Cracking Open a Lad with the Cold Ones

**An Erotic Short Story Series

by R. Lyle (Resolute)**

Credits

Thank you to my beta readers: Queen of Ace, Wikus, Kukaczyk, and Jin.

A huge thank you to my premium patrons:

Rising Higher

Larry, TheLurkerDragon, and Betastorm

Soaring Between Worlds

Queen of Ace

Content warning: discussion of torture; PTSD; brief depictions/flashbacks of nonconsensual sexual acts and trauma

Part One

Wilmar stared at the hole in the mountainside and tried to judge if it was salvation or doom. He'd been blessed to find any sort of cave at all. It was hidden from outside view behind a large rock; if he hadn't been looking for exactly such a shelter, he'd never have stumbled across it. The cave entrance was certainly big enough for him to just walk inside and would offer cover from the stinging snow and biting wind.

The woe of it was, something probably lived there. He didn't see spoor, scattered bones, or tracks—he'd spent enough time hiding his own footfalls that he'd have noticed the latter for sure. The lack of obvious signs didn't lessen the flutter of unease in his belly. Maybe it was something he wasn't quite seeing, like that sense that had guided him before his capture by the dark elves. Maybe it was the certitude that the luck granted by Ranald which had bought his escape was certainly spent.

The unfortunate truth was, he no longer had a choice. His ears and nose ached through the meager wrapping around his head. His hands and feet were stiff and nearly unfeeling from the biting cold. If he stayed in the elements any longer, he might start losing fingers and toes—or far more. Just because he'd grasped the chance to be free while knowing it could kill him didn't mean he was ready to die.

He offered one last, desperate prayer for fortune before stepping into the cave.

The temperature barely rose, but at least the worst of the wind was gone. He went in as far as he dared before huddling down to take off one boot. The light from outside was just bright enough to let him see the redness on his skin. The foot wasn't entirely numb, at least. He checked the other and then rewrapped the cloths around them; he'd need a fire or some other warmth to properly thaw himself before it grew serious. Not that there was much wood outside. Setting a fire would also certainly attract attention from any search parties.

First, he had to make sure the cave was unoccupied.

He couldn't shake the sense that he wasn't alone as he felt his way along a ragged wall. Some sort of moss glowed just bright enough to let him see outlines of the cave. The babbling sound of falling water drew him deeper. Unfortunately, frozen as his nose still felt, he could pick up a smell. Not of rotting carrion or spoor, at least there was that. There was still a not-quite-musk that grated further on his instincts.

Two things became apparent as the wall curved into a larger chamber, with crystals refracting the moss-glow to twilight levels of visibility. First, there was indeed a source of water: a soft cascade down smooth stone which, blessedly, led to a pool with wisps of warmth wafting from the top. A hot spring! He wouldn't dare plunge in before testing the water—he'd heard terrible stories of men scalded, or burned by acid, or suffocated by invisible gases. Water and warmth would still solve two of his largest problems.

Unfortunately, even if it was safe, he was far less likely to enjoy them. The second revelation had validated the clamoring alarm in his gut.

He was not alone in the cave.

In fact, he was probably about to die to the two occupants. He'd seen that sleek raptor shape only from afar: once during that ill-fated battle that had ended with his capture, and twice during his short time in the dark elves' captivity.

Cold Ones.

They were vicious, feral predators the size of horses, with dark scales, long and thick tails, and horns. A wicked claw stood up from their two feet. He'd seen one use the shorter arm-like claws to grab onto a horse and pull it down with its toothed jaws around rider.

He felt a very ancient fear as slitted pupils fixed on him.

Ranald was, for certain, no longer with him. At least they'd kill him before he could be captured again. Unwilling to fully surrender to fate, he braced himself on aching feet and drew his poor excuse for a weapon: a cracked spearhead with a foot of splintered haft. He wouldn't get more than one blow, and he might not even pierce their thick hide.

At least he shouldn't die a coward. "Stay back," he growled, or hoped he growled. Maybe he could intimidate them long enough to flee. But then... even if he escaped, the cold would kill him just as surely. They could chase him down with impunity. No, there was only to stand and try to take one with him.

A rolling chuff-chuff-chuff, uncannily like a laugh, came from one of the great raptors.

"Rekha was right," came a deep voice from the shadows, somewhere near the Cold Ones. "He is not Druchii."

"One of their servants," another speaker replied. "Look at his clothes, his weapon. They could have sent him to find us."

"Hardly a weapon at all." The first voice was very close to the Cold One starting to circle to his right. Behind it, maybe? The guttural tones and rasps in the words suggested the speaker wasn't human. One of the lizardfolk? "And, look how he stands. He seems more desperate than broken into their service."

"He could still be with them. How else would he walk these lands?"

If they were lizardfolk there was a slim chance still. Somehow, Wilmar kept his voice steady. "I killed my captor and escaped. If you're enemies of the Dark Elves, we have the same foe."

"He understands us?"

"Interesting." The other Cold One took a few steps closer, head tilted. "Yes, I can smell dead elf blood. We do share a foe. What are you?"

"A scout," Wilmar said, then thought a little more basic. If they were from the same lizardfolk army that had broken his captors, they could be... well, the worst they'd do was kill him on the spot. Better them than the elves. "A man, from the south."

"A man?"

The further voice made some sort of thoughtful sound. "We have seen them before, remember? No points on their ears." That same unnerving chuff-chuff-chuff of a laugh echoed softly in the cave. "More meat on their bones."

A snort—from the closest raptor, oddly. "Not enough to be worth eating, especially on this one. Almost as thin as the Druchii, and shorter. Why are you here, man from the south?"

He didn't dare move to try and see who was speaking. He'd seen how fast one of the beasts could strike when its instincts were triggered. "I needed—I had to get out of the cold. I plan to escape from these cursed lands, to find a way down south." The hair on the back of his neck stood. "What are you?"

"You cannot see us?"

"I see two Cold Ones, but not whoever is speaking." Wilmar definitely felt he was being watched by more than the two of them.

Realization settled a heartbeat later and a mortal chill snuffed what little warmth he still felt. Not that luck would be with me now.

"And also," he added, turning his head and body just enough that he could back up to the cave wall in a single step, "whoever is behind me."

Low laughter rang out—from all directions, now.

"Perceptive," came a third voice from behind. One that was a little too close for comfort—not that any of this was comforting. "I doubt I'm close enough to strike him before he could strike me."

Wilmar tightened his grip on the broken spear and took a half step back; he was flanked now, but at least his back wasn't exposed. "If you're going to attack me, just do it. I'd rather die here than be captured again."

The raptor that had been at his back took a step into his line of view, though it stayed more than a pace away. "Are you so eager to die, man from the south?"

"No," he said, still trying to keep the tremor from his voice. "No. I want to escape, to go back to where it isn't so godsforsaken cold. Far away from the elves. If you let me recover here, I'll leave. No blood need be shed."

"The south is warm?" The voice came from the other side.

Wilmar frowned. "Yes, many parts of the south never see snow."

"Do you know the way?"

"I think so."

"We shouldn't kill him, my kin." The third raptor said... no, it couldn't be. "Man from the south, if you will tell us the way, we will bring you no harm. If the Druchii find us, either they die, or we will. What say you?"

Wilmar dared to look back in the wider cave. His eyes had adjusted to see all three Cold Ones, the curved walls of the cave... and no one else. "Wait. What are you?"

"I am Rekha," the Cold One in front of him said, its mouth moving in speech now that he knew to look. "You were speaking to Sevol and Lanan. There are no others here."

Wilmar's mortal fear faded into utter confusion. "Cold Ones are just... beasts. How can you talk?"

