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His mind wandered, mimicking the aimless movements of his hands. Deep down in his thoughts, he imagined just how easily he could overwhelm her with just a few quick moves. He’d pin her strong yet tiny arms above her head with just one hand while the fingers of another wrapped around that soft neck of hers, feeling the pulse beneath the skin, threatening to break it with one slight squeeze. To pry her knees wide apart with his waist, pressing the whole of his hard length against her letting her feel the promise of painful pleasure to come.
He threw his head back, inhaling sharply the sweet aroma of herbs used in this bathhouse. Lavender, mountain flowers, apple blossoms… The bathmaid who was bouncing with vigor on top of him, sending waves of water splashing against the edges of the shallow pool, began to mewl quietly doing her best to remain silent. After all, unlike brothels in other provinces, the bathhouses of Skyrim did their best to pretend that the only services they provided were only those related to the cleanliness of the body. The bathmaids were there to help you scrub your back and nothing more! Thusly, those who managed to “help” their customers discreetly usually were the management’s favorites. Alas, the young plump in all the right places lass with golden curls dearly struggled with her current client. First, by getting to fit most of him inside herself then by keeping her voice down as the ruthless bouncing on the Atmoran’s quite impressive cock hit her in all the right spots. Not to mention the utter attractiveness of the client – the view of his rippling musculature coupled with countless scars alone was enough to cause the poor whore used to fat old men to go dizzy with arousal.
However, the man splayed before her seemed completely disinterested despite a pair of perky pink-flushed breasts bouncing against his wide chest and the woman herself struggling desperately to restrain her orgasm. It was unprofessional to come before your client and by Talos, this beast of a man was testing her work competence. Poor wench was huffing and puffing for the last quarter of an hour but the stone-cold man with a rock-solid cock seemed to be someplace far away from this here little pool of steaming mineral waters in the bowels of Skyrim’s oldest bathhouse of Windhelm.
Truth be told, Miraak himself didn’t quite understand what ate at him. His body – now free from foul daedric magicks – yearned for the touch of another. Yet the sex had always felt empty, void of some key element. And even though the passion was there, the desire, the lust, and the eagerness of those whores, this painful coil inside of him could not be released no matter how long and hard he toiled away. He wouldn’t come unless he was all by his lonesome self, fist tight around his throbbing length, thinking of his fellow Dragonborn, her small yet strong body painted with scars and peppered with freckles, and her wolfish eyes both predatory and kind, and her voice that could rumble the mountaintops and flow into heartfelt songs… Miraak was tortured since that cursed day they met. Since that one fleeting moment of their deadly dispute atop the Summit of Apocrypha.
She sowed seeds of doubt and inexplicable feelings within him through her mere existence. That day they met face-to-face in the depths of Apocrypha his body was shaken awake after a five-thousand-year-old slumber. For the first time since days immemorable, he felt a mortal man again, and his heart – once cold and stiff – began to beat against his chest once more, pushing hot blood through his veins, causing him to seemingly burn from the inside out. That burning turned into a wildfire at the Summit of Apocrypha: after a long exhausting battle of fates, he finally had her on the ground. The Firstblade sliced through her armor, leaving a weeping wound across her collarbone and down the chest. The Konahrik was knocked off her face in the heat of fighting and he had her pinned down with his entire weight, hand squeezing the neck, feeling the rising and falling of heavy torn breath beneath the glove. His trusty blade – sharp as a razor and venomous like a viper – bit into her side somewhere between the fourth and the fifth rib, ready to puncture the heart which beat wildly like a bird in a cage.
