Avilia's back arched. A moan tried to escape her lips, but she bit it back. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction -- at least not yet.
It was difficult though. Her body was shivering under the sensations of Sligh's tongue on her button and the pleasure rod pressed against her entrance. Sparks shot along her legs, made her arse clench, made her hands clutch at the cloak that was her sheet.
Sweat was beading at her temples despite the night chill in the desert air. She felt a drop slither down and catch in her short, spiky hair. Another drop slid from one of her nipples into the shallow hollow between her small breasts. Her skin felt alive at every instant of its short journey.
Her climax was near. It battered against the wall of her will, seeking to relieve the pressure, but she held it back. She knew there was more to come.
Her resistance was rewarded when she felt Sligh press the bulbous head of the black rod inside her. Her body opened up to welcome it -- its warmth, its subtle vibrations, the eagerness of the imp that was bound to it.
Sligh's lips wrapped around her button, and as the rod slid further into her she felt her resistance break. The moan that she'd kept back escaped in a loud wail and her body exploded in white fire. Her hands left the sheet and clutched at his head, her hips ground against his face, her legs jerked and her eyelids trembled and twitched as jolt after jolt seared through her, as her body spasmed in climax until her breath ran out and she forced Sligh away and began the lurching descent from ecstasy to satisfaction.
Sligh drew the pleasure rod from her, and her body shook with a final spasm. She could picture it in her mind: shiny with the cream of her arousal that was slowly absorbed into the black wood as the imp took its reward.
She felt Sligh shift his weight and lie down beside her on the cloak. Long fingers brushed across her forehead, wiping sweat away. The warmth of his body was close, and without opening her eyes she turned to rest her head on his shoulder. "Thanks," she murmured. Her throat was hoarse.
The cool breeze glided over her body, carrying the scents of the desert and making her shiver again. Sligh reached over and pulled the cloak around them. "I'd wanted to do that all day. I didn't have much else to think about beyond pointing Zretha in the right direction. The desert becomes boring after a while."
She opened her eyes. The giant riding-lizard was a dark bulk a handful of paces away. Farflier was an irregular mound on the other side. Above, the stars filled the sky. The moon was still low on the horizon, and too old to cast much light in the blackness.
"If I'd known, I'd have landed Farflier and let you do it earlier." Their warmth was seeping into the cloak, but her face was growing numb as the last memory of the day's heat was leeched out of the air. "Now you'll have to wait until sunrise for me to return the favour. It's too cold to be naked."
He laughed, low and soft. His hips thrust against her, and she felt the hot hard bulge in his underbreeches. "I might have to get up to let this one cool down."
"You'd freeze before it does." She nibbled at his ear and reached down. "I know how stubborn the pair of you are." Rubbing him through the soft wool she added, "It's one of the things I like about you both."
He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper, then pulled her hand away. "Don't. I'll get overexcited and want to fuck you, and then we'd both freeze." He entwined his fingers with hers. "How about you tell me about that rod of yours. Where did it come from?"
"My pleasure rod?" She paused, casting her mind back. "Alright. But don't blame me if your cock gets even harder. It was quite the adventure."
"We'll think of a solution when the problem arises." He adjusted himself under the blanket. "There, that's more comfortable. Now tell me the story."
===
Two years after she came down from the Dumran Mountains, Avilia was prepared to admit she wasn't very successful as a mercenary.
Oh, she could fight, and there were always rich merchants and impoverished nobles looking for a fast, wiry warrior woman to menace reluctant debtors and eager creditors. But Avilia had a gift for picking the wrong side, or the wrong patron, or just finding herself being menaced in turn, usually by some large and brooding savage.
She knew of more than one mercenary who'd spent years carousing, scattering silver like sand, and still accumulated enough wealth to retire to an estate of their own. Yet the riches and honours that came so easily to some of her fellows slipped through her grasp time and time again.
The small purse of silver nobles sat on the table before her like a sack of boulders on her back. They held just enough to get her back to Dumran before winter came down. A handful of copper commons would have to do for today's meals and a night's lodging before the caravan left the following morning. A week's free passage, if she hired on as a guard, then she'd have to work her way further north by herself.
Smells of fish and tar came in through the open door. The inn at the sign of the Dead Duck stood on the docks, where the wide waters of the rivers Frow and Arner met and joined to become the Great Arner. The town of Gat lay in the angle of their streams, connected to the far banks by ancient stone bridges. Tolls and trade had made it prosperous, but its people were dour and miserly, and much of the place looked barely better than a slum. Only the houses of the wealthy rose up along the hills that backed the town, to enjoy the clean air and long views.