The one in front—Rekha?—huffed. "These are cursed lands, as you say, and the Druchii of the Cult of Pleasure are no less cursed. We are an experiment of theirs, a product of sorcery. They were trying to make more intelligent mounts, more compliant and easy to train for war." It gave a dark, rolling chuckle. "They succeeded too well at our intelligence, and not at all compliance. Which we taught them when we killed our creators and escaped."

A product of sorcery wasn't a reassuring explanation. Terror renewed itself as he realized what sorceries the damned elves used—particularly the same Cult that had captured him.

He tightened his grip on the makeshift weapon. "Do you serve the Ruinous Powers, then?"

The hiss from all three nearly had him swinging his blade before he realized it wasn't directed at him.

"Never," Rekha growled. "We will never serve whatever foulness aids the Druchii. We have allegiance only to each other, to the strength of our fangs and claws and force of will." It—she?—regarded him, nostrils flaring twice. "You smell of fear, and yet you stand with bravery. You needn't be our enemy. If we pledge not to harm you, will you pledge the same? We each want survival and escape, it seems."

His mind whirled. Unnatural. Abominations. He knew he should see the three as such.

And yet, he could see the intelligence in their eyes. He felt the sincerity of Rekha's words; in truth, what choice did he have? His fingers and feet were growing warm enough to bring stabbing pain through his limbs. His knees were growing weak as the mortal shocks ebbed into confusion and fatigue. It wouldn't be long before he could no longer hide his weakness. No, if they'd wanted to kill him, they could have. He wouldn't stand a chance against them. Nor would he survive outside. He would be killed, or worse, if even two dark elves found him. Probably even one. Or if he ran into the dread beasts that roamed the land. Or if he couldn't find food. Gods, the frostbite alone would spell his doom by nightfall.

A pact with these... beings... was hardly more certain. It was also the best chance for life he'd had since strangling his gut-shot guard and using the madness of pitched battle as cover to grab some supplies and escape the dark elf camp along with however many other slaves. He hadn't seen any others since—they'd been far more ragged and scattered in all directions. If the elves rallied, they would doubtless send hunting patrols.

Then there was the escape from Naggarond. Even if they made it, the route would take them through dark elf territory. Even if the outpost elves were killed or routed, doubtless others would send patrols. He barely remembered the maps—roughly sketched and poorly marked as they were. Even if they escaped the elves, the ravenous jungle was even more hostile than the bitter cold.

How can I even think about getting home when I'm likely dead within the next few days?

"If we pledge that, I will guide you south to the best of my skill," Wilmar found himself saying. "We can part ways once we've reached something closer to safety."

"Agreed, on all counts," Rekha said, taking a step back and seeming to sit. "Come, rest. The falling water is safe to drink, the standing water is blessedly hot. Tell us of your escape, and of the south, and we will share our story. Then we will plan our flight from these lands."

He slowly lowered his spear, and relief flooded him when none of the three moved to attack. Not that he dared assume safety. He could still die the moment his back was turned. Or the elves could find them, or his fingers and toes could turn black with the frost-rot, or...

He had only a faint glimmer of hope. That would have to be enough for now.

---

Wilmar awoke with a start. The flare of panic faded as he remembered why a very large raptor was lounging in the middle of the cave; the other two Cold Ones were nowhere to be seen. He hadn't expected to fall asleep so soon after worrying that they'd kill him.

And yet, he was alive.

They hadn't talked while he'd endured the lancing pain of thawing digits, for which he was grateful. He'd shared his tale during the tedium of laying out clothing to dry and listened to theirs while taking stock of his remaining supplies. They didn't understand the sorcery that had gone into their... creation, or mutation, or whatever had been done to give them thought and speech. Magic was far beyond his own understanding and he preferred to keep it that way. Besides, the future mattered more. They'd been fascinated by the idea of a snowless south, a land without biting winds and where game was plentiful. He'd have to part ways with them before reaching Imperial borders; unfortunately, he knew the Huntmarshal himself would probably be keen to see his new allies as prey. Or, they would see Wilmar as tainted by association with sorceries. Or both, sentencing them to be hunted and burned.

He tried to keep himself from wondering if any of it had been worthwhile. If "a grand hunt" of dangerous beasts had been worth the lives of his brothers in arms. How many had been captured, and how many of those hadn't escaped? They'd still be in chains, tortured by cruel overseers, or drugged and bound and used for the twisted appetites of their captors...

He forced his thoughts back to the present. Exhaustion must have taken a greater toll on him than expected if he'd let his guard down so soon. His hands and feet felt a little warmer than usual; still, the pain was gone and he could feel every inch of his skin. Two bodily needs became apparent as he rose to his feet, and he was thankful he had a strong bladder when the Cold One raised its head to look at him. He thought he recognized it—her?

"You look more refreshed," Rekha said, her deep yet more feminine voice confirming his suspicion. "Do you need food?"

"I have some, but first I need to, well, relieve myself."

"You... ah. Follow the water to the end of its flow to pass liquid. For spoor, you must make a hole in the snow outside and then bury it. Preferably some distance away."

He nodded. "Less chance of being discovered. Smart." Not that he looked forward to freezing his arse off, of course. But, needs must.

A trip down to the end of the stream later, he returned to the main chamber to chew on some travel rations he'd stolen from his captors. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what was in them.

"Are the others... Sevol and Lanan? Are they out hunting?"

"Hunting and scouting. You don't eat raw meat, do you?"

He grimaced. "No. I don't know how I'd set up a fire without the smoke giving us away. At the very least, I've got another two days of rations. More, if I can find some forage."

Rekha shifted on her haunches. "Starvation is a terrible way to die. We will help find you food you can eat, if you can use your tools to clean what we kill."

"A fair arrangement." He finished the wrapped ration and stepped back to slake his thirst from the springfall. "I grabbed as many supplies as I could from their camp. I wish I could have carried more."

"Perhaps we have some?" Rekha rose to her feet—the very large, very wickedly clawed talons that they were—and angled her head towards a side passage he'd barely noticed. "Come. We have some packs and other items looted from our captors, the patrol they sent after us, and another chance encounter. Most of it is unknown to us."

Wilmar followed, and swallowed past the surge of nerves when walking past the very large raptor meant having it—her—at his back. Or close enough to it. He reminded himself that he'd have died in his sleep if he was truly in danger.

Though, ahead of him there was the unnerving sight of multiple packs and bundles in varying states of torn and tattered by obvious violence. Dark stains had the room smelling faintly of old blood. While there weren't any corpses, he found himself wondering what had happened to the elves. Were they left to freeze and be scavenged, or had they already been picked over by their slayers?

The wondering ceased as he remembered the slave camp. The horrors and perversions. He found he didn't even care if Rekha and the others had eaten them all. They deserved no better.

He pushed the dark thoughts away and started lining up the more intact satchels. "I'll sort through what I can figure out."

"I'll be near if you need anything," Rekha said, and then padded back into the main chamber.

His first find, a purple-tinted vial, held no clues as to its purpose. Just as likely to be poison or corruption as anything useful. A few rations in familiar packaging were a much better sight. He smiled, and sank into the tedium of looting and sorting.

It was almost a shame the dark elves were such blights on the world, he mused; inside one of the bundles was an admittedly exquisite dagger. He was torn whether to toss it aside or make it useful. The needs of survival won, so he looped the sheath into his cord belt—after making sure there weren't any strange runes or a sheen of poison on the thing.