It was then that he hesitated. A mistake he now was glad to have made. For a split second, he lingered, the sharp point of the Firstblade just barely breaking the skin. He found himself mesmerized by the pink parted lips, fresh blood in the corner of her mouth glistening in the sickly-green light of the apocryphal skies. The sapphire-blue eyes framed by her bold red warpaint and loose strands of pearl-white hair looked up at him without a hint of fear or hatred. At that moment, which seemed to stretch out into eternity, he felt his throat dry out; it was hard to breathe all of a sudden. Strange heat bloomed inside him pooling in one spot, causing painful strain in his loins. After being isolated from the mortal realm for so long it took him a few moments to recognize the symptoms of arousal. Something in the back of his mind switched off. The Dovah roaring in excitement at the thought of devouring its kind went silent. The blood of a mortal man began to scream. Intense desire to kill her vanished. Now he only wanted – no, needed – to take, ravage, devour and rape her. In a haze he moved down onto her, looming above like a mountain. The very last rational thought in his skull had vanished like a fog in the morning. And at that moment when he ground down onto her, pressing his hardness against her hot core, his world began to shatter and rip at the seams. And all the layers of linen and leather which stood as his only obstacle between him and her skin couldn’t suppress the heat and dull the tantalizing sensations. He was a hair’s breadth away from ripping those tight leather breeches off of her with one swooping motion and doing the same to her chestplate. He would claim her there and then, impale her so much smaller than his body with his aching, throbbing cock, drag the claws of his gauntlets across her ribs, and sink them relentlessly into the flesh of her hips. He’d be utterly merciless with her. He’d ruin her like only Lord Miraak, the first of Dragonborn, the last of Dragon Priests, the son of Atmora and the Champion of Hermaeus Mora could.
The whole ordeal lasted but a heartbeat. A moment that seemed to last one more millennia. When an oil-slick shadow fell upon them, driving off the reflections of a green sun in her irises, he couldn’t react in time. By the time he tried to move it was too late. The agonizing pain punched through him, plunging Miraak into utter darkness. The next time he opened his eyes the skies above him were blue and his life began anew. The momentous haze released its hold on Miraak’s mind but unbeknownst to him – merely temporarily. At first his body was in great shock for the better half of the first month. Then he fell into a deep and angry melancholy as his mind struggled with the sudden changes. He grew to hate his savior, the one who was merely a new master in Herma Mora’s stead. But eventually, as his body healed and his mind adapted, hate made way for discontent, which then turned to displeasure, which grew into neutrality, and, eventually a certain liking was beginning to sprout. Until one night he caught himself reminiscing about that fateful battle, imagining the what-ifs and maybe-s. The next morning he noticed himself looking at his captor with new eyes, feeling a now recognizable jolt of warmth whenever they got into each other’s proximity. Once he hated her face so much that he was prepared to mutilate it with his bare hands. Now all he wanted was to kiss it deeply, inhaling the scent, feeling the warmth… Her neck, which recently invited him to break it, now begged for kisses with teeth and tongue. The developing situation couldn’t be helped by the way she dressed, walked, talked, behaved… How’d she strutted around camp wearing nothing but a breastband and pantaloons? And her coquettish manner of speech? The flirtations, the sarcasm, the boldness. The only times in his entire life he was called “darling” was from Nim’s lips albeit usually as an insult. Then there was her godsdamned soul which just wouldn’t stop calling out to his. Back in Apocrypha that call lured him in like the cries of a hurt bird lure a cat. Now though, he wrestled with the unwavering desire to devour her entire body, to swallow up her moans and mewls, and to mark her with his teeth every day of life since just a few weeks ago. Every day he woke up with a whisper in his head telling him to grab that tiny female, pin her down and ravage, violate, devour. But respect, born only recently and growing ever bigger towards Nim who he now saw as a compatriot, rather than a subjugator, and even – maybe – a friend wouldn’t allow him to do so. Not now, not ever. Unless she asked him, of course. Which was very much in the realm of fantasies. After all, she had all the reasons in the world to find him repulsive: from all that he had done to the people of Solstheim, to his monstrous appearance, twisted by Hermaeus Mora’s black magick. It was foolish to even hope for affection of any kind, even though he felt deserving of a new life. Not a new chapter, no, but rather a whole new book. To throw those five thousand years of horrors into the Void and never remember again. Alas, one could only dream…
The bathmaid’s whimpers were becoming louder and more desperate. Miraak, now back in his mind, decided that it was enough for tonight. The poor girl more than deserved her tip. It wasn’t her fault that this client wasn’t going to be satisfied even if she slaved away all night. His body may have yearned for the simple pleasures of sex but his mind and soul weren’t going to let go of the thoughts of Miraak’s strongly hated and dearly beloved benefactor. And so he relentlessly rammed into the bathmaid, throwing her into the wildest ride of her life. She yapped in surprise and within seconds she was screaming, face scrunched up in a grimace of pleasure, mouth agape. After a few more powerful thrusts she began to go limp, chest heaving from exhaustion. Miraak lifted her off of himself like she was featherlight.
