Base desires coupled with perverse passions - such form the foundation of my craft. The hearts of mortals ever hunger for new experiences and indulgences, and I find succor in the knowledge that my deft hand applied to the exclusive members of my clientele ultimately brings glory to Father. Drink, sex, games of chance, narcotics, and other exotic and esoteric pastimes are all available for those with sufficient coin, and Father has entrusted me with providing these services to those seeking the benefits of His generosity.
Not that I cross lines, for Father has ordained certain rules. No slavery is tolerated, no coercion permitted, no contracts or wagers are to be performed with those too impaired by substance or circumstance to be fit to agree to terms. Likewise, no children are involved, and those desiring to sample flowers that have not yet bloomed often find new residency in the mausoleum.
When consent is given, anything is possible. And for those Adventurers who have faced peril and strife beyond what most mortals can imagine, trauma often begets perverse desires that transcend conventional reason. The border between pain and pleasure become so blurred as to be inseparable, the lash and rod as soothing as a lover’s caress, the chains and straps the warm embrace of one offering release from worldly concerns. For they see that control is but an illusion, one that obfuscates true freedom. By surrendering that control to me, I can push them to new heights of experience, and through my work, help heal their troubled souls.
However, Adventurers tend to be hardy individuals, and with sources of efficient and expedient healing being readily available, some are willing and eager to endure what many may consider torture. But I am no subjugator who has come for conquest and to demand submission. I am but a guide, a companion to explore the limits of the senses and help them ascend to the summit of pleasure and satisfaction. Pain is in the world, but only the weak choose to suffer. And at the height of their torment, when pain and pleasure intertwine in a lover’s embrace, when they share a bond with me that transcends conventional reason, that is when true ecstasy begins.
For these mortals have desirable Traits, and I have neither the patience nor inclination to slowly fall in love and play house with them for the purpose of extracting what I need. Our bond only needs to last a moment, and in that temporal state of mutual empathy and closeness, I collect that which I am due. Not that they are harmed by the process in any way. Well, many suffer injuries of their own desire when traveling the path to forge our bond, but the process of extracting a Trait is neither invasive nor debilitating.
And it is for these Traits that I indulge their fantasies. I will admit that I do delight in my work, in watching them squirm in my grasp as I do whatever I desire to them, provided they consent to it. They draw the lines, and I color in the shapes however I please. However, indulgences in lust with them pales in comparison to similar undertakings with Father, and though I play the part of being interested in them and affectionate, I generally only care for what they have to offer. They are tools to be used, toys to be played with, distractions to idle away the hours. They cannot compare to that sweet indulgence of ecstasy that comes with my communion with Father when we exchange Traits and craft progeny. While my work keeps me alive and useful, it is for those moments that I live, and I would do anything to protect my place in His eyes.
Take this remnimi male, for example. I have woven an intricate mesh of silk ropes all along his body, such that he is fully restrained and exposed to whatever ministrations I have in mind for him. Currently, his twin ‘vulnerabilities’ are snuggly secured in a vice, one whose hungry jaws grow ever closer with but a turn of the handle. His quick breathing, coupled with his grunts of pain, suggest I restrain my hand, but his eyes scream for more as he gazes longingly at my twin gazelles and the flash of my smirk. No clothes sully our work, no fabric obscures his rising desire for a consummation of our physical forms. However, he is a frog lusting after swan flesh, for my body is not for his indulgence.
However, I know enough of how to keep them wanting while also giving them a taste of what they desire. As my hand moves to provide such satisfaction, a lone whelp soars into the room and lands on my shoulder. One of Father’s own, it clutches a small scroll in its claws, one that it offers to me. If anything, my dismissive attitude towards my client’s dismay only serves to enrage his passion for me all the more, his body pushed to a limit that will soon be broken.
Father has given me a sacred duty, and unbeknownst to Him, a gift. For this scroll came from Him, and so it is a treasure for my [Hoard], one that sits above the gifts of my devoted fans and misguided suitors.
“It seems I am needed elsewhere. Be a good boy and stay ready for me. I may decide to return at some point.”
[Telepathy] gets my message across, for the words of my true voice are too potent for such a conversation. To keep his mind occupied while I attend to other matters, I turn the handle a few more rotations, enough that his legs tremble uncontrollably from the anguish inflicted upon him.
“Scream, and I will use all 100 needles on you before you are allowed out of your bindings,” I communicate as I nod my head towards a nearby tray filled with needles both long and thin. His eyes widened in both fear and curiosity at what must be an unexpected form of foreplay for him, but rather casual for some of my male orc clients.
I don my robes that I had previously discarded in favor of administering my craft on my current client. Two new clients had arrived, ones that Father showed particular interest in, and He had imparted instructions for me. They were reaching the culmination of their fine dining, and I should arrive just after they finished dessert. A smile adorns my face as I depart, for a most auspicious opportunity has presented itself to me.