He also didn't know much about the Ruinous Powers, save that they were never to be trifled with. An attempt to mend a torn scrap of harness had revealed a symbol with a circle and a line through two crescents; it had seemed to dance before his eyes until he'd pushed the pieces apart again. It still burned behind his eyelids for a few moments, so he drew the knife and slashed the rune again. A few seemingly unharmful sundries went into a pile to judge for later; the letters looked elven, but he wasn't about to chance what he couldn't identify.

Three packs were still in serviceable condition. All told he had a good share of firestarters, bandages, and poultices. Best of all, nearly a week's worth of food if he rationed it. A few of the more tattered clothes and other fabrics would work to pad out his wrappings for the next excursion into the cold.

Speaking of which, his hands were starting to ache. The side cave was chilly compared to the main room. He sealed the rations in one of the more intact bags and hung it from an outcrop—it wouldn't do to lose supplies to any rodents or other scavengers that might sneak in.

Some sort of idol rested above that outcrop, and his eyes would have slid off of it if he hadn't been focused on hanging the pack. He forced himself to study it; the wood seemed shaped, not just carved. It even had incredibly detailed vines wending around the unusual symbol. Unlike the foul rune from the harness, this one felt more of tranquility interwoven with furtiveness, the sense of a wild animal seeking shelter from threat. Don't look here, it whispered. Move on. There is no prey to be found in this place.

The reminder of the cold had him heeding the advice. He'd have to ask the others about it. First, he gave one last look over the collected supplies, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything. Then he'd ask...

By the time he walked into the main chamber, he'd pushed whatever he was thinking about out of his mind. If he couldn't remember, it wasn't that important.

"A good haul," he told Rekha. "There's still a few items to sort through. Just, I'm starting to get cold again."

"Of course. Please, warm yourself." Rekha was reclining not far from the hot spring. "It's fortunate this is here. We have to hibernate between meals if we can't find sources of warmth."

"There are times I feel like that, myself." He started stripping down. "The cold is no one's friend."

She chuckled in that deep, animal-yet-intelligent way. When he pulled his shirt over his head he had to pause as her muzzle drew within arm's length, lingering for a breath. Before he could figure out a response, she pulled away, blinking.

"Sorry, I probably stink," he said, feeling a little lame but feeling he needed to say something.

"You don't. At least, you don't smell offensive?" Her large head turned away. "Just... your body has strong warmth. It's like a beacon, drawing me in."

His mouth went dry. Disrobing started to feel like a mistake. "Drawing you in? Should I keep my distance?"

"No? No, no, you're not in danger," she said, seeming strangely sheepish. "I want to bask in any heat I can find."

"Oh." Bewilderment and anxiety shifted towards understanding. "I must seem like a hot spring on legs. I can... once I'm finished I could share my warmth?"

She chuckled. "I wouldn't impose. I also won't protest. Though, Sevol and Lanan may be far more in need when they return."

"I don't mind sharing." He waded into the deeper end of the pool, which still only went up to his thighs. Sinking down into a squat let him soak most of his body, and the throbbing cold of his hands and feet soon turned to blissful comfort.

It wasn't all good, of course. Washing himself tugged at the scars on his back. He had to clench his fists until the memory of barbed whips stopped flashing through him. He'd seen worse in that place. That hellhole. In stories gleaned from the murmurs of the lucid and the whimpers of those so far broken they could barely function, the outpost was lax and merciful compared to the cities.

The dark elves were so far corrupted that they didn't just torture with pain. At least with the whip one could brace for it. Even the poisons and tortures that could push men past their breaking point were their own sort of mercy: insanity and stupor became a refuge. Either the elves knew this, or they were keen to push beyond every boundary. Or both.

No, they also tortured with pleasure.

If anything, it was almost worse. The elves played both without favor, yet there was a special sort of horror in the way the body yearned for delicate caresses and sordid acts. Different images were in his mind now: chains and ropes more for show than security, men and women bound in lewd display: nothing left unimagined and no boundary unbroken. There were still cries of pain, but also of pleasure. No, more than pleasure: the sort of throaty exultations and cries that you wouldn't hear even in the best brothels.

There had been many more men than women, at least at that camp, even with the influx of captured soldiers. He'd been forced to watch those men perform acts on each other while silk-garbed dark elves lounged on cushions, laughing or jeering as one or more of the slaves broke.

Wilmar was a soldier as well as a scout. While he hadn't been close to or interested enough in any of his fellows to partake in nightly comfort, he knew of those who did. Those were discreet, quiet affairs in small hours: the sort of thing one would try not to overhear between snores if sleep was elusive. It was never put on show for all eyes to see. It was never done with implements and oils and musky incense that he could almost smell again—almost feel the burn at the back of his throat. It was never done to someone, or at least not in the way the elves so enjoyed.

He suspected he was being prepared for such display, as they seemed to take a perverse interest in his slender build. Not long enough ago, they'd drugged him with some sort of elixir that fogged his thoughts. They'd bound his limbs and sat him on a narrow cone of metal, oiled and smooth and inside him as they made him watch...

... except, for all that he clenched his fists to try and will away the cursed memories, he couldn't fight the surge of shame. The knowledge of his failure. They'd turned his head once, twice... and then they hadn't had to. His dazed eyes had taken in the sight of a man thrusting his cock into another's rear. Any reluctance on the bottom man's part had melted as surely as snow by a hearth... then the man was pushing back and moaning like a beast in heat, erection bobbing and dripping on the floor... as if begging to be held or sucked or buried in someone else.

Wilmar squeezed his eyes shut. He could still see the hazy memory. The shame burned hotter than the water around him. The metal length had been designed to stretch him; he'd seen more put inside a man than he thought possible, and more than a few gruesome maimings beyond depravity. Those weren't what truly horrified him. More than disembowelment or other ends, he feared he'd end up like the man on the bottom: broken, but not by whip or chain or poison. No, he saw a man consumed by wanton carnality and feared his own body would betray him. He'd already started to push himself on the implement during the show. Before he'd gotten too lost, before he'd started imagining what another man would feel like, the spectacle had ended. Then a horror had begun.

The haze of drugs had fractured his memory beyond that point. He had awoken with soreness and shame, which he had to endure during a day of miserable labor that had barely distracted him from the mounting horror that he might be next. Then another day, and another, and whispers of a patrol returning with unholy thirsts. He knew he'd be next on display. At least blood and disembowelment would have brought the mercy of death. Then he wouldn't have to face the fate of that man on the bottom, fucked and rutted until pleasure broke him...

Then the attack... and freedom.

At least, physical freedom. Now he found himself facing the spectre of his own tested will. The weakness of his flesh was evident in his stiff erection under the water.

It had been the drugs. The shock of it all. The desperate need to escape pain by embracing any other outcome. Maybe one day he would convince himself it was anything other than... it wasn't that he'd truly wanted it.

Then why do you want to stroke yourself? Go on, imagine how that thick cock would feel inside you. Let your release spill into these waters.

He dug his nails into his palms, then his knees, forcing himself back to the present. He was escaping with his new allies. He'd let the past remain the past, and stay where it belonged. Buried. Forgotten.

Noise and voices drew him further away from memories. Sevol and Lanan had returned. Through blurred vision he could see Rekha following them back out of the cave, presumably to eat. He stood to finish his washing. He ignored his erection and tears until the cool air could defeat both. By the time the three returned to the cave, he was mostly dry and dressing again. Nightmarish memories could be kept at bay—for a time, at least.

The three bypassed him to drink from the falling water and wash their faces. He watched, curious; this was beyond beasts grooming themselves as there was a deliberate and fastidious method to the way they scrubbed clean and then checked one another's teeth. He recognized Rekha from the dark striations down her scaled neck and back, and her crown of shorter horns. The two males had different patterns of horns. He'd have to learn to tell the difference between the two; though, an opportunity arose when Rekha returned while the males sloshed into the hot spring.

