by Hawk, Reagan
Unease settled over him. He had known this would be a fool’s mission. One he should not have undertaken himself, but he’d had no choice. He had to find his brother. He had to make amends, and he would walk through the cesspool called Vesta a thousand times over if he thought it would give him a chance to make things right. Banishing Jaelyn all those years ago had been a mistake. One he’d lived with for nearly two decades. Lies and a woman—a woman Kritan had believed meant more to him than she did—had fostered an environment that left him speaking words he could not take back, and sending his brother far from home. So long had gone by with no word on his brother’s whereabouts, that when a missive arrived telling a tall tale—one that spoke of Jaelyn not only being alive but in grave danger, so much so that his brother was suddenly on borrowed time, Kritan could not stop himself. He’d mounted a steed and set forth on a quest to find the man—to hell with the cost. Regardless that he had men to do such things for him. That, as King of Katarius, rushing alone into the kingdom of Tamonius was not simply reckless, it was suicide. This was his brother and he would right the wrong he’d committed long ago.
“You look like you like it rough,” a whore said, cupping her unimpressive breasts as she wiggled for him. It was clear to see the woman had serviced many cocks in her days and life had not been kind to her.
Her friend and fellow whore slinked her arms over the woman’s shoulders and flicked her tongue, as if being offered a threesome would create a more appealing sight for him to behold. Kritan was no stranger to threesomes, foursomes and more. But he would never soil himself with the likes of these women. All the face paint in the kingdom could not hide the signs of disease on their skin, and the reek of strong spirits they’d been drinking could not mask the fact they had not bathed in months. Maybe more. Both looked heavily used and past their prime. Neither motivated his cock.
He had been too long between fucks and should have felt his beast stirring, wanting release. As a Katarian male shifter he was immune to the diseases that plagued the non-shifters—sexual or not. Though dirty whores never tempted him. He had certain standards, ones belonging to a king. There were many women who begged to be at his service within his castle, ready to ease his cock should he but click his fingers. All were screened by him before being granted such a coveted position. And sometimes, when he felt randy, he would sneak away to the buttery with a serving wench or two.
Regardless how long it had been since he’d fucked, his focus remained firm—find his brother.
Find Jaelyn.
Nothing else mattered.
“Perhaps he doesn’t like cunt,” stated the taller whore with an ungodly cackle.
Her friend grabbed a third female, this one smaller, and thrust her at him. “You like your cunt young? You can take her and pretend she’s your—”
Grunting, Kritan held up a hand, stopping the crass woman from going on. The girl could not have seen more than seventeen summers. Reaching under his cloak, he found his coin purse and withdrew a gold coin. He flicked it to the oldest of the women and leveled his hard gaze upon her. The beast pulsed in him, wanting free, wanting to silence the older woman.
The young girl was but a child in his eyes and that of the beast, and both believed children should be cherished and protected, not sold to whomever could pay. He knew his dark eyes now danced with icy-blue flecks and he knew what a show of power such a thing presented to the lowborns. “Take this child from the streets. Feed her. See she sleeps in a proper bed without a man sharing it, and if I see her upon these streets again, or hear of your whoring her out again, I will take your head from your neck. Am I clear?”
The woman clutched the gold coin and nodded, backing away from him. “The devil is in his eyes,” she whispered.
Her accomplice gasped. “His eyes reflect the light. Like an animal!”
The young girl was the only one who didn’t look scared of him. He supposed he was one of only a few men to turn down the offer of time with her, and he guessed she held no desire to be part of the life that had damaged her acquaintances. She didn’t move as she stared up at him with a faint smile touching her lips. “Thank you, sir.”
With a nod, he left them as they hurried away. He knew he’d put enough fear into the older two that for at least a few nights they’d keep the younger woman off the streets. Such was the way of things in Vesta. If it were under his rule, so much would change.
So much depravity would never have been permitted.