“I am… terribly sorry… good sir” began to hastily apologize the whore through her heavy breathing.
A simple nod was Miraak’s only answer and she quickly decided to make herself scarce. Miraak sighed deeply, painfully. This would probably be his last visit to any public house for the foreseeable future. It was clear that no one would take his edge off but Nim. And since getting her in between his sheets was something improbable – maybe even impossible – he’d have to just get used to it. Grit his teeth, squeeze his fists, and suffer through this. His draconic will would be the only thing keeping him sane as it did all those years back in Oblivion. Eventually, he hoped, this would pass. He’d get used to the never-fading fire within him until one day he’d burn out like a candle. He merely had to wait for this “sickness” to run its course.
With warm laziness eating at his joints Miraak stretched and absent-mindedly washed himself up with aromatic soaps and tonics. Within the next half-an-hour Miraak – clean, nicely shaven, and pleasantly smelling – wrapped himself up into a soft linen bathrobe and walked out of the baths, taking the stairs up to the ground floor. As he made his way up the staircase to the second floor, where the rooms were located, he noticed how few people there were at the bar tonight. But then again, this is the harvesting season so the patrons are rare until the first frost hits and many a cold and tired farmer comes here to enjoy hot water and something else. Good. He hated rowdy crowds. And all the moaning from the below…
There was Nim, however, cramped by the big fireplace, lute in hand, chatting up some of the patrons, friendly smile on her lips and a drunk spark in her eyes. Miraak could feel anger boiling up in his heart but he suppressed the feeling. He knew it was foolish to get all pent up and jealous every single time, especially given the fact that it was in her very nature to be frivolous and coquettish, sharing smiles and drinks with other patrons. He suspected she slept around every now and again and even though this very thought sent him spiraling all he could do is mind his own business. After all, she was a strong woman with her own needs and tastes and she either plucked someone from the bar to have some fun and then leave before sunrise, or delivered a knee to the stomach in case she wasn’t in the mood that night and they weren’t taking a hint. It was not his place to act like a jealous lover when he was merely a traveling companion, a war asset even.
He sighed quietly under his breath thinking he would sleep alone in their room tonight, and turned to go upstairs. But before he did so he noticed her gaze shift onto him for a moment. The look in her eyes seemed concerned for a second before she gave him a quick nod and turned back to face her chatty listeners. Trying not to think anything of it, he left.
A few steps through the dim-lit corridor and he finally reached their room – two beds, one hearth, a nice view at the harbor was what twenty septims could get in a place like this. He made his way towards a small table by the fireplace where a still hot kettle stood emanating a sweet aroma of dried fruit and herbs. There was a little piece of canis root on a cutting board just nearby used as an additive to the tea. Well of course. Her special tea. He plopped himself down in a chair stretching his legs out towards the fire, even though Miraak didn’t feel cold unless he was stuck in a blizzard by the Sea of Ghosts. His head resting against the high back of the chair he tried to relax a little bit. Let the swirling of feelings within him dissipate, his heartbeat to calm down and his mind to shift from lewd thoughts. His eyes closed, he thought to himself that he should learn meditation the Greybeard way… But alas, he remained pent up and the longer Nim was absent the more he thought of her in the arms of another and the more he felt like snapping. Miraak decided that sitting quietly in an empty room would not help so he got up and began to dress up. A quick walk to the market on this cold snowy evening would do good to help him collect his thoughts. Serana and Marcurio were enjoying an evening at the “Hearth and Candle”, so maybe he’d swing by to see what they were up to. But as he made his way to the door, swinging it open, there she was.
