Authors Note: Chapter contains female domination, non-consent and light SM.
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A man can dream. Steve was a man just like any other. He was a man who had been pulled across time and space, to be deposited in a fantasy world where he was to be worshipped as a god. He had even spent a few blissful moments of the previous evening passionately worshipping a beautiful wolf woman's foot before passing out. So upon waking with his head pillowed on something warm soft and fluffy, even a jaded man such as himself was allowed to have hopes.
So it is not hard to imagine then, the disappointment he felt not only in his bedding arrangements, but also in himself, to awaken to the sight of a few haphazardly stacked cream pillows beneath his head, rather than the most bountiful form of his host. A man can dream, but only because reality rarely chooses to deliver.
Pillows however still beat spears. Steve took solace in that fact. He found much to his delight that his headache had disappeared. In fact his whole body felt fine. No, his whole body felt great. Sitting up and running his hands up and down himself, he found his scrapes and bruises from yesterday's ordeal had completely disappeared.
He was also completely nude. And covered in white symbols. Covered from head to toe in symbols that seemed vaguely familiar. He took a moment to appreciate the artistic skill of whoever had painted him with such detail. Then he felt shame and outrage.
It was the quiet kind of outrage. The kind that says 'Yeah I'm pissed, but I also know there is sweet fuck all I can do about it.' It was the sort of outrage he had come to know intimately yesterday, and was quickly realizing he would be courting it for the foreseeable future. In that regard it was quite similar to his conspicuously absent hostess.
Priorities. Clothes. The priority right now was not to be naked. It wasn't that Steve was embarrassed by his body, quite the opposite. He was quite a vain person truth be told.
The issue was that it was hard to garner respect from someone with your dick swinging about. Or, maybe it was the opposite? Thinking back the werewolves clothing had shown a lot of skin, as well as other... bodily parts. He pictured those naked female forms in his mind. Stop. Focus. Stick with what we know. Steve began his first battle of the day. His hunt for pants.
The hunt ended pretty quickly. The conclusion. He had found a loincloth. His old clothes were MIA, presumed stolen by a large white wolf with a readily apparent sadistic sense of humor. He offered a quick prayer in his trousers memory.
Steve eyed the loincloth like a man might eye a king cobra he had stumbled across in a public toilet stall while under the effects of several laxatives. He knew he had to make a decision between two unpleasant choices. He had to make it soon. One choice could have potentially lethal consequences. The other public shame and an uncomfortable sensation around his groin. After a few seconds of deliberation, Steve stood shamefaced in nothing but a cream loincloth and white paint.
It wasn't that he was embarrassed by wearing a loincloth. Well he was, it just had nothing to do with the dangerous amount of exposure it represented. The issue was that as a man trapped on a technologically inferior foreign planet, the loin cloth was the ultimate in cliché attire.
Steve chuckled. It seemed his sense of humor was still functional. So long as he could laugh at the absurdity of the situation, he wouldn't freeze up when something really strange happened.
He began searching the tent building for his host, or better yet, his pants. With solid determination he began his journey through the canvas hallways of the absurd tent building.
It wasn't long before he could make out the smells and sounds of cooking. Following his senses he continued onwards.
It seemed like a lifetime, but was likely only a few minutes of infuriating wrong turns into rooms he could see no obvious purpose for, that he searched. He finally found the kitchen.
Kitchen may have been too strong a word for it. Kitchen implied preparation of food. He amended; room with a panicking Talia burning a hunk of meat the size of his head over a fire with a large stick. The absurdity of the wolf woman wildly waving the hunk of burning meat, was only confounded by the fact that she seemed to be wearing a black lycra looking shirt with the words 'bad bitch' written clearly on the front. He would have been shocked at the bizarrely modern shirt in the scene were his eyes not riveted to the fact that the shirt was the 'only' thing she was wearing.
Steve couldn't help it. He froze. His sense of comedy evidently wasn't advanced enough to come up with a quip for this situation. Talia for her part spotted him in the doorway, and froze mid meat wave. The silent room was filled only with the sounds of the light crackling of the fire. In a moment of absent minded observation Steve noticed that the smoke from the fire was escaping through a hole in the roof, that was acting as a chimney. Nifty.
The frozen stillness was finally interrupted by Talia uttering one word.
