, for all of his virility, was equally sure that he was not terribly concerned about it.

"Well, are you?" Morag demanded, legs tightening in a death grip. Hadvar's manhood was throbbing beneath the thin layer of his trousers, pressed maddeningly against Morag's bare, bountiful spring. He could feel her moistness through the cotton, and despite his torturous arousal he dared not act upon the burning desire to grind against it, for his pleasure when in Morag's presence was a privilege and not a right. She held the reins, he wore the bridle. Sometimes literally.

"I am," he moaned. "I am, I am, please...,"

Morag gave a short, incredulous laugh.

"Is that so?" she purred, running a hand over his face. She possessively grasped his chin and turned his head to look at her. She was radiant, her green eyes burning with passion and the desire to dominate, to possess. Her face was flushed with pleasure, a hot scarlet that mimicked her hair.

"My lady," Hadvar began, his voice quaking. He pressed a kiss to her chest and placed a hand upon her stomach. "My lady, may I...?"

The passion in Morag's eyes was replaced by sternness.

"No, you may not," she clipped, leaving no room for questioning. She smacked his hand away. "We are far from finished here, Hadvar, especially since you seem so eager to be punished."

Oh, was he. With that she released her leg hold, pushed him off, and rolled away, leaving him breathless and flushed. She stood now at the end of the bed, hands on her hips, her legs crossed to conceal the true harbinger of his sweet agony. Despite this, Hadvar could see moisture glistening on her inner thighs through the light of the fireplace, the curly scarlet fur of her flower glossy and damp.

She had produced a hoop of rope during the time it took for Hadvar to catch his breath, and he eyed it with fixed anticipation.

"I want you on your back. Now."

Hadvar did as he was told, stretching his long, muscular body along the length of the bed, keeping his arms outstretched so that she might carry out her intentions. She smiled, pleased with his obedience, and slowly she began to crawl on top of him.

Hadvar's breath quickened when her moist flower rubbed ever so lightly against the lump in his trousers, bit his lip when the pert nipples of her heavy hanging breasts bumped teasingly against his own. He couldn't take it. He shot forward to capture her lips, if only for a short moment, but Morag would have none of it. She pulled back before he could steal a kiss, her hand smacking him in the center of his chest and forcing him back down.

"Hadvar!" she growled. The thunder of her outrage rang out against the stone walls, and the room quaked softly. The threat of her powerful voice was the only warning Hadvar needed, and he relaxed back into the mattress, now completely at her mercy.

Eyes flaming, Morag got to work binding Hadvar's wrists together and securing them to the bed frame just above his head. When she finished, she straddled Hadvar's chest, her womanhood moist and hot against his skin. She held her head arrogantly, arms crossed.

"Now, give it a tug. See if you can't get out of that," she challenged.

Hadvar knew it was useless to try, but didn't want to risk irritating her any further by disobeying. He struggled against the bindings, tugging and twisting, but to no avail. Of course. After all, it hadn't been Hadvar's knots that hauled Melbrigda out of that avalanche last year, now had it?

"Oh, can't do it, can we?" she half whispered. Her smile was deceptively sweet, and she trailed her nails down his torso, stopping just above his belt. Hadvar lifted his hips in desperation.

"Please, please, my lady," he pleaded. "My lady, my warrior! My Dovahkiin! I'm begging you to - "

Morag placed her hand firmly over his mouth, silencing him.

"You're not going to be able to beg your way through this one, boy,"

Her voice rolled like low, sweet thunder. Sliding her hand away, she leaned forward, eyes half-cast with lust, and brushed her lips gently against his. "And when I'm through with you," she continued, voice barely above a whisper, "you won't remember how to talk."

Hadvar shuddered, and with that, Morag slid down his chest and got to work unfastening his belt. She tugged slowly on the leather until it came away with a slap, and the way she examined it excited Hadvar, though it still made him nervous. He wasn't going to make it out of this encounter without a few welts, that was for certain. Not with the way Morag was grinning at him now.

She set the belt aside and focused on the task at hand. She looped her fingers in the belt holes of his pants and gingerly slid them down, revealing the forest of thick, coarse hair that surrounded Hadvar's manhood. She lingered there for a moment, keeping Hadvar writhing in the suspense, and with one fell swoop, they were down and off. Hadvar's leaking erection sprung free, slapping obscenely against his stomach.

