A warrior's shame

The late afternoon sun bled a tired orange through the grimy windows of the inn’s common room as Dastaan the Agile shouldered his way through the heavy oak door. The air inside was a thick stew of woodsmoke, stale ale, and the earthy scent of packed dirt floors. He was a man carved from travel and conflict, his handsome face shadowed by a short, dark beard that did little to hide the weariness etched around his eyes. His leather armor was dust-caked, his cloak frayed at the hem. All he wanted was a hot meal, a stiff drink, and a bed that didn’t rock with the gait of a horse or a ship.

He approached the front desk, a massive slab of scarred timber manned by an equally massive man—tall, fat, with a florid face and fingers like sausages. “A room,” Dastaan said, his voice a gravelly baritone. “Quiet, if you have it. And a bath drawn later.”

The innkeeper grunted, flipping open a large ledger. “Quiet’s relative. Got a troupe of Dro-Vahr night elves occupying the whole bottom floor west wing. They’re at some council in the next town most of the day, though. Only the minstrel’s here.” He jerked a thumb toward the small, raised stage in the corner where a slender elf with silver hair plucked at a strange, twelve-stringed instrument, producing a melody that was both haunting and rhythmic, a beat that seemed to pulse in the blood.

Dastaan’s eyes flicked to the stage, then to a boisterous group of dwarves hammering their tankards in time with the music. “Other than the music, then. Is it quiet?”

The innkeeper’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. “Mostly.” He took Dastaan’s coin and slid a heavy iron key across the counter. “Top of the stairs, last door on the right. Around the corner from the, ah… the lively one.”

Dastaan raised an eyebrow. “Lively?”

Before the innkeeper could answer, a sound cut through the melodic strumming and dwarf-song. A heavy, rhythmic thump… thump… thump from the floor above, followed by the muffled but unmistakable cry of a woman. A scream, but not of pain. It was a raw, guttural shout that dissolved into a breathless, shuddering wail. “I’m… I’m cumming!”

The dwarves roared with laughter, raising their drinks. The elf minstrel didn’t miss a beat, his rhythm subtly shifting to something more primal. The innkeeper just chuckled, shaking his head. “That. The warrioress and her… companion. They go at it now and again. Loudly. But it calms down.” He said it with the practiced patience of a man who’d heard it all before.

A cold knot formed in Dastaan’s stomach. Warrioress. There was only one woman in these parts who matched that description with such… vocal enthusiasm. A woman whose reputation was a blend of awe and fear. A woman he had fought beside, had desired, and had been firmly, definitively rebuffed by. No. It couldn’t be.

He took the key, his jaw tight. “My gear?”

“Stable boy will bring it up.”

Dastaan took the stairs two at a time, the thumping from above now silent. The hallway was dim, lit by flickering sconces. The first room, the source of the noise, had a door that was slightly ajar. He paused, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. He heard a low, sultry laugh from within—a laugh he knew. Susan.

A hot, irrational jealousy, sharp as a dagger, twisted in his gut. He **** himself to move past, following the innkeeper’s directions. His room was around a corner, down a shorter, darker hall. As he turned the corner, a sliver of light caught his eye. In the wall separating his hallway from the previous one, right at waist height, was a knothole. A small, perfect gap in the old wood, worn smooth by time or… other attention.

He told himself to keep walking. He was Dastaan the Agile, a respected hedge knight, not some peeping cutpurse. But that laugh echoed in his head. That scream. The image of Sue Storm, the legendary Susan Storm, in the throes of passion with some unknown companion was a poison in his veins. His feet carried him to the wall before his honor could stop them.

He leaned in, his eye aligning with the hole.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. Thick, sweet, and narcotic, laced with a fruity undertone. Toombah weed. Expensive, powerful Muurkwood narcotic. Through the haze of bluish smoke, he saw the source: an ornate glass hookah, its design distinctly goblin-made, resting on a low table. A slender tube trailed from it.

His gaze followed the tube.

And his heart stopped.