"Sevol has the bluer scales," she explained, "and the blunted horns behind his jaw. Lanan has the larger nose horn. And a scar along his flank. Best not to ask about it."

"I'll keep that in mind," Wilmar said. "So... how do you go about sharing warmth?"

"With our bodies together, of course." Her words gave Wilmar pause, given what he'd relived in the bath. Likely misunderstanding his hesitance, she sat on her haunches and lowered her head. "You may touch me, if I may touch you?"

Of course. Just resting comfortably and staying close. They'd huddle against the cold. Nothing more.

He felt next to no trepidation about getting close and reaching out with one hand. For the first time he touched the tough, yet surprisingly smooth, scales of a being he'd have utterly feared mere days ago. And one that could think and speak! Contrary to the name, she was not cold to the touch, though certainly cooler than his hand. A fact that was far more interesting to her, evidently; even in the dim light he could see her slitted pupils widening. Her nostrils flared. A change in her posture nearly had him pull away until he realized she was leaning into his touch.

"Even warmer than I imagined," she purred. "If Sevol and Lanan weren't likely to sleep off their meal, I'd warn you to expect all three of us wanting to keep you close."

He felt only a slight flutter at the thought, and mostly because they were large enough that he'd have to worry about being crushed. "You know, I don't think I'd mind too much, as long as you're all careful."

After having been so unnerving in their first meeting, her chuffing chuckle was becoming familiar. "You don't smell of fear around us now. I'm glad."

"You've given me every reason to be comfortable. I hope we make good allies." He paused his petting along her flank, and lightened his voice. "Unless there's a reason I should be afraid?"

Rekha hummed. "Only of us hoarding your warmth. So much of it from such a slender form..."

Sevol and Lanan extricated themselves from their bath. Wilmar stood and put into motion one of his plans to make himself useful: using several elven cloaks as makeshift towels. They didn't absorb water, which he supposed was intended, though with a firm hand he could still push water down, off, and away from the body. The two being nearly the size of horses just meant a little extra work.

"It does get chilly again before the water dries," one of them—Lanan—said. "You may try on me."

So he did. Of course, the moment the two discovered his warmth his work slowed significantly until they were finished nuzzling and leaning against him. Rekha gave a longing look as she passed by to get a drink.

Finally the two were as dry as he could get them, leaving three slightly damp cloaks and two small puddles on the floor. It also meant a new round of close contact. Before long they started yawning—he chose to be impressed by the display of sharp teeth, because it certainly wouldn't do to have him freezing in panic. At least they closed their mouths before nuzzling him again.

He supposed that safety in numbers was worth putting up with them acting like cats: giant, scaly, deadly cats.

Finally, they retreated to sleep, and he returned to an amused-looking Rekha.

"You bore that well," she said. "Though am I mistaken in assuming you're also fatigued?"

He suppressed a yawn of his own. Now that he thought about it, his eyelids were starting to droop. "I suppose so. I probably didn't get much sleep earlier." He excused himself to void, drink, and take a few moments to rub over his own teeth with his finger. His travel kit had had a proper brush. Yet another loss to the damned elves.

At least his earlier looting had turned up more useful items. He'd found an intact bedroll in the dead elves' supplies, supplemented it with one of the torn ones, and added another cloak for extra warmth and padding. Rekha was curled up between that pile of bedding and the other two raptors.

"Where should I rest? I don't want to be in the way." He picked up his bedroll, already looking for smooth spots on the ground.

"Wherever you like," she said. "Though, you could sleep next to me? For... safety?"

He studied her, and grinned. "But mostly for sharing my warmth?"

She ducked her head in the most adorably sheepish way. Certainly not befitting such a giant predator. "Yes."

"Why not?" He brought his bedding over to where she was reclining on her side, and she obligingly shifted to make room for him to sort of half-curl with his back to her chest and belly. It would be difficult for her to roll forward onto him in the night, or so he figured—which brought him to a different point of safety.

"Rekha," he said, hoping he could explain it, "I may, I don't know... I may have nightmares. About the dark elves." Soldiers who'd seen too much battle often had them. In the slave pens, it had been worse, though cries of suffering and anguish had been more of a constant. "So, if I start making sound, or moving around..."

A touch to the top of his head; it was the back of her talons as she carefully stroked through his hair. "We have the same experience. Ours have grown fewer and quieter, but we do have them. You will be safe here."

"Thank you." He wasn't sure what else to say. Having wicked sets of claws above his head and not far from his legs, not to mention the entire rest of the Cold One at his back, and no weapon at hand...

Strangely, he found he could set his head down and close his eyes. The knife and broken spear were a mere pace away. Perhaps he could rest—.

---

His eyes opened, and it took a moment of confusion for his memory to catch up. The cave, his refuge. Their refuge. Rekha was still at his back: without the sun, stars, or a clock he had no idea how long he'd slept. Not long enough, judging by his eyelids not wanting to open. Though, something had awoken him, and—

A grunt from somewhere behind him and Rekha. The two had been snoring softly earlier. Except... the sounds he was hearing were decidedly not snores. He opened his eyes and looked up to see if Rekha was awake. Her breathing was slowing, as if she was just slipping back into slumber.

"Rekha?" he whispered, and waited until she stirred. "What's going on?"

She yawned, more heard than seen, before answering. "Hm?" She looked behind her. "Oh. The two must be working off some other appetites. Did they wake you?"

A head—Sevol's—popped up over Rekha's flank. "Sorry."

"No, it's not your fault. I just heard... I don't know what I heard," Wilmar said. Without sitting up, he couldn't see what the two males were doing... surely they weren't... "I, um. I don't mean to, to interrupt anything?"

"We can move," Sevol said.

"No, no." Wilmar decided he'd stay lying down. Better to let his tired mind forget anything he'd imagined, just as when two soldiers sharing comfort in the barracks would have made a little noise. Not that he thought they were doing that. "I suppose I'm still on guard. I'll go back to sleep, now that I know it's, well, nothing to be worried about."

Sevol's head lowered back out of view. "Sleep well, friend Wilmar—ah! Lanan, we..." Whatever else was said was muffled and cut off.

Rekha's chuckle vibrated over Wilmar's back. "I'm glad you don't mind them mating. They should be done in a minute. Return to sleep, warm one."

Mating. He could have denied the now undeniably sexual sounds from right on the other side of Rekha's form. The flame of lust from earlier in the day rekindled, though his imagination couldn't fill out certain details of the two raptors. He hadn't exactly studied between their legs, not that he had glimpsed anything there to study. Perhaps it was held inside them until ready? Would the males be as endowed as horses, thick and throbbing—

He clenched his fists. It kept him from taking hold of his own erection. They were beasts. No man mated with beasts; although, no beasts could speak and think like men. Are they still beasts, then? The sounds behind grew a shade more intense, and then a voice groaned once, twice. Moments later there was a wet sound and the other voice let out a ragged, exultant breath. Panting and faint sounds of movement grew more quiet. They'd finished. Back to sleep for everyone.

He tried to breathe normally to quell his confused, yet eager, lusts. He even silently recited a prayer to Sigmar for strength, to... what? Was he just desperate for intimate company—it had been a long campaign even before he'd been captured. Or worse, had the elves done something to him? Broken him already to their perversions? Surely there was no other explanation for his... his base curiosity and his stiff need.