Through discrete channels, I have learned as much as I could about any number of potential clients and adversaries. Anyone who is anyone has made my list, and I have drafted up dossiers on all of them for my own review and for my staff to memorize. Erethel Starweaver certainly found her name in my files, for it was no secret that Chooka desired a conquest with her. And Father loves Chooka more than anyone, and so, it follows that a favor to Chooka would see me elevated in His eyes. As it just so happens, Erethel Starweaver has certain ‘proclivities’ that align well with my current client, and if I can bring the four of us into the same room, success will be all but guaranteed. Perhaps Nabonidus suggesting that I personally take care of this client had more merit than he let on.
Now out in the hallway, I transform from my remnimi form to an elven one, complete with the typical blonde hair that most of the far-skinned ones normally sport. Sadly, I am not precise enough to fully tailor the finer details of my mortal forms to my exact specifications. With limited discretion available for my purview, I look like a beautiful yet admittedly generic member of whatever race I transform into. However, thanks to my heritage as a Dragon Consort, that is to say, one forged from at least one mortal parent, I will someday master such precision.
Master of my domain, I know all that goes on within the confines of my abode. Every naughty secret, ever act of depravity, every venture and loss, all are known to me. I already knew of the arrival of my guests of honor, but their significance remained a mystery until Father gave me His will in the form of the missive that was dispatched to me. Without err, I find my way to the table of the two elves who had entered the most prominent entertainment venue in the city that I make my home and business. With a subtle flex of power, my kobold staff gracefully retract themselves from attending to my guests so that all attention will fall upon me.
“Salutations and fortune to Erethel Starweaver and Relarina Dawnflower,” I communicate with them telepathically as I arrive at their table. I bend my knees slightly and incline my head just the same to show politeness, but refrain from any display of subservience. “I am Tamadora of the Crossroad Wayfinders, and I welcome you to ‘The Wayward Oasis’. If you have found your appetite for food satisfied, it would be my delight to escort you to indulge in satisfying other appetites.”
Relarina, the younger elf often called “Little Dawnflower” by the elder, if the reports are accurate, raised an eyebrow at my suggestion, her face otherwise struggling to conceal her consternation at finding herself in a house of earthly delights. The elder elf merely smirked at my suggestion as she calmly sipped on her glass of wine.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
“While I have often entered the garden and tasted its mysteries, my Little Dawnflower,” Erethel states as she puts her arm around the shoulder of Relarina and pulls her close, “is fully bloomed. Sadly, her nectar goes to waste. If you knew of a gentle bee that could become acquainted with her to show her the full beauty she and the world have to offer each other, I would appreciate the assistance.”
With the slightest of sniffs, I caught the whiff of a maiden both curious and embarrassed, her face turning nearly as red as her hair given the not-so-subtle wordplay that danced around their purpose.
“There are ample men and women here that are more than apt to attend to the needs of the Little Dawnflower. She may lack experience in such matters, but I am confident that we can find someone that suits her tastes.
“If needs must,” I continue as I lean over the table and lift the blushing maiden’s chin with my hand, her eyes now transfixed on both the ample bounty that my robes scarcely conceal and my fiendish grin. “I will personally see to her education.”
Like a fawn caught in the den of two hungry Dire Tigers, the poor young thing remained nearly inanimate, her body only woodenly complying when Erethel bid her to her feet. Yet in her eyes, I detected that spark of intrigue and curiosity, an itch she didn’t know she had that needed to be scratched sooner rather than later. We proceeded back to the second floor and in the direction of my previous client.
“I will admit that I have done my research on you, Erethel. I believe you will be more than happy with what I have prepared for you tonight.”
“Oh,” replied the elf with coy non-commitment. “Do I know this person, and will he or she come to greet me at the door, or do I need to be the one to travel?”
“Oh, he is a little tied up at the moment, but I believe you will find the journey a fitting opportunity to dwell on who has history with you.”
“I see you know how to keep a lady in suspense, for many are those who would merit such pondering. Very well, I’ll bite.”
I escorted them through the halls of the upper floor, taking them to the back rooms reserved for select clientele.
“This is where the two of you will part ways, I expect. I doubt the Little Dawnflower should be exposed to such an experience on her first night of exploration.”
“Indeed. I trust that you have a plan to escort her to her own room.”
“Most certainly,” I reply as one of my Father’s whelps lands on my shoulder. I give it a gentle pet before directing it to Relarina. “Today, you woke up a maiden,” I silently communicate to the younger elf as I point out the whelp to her. “However, if you follow this little one and your heart, you will find yourself going to sleep as a woman. I can assure you that it is a most pleasurable experience that you will not regret, you just need to trust in your heart, and all will work out.”
The whelp hopped off my shoulder and hovered in the air, its little wings flapping with insufficient force to generate enough lift, but magic tended to bypass all the pesky technicalities of physics with which dragons often contended. It let out an adorable squeaking roar and led the young elf to her room. Like a little lost lamb, she followed after her new friend. With that obstacle out of the way, I could now focus on the main attraction.
I open the door for Erethel, and with such an action, the privacy wards allow us to hear the groans of pain coming from the room’s sole occupant.