The tube ended between the lips of Susan Storm. She was reclining in a low chair, her head back, her eyes half-lidded and glowing a faint, **** red. She inhaled deeply, the water in the hookah bubbling, her chest rising. She wasn’t wearing her usual practical armor. She wore a shirt of fine, silvery chainmail so thin it was almost sheer. It clung to her like a second skin, and in the lamplight, he could see the perfect, dark circles of her nipples, hard and prominent against the metal links. A matching chainmail skirt, equally diaphanous, was slung low on her hips. It covered nothing, only adorned. He could see the soft curve of her lower belly, the shadowed tuft of blonde hair at the junction of her thighs.

She was moving. Swaying. The strange, rhythmic music from downstairs filtered up through the floorboards, and she was dancing to it, a slow, hypnotic roll of her hips as she exhaled a plume of sweet smoke. Her ass, barely covered by the shifting mail, moved in a circle, an invitation carved in motion.

Dastaan’s breath caught. His cock, traitorous and eager, hardened instantly in his trousers, a painful throb of longing. He had dreamed of this. For years. To see her unguarded, sensual, available. But she had never been. Not for him.

Then he saw the markings. The goblin sigils painted on her skin—on her arms, her neck, one dark and possessive over her left breast. They looked permanent, part of her. This wasn’t a disguise. This was a claiming.

A green shadow detached itself from the darker corner of the room. Dastaan’s warrior instincts flared. Skeeve. The vile little minion of Darkskull. He was wearing only a scrap of loincloth. Rage surged, hot and clean. His hand tightened on his sword. He would break down the wall, run the creature through, save her from this… this degradation.

But then Skeeve’s clawed hand came up. It went to Sue’s neck, and Dastaan tensed, ready to burst in. But the claw didn’t tighten. It caressed. It slid down, over the curve of her shoulder, and cupped her breast through the chainmail. His other hand slipped down, under the skirt, disappearing between her legs from the front.

Sue didn’t startle. She didn’t fight. She turned her head, still swaying, and found Skeeve’s mouth with hers. The kiss was deep, passionate, hungry. Her back was to Dastaan now, her ass grinding back against the goblin’s crotch. The small loincloth was no match for the erection tenting it. A thick, green shaft, impressively large and already slick at the tip, sprang free, bobbing against the small of her back.

Dastaan’s mind reeled. No. No, this is some trick. A spell. But the evidence was before him. Sue, kissing a goblin. Sue, pressing herself against that… that thing. A fresh, humiliating wave of jealousy crashed over him as he stared, transfixed, at Skeeve’s cock. It was, undeniably, far larger than his own average length. The comparison was involuntary and devastating. His own hard-on felt inadequate, a pathetic response to the spectacle.

Sue broke the kiss, still moving to the music. She slid gracefully from the chair, down to her knees on the rug before Skeeve. She took the hookah tube from her lips and offered it to him. Skeeve took it, sucking deeply, his yellow eyes glazing over as he looked down at her. Sue, meanwhile, didn’t hesitate. Her hands wrapped around the base of his thick green cock. She nuzzled the length of it, then opened her mouth and took the swollen head inside.

Dastaan gasped, his forehead pressing against the rough wood. He watched, paralyzed, as Sue Storm, the woman he revered, began to suck a goblin’s dick. Her lips formed a perfect ‘O’ as she worked the head, her tongue swirling around the corona. She pulled off with a soft, wet pop, looking up at Skeeve with a playful, **** smile before taking him deep again. Her cheeks hollowed with suction. She was enjoying it. The sight was the most erotic, most soul-crushing thing he had ever witnessed.

Skeeve groaned around the hookah mouthpiece, his free hand tangling in her blonde hair. After a few more deep pulls, he set the tube aside, smoke drifting from his nostrils. He tapped her shoulder. Sue released him, her lips glistening. She turned, still on her knees, and bent forward over the vacated chair, gripping the seat. The chainmail skirt rode up, offering Dastaan a perfect, unobstructed view of her pussy, glistening and ready.

Skeeve moved behind her, his hands gripping her hips. He guided his huge, green cock to her entrance, the broad head nudging against her folds. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he sheathed himself inside her.

