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Verik rested comfortably in the half-conscious awareness of guard duty, part of his mind keeping a running catalogue of possible threats while the rest was free to endure boredom by wandering to whatever thoughts seemed interesting. In this case it was making fun of the warnings he'd been given and the reality he was dealing with.

Sure, the grizzled old mercenary captain, one of the few people Verik had felt a modicum of respect for since he'd left his home, had started off well. "You're getting double pay on this job for a reason," he'd said. "The Summer Court may not have the reputation for cruelty that the Winter Court does, but whether you're a tormented slave or an addled pet you're just as much a plaything of the Fae and anybody you know outside their realm won't much see a difference. It'll be our duty to keep the tricky bastards from messing with the traders or their lodgings, and if you're not stupid you'll be coming out with them, but some of you boneheads have a lot to learn about stupid."

And then he'd started going over a list of things not to do. Don't eat the food they give you. Don't take anything they give you, actually, but especially don't eat the food. Don't run off with someone if they promise to give you a good time, yes that means you Jenkins don't think with your dick here. Don't run off with someone if they promise to help you relax, or to show you something interesting. If you're suddenly itchy, or hot, or cold, or drowsy, assume it's deliberate and something might be trying to trick you. And it continued, almost endlessly. What should have been a simple "follow your instructions, stay to your post or your barracks, show no weakness" had expanded into a monstrosity of a lecture.

The tirade had only solidified Verik's felings about the people in these lands: soft, stupid, constantly consumed by petty desires and unwilling or unable to simply focus on what really matters. None of them would survive a harsh tundra winter.

The attempts of the faeries had not been any more impressive than the warnings. Rampant nudity, near-sexual displays, the scent of food or sound of play originating from just out of sight, spikes of phantom pain... nothing he couldn't simply ignore.

Verik idly noted another one of the creatures walking up to his post, this one with the legs, horns, and clothing of a goat. He passed over this newest attempt at seduction out of his mind, scanning over the area until the naked goat-man forced the issue by stepping close to block his line of sight. Verik pushed him back, bringing his spear to bear.

"Finally, it moves! Almost I thought the humans had posted a tree to bar their door - a funny choice, in this land of wildworkers, but the humans have funny ways."

"I saw you. I just don't need to bother with you if you're not trying to get past. Find someone else to seduce."

"Seduce! You mistake me. Our kind practices more arts than merely love, and I am a satyr of the battleground, not the bedroom. I seek to test my strength of arms against yours. You seem a better class of fighter than your fellows."

Verik looked at the satyr, paying more attention this time than his first cursory glance. The thing stood a bit shorter than him, though broader in the chest, and dark pointed horns poked a handsbreadth through the wild hair that matched the shaggy blonde fur on his legs, balls, and sheathe. His skin was unscarred and lightly tanned, marred only by blotches of darker red-tinted skin dotting his forearms until they merged to cover his hands entirely. In Verik's estimation he had the pristine and sculpted look of someone whose training had been marked by planning, diligence, and a complete lack of true hardship. Not a concern in a real fight, but in the kind of sanitized duels of the warm lands, perhaps the kind of interesting challenge he'd been denied for too long.

"My shift ends in a few more hours, I can meet with you then. Do you have a place in mind?"

---

The dueling ring, to Verik's approval, was a a simple dirt clearing, a few weapon racks and cabinets set near the edge. The satyr was standing by the racks, lightly bouncing on his hooves, now with two empty scabbards hanging from a belt but, as the satyr's motion called attention to, no further attempt to cover himself. A few scattered faeries stood around the edges, perhaps looking forward to the show.

The satyr raised a hand in greeting, then bowed deeply. "Welcome, well sighted, I hope soon to be well fought! What our arena lacks in grandeur we strive to overcome with our displays of skill. As guest, of course, you may choose the manner, should we have the means."

Verik walked the the racks and began looking over the weapons available. Some sharp, some padded, some blunted, a dizzying variety of styles represented among all three. Verik grabbed a blunted spear by the head, pulling it out and briefly twirling it to feel the balance. In the heat of this place he'd chosen to wear as little as possible, just breeches to cover his dignity, and the smooth wood of the shaft thumped against his arms and chest. Acceptable. "Blunted weapons, bouts to first touch. We're not here to hurt each other. No target, we simply keep tally until we're satisfied."

"A fair choice," said the satyr, pulling a long, thin sword and a short dagger from the racks, then moving into the ring with a light, prancing gait. "I find a goal whets the appetite for sparring, but hospitality begs I defer." He then took a position marked by color packed into the dirt.