"Ah...," Morag mused, admiring the throbbing, leaking member. She rubbed her palm possessively over it, trailing her fingertips in the fluid dotted over Hadvar's stomach.

"Beautiful, Hadvar," she said, and there was genuine love and admiration in her eyes. "Beautiful, always beautiful."

She wrapped her hand around the head and gave a quick tug, inciting a strangled cry from Hadvar.

"And always big where it counts," she finished, releasing him. "Including that mouth of yours."

She reached over the side of the bed and returned with the shawl she had been wearing earlier, holding it deliberately in front of him.

"We're going to need to take care of that," she sang.

Hadvar could only watch as she stretched out the oversized shawl to its full length, ripping and tearing and tying until she had three separate pieces of makeshift silk rope dangling from her hands. The first she used to gag him, forcing it between his lips and tying it into a knot at the back of his head. Hadvar wasn't dim enough to pretend not to know what the other two were for, and at her command he spread his legs as wide as they would go and allowed her to bind him, ankle to thigh.

He was truly submissive now, a vulnerable, whimpering, leaking mess among the bed furs. He wondered idly what their comrades would think if they barged in right now and found them like this, found him like this, but he couldn't bring himself to bother with that thought for more than a moment.

A blissfully pleased look claimed Morag's features at the sight of him, and she leaned forward to press her lips to his forehead.

"Good boy, Hadvar," she commended. "Such a good, good boy...,"

She peppered a trail of adoring kisses over his face, his chest, murmuring similar praises as she made her way down, licking and biting and making Hadvar quiver beneath his binds. When she finally found her way to his cock, the twitching and desperate thing, she gave Hadvar one last, dark look before running her tongue over the head.

It was all Hadvar could do not to spring off the bed, his frantic whimpers muffled beneath the gag, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as Morag slid her lips down. He felt her skilled fingers wrap around the base of his cock, pumping it into her mouth. He sighed, watching her head bob hypnotically, hands moving with the rhythm. He always had a vague idea of just how Morag had learned to do this so well, but he halted that train of thought as the jealousy pooled into his gut, making his stomach churn with the mingling of anxiety and pleasure.

Because Morag was his now, wasn't she? Or rather, he was hers. No matter who was in control, who wore the bit, this was how things were supposed to be: ropes, blazing fireplace, bolted door, just the two of them rolling about the furs, Morag's mouth stretched around him. Only him.

Morag's soft moaning brought him back to attention, the head of his manhood bumping the back of her throat. He felt her flutter around him, lips enclosing him all the way to the hilt, and where had her hands gone?

He had barely enough time to wonder when he felt it, the familiar, uncomfortable pressure against the opening in his backside. Morag's fingers pressed into him, slowly, swirling around and massaging the inner canal, exploring him. Searching for that spot. Hadvar groaned, his thighs hitching up against his chest, opening for her.

Morag let Hadvar slide out of her mouth with an obscene pop, the saliva slick organ slapping wetly against the crease of his thigh. Her lips were swollen and red from sucking him, her eyes smoldering with want. Her fingers continued to dance inside of him, scissoring, rubbing away at his sensitive spot. Seeing the fevered, desperate look in her lover's eyes because of the things she was doing to him was sending her over the edge, and Hadvar knew it. But she wasn't through, not yet.

Then, without warning, Morag pulled out of him and slapped him with the belt.

He cried out, the stinging across his chest sweet and painful, and Morag brought the belt down again, this time over his rear. The room rang with the sounds of cracking and Hadvar's smothered shouts, and by the time she finished, Hadvar's chest was ridged with welts, his nipples peaked and swollen, his backside blistered and red.

Morag sat back to take in the sight of him, bound and vulnerable and sore, all because of her. Her eyes were dark, sweat beading along her brow.

"Hadvar," she said, running her hands over his reddened chest. "Have you learned your lesson?"

Hadvar nodded vigorously, and Morag smiled softly for a moment, then her face straightened into a stern visage.

"You want to be punished, you need only ask," she said. "But I'll always be the one to dole it out, do you understand? No other man or woman will ever be able to make you feel this way, be able to give you what you need. No one else. Only me."

He nodded again. The stern look did not fade from Morag's face.

