Tusk Love
By Ategar Lightshroud
Chapter 4
As Ekisha had promised, the emerald token got Guinevere and her father a room at the Waiting Dove completely free of charge. Grerkor also got an entire bottle of mead, which he claimed he needed to cope with the surprises of the day. In no time, that bottle was empty and cradled in Grerkor's arms as he snored out drool onto his pillow.
Fortunately, Guinevere had become so accustomed to her father's snoring that it was almost like a lullaby to her. She drifted off to sleep in no time and didn't wake until the first morning light. Her father was still asleep as she slipped out of her room and down the hall to the wash room of The Waiting Dove. There was fresh, hot water in the water basin the melted away the soreness of a heavy sleep. The soothing oil felt so good as they soaked her hair and seeped into her skin. It may not have been luxurious, but it was more treatment than she ever got on the road. She was so comfortable that she didn't want to get out. Eventually, the water turned cold, and the comfort was gone. She begrudgingly stepped out of the basin, dried off, and slipped into her undergarments.
Suddenly, the door burst open. Looking over her shoulder, Guinevere saw Oskar covered with sweat, breathing heavily. His ice eyes roamed over her moist body hungrily. Guinevere could've sworn she saw a tongue dart out to wet his lips. The look he gave her both frightened and intrigued her; her head was saying to run but her heart willed her to stay in place.
Slamming the door behind him, Oskar sauntered into the room and roughly wrapped his bulging arms around her petite body. How his large muscles fit perfectly around her curves, Guinevere would never know. He lifted her a foot off the ground as he tightened his grip to just before the point of crushing her. A callused hand crawled its way up her body before the fingers tangled in her hair and gently pulled, tipping her head back. His hot breath against her neck made her go limp in his arms while his grazing tusks made her shiver. That tongue darted out of his lips to taste, her soft milky flesh. Was the steam from the bath making Guinevere's vision hazy? Or was it these incredible, new sensations? It felt like her body was on fire, but she still wasn't warm enough. She craved more heat—his heat.
Guinevere's eyes fluttered as she lulled her head. Had Oskar been stark naked this whole time? Guinevere thought she would've noticed—it would be impossible not to notice that throbbing, veiny beast between his legs. The sight made the fear in Guinevere's head start to become louder than the desire in her heart. She had never seen an indecent man, let alone been with one in a conjugal way. This was all so new to her and things were moving far too quickly.
At that moment, the sound of breaking glass startled Guinevere. She sat up in a steaming sweat. It took her a moment to realize she was still in bed and it was the middle of the night. Guinevere sighed—whether it was in relief or disappointment, even she couldn't tell. Looking over, she found that her father was still drunk and fast asleep. The crashing sound had come from his empty bottle of mead, which had rolled off the bed when he tossed. Guinevere knew that she should pick up the glass shards to save her father's bare feet in the morning but had no patience to do such a thing; she was too tired and too… she couldn't name the emotion, but she knew she was overwhelmed by it because of her dream… or because it had ended so abruptly. She flopped onto her back and sighed again.
For an hour afterwards, Guinevere tosses and turned, struggling to get back to sleep. The room seemed to hot, despite the cold summer air right outside the window. Guinevere kicked off the covers in frustration. She flipped her pillow over and over. Her skin was burning in in the stagnant, oak air. The only other way to cool herself down was by doing something she never did; she stripped away all the fiber inhibitions cocooning her body.
Once her flesh was being caressed by the air, Guinevere felt better for a moment. The relief didn't last long, however; the heat swiftly blanketed her again and the discomfort set in quickly. Would relief never come?
Right as Guinevere started to ponder that question, she realized that her hand had subconsciously wandered between her legs. The realization made her snap the contact immediately. Years ago, when Guinevere was just becoming a woman, she would do the same thing. For reasons she never understood, it felt good to rub herself there. One night, the joy made her voice too loud and her father caught her in the middle of the act. Perhaps the mead had made him a bit more irate and violent then he would've been without it, but he dragged her out of the cart, grabbed the nearest broken branch, and whipped against her posterior so many times that Guinevere lost count. He didn't stop until he passed out from consumption. After that she crawled back beneath her blanket and cried herself to sleep. The next morning, her father remembered nothing and constantly asked her which she was so hesitant to sit down for the following week. It had been six years since that night, and in those six years, Guinevere had never dared to touch herself in that way again… until that night.
Her hand was rubbing against her soft thigh, entertaining the thoughts that were running through her head. Every snore from her father interrupted those thoughts and made her rethink them. This mental tug of war continued late into the night until Guinevere simply drifted off.