“Where to?” She asked plainly, hand on her hip, a little smile on her lips.
“No place particular,” he said, looking down onto the small Dunmer. “Why? Think I might run away?”
He intended to sound sarcastic but somehow the tone of his voice felt angry, frustrated… This, though, didn’t phase the small woman and all she did was press her hands against his chest, push him out of the way and strut towards a screen by the fireplace. He watched her sharp dark silhouette move behind the screen, unable to just turn around and leave as he wanted.
“You? Run away? Please,” she said. “I know you’d come back again. You have too much fun on this quest of ours. Besides. Told you already, you’re free to bounce whenever.”
She was undressing back there. And Miraak just couldn’t help but stand and stare like a boy. The outline of her body was just so…
“Yet, here you are.” Her head poked out from behind the screen, giving him a wink.
“Yes,” he agreed, quietly, closing the door behind him and seldom consciously taking a few steps toward her. “I am.”
“And yet, you’re also not.”
Nim walked out from behind the screen wearing nothing but the night robe and went to pour herself half a cup of yet warm tea from the kettle. Steaming cup in hand, she turned to him with a coy look on her face.
“What do you mean?” asked Miraak, not thinking at all about what words were escaping his mouth.
He was fixated on how low the collar of her robe sat, revealing her sharp collarbone, her scar-painted shoulders, and a dip of her breasts. There he saw that long pink line where his blade sliced through her chestplate, her underarmor, and then her skin. He cut her to the bone, yet all she had to do is sew herself up, gulp down a potion, and let her wolfish blood do all the work for her. He didn’t regret doing this to her, if anything he was glad they had a chance to test their might against each other like that. Besides, his own body was marked with a few burns and gashes of her own doing. He sometimes imagined running his tongue throughout the entire length of that scar…
“Oh, nothing.” She nonchalantly sipped her tea. “It’s that you want to fuck me so much, it makes you foolish.”
Miraak’s eyes narrowed. It shouldn’t surprise him that she figured everything out. What interested him more was whether this notion came to her recently or did she know since the beginning and merely didn’t say anything for whatever reason?
“Yeah, don’t think I haven’t noticed you flaunting those bedroom eyes at me whenever you think I can’t notice,” she continued, without waiting for a response. “And you know what? This is getting too much out of hand for my liking.”
“How so?”
“Just last week ago or so I pulled an arrow out of you ‘cause my ass proved too distracting while fighting an army of bandits. Good thing it was your shoulder and not, say, an eye or your heart. So,” Nim took a deep gulp of the tea and put the cup down on a table with a loud thud. Surprisingly, she didn’t sound as confident as usual saying these next words: “I suggest we get this mess sorted out before anyone gets seriously hurt.”
“Anyone? Not someone?” Miraak raised an eyebrow. Something about her attitude right now seemed slightly off. A tad bit not like the usual Nim.
She scoffed in return.
“You’re going to tell me that battle at the Summit didn’t get you hot under the collar? Because me, well I was damn near soaking my pantaloons out there.”
“Oh?”
Well, did she now? Miraak felt lightheaded for a moment. The thought of her sharing his desire, yet saying nothing, just like him, for all this time…
“What is stopping you then, Dovahkiin? Are you afraid of me? Am I that repulsive to you?” he stepped forward, looming over Nim like a mountain.
She stayed quiet for a moment, her eyes traveling across his wide frame, making him feel like being undressed. She was contemplating something. Like she was asking herself if she indeed was afraid of him or found him ugly. But the look in her eyes was soft, without a hint of disgust or hatred. Miraak wondered if it were true. If she also thought of him that way. Was he so caught up in his own feelings and thoughts that he utterly failed to notice anything? The coil within him began to tighten once more. That voice in his head appeared once again to whisper into his ear: “just take her, right here and now. Dominate and devour. Bend to your will. Are you not the stronger one here?”. But he shunned the voice. He would not give in. Even if she were to tease him to Oblivion and back right now.