He was not a cruel leader. He did not rule through fear, but he did rule all the same. He was respected, and while he understood there were certain elements of society that would never change, he did what he could to control it by whatever means necessary.
Vesta had strayed from the path centuries before Kritan’s birth. Stories told of it once being a great city full of knowledge, arts and technologies. That was long ago. A time nearly forgotten. He did not know what had prompted its downfall, but it was evident it had indeed fallen. He wasn’t sure it could be saved or if the inhabitants even wanted the help.
A street peddler approached, his cart of wares jingling as he walked. The end of the street looked as though it might still be used as a market. Though, to sell what, Kritan wasn’t sure. No reputable person of Tamonius would be caught dead in this section of the city—that is, if reputable persons even existed anymore in the kingdom. He was fast beginning to doubt any did.
The cloaked man, pushing the vendor cart, smelled of mortality and sickness. Dirt clung to his cloak, coating the lower portion the most, as if he’d walked through his fair share of slop. The man slowed his pace as he neared Kritan. “What have you?” the man asked. “Got me a bit of anythin’ you might be wantin’, sir.”
Kritan tried to ignore him, but the man lifted his arms, causing Kritan’s hand to go to the hilt of his sword. The man stared out from one good eye, the other a mass of scars and what looked to be old burns. “None of that now, boy.”
Boy?
Kritan held his tongue. He was far older than this man. He was older than most.
“I’ve the finest goods you’ll find this part of Vesta,” the vendor said, motioning to his street cart. “If you’re into the finer things, which I can tell you are, I’ve decommissioned pieces. The kind others can’t come by. It’s my specialty.”
Alarm raced through Kritan. Most technologies had been banned centuries ago. To be caught with pieces that weren’t fully decommissioned could mean prison. He did not need to be detained now because some street vendor wanted to turn a profit.
Upon closer look, he could see glimpses of old objects once used during the Age of Space Travel. An age that had left the people of Panucia with too much power and too little self-restraint. It was before Kritan’s time, but he’d heard enough stories from his father to know it was a time best left alone.
“Be gone, old man,” Kritan said sternly. “I want nothing to do with what you sell.”
He did not need guards poking around, and the vendor was sure to bring them about. The old man shrugged and turned, pushing his cart and mumbling as he went. “Youngin’ think they know the way of things. They know nothing.”
Light shone from the tavern nearest Kritan. He pushed the thin, worn material to the side in the entranceway and entered. A serving wench nearly plowed into him, her hands full with a tray of mead. She scoffed at him and then carried on with her duties, placing full mugs of ale before already-drunken patrons.
Someone played a flute to the right and the sound was nearly drowned out by the volume of the locals. Kritan’s nostrils flared as the smell of sex washed over him. Sweat. Dirt. Cunt. Cum. Piss and shit.
He stiffened, fighting the urge to lose his lunch.
Filthy heathens.
His gaze moved to the barkeep and then around the room. He looked for a man with a gold wolf brooch. That was what his informant would be wearing. Something the Tamoni wouldn’t normally be caught in. They disliked the beasts from the Northeast greatly. The feeling was mut
ual. The Katarian held no love for the Tamoni. Kritan knew there was no love lost between Tamonius and the other occupied countries on Panucia. The Vamone’s hatred of the Tamoni made the Katarian’s thoughts on them look downright loving.
No fault could be placed on the Vamone. Tamonius continued to launch raids against them, stealing their women and taking slave labor.
Kritan would not be here if it was not for his brother. The thought kept him centered and focused.
Several of the men looked towards him. Some wore the colors of the Tamoni army—mercenaries who once had order and training behind them but who now worked for senators as guards and hired thugs. Others looked to be civilians out for a good time. As a full-figured woman lifted her tunic high, exposing her sex, two men shoved her back onto a tabletop.