The inn was no shabbier than any other building along the riverfront, and cleaner than most. It wasn't busy, in the middle of the day, but that suited Avilia fine. Today she didn't want any company beyond her own sullen thoughts.
She'd left Dumran in high spirits, with a song on her lips and her spear on her back. Now that same spear stood leaning in the rack by the Dead Duck's door, a leather sheath covering its long, curved blade. How many Dumrani had come down from the mountains carrying the traditional weapon of their people, and carved out their reputation as mercenaries? And now she was slinking back with her tail between her legs.
A pretty maid stopped at her table, all dark hair and dark eyes, and greeted her. "Ale?"
Avilia glanced up. "Yes please, Iza. Small ale. And food."
The girl turned away, knowing what she wanted -- or what she could afford, at least. A bowl from the Pot, a large kettle with stew that stood simmering day and night, fed from scraps and leftovers. It was filling, and usually didn't taste bad.
It wasn't Iza who brought the ale, though, it was Nell. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the hint of facial hair, Nell owned the Dead Duck and ran it with a tight fist.
She waited for Avilia to hold up a copper common before setting the leather jack down on the table. "I see from your face that business is as good as ever. Why don't you give up the spear and work for me? Don't deny that you enjoy sucking cock, and you'll get paid for it too."
Avilia grimaced. "I'd get paid a pittance after your cut. And I've seen your customers. No thanks. I'll stick to sucking cocks for my own pleasure."
This wasn't the first time Nell had raised the subject. She seemed to think Avilia would be popular among her patrons.
To be fair, there were times when it seemed that whoring would earn her more than the mercenary life, even after Nell's cut. Part of her wondered whether it would be so bad, perhaps just for the winter, just to avoid the shame of returning home a failure.
But a failure was a failure, here or at home. At least in Dumran she could find a nice shepherd to settle down with, watch his flocks at night and suck his cock for fun at daybreak.
"Have it your own way." Nell turned to leave, then paused. "Woman was in here earlier looking for muscle. Female muscle. I told her you'd be here to eat, and she said she'd return."
Avilia glared up at her. "Were you going to tell me if I'd agreed to work for you?"
Nell smiled sweetly, stepping aside for Iza to put a bowl of stew on the table. The girl glanced at the two older women, then bobbed her head and darted away.
"Nobody works here who isn't desperate," Nell said. "What good would you be to me if you had any hope?" And she stalked away before Avilia could reply.
Steam drifted up from the bowl. The scent wasn't a subtle one, and the brown lumps didn't look particularly appetising, but Avilia was hungry and this was the best she'd get. Pushing down her disappointment with a resignation born of long habit, she picked up the spoon to eat.
She put it back down again after only two mouthfuls. Straight from the Pot, the lumps of fat were too hot just now. Instead she drank some more of her ale, knowing she'd need another jack after she ate. Fat and salt always seemed to be the main ingredients in a Pot bowl.
What does this woman want?
she mused, running the small ale around in her mouth. One last job before she left would make his journey more bearable, if it didn't take too long.
Dawn tomorrow, that's when the caravan leaves.
If she missed it, she'd have to walk the entire way -- and pay for food and lodging as well.
She was just about to try the stew again when a woman walked into the Dead Duck. Even before Nell pointed her in Avilia's direction, she knew that this must be her possible patron.
The newcomer was dressed in a robe of dark blue that shimmered in the smoking light of the inn. Here and there a trace of silver gleamed in the material. Protective charms, Avilia thought. She'd never put much faith in them herself. None had ever managed to turn the blade of her spear.
A hood hid the woman's face, all except the black tresses that spilled out. They moved softly as two globes inside her robe swayed with every step that brought her closer.
When she reached the table where Avilia sat she halted and pushed the hood back. Framed by straight, shiny hair of a black that was almost blue, her face was that of a good-looking woman just reaching her middle years: a few fine lines at eye and mouth that weren't enough to diminish her natural beauty.
It was a confident face too, and free of magical artifice. The face of a woman used to wielding authority. Her eyes were a tawny green, her lips red and full. When she spoke, her accent was cultured, her voice smooth and deep, her words considered.
"The innkeep tells me you are a sword-for-hire. Is this true?"
"It is." Avilia stopped herself from pointing out that she mostly fought with a spear. "My name's Avilia."