“I don’t know,” she said, a little wrinkle appearing in between her eyebrows as she searched for a better answer in her head. “Complicated as things now are, I suppose I didn’t want to make them even worse. Add fuel to the fire, so to speak.”
“And all those men and women you consort with? What about them?” he felt the need to ask.
To Miraak’s great disbelief, he saw Nim get flustered, albeit only slightly.
“What is there to tell? I haven’t had a good night’s roll in the hay since going to Solstheim.”
“Really?” Miraak’s eyes narrowed. It seemed hard to believe that, given how “friendly” she got with the locals around her.
“There’s this…” she stopped for a moment to think. “A pull. Something about you is driving me up the walls. I get with someone and all I can think of is how much I’d like it to be you instead. And something’s telling me you might be feeling a very similar kind of way.”
One more step closer. Close enough to just bend down and catch her lips in a kiss. He didn’t.
“So, as I said,” with one smooth motion she dropped the robes off of herself, letting the fabric clump up around her feet. “Let’s sort this mess out.”
Miraak didn’t move, although he flinched. His eyes wandered across her naked form, taking in every little detail they came across: all the constellations of pale white freckles, all the scars, and burns, all the lines of muscle… His fingertips were burning with the need to touch. Yet he held back.
“Are you not afraid that I shall hurt you?”
She chuckled, quietly. Then her hands came up to rest on his waist, pulling him, letting their bodies finally touch. Miraak could feel his self-control breaking apart. One more second of stalling like this and he would just snap. What would happen then he could not think. He imagined he would indeed hurt her. Just as his little inner voice desperately wanted to.
“Why? I’m not made of glass. I won’t break.”
Her hands were quicker than his ability to react in this hazy state of mind. Like in a dream, he felt her cool palms brush against his skin as they slid the fabric off of his shoulders, while her body pushed him against the – luckily – closed door. He wanted to kiss her, to sink his teeth into her plump lips until blood ran. But she had other ideas. Before he knew it, her swift hands trailed down his toned abdomen, fingers running through faint hair beneath his navel, and then she was down on her knees and his pants were untied, allowing that hot throbbing cock out into the slightly cool air of the bedroom. And as her hands and warm breath touched his painful hardness, all he could do is take in a sharp breath and clench his jaw so as not to come right there and then. He could feel her jagged breath on him and, overcome with curiosity and lust, his eyes darted down at her. It was clear from the look in her eye she was yet to get with a man his size – a detail that pleased his inner dragon, which was a beast of few things, besides pride and desire. Miraak was about to ask her to reconsider for her own sake but couldn’t: her hot wet mouth closed in around him and every nerve in his body set ablaze. A tortured grunt escaped him as he sank his fingers into her hair and bucked his hips, unable to restrain himself. She used a hand wrapped around the thick base of that impressive cock to squeeze him and keep herself from choking on his sheer size. Miraak, of course, could only think about how much he wanted to shove himself down her throat and fuck but held himself under control as much as he could. Whatever she was doing with those lips and tongue was enough to make him shiver with torturous pleasure and to almost elicit a guttural “more” out of his dry throat. With muffled mewls of pleasure, she took him an inch deeper and deeper with each thrust. When he could feel the head dipping down her throat he threw his head back against the door, growling in the wake of a long-awaited orgasm. His hand behind her head, he bucked and he pushed – ever so faster, ever so deeper, his hand eagerly guiding her toward him until her nose tip touched his abdomen and the reverb from within her throat sent him spiraling.