“That’s right, men, step up if you think you’ve got what it takes to impress me,” she said, her accent heavy. She lacked front teeth and had at least a week’s worth of grime upon her face and arms. The men did not seem to care. “I will be the judge of whose cock is bigger. Stick them in me. I’ll test them just right.”
Men lined up and Kritan held his tongue, glancing around, looking for a man with a gold brooch as the woman permitted man after man to take his turn with her. She lay there laughing, sticking her tongue out and pushing several men away by their foreheads so that another could join in the fun. The entire ordeal was revolting. Kritan would never understand the ways or thoughts of the Tamoni.
He exited the establishment, pleased to be free of the scents within. Being one with a beast, and being able to smell things others outside of his kind could not, often left him sensitive to odors. Sounds and light as well. Vesta was full of everything but light. He had yet to see it during the daytime, but he half wondered if the sun’s rays could not penetrate through the horrors of Vesta.
His soft boots crunched the gravel mix beneath his feet. He made his way to the next tavern. He slowed his pace as two men stumbled from the entrance.
“You should see the fine piece of cunt I just fucked,” one said, swaying to the left and then so far to the right Kritan assumed he’d fall over. Somehow he managed to stay upright.
His companion smiled wide, showing off rotted teeth. “Like virgin cunt. Tight. Tender body.”
The other nodded. “She was the best I’ve ever seen. Nothing like chained cunts to satisfy a man and his needs. Three of ’em in there. Sisters. Fine fucks. You can stick your prick in them anywhere you want, as much as you want so long as you buy yourself a drink first.”
Chained women?
“Looked like three virgins of loveliness,” said the swaying man.
“But the way their pussies milked my cock says they’ve known much dick,” the other added. “Just as a woman should.”
Kritan’s temper rose, at odds with his need to find Jaelyn and his need to smash in the faces of these lowborns. He couldn’t in good conscience allow three women to be chained sex slaves.
One of the men clasped his hand on Kritan’s shoulder. “Try their asses too.”
Kritan shrugged the man off and entered the tavern. He was struck instantly with the scent of rotting flesh—corpses. He stilled, wondering why they would keep the long dead among the living. Vesta continued to surprise him when he thought himself a worldly man.
The patrons were rowdy, all gathered around, forming a circle with an open center. Kritan spotted chains hooked to the ceiling. As the crowd parted slightly, he expected to see the three bound young women. What he saw shocked his senses. He was wrong. The smell wasn’t from corpses. Three old hags were naked and bound, each grinning wider than the next as they performed various sex acts upon the patrons.
They were old—very old—from before the height of Panucia’s Age of Space Travel. They smelled of death and magik. As Kritan caught sight of one of their inner arms, he spotted the witch’s mark. He knew then what they were. Fornication Hags. It made sense. They were thought to be extinct, having last been seen in the Valley of the Dead some eight centuries ago. Kritan had thought the rumors of their abilities to wield glamour to be greatly exaggerated. How could these men not see what was before them? How could they not see that what they were so eager to stick their pricks into was a hag as old as time? It was clear by the drunken taunts from the crowd that the lowborn, non-magiks clamoring for a chance to stick their cocks in the cackling hags did not see what was truly there. The fables of the Fornication Hags had not done them justice.
It was said those without magik or with limited magik would look upon them and see them as virginal young women, flawless and highly sexual. In reality, they were ancient and fed off sex and lust. Each man who dared to thrust their cock inside them ran the risk of becoming part of their thrall—to be called upon by them at a later date, forced to serve their every whim. At this rate the three would have the whole of the Vesta tavern district enthralled by the end of the month.
One of the hags was on her hands and knees before a man who wore a high-end tunic—a sign the highborns without magik were not immune to the hags’ charms either. The man’s cock was deep in her mouth and he looked swept up in the act.
The men around the one getting his cock sucked cheered and lifted their mugs of mead into the air. “Finish with her, I want a turn.”
“Fi-ll her belly w-with your seed,” another said, his speech slightly slurred as if he’d had too much drink.