Sue cried out, a sharp, blissful sound. Her back arched, pushing her ass back against him. Dastaan watched, his own hand moving to his aching cock, pressing against the rough fabric of his trousers. He couldn’t help it. He was jealous, furious, humiliated… and unbearably aroused.

Skeeve fucked her with a relentless, piston-like rhythm. Each thrust made Sue’s body jolt, made her breasts sway behind the chainmail. Her cries became rhythmic, matching his strokes. “Yes… right there… gods, just like that!” Her fingers turned white where they gripped the chair. Dastaan could see the powerful muscles in Skeeve’s lean thighs bunching with each drive, could see the way Sue’s body yielded to him, accepted him, wanted him.

The pace increased. Skeeve’s claws dug into her hips. Sue’s cries pitched higher, losing coherence. She was babbling, pleading, chanting. Her body began to tremble. Dastaan saw her inner muscles fluttering around the invading length, saw the slickness coating Skeeve’s shaft with each withdrawal.

“I’m gonna… Skeeve, I’m gonna cum!” she screamed, and her body convulsed. It was a violent, shaking orgasm that ripped through her. A gush of clear fluid spurted from her, soaking Skeeve’s cock and thighs, dripping onto the rug below. She screamed again, a raw, shattered sound that echoed in Dastaan’s skull, a sound he had once fantasized about eliciting from her.

Skeeve rode her through it, pounding into her until her screams subsided into whimpers. Then, with a guttural snarl, he pulled out. His cock, gleaming with her juices, sprang free, still rigid. He stumbled back to the hookah, taking a long, stabilizing drag as Sue slumped forward over the chair, panting.

Dastaan thought it was over. But Sue, after a moment, pushed herself up. She turned, her eyes heavy-lidded and hungry again. She crawled across the floor to where Skeeve stood. Without a word, she took his wet cock back into her hands, leaned in, and began to suck him again, this time with a ****, consuming intensity.

She deep-throated him. Dastaan watched, stunned, as she took the entire considerable length into her mouth and throat, her nose pressing into his green pubic bone. She gagged slightly, then relaxed, establishing a rhythm of deep, throaty sucks. Skeeve’s head fell back, his goblin eyes crossing. He dropped the hookah tube, his hands clenching at his sides. “S-Sue… gods… I’m gonna…”

She didn’t let up. Her neck worked, her throat muscles fluttering around him. Skeeve’s climax hit him. He shouted, a sharp, alien cry, and his body locked. Dastaan saw the pulse at the base of his cock, saw Sue’s throat convulse as she swallowed. Once, twice, a third time. She drank him down, sucking and swallowing until he was soft and spent. Only then did she pull back, licking her lips clean, a satisfied, dazed smile on her face.

Dastaan stumbled back from the wall, his heart hammering. He fumbled with the key, unlocked his door, and fell inside, shutting it behind him. He leaned against it, breathing raggedly. The images burned behind his eyes: Sue’s naked form under chainmail, Skeeve’s huge cock plunging into her, her lips stretched around him. His own erection was a painful, throbbing demand.

He tore at the laces of his trousers, freeing his aching cock. It was hard, leaking, but it looked so ordinary compared to the monster he’d just witnessed. Shame and envy warred with relentless lust. He spat into his palm, wrapped his fist around his shaft, and began to stroke, his eyes closed, the scenes replaying in vivid detail.

He imagined it was him behind her. Him she was screaming for. Him filling her mouth. But the ghost of Skeeve’s green cock, the memory of Sue’s ecstatic surrender to it, overshadowed everything. His strokes grew frantic, rough. He thought of the way she had squirted, the way she had swallowed. The jealousy was a dark spice that made his climax more intense.

With a choked, silent groan, he came. His seed spilled over his fist and onto his stomach in hot, shameful pulses. He slid down the door to the floor, spent, sticky, and utterly hollow. The envy remained, a cold stone in his chest. Sue Storm, the unattainable, was not just attainable—she belonged to a goblin. And she loved it.

Exhaustion, deeper than any from travel, washed over him. He crawled to the narrow bed, not bothering to clean up. He fell onto the rough sheets, the scent of his own release in the air, and tumbled into a dark, troubled sleep, the strange music and the echoes of Sue’s screams the last things in his mind