"You!"
"Me?" Steve looked around. They were the only ones present. It must be him.
"This is your fault!" she took one angry step forward. Meat stick brandished before her. "If you humans weren't so damn picky about your food. I wouldn't have to do this crap!" A dramatic flourish of her hand about the 'kitchen' illustrated her statement.
Steve was touched, figuratively and literally by the meat kebab. He felt obscenely grateful for the fact she had tried to make him breakfast. A little too grateful considering she was the reason he was on this planet in the first place. Still he couldn't help but think she looked almost adorable angrily hefting the massive charred hunk of meat.
He decided that he would show his appreciation through action. A smaller more manipulative part of him also pointed out that acting grateful to her might endear her to him. Endearment might make the difference between her dropping him like a burnt meat stick, and saving his ass should he need it. Relationships were give and take. The trick was to get the maximum take for your give.
He took a step forward and grasped the hunk of meat by the base, and cautiously took a bite. It was terrible. It was like she had somehow managed to blacken the outside while leaving the center cold. That took some serious talent. Evidently she did not cook her own meals. He absentmindedly hoped that whatever he was eating had never been able to talk.
He smiled, "Thank you for breakfast Talia".
Thanking someone for breakfast is a difficult feat when you are trying to keep said breakfast from coming straight back up your esophagus.
Talia stopped mid rant. She turned the full bore of her gaze on him. Steve tried to keep smiling pleasantly as she observed him. Cold sweat broke out in the small of his back.
Finally after what seemed like an eternity. She started laughing. Steve didn't even spend a moment being puzzled. She had been messing with him from the start. He felt an idiot. As well as nauseous.
Looking around he realized there were two wooden plates of strange fruits and cooked meats hidden in the corner of the room. He groaned inwardly as he threw away the disgusting meat block. Talia was now almost in tears as she grabbed her stomach and cackled.
'Note to self: Don't trust Talia. She wastes food.' Steve grumbled incoherently as he walked over to grab the plates. He grudgingly pushed one in Talia's direction as he sat down cross legged on the floor to eat.
He would have reveled in the exotic flavors of the strange fruits and meats were his mouth not filled with the taste of burnt flesh. He tried his utmost to tactfully ignoring Talia's great guffaws of laughter as she rolled on the floor. After a while she lazily sat up and began devouring the contents of the plate ravenously.
Was she hungry because she had been waiting for him to wake up to do this little trick? If so she needed a new hobby. Realizing he was watching her eat, she gave him a sultry wink before returning her focus to her food. Yep, definitely needs a new hobby. Preferably one that didn't involve him. Or world domination.
Finally when the two had finished eating, she sat back and spoke. "So Steve, you have questions and I have answers. Ask what you want in the next half hour. Then we get started on what I brought you here to do." Her grin was obscenely suggestive. What was more suggestive was that she was choosing to occasionally open and close her legs to flash him. Sadist.
Steve looked over at her. He was genuinely wondering how the serene motherly being he had seen yesterday when they were outside, and this mischievously grinning woman with the words 'bad bitch' stapled across her shirt could possibly be the same.
He closed his eyes to ignore her so he could focus on his questions. He again cursed reality. Why was it only absurd when it came to the irritating things in life?
First things first, "Where did that shirt come from?"
"The humans left it behind."
"You expect me to believe its two hundred years old?"
"They built to last."
He dared not ruin his monk like focus by opening his eyes. His train of thought could be instantly ruined by a seductive flashing, or even just the sight of her ample breasts straining against that poor shirt.
"Ok, where are my clothes?"
"I've. Hidden. Them" She was speaking in a giggly sing song voice.
"Why?" Hopefully it was a reason better than, 'it seemed funny at the time'.
"Because if you are to earn the support of the tribe, you need to dress like them. Not like a Lizard-kin merchant who's afraid of the cold."
Steve could understand that. Sort of. Even if he wasn't one hundred percent sure on what a Lizard-kin merchant was.
It seemed self-explanatory, but he had no idea if merchants were respected in this culture. Or Lizard-kin. Probably not, having seen the werewolf's heavy martial bias. He assumed the paints and loin cloth were a part of the whole 'fitting in' thing.
"So why does Michael think I'm a servant of the gods and not a god myself?"