The ignorant fools had no idea what was truly before them. What they were giving away for a chance at perceived bliss.
Their souls.
The hag nearest Kritan paused, her gaze moving to him. A sickening smile danced upon her face. She winked and then brought her index finger to her lips. “Shhh.”
A nod was all he offered. He held no love for the locals and it was evident they were not worth his pity or intervention. The hags could keep their secret. What did he care if they took over the entire city? Would anyone notice? Could it be any worse than it was? He had a mission and they were not part of it. Besides, they had to be doing something with the power they collected from the sexual encounters. He didn’t want to become the target for it.
Movement from the corner of the tavern caught Kritan’s attention. A man with a brown cloak stood there. A gold wolf pin was fastened to the cloak. A sense of relief washed over Kritan. He would not be forced to endure any more taverns on his hunt for his informant. He had found him. His contact motioned for Kritan to follow him as he pushed back a worn, red cloth that hung in a darkened doorway.
All of Kritan’s senses lit, on the ready in case it was a trap. He walked past the three hags. One touched his leg. “Sire, let us please you. It has been so long since we serviced one of your kind.”
He resisted the urge to jerk back from her touch, instead schooling his face. He didn’t need them sending their thralls after him because he’d injured their pride. “I am on a quest. Perhaps after.”
More like never. No amount of ale or spirits would make them appear as anything more than they were and he did not want to have to chew off his own arm to escape them come morning.
More like I’d have to burn off my own cock should it happen into one of them.
She released him, content with his response.
Stepping past the material, Kritan took a deep breath. Sex. The scent was everywhere. He couldn’t escape it. Small oil lamps hung from the corridor’s ceiling, providing very little in the way of light. As a Katarian, he required little to be able to see. He suspected the lighting was as such so those passing within the hall would not easily recognize one another. If he was right, this tavern was much more than a place to drink and eat. It was a Den of Debauchery—where one could come to get their every sexual desire fulfilled, no matter how perverse. And it was more than likely run by someone with great magik. It would explain the Fornication Hags and the overwhelming sense of desire that seemed to float through the air.
There was a flicker from the far right and then the scent of something he could not believe
would be happening so brazenly and in the open. Sex acts were one thing, but to use forbidden technologies was another. Kritan watched in stunned surprise as a holographic image of a woman sputtered in and out of focus. She was nude and squeezing her ample breasts while she darted her tongue in and out over her lower lip.
The entire ordeal might have looked erotic and enticing had the technology been in proper working order.
“Drink up,” she said, the sound quality dismal, probably from the age of the technology and neglect. The patrons raised their mugs and shouted for refills, all while continuing to fuck or watch others fuck the Fornication Hags.
What a hole in the ground.
Vesta was notorious for Dens of Debauchery. As was the whole of Tamonius. His kingdom was not without its establishments of ill repute, but it did not flaunt them the way Tamonius did. Higher-end dens in his kingdom were regulated and taxed. The business was profitable and in the end the regulations meant the women were clean and disease-free and well treated by the den owners and operators.
The scent of fresh blood came over Kritan, drawing him from his thoughts of home. He paused, the wolf within wanting to know more. Blood excited the animal. Always had and always would. Kritan pushed one of the curtains aside and spotted a peasant girl astride a man, a knife in her hand as she pulled it down his chest deep enough to draw blood, but not enough to cause real injury. The man’s eyes were closed as he thrust up into her cunt. He enjoyed the pain, the blood.
Kritan could not walk away from the sight of the act. On some level he enjoyed the show. The beast in him longed for the freedom to draw blood during sex. The man in him, while repulsed at the idea of causing his lover that type of pain, was curious as well. He was so caught up in the scene before him that he didn’t sense the men gathering around him until it was far too late. He knew then the blood sex act had been staged. It had been there to confuse his senses. To mask what he now smelled clearly.