Memory flashed before he could banish it from his mind. He could again see the two chained slaves: one fucked the other, both moaned, and the bottom one arched and whined. Their captors no longer had to guide them, let alone use force. They were lost to pleasure. Wilmar had been left squirming. He was impaled on unfeeling metal and already half out of his mind. Or perhaps he had lost himself, and it hadn't been the drugged haze that had stolen his memory. Maybe he'd been sore the next day because he'd had his turn on display. Had he too been rutted like a mare in heat? He squeezed his eyes even further shut. He didn't need his tears of shame to spill out again.

The fates only knew what was worse: his hatred of the elves for inflicting their depravities on all of them, or the disgust with himself for having felt pleasure at what should have been torture.

Dark visions chased him into his slumber. Only fatigue kept them from becoming nightmares.

Rekha shifted, which woke him... he still didn't know what time of day it was.

"Apologies, Wilmar. I must patrol."

He mumbled what he hoped was a farewell; his sleep had been decidedly more troubled after the night's events. And his reaction to it, which had stubbornly persisted, though at least it didn't feel as urgent. He might have fallen back asleep only to wake again not long after. A splash of cold water on his face would help.

Sevol and Lanan were lounging in the main room. They perked up at his approach. How long had he slept? He didn't plan on avoiding an encounter with them—his shame was his own. He didn't bear any ill will or judgment against them for sharing comfort with each other. Still, he felt a twist in his gut as they nodded their greetings.

"Rekha said we should take you by the woods and river," Lanan said. "There are plants there, and there may be food."

"One moment." Wilmar splashed water on his face once, twice, and then dried himself with a patch of salvaged clothing. It was plenty of time to focus himself; the needs of survival came before any other discomforts. He turned to the two males. "Let me gather some supplies and clothing, and I'll join you shortly."

Some minutes later, he was surprised to see the sun climbing the sky; he'd remembered the direction of the sunset and had his bearings now. So it had been at least half a day. He hadn't felt particularly ravenous on waking, at least. Food was on his mind. If he was doing any physical work at all he'd need to supplement the rations with meat and other victuals. It was probably a good idea to do that anyway. There were no supply wagons, no foragers for local plants, and no friendly outposts to restock.

The enormity of their impending trek was, to say the least, daunting.

The snow-covered slope gave way to a more sheltered valley; he couldn't quite see through the haze of fog blanketing it, though treetops poked above the mist along the downward slopes. Promising.

He did get to talk in quiet tones to Lanan, then Sevol, about various subjects: what plants to hopefully find, choosing a path that would have game and forage but be less likely to be patrolled, and what they planned to do once they reached the south.

"You can't just laze in the heat all day," Wilmar said, trying not to grin at the imagined sight of the three of them lounging on a beach.

"Why not?" Lanan asked, dropping back to join the conversation. If there was anything sure to motivate the three, it seemed, it was food and warmth. "If it didn't soak through our scales, we'd only leave the hot spring to eat and void ourselves."

"There are places where the sun is so intense it's unbearable, though."

Sevol snorted. "I believe you, but it seems preferable to these bleak lands."

Wilmar couldn't argue that.

"What of you?" Sevol continued. "What are your plans once you've guided us?"

"If we survive? I..." He paused. "I don't know. I may not be welcome back in my lands, so I may have to travel. Find a new home."

"Not welcome?"

"Sevol, don't pry."

Wilmar raised a hand. "It's just not something I should think about right now. Survival is more important, then finding a way south."

Lanan gave a quiet chuff. "Very prudent. I'll scout ahead." He picked up his pace, soon heard more than seen—barely. The Cold Ones could move surprisingly stealthy for such large... beings.

"We chose well to ally with you," Sevol said. "I... want to apologize again for waking you last night."

"It's nothing," Wilmar said.

"Thank you. It's just, we'd meant to—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Sevol's head flinched as if he'd been struck. "I see. I will leave it be."

Wilmar felt a cold pit of guilt in his gut. He hadn't meant to be so terse. It wasn't his business. When he turned to apologize, he saw Sevol was already dropping back behind, sniffing at a spot in the game trail. He took another path a moment later; the time to say something was gone, along with his company. Talking to the two of them had been a welcome diversion. Wilmar enjoyed scouting: forging ahead, scouting, observing, and being of use. He even liked time alone.

He did not enjoy loneliness.

---

The foraging had middling results at best; there were some hardy berries and vegetables, most of which weren't ripe, and he didn't recognize enough of the ones that were.

His mentor had taught him well: just because it's edible once doesn't mean it's edible twice.

He'd recognized chokeberries and wild onions, which would go well with meat if he could find a way to cook it. Once again, he was thankful he hadn't been brought further into dark elf lands. He'd heard from other slaves that the Cult of Pleasure spread foulness wherever it settled. They twisted the land with foul sorceries until they ultimately corrupted nature itself. He didn't see evidence of that beyond some particularly thorny brambles that he'd had to curse at until Lanan helped tear them away from another patch of berries. And of course, the cold. He was certain he could blame the cold on the Ruinous Powers.

The walk back was quiet. Reserved, even. Only a few words were exchanged, and nothing beyond the essential. The silence, once welcome, was now a damp cloak on Wilmar's shoulders.

Perhaps it's for the best, he thought. You are broken. They should see that. You'll be lucky to vanish into some small village in the south—or not. Anyone who looks at you could see the elves fractured your will with their perverse delights.

He clenched his fists to keep the memories at bay. His palms ached with nail-shaped bruises.

Once they returned to the cave he retreated to the supply alcove. At least there, he could be of some use. At least there, he wouldn't be an awkward burden.

"Wilmar," Rekha said, somehow having appeared at the passage to the main cave. "Let us talk."

He flexed his chilled fingers and willed his racing heart to slow—the Cold Ones could be very stealthy, it seemed. "I'm not sure that's wise."

Her eyes were fixed on him. "Sevol and Lanan are worried they offended you, somehow. That you won't want to guide us south."

The last part caught Wilmar off guard. "No... no! I meant my promise. I will guide you."

"Then why are the other two convinced they've wronged you?"

Guilt flared in his chest, and he averted his gaze. He didn't want to be seen. "It's not that they wronged me. It's... that I am wrong. I don't want to burden you with my... I don't want to be a burden."

"Then come," she said. "At least tell them they shouldn't worry."

Much as his weakness shamed him, guilt was the stronger motivator. The two—all three of them really—had been generous and amicable, despite the vast gulf of difference between them. They didn't deserve to suffer from his crisis of spirit.

He followed Rekha into the chamber, and sat before the curled-up, half-withdrawn Lanan and Sevol.

"I'm sorry," he started. He had to clear the air if nothing else. "I shouldn't have been... I didn't mean to cause any harm."

The two perked up a little. Sevol ventured first: "I, we should have been more careful asking questions. And, we can do... if we risk disturbing you, we can be elsewhere."

"No, no. It's... it isn't that you two were taking comfort with each other. Soldiers do it all the time. I understand. It's not you." It felt better to get that out. At least now the questions could stop... then again. "I just, I don't want to talk about it."

Sevol tilted his head, while Rekha studied her two companions. Lanan, however, kept his gaze on Wilmar.

"Is it that you're still afraid of us?" Rekha had turned back to him.

"No," Lanan said. "It isn't us. It's something the Druchii—the elves—did, isn't it?"

Wilmar's throat closed. He couldn't keep looking at Lanan. Couldn't risk being seen any more than he was.

"We've all suffered at their hands," Rekha said. "The three of us have had to come to terms with their tortures. If we can help..."

"You wouldn't understand."

Her voice turned stern. "You aren't the only one with scars, warm one. You don't have to speak of it now, but we may understand more than you think."

Silence stretched until the weight of it was worse than speaking. "You're right," he said, after swallowing past the lump in his throat. "No. Sorry. I don't mean to suggest, or to say... I mean, I can't fathom what you three have been through."