“Erethel, I believe you know Kolnch Steelheart, The Fist of Frozen Peaks. As I understand things, you fought on opposite sides at The Battle of the Stolen Scepter,” I communicate telepathically to both of them.
“How could I forget? He punched me so hard he sent me crashing into the sea. I nearly died that day. I distinctly remember landing on a sea urchin,” she stated for his benefit as she stepped closer such that she was right in front of him. “You may not be familiar with what a sea urchin looks like,” she continued as her eyes looked at the tray of needles beside her. “However,” she whispered to him with a devilish smile on her face. “I think I see a good opportunity to give you an object lesson on what that was like for me. This demonstration may be messy.” She slipped out of her dress, letting it fall to the floor before stepping out and using magic to levitate it away. “Best not to soil my clothes, as I suspect there will be a lot of blood.”
Kolnch’s eyes widened with fear and intrigue as he found himself at the mercy of a former enemy that stood naked before him. His spirit and more rose to the occasion, and together, the three of us began in his education about sea urchins. But they were, both of them, deceived, for another woman entered the room.
Chooka, the one woman I both admire and respect, joined us. She has proven to be an invaluable mentor for my craft and in life in general, and tonight, she would show me how to seduce the prey that had eluded her for years on end. By all accounts, the prey would escape no longer, as they seemed to bond over taking turns at eliciting screams of pain and moans of pleasure from the bound remnimi.
The cute, little, baby dragon, or whelp, led me along to a yet unknown destination. It twirled and performed feats of aerial acrobatics for my amusement, its antics accompanied by verbal sounds that encouraged haste and my continuance to following wherever it may lead me. I wanted to hug the little guy close and pet it, but I understood that loftier ambitions were in store for me.
Boys and girls alike dream of their first time being special, but womanhood, at least in physical form, had found me years ago, even if the experience of certain undertakings had eluded me. And indeed, casting off maidenhood had practical benefits, as predators both monstrous and humanoid alike were known to prefer such ‘purity’. Society at large places no value on such a metric, nor does it associate any sin with sex outside of wedlock. If anything, most gods and cultures encourage it, especially with other races, where the risk of unwanted pregnancies are rendered moot.
And I, too, have such desires of intimacy; it is just that few had caught my eye. People see my beauty and yet fail to see me as a person. They see the dainty glass flower that needs to be protected and cherished inside an ivory tower, not the adventurous tomboy who wants to face the beatings and bounties that the world has to offer. There was once one person who saw me for what I am, but he has long since departed my life, most likely to never be seen again. My hand idly strays to twirl my braid as I think about him and the flower in my hair which he gave to me, my mind focused on fantasies that will never be realized.
Before I realize it, I find myself before a pair of sliding doors, their surface decorated with floral designs overall, with the centerpiece being the same yellow lotus I wore in my hair, the ‘Yellow Meadow Lotus’ in common, or ‘Relarina‘ in elvish, and thus, my namesake. In adherence with the antiquated customs of my family, I had avoided casually disclosing my given name to people, and yet, the madam of the house knew my full name. That such a door just coincidentally happened to be adorned to my namesake stretched the limits of naivety. Had all this been planned for, or perhaps ordained by the gods themselves? I knew not the truth, other than that more answers would be found on the other side of the door.
The little whelp landed on my shoulder, and with gentle headbutts into my jaw, it nudged me forward. With my heart racing, but my resolve mustered, I reached my hands out to part the doors. The room was adorned with the finery and amenities one would expect of a brothel, with a noticeably large bed being the highlight of the whole affair. But my eye was not drawn to all that, for something lost had been found, and I knew not what to do.
Before me, dressed in black boots, blue trousers, a white shirt with bishop sleeves, and a carmine-colored vest, was the boy, now a man, that my heart had pined for all those years ago. Such was the very same outfit that he had given to me, that I may practice my swordsmanship in secret. And then realization struck, for his visage was unmistakably a match for what renditions I have seen in pictures of the Emperor of the Crossroad Wayfinders. My heart raced to speeds unprecedented, or stopped completely, I know not which, as I stood frozen in place, my mind conducting a fire sale on any and every idea that could possibly explain the circumstances in which I found myself.
“Greetings, Relarina,” he spoke as he rose from his chair at the table for two that was arranged perpendicular to the door, so that I may see him and his outfit in full by how he slanted his seat towards me. “It gladdens my heart that we get to see each other again after so many years. It is my hope that we converse at our leisure this time, unless you still prefer to exchange cryptic letters that cannot be traced back to us.”
His face was that of a man from everywhere and nowhere, his complexion allowing him to pass for a tanned northerner or a sheltered southerner. Certainly handsome, but not the belle of the ball. And yet, the earnest approval showing in his ear-to-ear grin at my arrival revealed how genuine his delight was at my presence. It melted away most of my fears, thawed out my stubborn legs that had refused to obey me, and bid me to join him at his table. And, treacherous rascals, instead of taking me to my seat like the proper lady that I pretended to be, they veered off and threw me into his arms. And yet, I found no disappointment in his warm embrace.
