Blood Debt of the Wild Elf

by Amanda Clover

  But it is not meant to be. As she wails with her orgasm and tries to hold Gerrik fast between her thighs, the wiry goblin wriggles out from between her legs and leaps to his feet. His clawed hand is a blur as he wanks his glistening cock. Bronwen sits up, just in time to catch an off-white rope of goblin cum right in the face. Gerrik throws back his head, lost in pleasure as her mouth suddenly latches to his spurting cock. Bronwen finishes him without missing a beat, drinking down his sweet load and licking his goblin cock clean until it begins to shrivel in her mouth.

  There is a soft ding and green text floats into the air.

  ORAL SEX +600 XP

  Even more than with the orc! Perhaps because he is such a high level compared to her own, reasons Bronwen. Her heart swells with delight. She hears a louder chime and feels a sudden wave of invigoration coming over her. Her wound is gone, the poultice falling away and leaving not a mark on her flesh. She feels stronger.

  New text explodes into the air in glowing golden letters, the words heralded by the playing of trumpets that only Bronwen is able to hear.

  LEVEL 2 REACHED!

  Gerrik steps away, looking at her accusingly.

  “You cannot do that, Bronwen,” he says. “You nearly made me impregnate you and you do not understand what that means.”

  “But you are my master and I would be honored to have your children or gobkins or whatever you call them.” She catches a dollop of cum on her finger and licks it clean. It is salty-sweet. So much more delicious than that foul orc cum. She crawls towards Gerrik, her round ass working enticingly and her eyes lidded with lust. Her shoulders are patterned with the unusual Wild Elf dappling of forest camouflage.

  Gerrik steps away from her and quickly ties his loincloth over his flaccid manhood.

  “If you get knocked up, it’s game over,” says Gerrik. “You will be trapped forever and there won’t be anything I can do to help you.”

  “I would enjoy being trapped forever with you, master,” she says, reaching out for his loincloth.

  “Stop,” he commands and she is forced to obey. His tone softens and he adds, “Choose your new ability and then let’s get out of here.”

  “Yes, master,” she says, pulling on her damaged loincloth and concentrating on her sheet.

  Bronwen-of-the-Red-Feather

  Race: Wild Elf

  Alignment: Good

  Class: Warrior

  Status: Blood Debt to Gerrik

  Level: 2

  Experience Points: 1500/2500

  Strength:

  16

  Hit Points: 37/37

  Agility:

  11

  Armor Points: 0/3

  Stamina:

  12

  Intelligence:

  10

  Willpower:

  10

  Charisma:

  10

  Special Abilities

  Wild Elf Fury (Ignore Pain or Fear Effects for 60 seconds)

  + CHOOSE A NEW ABILITY

  Equipment

  Damaged Wild Elf Basic Armor (0)

  Damaged ??? Sword (Inadequate Level)

  Sexual Content – YES

  Extreme Content - YES

  Fertility – YES

  Bronwen sees immediately that her Hit Points have increased by 10 plus the 1 point bonus for her above-average stamina. She has also received her choice of a new ability. She concentrates on that choice and her sheet fades from view to be replaced by three options.

  Choose your new ability…

  Wild Elf(?)

  Warrior(?)

  Whore(?)

  Jungle Camouflage

  Power Strike

  Irresistible Kiss

  Bronwen is momentarily angry at her choices. She knows Wild Elf must be her racial ability and Warrior her class ability, but where did “Whore” come from? While she feels insulted, she focuses on the question mark hovering behind the word and receives an explanation in glowing text.

  Whore abilities are available for any level during which you gain 50% or more of your experience from sexual activity.

  Bronwen frowns and realizes the math is just right. What’s more, she is well on her way to gaining 50% or more of Level 3 from sexual activity. She closes the explanation for Whore and examines her choices again. Concentrating on Jungle Camouflage, she instantly knows that it will make traveling through the jungle and approaching enemies stealthily much easier. She concentrates on Power Strike and knows that this will allow her next blow to inflict triple damage. Finally, she focuses on Irresistible Kiss and knows that any touch of her lips or tongue will impart great desire on the recipient and make it impossible for them to refuse her advances.