"It isn't just scars," Sevol murmured, his gaze less focused. "As soon as they learned they'd given us intelligence, they did more than inflict pain. They did... acts. Made us perform or... or forced us to mate."

Wilmar's stomach turned. "They... it was similar with us. The other slaves. Like nothing was beyond them."

Rekha leaned in closer and touched her snout to his arm. "We were ashamed to have been... used. Ashamed to ever experience the intimacy they had forced. Until we realized, it was done to us. We had our power stolen, and now we had it back. And we've been free ever since."

Wilmar swallowed again. Took in a breath. It felt wrong in his chest. "I wish I could imagine that freedom."

Her touch grew more insistent, and the other two had leaned in as well. "Because you are reminded of their tortures? We do not think you weak for struggling, warm one. You are safe with us. Safe from them."

"Not safe from myself," he said, before he could think better. The guilt behind his sternum twisted like a dagger. Well, he'd already started, and at least once he'd say it aloud, they could see his true weakness. "They bound me, put an implement inside me to... prepare me, I suppose. And they made me watch two slaves, men, rutting... they weren't even forced." He took a shaking breath. "And if I'd been next... I'd have broken too. I'd have broken." The rest of his air left him in a bitter laugh, and he sank back on his heels. "I am weak, Rekha. At least I can guide you. I can promise that much. But I keep seeing them, and wanting... I think I've been broken."

"Stop," Rekha said. "Breathe, Wilmar. Man of the south. There were times when Sevol or Lanan would be tied to me, made to mate me. Or worse, it would be the Druchii, who were delighted to find a 'beast' that could understand their commands. Do you think me broken because there were times I felt pleasure?"

He didn't want to think about it... but he did, and he shook his head. "No. I don't... I, it isn't like that."

Sevol's snout pressed to Wilmar's shoulder. "They have no power over you now. Not unless you let them."

Lanan circled around, surrounding him, and leaned against his back. "I never wanted to mate again after we escaped. But, we were free. We came to realize: we had control, now. We could enjoy pleasure on our terms."

"We felt we were broken too," Rekha murmured, her breath fairly warm on his skin, "and now? Now we are reclaiming our desires." She pressed her forehead to his chest. "Take your time. Become free, as we have."

The thickness in his throat became a markedly different emotion. "Thank you," he whispered, not trusting his voice to stay steady. "I... really wish I could strangle the guard again. It might make me feel better."

Three sets of rolling chuckles seemed to vibrate down to his bones.

"See? You have a strong heart, warm one," Lanan said.

"He is very warm." Sevol nuzzled him, thankfully avoiding any horns catching on his clothing—or skin. "Though, if we are too close—"

"No," Wilmar said. He ran a hand over each of them, or at least as much as he could reach. "No, I think I need to feel safe for a while."

---

Eventually, hunger and other needs broke up their cuddle. He found his spirits much improved. His scars had tugged on his skin as he'd reached to pet over Sevol, reminding him of the whip, and he'd tried to quiet the voice of a dying slave in the echoes of the wind outside... and yet, he could take another breath; he could move another step forward.

They weren't out of Naggarond, but they were free.

Idle conversation about hunting started, and Wilmar found himself joining in. Granted, his experience was with a crossbow and spear, but there were some things he could commiserate over. Blood was very annoying to wash off. Bits of meat seemed eager to cling to bones and sinew, and it felt like more effort than it was worth to separate them. Discussions about the more plentiful game in the south.

When the three wound down to curl up together for a nap, Wilmar decided to join them. It made sense to conserve his energy. And, he found, he was enjoying sharing his body heat with the three.

Sleep came easily.

When he awoke, Sevol was at his back, and seemed to still be asleep. Lanan and Rekha were in a separate pile, tightly curled around each other with Rekha's striated back towards him. His erection had returned, hard as iron and more than a little eager. This time, he tried not to resent its presence. It was only natural. He didn't dare think of the two slaves, except the memory crossed his mind again. Had the elves really broken him? The drugs would have impaired him, would have made him susceptible to enjoying a carnal spectacle. That much was true.

Maybe, maybe he didn't have to feel guilt or shame for finding enjoyment in the prospect of sex.

Maybe, now that he was free, he was also free to explore an attraction to males he hadn't considered.

A noise from in front pulled his attention back to the present. One of the two raptors had breathed out, and there was a wet slurp as Rekha shuddered—

Oh.

So they hadn't just moved away in their sleep.

He closed his eyes, taking a breath to calm his heart. This time, he found he could quiet it... or at least it didn't get worse. So they were all intimate. He was happy for them. Maybe later he could step away and stroke himself to completion. At least to satisfy his own urges. Maybe it would quell any other temptations.

When he opened his eyes again, Lanan's head was turning back towards Rekha. "I think he's asleep."

"We'll be quiet," she said. "Though, maybe we move to the other room?"

Wilmar weighed his options, and realized he'd already accepted it. "I don't mind."

The two, and Sevol against his back, twitched in startlement. "Are you sure?" Lanan said.

He was not. His heart still thudded in his chest. Faint, phantom pinpricks danced along his fingertips. He kept his breathing steady lest his pulse race and his hands go numb. "I... well, we just talked about embracing freedom. Don't let me stop you from enjoying yours."

"Tell us if you change your mind," Rekha said, "and we will—ahh, Lanan! I was speaking to..." A growl and a wet slurp followed.

Sevol's chuffing chuckle rolled against Wilmar's back. "He is always so eager to return to pleasure."

Wilmar smiled, and cast his mind back before they'd even made the expedition north. "I've known a woman like that. After I'd pleased her, she put her mouth on me, except the commander of our unit entered the tent to ask me about a mission. He couldn't see me clearly, or her at all... and instead of waiting, she started to pleasure me while I had to answer questions."

Sevol laughed, a throaty sound that briefly echoed in the cave. "Would you have been disciplined if she was discovered?"

"I didn't dare find out, and I couldn't stop her without causing a commotion. Thankfully, he finished his questions before she finished me."

Movement pulled their attention to the frisky pair; they were repositioning, and Wilmar caught a glimpse of wetness beneath Rekha's tail, then an equally shocking—exciting?—peek of red flesh under Lanan's. He mounted her, eagerly it seemed, and after a few of what looked like missed attempts, both of them groaned as Lanan's haunches pushed forward.

Wilmar tried not to dwell on how the display was making him feel.

Sevol purred, then glanced down to Wilmar. "If you need to excuse yourself," he murmured, almost too quiet to hear, "I can come with. They needn't be interrupted."

"I think I'm fine?" Wilmar considered the odd twist in his gut, the slight shaking of his hands, and had to chuckle. "I'm not fine. But I will be, I think. Fleeing from it won't help."

"We all did." Sevol's gaze slipped away. "For a time. You are right."

On a whim, Wilmar reached out to touch his scaled shoulder. "I can't imagine how it must be for you three. To have been brought into awareness only to be... I envy your strength."

He chuffed again. "I envy yours. Every moment of our freedom has been for the better. You were torn from your life, your comfort."

"It wasn't easy." A lump was threatening his throat, though at least he could recognize signs of his nerves fraying. The rich scent of sex grew stronger, musky and tangy and charged with bestial lust... no, that wasn't right. They were no more animal than he was. He'd heard of halflings and dwarves, he'd seen high and dark elves, and how many other races of beings besides? Closer to him in form, yet he didn't doubt their intellect.

Nor could he doubt that of the three raptors.

"I can tell you whatever you want to know, " he finished. The sound of flesh on flesh, of increasingly heated panting and grunts, had him reevaluate. "Perhaps later."

Sevol's nostrils flared as he returned his gaze to Wilmar. "I... admit, I want to watch them."