But just before he exploded into a million pieces, and before he could spill himself into her mouth to the last drop, she pulled away, eliciting from him a painful hiss and an almost angry scowl. And even though he should've been disappointed, Miraak’s blood was boiling. Oh no, this would not end like that! He felt that had she asked him to stop now he wouldn’t be able to oblige. Miraak was being undone and no force in this world or another would be able to stop him now. Luckily Nim had no intention to leave him unsatisfied and alone by the door. Back on her feet now she pushed the much bigger man towards the nearest bed upon which he collapsed with a low growl. He was still rock-hard and very much on the verge of doing something awful to her. It would seem like the desperate animalistic look on his face communicated well to Nim what he needed now most right now. She herself was becoming desperate. He could see in the candlelight the glistening of wetness between her thighs and the thought of her becoming so wet just for him drove him mad.
Once on the bed, she straddled him, pressing herself down onto his thick long cock. As she ground against its entire length her breath caught in her throat as she no doubt realized the implications of trying to fit him inside herself after abstaining from sex for many months now – not to mention the sheer difference in size between a small Dunmer and this giant of an Atmoran. Miraak’s warm and slightly calloused hands found their place at the dips above her hips, pulling her down and driving his cock in between her wet lips.
“It is not… too late to… reconsider,” he rasped, struggling to get the words out. As much as he wanted to shove himself into her and go on until the sun came up, he respected his new boss just enough to worry about her well-being and to mind her opinion.
Her only answer was her fingers wrapping themselves around his cock soaked with precum and her own wetness. Miraak’s draconic willpower came under scrutiny once more as he felt the tip pressing up against her tight body that invited him in with copious amounts of slickness. His fingers curled and his nails dug deep into the skin of her hips as he tried his damn best to keep himself steady. Slowly and with difficulty, she managed to sink down onto him about halfway before stopping to let her body adjust to the unusual stretch, which was almost too much. Deep breaths and a slight wrinkle between her brows told Miraak just how damn big he was for her. One part felt regretful for causing such discomfort, wanted to cease right now, try some other time… The other half of him was about to snap and ram into her with all his might.
“Ah, fuck… you’re so… damn huge…” There was a slight tremble in her voice, but the tone was oh-so-sultry.
“We may stop… whenever you desire” offered Miraak again, holding on for his dear life. He, of course, didn’t mean those words. If she decided to stop right now, he’d simply die.
She wiggled her hips and took him in to the very base, her tight hot wetness squeezing him in all the right places.
“Not until…” She paused to take in a sharp breath and then moved; up and forth, then back and down. Too painfully slow. “...I get an orgasm or two out of you. Couldn’t help myself… but wonder… what’s it like to fuck Lord Miraak.”
As she rode him, slowly getting up to speed, her palms slid across his bare chest skin and so did her eyes. She… admired him? Her small hands caressed his stomach, sliding up the bumps of the pectoral muscles, touched his chest painted with the inky-black swirls and blotches of Herma Mora’s markings, ran through the fair hair on his chest and over his strong, wide shoulders, nails scratching ever so slightly. Miraak’s own dark eyes and needy hands were busy studying her too, sliding up and down her form. Her skin, just as he imagined, was soft and plump. The breasts, though… Those were much softer and bigger than he imagined, with perky nipples turning pink under his thumbs. She whimpered softly as he gently squeezed and kneaded them. Even as she bounced on him, driving him closer and closer to relief, he still wanted to taste her skin on his tongue. He may not be able to devour her soul anymore, but her body? That was something he just had to have against his mouth.
It was way too easy – flipping such a small and light woman as Nim onto her back, causing her to gasp in surprise as well as from the sudden emptiness as he withdrew from her. She was quick to try and get herself onto him but his bearded mouth pressed against her jaw quickly calmed her down. Without hesitation, he licked and kissed and pressed his teeth into her flesh. He sucked bruises into her neck, all the while she squirmed and gasped and quietly moaned. Miraak would not stop until her whole neck was red from his aggressive kisses. Only then he’d descend tracing the long scar with his lips, dipping his head between her breasts, then clasping his mouth over the nipple to gently suck and caress with his tongue. Oh, he adored those soft perky tits. With both a hand and a mouth he gently tortured them, leaving bright red marks behind, knowing damn well they were going to show bruises by tomorrow. Nim’s quiet moans were rising in volume, and her chest was heaving, and that only encouraged Miraak to ravage her even more. He was on his way toward her pink-flushed soaking cunt, when he felt a tug in his hair. Raising his poisonous eyes at her he saw her blushed face with hazy eyes staring down at him. Oh, how he dreamed to have her look at him like that one day. And here she was, giving him the dirtiest look he could ever imagine. A look he could never hope to see in the eyes of any of his concubines or brothel whores. It was the look of someone who was prepared to both beg and demand. A look of will bent, without ever uttering a single word.