  Both Jungle Camouflage and Power Strike would be extremely useful in rescuing her friends. Her gaze focuses on Gerrik, who is waiting impatiently nearby and glancing around to be sure they have not been heard in the throes of their pleasure. She can still feel his magnificent little cock inside her, rubbing against her clit, the weight of his robin’s egg-sized bollocks against her as he hilted in her eager quim.

  She resists the urge to reach down and touch herself and, on a whim, she chooses the Irresistible Kiss power. Master might benefit from it in the future. Besides, she thinks, she never knows when she might run into a monster that needs to be tamed.

  Once selected, the power etches itself into her body and mind. It is listed on her sheet and indelibly a part of who she is. She rises and approaches Gerrik, tempted to try out her new power on him, but more eager to save Elyana from captivity.

  “Can we go and save my friend now, master?” She asks hopefully.

  “No, I’m sorry, Bronwen,” says Gerrik. “We will go to the human village of Aysgarden. I will explain everything to you there and then you will understand. I hope. It will be difficult. I have never before succeeded in making someone believe.”

  “Make them believe what, master?” Bronwen asks, hiding her disappointment about rescuing Elyana.

  “The truth of this world,” says Gerrik ominously. “The truth of your very existence.”

  “I will believe you,” says Bronwen with a smile. “You are my master.”

  “Yeah, you might be right about that, it may help,” chuckles the goblin. “If you see the truth I tell you and you still insist upon rescuing your friend, we will go and attempt to save her. The orcs will not leave until the morning. They will spend tonight… celebrating.”

  The way he pronounces the final word sends a child down Bronwen’s back. She understands. Orc revelry usually involves murder and rape. But a slave girl like Elyana would not be killed. She would be too valuable to the orcs.

  “Very well, master,” says Bronwen, bowing her head. “We will go to the human village.”

  III

  Aysgarden

  Bronwen and Gerrik leave the sweltering heat of the jungle for one of the trade roads cut through the dense foliage by the humans. These well-trod dirt paths have been carved into the jungle by hundreds of wagons and tens of thousands of feet. Even the elves of the Red Feather tribe, loathe to venture into human settlements, have walked these roads to trade when necessary.

  Aysgarden is built around a fortified outpost of red wood and the entire village of peat hovels and larger wooden buildings is surrounded by a palisade of sharpened spearwood. Green and white pennants of the Empire of Urik fly at the gate and a pair of guards step forth as Bronwen and Gerrik approach. They lower their halberds and command, “Halt!”

  Gerrik stops and Bronwen advances a step further. The two men regard her with a mixture of suspicion and lust. They look her over, their gazes lingering on her bare breasts and shapely hips.

  “We don’t let no goblins in here,” says the guard with a pock-marked face.

  “Right,” agrees the other, a stout man with a red beard. He spits onto the road. “And an elf has to pay the toll.”

  “He is my prisoner,” says Bronwen, yanking the rope that Gerrik gave her to tie around his neck. He stumbles forward
half a step. “My village has been overrun by orcs and I need a place to shelter for the night.”

  “’Tis late and the sun grows low,” agrees the bearded guard. “Got to find a place to lay that pretty head. Hows about my lap?”

  “Yeah, and mine,” laughs the other guard.

  “I’ll pay the toll with coin,” says Bronwen, with no desire to pleasure any man but her master. “One gold for each. And I’m being generous.”

  She lifts the sack she took from the dead orc and takes out two gold coins. The pock-marked man snatches them from her hand and passes one back to his comrade.

  “Give us a feel of them beauties,” demands the pock-marked man, his bloodshot gaze focused on her breasts. “Got to make sure you isn’t hidin’ nothin’.”

  The man reaches out and grabs a handful of Bronwen’s right breast. She looks down as he roughly squeezes her creamy mound, her nipple pressing against the palm of his hand and his fingers sinking into her plush titflesh.

  “Ohh, that’s a good one,” he chuckles.