It should have seemed wrong, or at least strange, to consider accepting that. Hadn't the—no, this wasn't anything like the dark elves, and he actively refused to consider the prospect. They were a pack, and it seemed all three were intimate. How would this be different from a man watching his wife undress? Well, it is different. Perhaps his reaction should have been revulsion, or distaste, or he should have excused himself after all...

Instead, he smiled. "Go ahead."

"Thank you." Sevol glanced down. "Oh. Um. Move forward?"

"Sure?" Wilmar scooted away, pulling the blanket with him, and—

—and watched, stunned, as Sevol's erection was revealed, just as red as Lanan's, yet so much closer.

"I am sorry," Sevol was saying, his bottom leg pushing on the ground to roll him on his back. "I didn't mean..."

"It's fine." Now the words felt odd in Wilmar's mouth. His whole consciousness felt distant. "Understandable."

"Thank you."

It was one thing to see Lanan and Rekha mating, to know that the three of them were actively sexual. It was another to have the evidence within reach. Nearly touching him.

Without any negative reaction, he'd expected to feel dispassionate about the revelation. It wasn't for him, it wasn't his problem. A genteel subject of the Empire should probably be offended by the very notion. Should be disgusted by the presence of such a lewd display. If it had been any closer, the length would have touched his back. Surely that was too much.

All Wilmar could think was: How would it have felt?

The red length was at the edge of his vision as he readjusted the blanket. He inspected the fabric for any dampness... was it warmer than the rest? For a brief moment his eyes rose, and there it was, larger than his own, and it had a taper—

He tore his gaze away... which meant looking at the other two. Their mating was at a frenetic pace, only for Lanan to huff and withdraw, growling.

He looked away again, at Sevol's upside-down face, who evidently took the change in focus as a question.

"We don't know if finishing in her will make eggs," he murmured, "so it's better to be safe. At least until we're safe, too."

Wilmar nodded. It made rational sense. Sevol's gaze went back to the pair, which a quick glance confirmed they were licking each other again... this time, in view. He wanted to look away. Part of it was to give them privacy, he was still new to their group. Part of it, surprisingly quiet, was insisting he should be horrified, repulsed...

A larger part, one that inexorably pushed until it had won, had him glancing between Sevol's powerful hindlegs. Tapered, yes, with a narrow point that filled to what had to be fist-sized girth at the base. A modest curve to accentuate its strangeness. Not as long as his forearm, at least, though it was certainly bigger than his own malehood. He was painfully aware of his arousal as it strained against his smallclothes.

Sevol was looking at him. "Do you want me to move? ... or, stay?"

Words failed him. Surely it was just curiosity about the strange anatomy.

But then, why did he have to stop his hand from reaching out?

"I," he tried to say, his mouth seeming unsure whether to be dry or to salivate. He took a breath, steadied himself with every scout's trick he knew how, and tried again. "I don't know. But you don't have to move."

"I'll stay, then. Though... no, I have no right to ask anything of you."

That finally got Wilmar's gaze to tear away from... from temptation. He looked back up to Sevol's head, which was now craning up-side-up to look at him. "I... should have asked you if I could look. I'm sorry. I like the idea of being asked." He wasn't quite sure how much he felt like smiling, but he did so anyway. "Freedom, like you said."

"Freedom is sweet," Sevol agreed, and then his gaze lowered to the blanket. "If... I admit I'm curious about you."

"Oh." He should probably have felt ashamed at even entertaining the suggestion. Probably. And yet, it was only fair, and the tent in his smallclothes was unbearable, and it wasn't like they were doing anything other than looking...

So, he undid the ties on his shirt, then his long underwear, and slipped both off. The cave was still a little clammy for nudity... though, his legs were still under the blanket, and he was feeling rather heated anyway. Particularly when Sevol leaned in, snout less than an arm's length away, to study him.

"You're bigger than the dark elves."

Wilmar had never quite understood the braggardly men who would claim they had the largest penis. He still didn't; though now, he felt a certain rush of confidence. It made him feel less unsure about disrobing.

"You have hair there, too? It looks different. And you..." His nostrils flared, and he pulled back.

"Sorry," Wilmar said, fumbling for the edge of the blanket. "I thought I'd washed, I'm—"

"Not your scent," Sevol huffed, his pupils wide. "Heat."

Oh.

"I didn't... mean to startle, or offend," Sevol murmured, looking him in the eye. "I just... I didn't trust myself."

Despite himself, Wilmar had to smile. "To not do what?"

Sevol averted his gaze. "I wanted to bury my nose in that warmth. To feel all of it, as much as I could."

"I suppose it is one of our warmest parts." He reached out to touch the scaled muzzle. "I appreciate you stopping."

Should he have?

The wet slurps and growls and groans of the other two had become background noise. The long moan from one of their throats pulled attention back to them, and Wilmar watched as Rekha's tongue—a long, very thick tongue that surely felt as good as it looked—curled and stroked over a red, tapered length, similar in size to Sevol's but throbbing and leaking. Then she was opening her muzzle while Lanan arched under her, and while it was a little too dim to see him shooting, white streaks appeared in Rekha's open maw. The scent took on a richer air, one that was surprisingly familiar.

Wilmar felt himself twitching at the sight. He couldn't see what Lanan was licking under her tail, though from her shudders and rising cries that distracted her attention from Lanan's cock, he was finding the right spots. A scraping sound of claw on rock came as she arched, twitched, while Lanan growled underneath, seeming to not care that the last of his mess was going onto his belly.

Wilmar couldn't even bring himself to imagine what his former soldiers, let alone the prim and proper, would say about him watching the display with an eager eye. He found he didn't care. Even if he wouldn't be considered tainted by association with the three should they be discovered, he didn't see himself going home anytime soon. He didn't have much of a home to return to.

With resistance falling away, he turned his attention back to Sevol. That strange yet distinctly male length—was it longer than his hand?—was also leaking now, a thin trail stretching from the tip to the scales below. He found himself rising on his knees, placing a hand on one of Sevol's muscled thighs. His surprised twitch had Wilmar pause before he did... whatever his spellbound mind had wanted to do.

"I didn't mean to, to do anything without asking," Wilmar said, lifting his hand free of the scales. To his surprise, the leg followed, putting him back in contact. "Do you want—"

"Please," Sevol answered, nearly a whine. He blinked and took in a breath. "I won't object to any of your touches."

Wilmar didn't go straight in, instead rubbing along the smoother scales inside the thigh. Sevol's legs spread apart, giving him plenty of room. He spared a glance for the clawed 'hands' that, while dexterous enough to hold things, were a far cry from his own fingers.

"I can imagine pleasing yourself is difficult," he said.

"It is." Sevol lifted those claws for a moment. "Not enough reach, not enough... softness. I can lick myself, but having someone else..."

"Makes it so much better," Wilmar agreed. And with that, he let his fingers drift from cooler scales to warmer, more sensitive flesh.

From the rise of Sevol's hips and the flex of the length under his hand, the difference in warmth was quite stark. When he trailed his touch upwards, though, the raptor gasped and twitched; he stopped out of concern.

"I forgot, my hands might be a little rough—"

"More," came the breathy reply. "Please."

He reached the tip, finding the slickness dripping out more as he put his other hand to work closer to the base. He could nearly touch his fingertips if he gripped... nearly. Almost an intimidating size. Such a different shape and look from his own; a strange member of a strange being. And yet, it seemed they shared an appreciation for a good stroke.

His own cock, unhappy to be ignored but fresh out of hands to attend it, was probably putting a wet spot onto the blanket below him. Especially as Sevol shuddered and groaned, arching his back, eyes shut, tail twitching. He hadn't seen that much pleasure since...