"And just so we're clear about who is in charge here...,"

Morag lifted herself off of him then, disappearing somewhere into the shadows of the room. He heard her shuffling about, moving things, and when she returned he saw that she had donned the bearskin tribal headdress that she had taken from Ulfric Stormcloak's burly assistant after she had slain them both. It was what she wore on the occasions in which she felt her authority needed to be recognized, a tradition practiced by the tribe she hailed from. In her hands she held a curved black stone, grooved and rounded at the tip.

Hadvar knew he was a dead man.

The Dovahkiin made her way towards him without a word, wearing a determined expression. She knelt before him on the bed, thighs spread apart. Her nipples had tightened in the cooling air, and Hadvar was taken aback at how sincere she appeared at this moment: a true barbarian, tattooed, scarred, nude, and fierce. His heart and cock swelled for this wild, dominant woman, always beautiful, untamable, always so true to herself.

Hadvar let his gaze flicker to the object in her hands, and he needed no further instruction. With a submissive whimper, he lifted his bound legs as far as they could go, offering himself in entirety to the fierce, powerful creature before him. Morag, the warrior woman who owned him, and would make damn sure with every breath and inch of him she took that he knew that.

Morag held the stone to her lips, her tongue darting out to coat the tip in saliva. Brought her lips down upon it, closed her eyes and moaned quietly. Jealousy flared in Hadvar at being upstaged by a six inch bit of earth, but he fought it back with a shake of his head. The absurdity. Morag was putting him through the wringer.

He had just enough time to draw in a breath when he felt the coolness of the stone's grooved tip pressing against his opening, slick from Morag's mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut, and let his head fall back as she pushed it in further, taking her time. It felt much bigger than it was, much longer than it was; the cock of a cruel Daedric prince having its way with him, trying to split him open and apart. Tears beaded along the corners of his eyes. He knew it had reached the hilt when he felt the brush of Morag's knuckles against his rosebud, and then they were gone, leaving the stone in its place inside of him.

It was pain, it was bliss, having something secured six inches within him, stretching him out for his lady, his Dovahkiin. She knelt before him still, her eyes glinting with satisfaction, though her face was otherwise unreadable. His cock twitched, dribbling pre-ejaculate over his toned abdomen. He moaned, pleading. For release, for mercy. For Morag.

The Dovahkiin leaned over him, hands on either side of his head. She stared out at him through the snarling bear's mouth.

"You want to come," she said. It was not a question, nor a suggestion. Merely an observation. Hadvar nodded vigorously, a tear escaping his eye. Morag wiped the tear away without a word, brushing it with a fingertip. She brought it to her lips and licked it away. His eyes lingered on her tongue, long, wet and pink, and he wondered frantically if he would ever be able to come again. His member was massive now, red and swollen and leaking. He needed it.

He whimpered desperately and Morag's eyes fell to the swollen organ for a moment, said nothing, letting Hadvar make of it what he would. She had a hand on his chest now, gentle, and she kept eye contact with him as she slid down his body, the bear skin coarse where it scraped against his own sensitive, flaming skin.

Morag gripped the stone and slid it out an inch or two, then pressed it back in. Did it again, and again, and again, curving it, twisting it. Hadvar's toes curled, and his cock twitched with pleasure. Morag grabbed the pulsing organ then, the other hand continuing to pleasure him with the stone. She tugged once, twice, pumping her hand in time with the stone that was moving within him. He cried out when she brushed her thumb over the leaking head, whenever the stone scraped against that spot.

Morag worked her magic faster and faster, until Hadvar was reduced to a writhing, sobbing mess on the bed furs. His body shone under a film of sweat, his face flushed with his pleasure. He craned his neck to find Morag's eyes, and she looked up at him with an expression that confirmed her assent. With one final thrust, one last tug, Hadvar came with a shout, white hot jets bursting out of him. She kept her eyes on him, massaging the pulsing member until the shocks faded, until there was nothing left for him to give.

Morag released him and licked the fluid from her fingertips, taking him inside of her, keeping her gaze locked with his. Hadvar panted, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. He needed to be out of these binds, needed to touch her if she would allow it. Needed it, needed Morag.

