Samia returned to Varga's quarters, a feeling of emptiness in her heart. That bastard Frost had done it deliberately, fucking Samia in front of Varga to make him jealous, to goad him into the duel.
She sat in her bath, with her head in her hands, crying. Would she ever see Varga again? Would she ever be able to prove to him that she wasn’t just some slut who would fuck anyone? Could she prove to him that she wasn’t the prostitute she’d been convicted of being?
The water was cold; she must have been in this bath for a long while. She got out, drying herself off and headed to bed.
The bed felt so huge without him. She cuddled his pillow that night, smelling Varga’s scent on it.
“I’ve been so stupid,” she whispered to herself.
Maybe he’d meet her when she got to Octoton. When she got there, she’d need all the help she could get.
The next morning, she slept in for a while. The sun was high by the time she woke Samia had half-expected to be woken up by a knock on the door, but it never came. Varga was true to his word, a man of honour.
She’d be able to spend the next two days relaxing in his quarters before meeting the judge to complete her sentence.
Most of the first day was spent in bed. The last few days had exhausted her; her pussy was still a little sore, so was her mouth. She’d lost count of how many cocks both had taken.
Every couple of minutes, she couldn’t help but be drawn back to thoughts of Varga. He must’ve been heartbroken, seeing her fuck his worst enemy. She gulped, thinking shamefully about how much she’d enjoyed it, how she’d moaned loudly in the end as Frost filled her pussy with his cum.
The following day was a little more boring. It was nice to have regular baths and meals, but with no Varga for entertainment, Samia was ready to move on from this place. If she never saw Jocia or Vernia again, she’d be happy.