Since being bound and drugged.

Sevol was nearly as big as the metal length they'd sat him on to stretch him. The one they'd used to prepare him for being fucked or flensed or some other horror beyond darkest imagining.

He could, for a moment, smell the musky, cloying incense. Hear the cries of other slaves, pain and pleasure mixed and mingling in ways that should never have been.

He'd have clenched his fists, but his hands were occupied. Occupied by Sevol, by an ally, a friend, in the present. Not the past. Not slavery. Freedom.

"He's enjoying that more than you enjoyed me, Lanan." Rekha's voice came as a further balm, a reminder of where and when he was. Who he was with. "Should you be jealous, or should I feel inadequate?"

Lanan gave that familiar chuffing chuckle. "You were sublime, as always. I think Sevol wasn't prepared for our new friend's warmth."

Rekha's laugh joined his. "Were any of us?" She stepped forward, licking her muzzle of stray mess, and her eyes on the two of them. Then on Wilmar, and she nodded her head. "If he's too much for your hands, we can finish him, warm one. You needn't do more than you want."

Wilmar cracked a smile as the horrors of the past faded. Scouting sometimes brought big challenges. "I'm not done yet." When he turned back to Sevol, he'd intended to simply move closer, to give his hands better leverage to properly stroke the near-intimidating length.

He could smell an earthy, somewhat musky aroma as he got near. A different sort of musk from the incense. More familiar. It was a more intense form of the Cold Ones' own scent, more potent, more intimate. He drew closer, drew it in, drew comfort and perhaps a little boldness from it.

Which is how he came to lower his head and give a lick to the base of Sevol's cock.

A bit salty, and the scent of the musk came to a sort of sharpness. Leaning back to weigh the taste saved his nose from being bruised as Sevol's hips surged upwards, the male outright whining. A talon came down onto that scaled thigh: Rekha, holding him.

"In case you want to try again," she purred, leaning some weight on the poor male's hip to keep him in place.

Wilmar found that he did want to try. More than that, he cupped his hands to hold the top of Sevol's cock while he lowered his face again. He teased with a hot breath first, relishing the way the bigger male squirmed almost helplessly. He was in control. But more than that, they were both free to enjoy... everything.

So, he pressed his tongue to Sevol once again, breathing out, letting him feel every bit of the heat they were so enamored with. He'd never licked a male before; the most he'd done was touching through clothes, back before his service took up too much of his time. It was a novel thing to trail his tongue from that thick base up past subtle ridges and to a much slicker, much saltier tip. He found that he liked it. He put his tongue back to work, heedful of the way Sevol was squirming back and forth, trying to buck his hips upward. He found he liked it enough that he wanted to try something... and had enough presence of mind to look up at Lanan, who was watching with rapt attention.

"Do you mind helping to hold him steady?"

"I will. What are you... ah, yes, let me keep you still, Sevol. Even if you won't want to. Unless you want to stop?"

"More, don't stop," came the breathless reply.

With that, Wilmar summoned his courage—he'd had a woman gag on him only halfway in, so he knew it wasn't easy—and with his next stroking lick, put the tapered head of Sevol's cock in his mouth.

An unintelligible sound was his reward, along with some twitching, which the other two raptors kept from turning into anything that might be a problem. The salty, sharpish taste grew stronger as a throb under his hands delivered some of the slickness into his mouth. He found he liked that too, and after a swallow he slowly lowered his head, seeing how much more of the male he could take.

"So hot," Sevol was gasping, "so soft, don't stop, please, please..."

Am I really that heated compared to them? He supposed it was unexpected enough to catch the poor male off guard. Or maybe it really did feel that good since the flesh on his hands and mouth was on the tepid side. He couldn't take nearly as much as he'd hoped, his tongue and throat spasming in protest before he'd gotten much farther than the tip. Then again, maybe he didn't need to. The raptors' lips certainly didn't seem as movable as his. He had an advantage in being able to hold Sevol without worry of sharp teeth scraping him, and used it to swirl his tongue around that narrow tip, a trick learned from a past lover of his. It was as favorable to Sevol as it had been to him. So, he did it again, and again. It didn't take long for him to start appreciating the different sort of stamina needed to pleasure with one's mouth...

Blessedly, it also didn't take long for Sevol to start moaning, throbbing, and for either Rekha or Lanan—he was a bit too focused to identify who had whispered it—to clue him that a finish was near. He hadn't done too much with his hands, so he kept one to hold the sizable cock steady. The other stroked along the bottom half, squeezing the base, the rhythm building until suddenly Sevol keened, trying to thrust upward; his cock flexed once, twice, the constant dribble of salty slickness turning to a small squirt of it...

It was barely enough warning to prepare himself. The next spurt of liquid was much greater, much thicker, and then it happened again, filling his mouth with the raptor's essence. He narrowly avoided choking, though he did have to pull back while desperately swallowing, only to have to lift his mouth off entirely and let the poor male finish his completion by making a mess of his scales. Wilmar wasn't sure he liked the too-strong taste, so he put his tongue back to work along the smooth curve of Sevol's cock, stroking and squeezing with his hands, at least until the flow ebbed.

Rekha and Lanan were purring, Wilmar realized, and he sat back as he watched the two of them lick up the mess Sevol had made on himself. His own cock, briefly forgotten, twitched at the sight of those tongues.

He didn't just wonder how they felt. He very much wanted and needed to know. Any conflict he felt after having gone so far, done something that should have felt perverse, seemed small compared to that yearning.

"You did well, warm one," Lanan said, licking his muzzle clean for a second time. "How do you feel?"

"Like my tongue might be sore tomorrow. And... I think, I want to feel what it's like to have that done to me."

Out of the possible reactions, he hadn't expected the two to share a look that, while he was far from capable of judging their expressions, didn't seem one of comfort. Sevol grew quiet too, lifting his head to join in whatever silent conversation passed between them.

Before he could ask, Rekha turned back to him. "That... may be complicated," she said.

How did... oh. Oh. He'd only been warned once, and his capture and escape had made that part of his life seem much farther away.

Cold Ones have venomous saliva. If you were bitten you likely had bigger problems at the outset, which was why the hunter-scouts hadn't explained how to treat it; antidotes would do little to a man dismembered. Or, just as likely, there was no antidote to the numbing, paralyzing poison. At least, none that they had.

"I understand," he said. "I forgot about the venom."

"We are not like our... unintelligent kin," she said. "Whether by the same sorceries used to make us, or some other cause, we don't have the poisons in their mouths that we do."

"Oh."

Rekha nodded. "That's not to say it's without any effect. It is..."

"It enflames lust," Lanan broke in. "Or at least, it did for the Druchii. I don't know what it would do to you."

Wilmar blinked, sitting back on his haunches. He was pretty sure he was still hard, still needful. His mind was whirling too much to consider that even a distraction.

Finally, he found a question: "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" He looked down at Sevol's cock, which was slowly retreating into his body. "Before I got so close?"

"We had no plans to lick you, warm one," Rekha said, chuckling. "And didn't expect you to... become so comfortable, so fast."

"But, now you are." Lanan tilted his head towards the other two. "We aren't affected by it... or if we are, we're already aroused enough that it makes no difference. For you, at the very least, you'd said you were drugged by the Druchii?"

"Perhaps something similar to what we make," Rekha said, glancing back at her companions. "Either way, we wouldn't want to... affect you, that way. Not without you knowing. And even if you did..."

Sevol, apparently having caught his breath, rolled to recline on his side, which let him better lift his head to look Wilmar in the eye. "It's how we escaped our captors."