Morag recognized the look in his eyes and reached over him to the table by the bed, returning with a small dagger. The silk and ropes fell away and his limbs with them, weak and heavy. He lay splayed out on the mattress, very spent, and yet very satisfied. Breathing heavily, he lifted his arm to beckon his lady over, and she complied, kneeling beside him. Hadvar let his hand rest gently upon her face, ran his thumb over the jagged scar on her cheek. Morag placed her hand over his, adoration briefly visible in her eyes.

He knew what she needed.

"You need only say the word, my lady," Hadvar whispered, his voice gravelly and brimming with love.

Morag closed her eyes and pressed a kiss to the hand he held to her face.

"Touch me," she breathed.

Hadvar's arms wound around her and he kissed her deeply, passionately, rolling her over onto her back. He felt her hands grip in his hair and her tongue pressing into his mouth before he untangled himself from her embrace to kiss her breasts, peppering them down her stomach, bending his head to give her what she wanted. What she needed.

He opened his mouth to her bountiful spring, relishing in the sweet taste of her, the velvety lips soft where they pressed against his tongue. He ran a hand over Morag as he drank from her, caressing the large breasts, the taut abdomen, the shapely hips. The hand that was not exploring her, mapping and claiming and loving, thumbed at her sensitive bead. Her legs quivered where they rested upon his shoulders, her hands grasped at his hair. She rolled her hips and moaned, throwing her head back. Hadvar closed his mouth over her jewel then, sucking and tonguing on the precious bead until Morag came, crying out in the dragon's tongue.

Hadvar was thrown backward and the walls trembled from the force of her powerful voice. The fire in the hearth died away, ash scattering about the floor. A table in the corner collapsed into pieces, and dust rained from the ceiling.

The deadly song ceased as abruptly as it had begun, but Hadvar could still hear it ringing in his ears, tingling against his skin. He knew Morag could, too, though much more intimately so. He reached out to touch her in the darkness and felt her hand move to cover his. Her skin felt warmer than it had even in the midst of their games and lovemaking, glowing perhaps from post-coital bliss and the humming remnants of power the shout left behind. He heard her sigh, muttering something underneath her breath, and a burst of flame shot past him in the dark.

The fire in the hearth reignited, blazing higher and brighter than it had without magicka. Hadvar turned to face his lover, smiling blissfully in the light. He pushed at the bear skin so that it slid off of her head, smoothed away strands of scarlet hair that had become trapped in the sweat drying on her forehead.

"You're lucky I didn't blast you apart," she said, running her fingertips down the back of his hand. Hadvar chuckled.

"I'm sure there are several other ways you can make that happen," he replied. He winced at the pain in his backside; his limp and avoidance of chairs was going to be a riot to explain away over the course of the next few days, at least for Morag. She got a kick out of Hadvar being visibly sore in public.

"I know it hurts," Morag said with a knowing glance at his blistered backside. "But I can't say I'm sorry for it. You need to know, they need to know, that you are mine." She gripped his shoulders roughly and looked him square in the eyes, saying nothing else. They stayed like that for a while, gazing at one another, until Morag's fatigue won her over and she curled into Hadvar's arms.

The soldier tucked his lady love away beneath the bed furs, careful to keep her covered lest someone come barging in and mistake her state of undress as an open invitation. Hadvar seethed with rage at the thought of anyone else laying eyes upon her, making any attempt to defile her. He vowed that he would never allow it to happen.

Hadvar knew there would never be anyone else for him, for there were few creatures in this world that possessed the bravery, the articulacy, the power that made Morag the person she was. Morag, the Dragonborn, the warrior woman who had stopped at nothing in order to have him, who reached out and took what she wanted without hesitance. The woman who gave him what he needed every day of his life.

The woman who loved him.

Hadvar looked at himself, touched the bruises the ropes had left on his wrists, the welts from the belt, the tingles left behind by Morag's kisses. As she had intended, it occurred to him just how deeply he belonged to her; that each mark she made was merely her own creative way of expressing to Hadvar that she cared for him, perhaps more than he would ever know.

He dressed himself and made his way over to the sleeping woman, his love, so deceptively small and innocent where she lay buried beneath the covers. He bumped his nose against hers and smiled.

"Morag, Morag, the dragon girl...," he sang softly, touching her face. "Hearken to the night and let your wings unfurl/Fly with glory to higher planes/And may the spirit of the dragon flow ever through your veins."

Morag is a bad ass.