  “Gimme a feel,” says the bearded guard, grabbing Bronwen’s other breast and squeezing even harder.

  She stifles a cry of discomfort and instead carefully intones, “You had better be finished or you might go home without your cocks.”

  She rests her hand on the hilt of her broken-tipped sword. She still cannot wield it properly, but she knows it can deal fairly severe damage from how well it damaged her in the hands of the orc. The threat is enough to force the guards back a step. They exchange a glance and the bearded one shrugs to the pockmarked guard.

  “Very well, milady,” says the man with the pockmarks. He steps out of Bronwen’s path and he and his companion shoulder their halberds. “Have a pleasant visit.”

  Bronwen smiles sweetly and walks between them, giving a jerk to the rope tied around Gerrik’s neck and pulling the goblin behind her. The gate opens toward them with a loud creak of ancient wood. The bearded guard kicks at Gerrik as he passes.

  Bronwen shoots the man a murderous glance, but leads Gerrik into the settlement, entering the muddy street to the smells of cookfires, urine, and the burned iron tang from the open-sided smithy. The humans working in shop stalls and businesses with open doors pause in their labors and stare at Bronwen and her captive goblin.

  “Put on a proper blouse,” mutters an elderly woman, hustling her grandchildren past Bronwen.

  A few men, already drunk despite the daylight hour, begin to shout insults at Gerrik and to a lesser extent Bronwen as well.

  “Got yourself a husband, elf?!” Jeers one ruddy-faced man, gesturing lewdly with his hand on his trousers. “Want a reaaaaal man?”

  “Come and gives us a feels o’ them milkers!” Slurs another, sloshing a clay pot of drink down his shirt.

  Bronwen’s face burns with humiliation. She has never felt ashamed of her body before, but now, with all these humans leering at her, she sees why their women choose to dress so modestly in long skirts.

  “You mean are no better than beasts!” She growls, too low for them to hear.

  She rests her hand on the grip of her sword, but the men make no move to pursue her as she passes them by. She stops at a crossroads in the center of the village. Gerrik, evidently distracted by something, walks straight into her backside, face-first into her barely-covered buttocks.

  “S-sorry!” He squeaks, staggering back a step.

  “Where do we go now, master?” Bronwen wonders uncertainly.

  The grimy human dwellings and shops are difficult to distinguish one from the other. Gerrik presses against her hip and points past her down the main thoroughfare.

  “There,” says the goblin. “The taverns and inns are there. They suck in a shitty town like Aysgarden, but it beats trying to relax in the jungle.”

  Bronwen could not disagree more with her master’s words, but she also does not wish to voice such disagreement. She sets off down the road, stepping carefully to avoid mounds of manure and bits of broken glass from a smashed bottle.

  The humans around the taverns and inns are harder and more diverse than those they encountered just past the gate. These are folk from other lands, with strange costumes and the equipment of adventurers and travelers. There are dark-skinned men from Shaddobar and steel-shod paladins from one of the holy orders of the human gods. She even sees a dwarf conversing with a few slender high elves. Her gold-skinned cousins lack the robust bodies of the wild elves and dress in elaborate costumes of silk and gold. They sneer with disgust at their human surroundings and step hurriedly past the ramshackle door to an inn called the Bubbling Stewpot.

  “There,” whispers Gerrik, indicating the inn the high elves found unacceptable. “That’ll be cheap enough.”

  Bronwen pushes through the door of the inn and is greeted by the unpleasant stench of humans. There are a number of them, locals mostly by the manner of their dress, crowded around a few tables and drinking ale and rotgut from wooden cups. Many of the men stare at Bronwen with naked lust. A few mutter about the presence of the goblin or what they would do to Bronwen if given the chance.

  A beefy man with a well-trimmed beard stands behind a water-warped plank of bar top. He stares at Bronwen’s bare tits and his mouth spreads into a wide, uneven smile as Bronwen approaches.

  “Won’t serve your pet,” he says. “But I’d be happy to serve a well-feathered elf like you.”