“Please… Just fuck me already!” was all she could rasp.
He rose above her until he was eye-to-eye with her, his still-hard cock brushing against her wetness.
“Do say that again, Shulviini,” he purred, feeling the coil within him tighten to impossibility at her provoking words. They had the power to break him. To completely undo him. To turn him into nothing more but a wild animal, driven only by the immense desire to breed. All she had to do is tell him to.
She pushed herself up on her elbows and for a second there he thought she might’ve finally come to and decided that it was enough for tonight. But what she did was quickly turn around and present herself to him in the most raw, animalistic way. Chest down to the sheets, legs wide apart, she was letting him know she didn’t want him to be gentle. She was permitting to give into his deepest, most natural instinct.
“Zu’u Los Hin, Miraak.” Near perfect Dovahzul dripped from her lips and his breath jumped a hitch as he could feel the Dov within writhe awake with its burning desire to dominate. “Fuck me like you almost did back at the Summit.”
Without skipping a heartbeat he grabbed her hips and sunk himself into her with one strong thrust to the hilt. His instincts were taking hold of him at long last. Without waiting for her to get adjusted to him stretching her wide open once again he thrust in with desperation, then almost pulled out, then slammed again into her, feeling the tip brush up against her cervix. The dirty sounds of wet skin slapping, Miraak’s deep guttural growling, and Nim’s not-so-quiet anymore ah-s with every loud wet slap filled the room, no doubt spilling into the hall but it mattered not. No one would bat an eye at yet more shameless moaning coming out of a brothel’s room.
Miraak pounded into her harder and faster, pushing himself deeper and deeper, trying to fit all of himself inside of her, letting himself shamelessly enjoy the tight muscles squeezing around all around him. As his orgasm crept in, he bent down lower, pressing her chest tight against the bed, making her curve her spine and push her ass against him so he could puch into her even deeper, and drive her towards her orgasm even quicker. Her breathy moans, wide-open mouth, and fingers tightly squeezing the bedsheets told Miraak that he had indeed hit the right spot. He could feel her body tightening up before she finally broke down and screamed into the pillow, squeezing her pulsating walls around him with all her strength, toes curling up in the best pleasure she felt in, probably, years. He couldn’t hold back any longer either. With a low growl through the tightly-clenched jaw he, at long last, came. With a few last strong pushes, he threw his head back and spilled himself deep inside her hot core with an almost tortured moan, letting a week’s worth of sexual frustration out of himself until it shamelessly dripped down her thighs.
Heaving and soaked in sweat he fell onto a bed, staring blankly at the ceiling above for a few moments, waiting for his wildly beating heart to calm down. There was an unexpected peace in his mind now. The coil was finally released. He was at ease. He felt… good. This was good. She was even better. He would definitely want to repeat this, if only possible.
He could feel the bed shift and move as she got up, the sound of bare feet tapping against the wooden floors echoed throughout the room as she wobbled toward her nightrobe still lying crumpled on the floor.
“You know,” she said, her voice hoarse and tired, “if you wanna do this again, just say so.”
“I want to do this again,” he said, eyes still locked up on the ceiling above him, wide chest quickly raising and falling, sweat glistening upon ink-stained and scar-ridden skin.
He could hear the rustling nearby him. He heard a quiet “Dibella’s tits” escape her as she, no doubt, took notice of him being hard for her again.
“Give a girl a moment to catch her breath, at least!”
He chuckled, quietly, and closed his eyes, letting himself rest a bit. After all, the sun is yet some ways away from rising...