  “A room and two meals,” she says.

  “Yeah? Shackin’ up with the goblin?” The bearded barman scratches his forehead. “Dunno if ye can afford the price of a room for a beast like that. Twenty gold.”

  Bronwen weighs the coins she took from the orc and knows she has nowhere near that amount.

  “Six,” she counters.

  “Not a negotiation,” says the barman. “Unless you want to step back into the kitchen and sort things out. I’m sure the boys would be happy to keep an eye on your pet.”

  The lecherous smile of the barman warns Bronwen away from any private negotiation. A few of the patrons of the inn crowd around her and Gerrik.

  One man shouts, “Yeah give us the rope. We’ll make sure he hangs around!”

  Another one of the patrons shoves Gerrik into his comrade and that man turns and punches the goblin in the face. The blow knocks Gerrik to the floor.

  Bronwen draws her sword and turns on the patrons, swinging in a slow, wide arc to warn them back from her fallen master. She helps Gerrik to his feat and warns the humans, “Stay back! Do not try that again or I will cut you down.”

  “Over a goblin?” One man cries with outrage.

  “Disgusting! You bringing that thing into our walls!” Shouts another.

  The barman hammers his fists onto his bar, knocking over a few wooden cups and spilling ale onto the floor.

  “Enough of that! All of you!” He holds out his hand to Bronwen. “I’ve a room in the back of the building. You can take that with your pet. Meals an’ ale but no mashwine. Eight gold.”

  She has just enough. She quickly hands over the gold and the barman shouts the other patrons back. They grumble as they retreat. A few break off from the group and leave the inn, muttering to each other and casting angry glances at Bronwen and Gerrik.

  The promised room is scarcely more than a closet stuck between the kitchen and the pantry. A wardrobe leaning on one shorter leg has clearly seen better days. There is a bed, but it is not even long enough for Bronwen to lie down. She sits on the creaking frame and leans her back and shoulders against the wall. Gerrik sits on the floor beside her. The room’s small table is hardly big enough for the two cups of ale and the large steaming bowl of stew and crusty bread. Gerrik sniffs the stew and makes a sour face. Bronwen finds, to her surprise, that the savory scent of the stew is quite appealing and it sets her belly grumbling.

  “I will talk, you eat,” says Gerrik. “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Oh, thank you master,” moans Bronwen with relief. She picks up the wooden spoon and begins shoveling the st
ew into her mouth. The meat is scarce, fatty, and the vegetables cooked almost to mush, but it doesn’t matter. The salty broth is delicious after all that she has been through and she eats and drinks enthusiastically.

  Gerrik smiles and watches Bronwen eat for a moment before he begins to speak.

  “When you look at me and consider me, you see the text above my head?” Gerrik asks.

  She nods, her mouth stuffed with bread.

  “Right, and you call it holy text,” he says. “From the gods. Like the gods that reward you experience and the gods that decide what abilities you got to choose when you leveled up.”

  “Mmmmhmmm,” says Bronwen between slurps of stew.

  “But it’s not,” says Gerrik. “It’s part of the system, put in place my humans, that gives you information about this world. The humans that created this world. You think of it as Aysgarden or your village in the Kojun jungle, maybe Tarol or Shaddobar, or the whole of the planet is Nerth. But that’s not where we are, Bronwen. We are in an entire realm created by humans inside a machine and it is called Eternities.”

  Bronwen swallows the food she has been chewing, wipes her lips on the back of her hand, and says, “No, that’s not possible.”

  “Most of the people you see around you, near as I can tell, are created by the machine. They aren’t real. That orc you killed wasn’t real.” Gerrik pats his chest. “I am real and you are real.”

  “I’m no different from them,” says Bronwen, gesturing to the door with her spoon.

  “You were brought here by the Taker,” says Gerrik. “Like me. You had another life before this one, Bronwen. A real life. I told you that I remember my name, Alex, but I remember more than that. I remember streets of another place and machines called cars and the very machines that created this world. I remember floating in water and then being here. And I remember the Taker coming for me. Do you remember that?”