"Now, I say, it is time for introductions, for it is not right that blows should be traded between two who will not know each other. Bloodyhands I am sometimes called, for reasons you may guess," said the satyr, gesturing slightly with the discolored hands gripping his weapons, "but often enough have I seen a vanquished foe writhe on the ground and beg release from their agony that I prefer Sweetknife." Then he moved to a fighting stance, sword held straight forward and dagger loosely to the side.

Verik moved to a mark mirroring Sweetknife's and took his own stance, spearpoint trained on the foe and hands firm but prepared to shift grips at a moment's notice. "I was shown to my tribe as Verik. I bear no deedname yet, and seek mine in these lands. Shall we begin?"

Sweetknife responded by moving forward, bounding towards Verik as if hoping to catch him off guard. But he was ready, spear moving to bat the weapon aside before Sweetknife stopped himself short. Then Verik moved forward, and the bout began in full.

The two moved around the ring, Verik pressing the offense as Sweetknife focused on defense, shifting in and out of Verik's outer reach. Occasionally Sweetknife made an attack, or parried with the dagger to strike at Verik's hands with the sword, but failed to commit strongly enough, and Verik batted the sword away. Long seconds passed, circling the ring as Verik pushed the satyr back, several near misses on each side whistling past bare skin.

Suddenly Verik felt a whisper of resistance as Sweetknife swayed from a thrust, the point brushing past the faerie's torso. "Touch," he called, pulling back and adopting a neutral stance as the satyr danced back a bit more.

"No touch but a feather's, if that!" cried Sweetknife. "I'd claim points myself should we count such."

"I've felt the wind from your weapons, but not their steel." Verik replied. "I grew with weapons in my hands, I know them like my own hand, and I say touch."

"And where you dismiss the vespers of training you would feel the cutting gales of war magic. But this ring has seen such quarrels loosed enough to mistake it for an archer's range. Fortunate we are to have developed a balm for their wounds." Sweetknife trotted to one of the cabinets, pulled out a jar, and poked a finger in. "We have a salve which sticks well to the blade, and when touched to skin reacts, changing it and showing truly where blows have been struck." The satyr held out his hand, showing a bright red jelly on the end of his finger. "With such a sign the victor may have their due."

Verik peered into the pot, seeing the substance within clear as water, and dipped his spear in. It came out lightly coated, visible only to a close inspection and with no effect on the weapon's weight. Even pressing it to the packed earth of the ground came up with but a few spots of dirt and no residue on the floor. Verik nodded and moved back to the ring.

Sweetknife wiped his hand off and coated his weapons, then took his own point. They shifted to combat stances then, in wordless unison, began.

Once more Sweetknife began dancing in and out of Verik's range, thrusts deflected and counterstrikes falling short as they settled into a new stalemate. Half a circle around the ring, Verik began a strong series of swipes, trying to push the satyr out of the ring. Sweetknife parried expertly, curving back towards the center of the ring as he went, then on one of Verik's high swipes ducked low and lunged forward, pushing the spear even higher with his dagger and sliding inside Verik's guard. Verik felt the sword strike his ankles with a solid one-two that would have hamstrung him in a live fight, and Sweetknife rose, slashing the dagger across Verik's chest, then reversing its arc to press it to the side of his neck.

"Touch," the satyr said, his face and its new infuriating grin a finger's length from Verik's.

Verik swallowed his anger and stepped back. "Impressive. But you'll only get that once, now that I've seen it."

Sweetknife laughed softly and moved to take his position in the ring. "You'll watch for that, aye. But seeing one is not seeing all, and surely you've not seen the best I offer."

Verik followed, idly rubbing at the red mark on his chest, though it stuck tightly enough that hardly any came to his finger. He set himself again and vowed not to take this fight as lightly as he had been.

Once more, they began in near unison, Verik taking a more cautious stance as the two circled each other and lightly probed each other's defenses. Sweetknife moved to strike low again, and Verik parried, only for Sweetknife to knock the spear even lower with his dagger and launch into an impossible leap that carried him clear over Verik's head, reaching down with his sword to slap the human in the nose as he passed. Sweetknife landed in a roll and came out facing Verik, who had staggered back clutching at his face.

"Touch again! Unsporting to use such maneuvers when fighting a human, but the look of shock I have always loved more than any sense of fair play."

Verik growled low in his throat and pulled his hand away from his aching nose, coming away with but the lightest touch of blood on his palm, or perhaps a bit of the salve. Cold fury rose within him, driving deep breaths through his mouth, and he smoothly returned to his place in the ring. "Again," he said, in a dangerous tone.

"So eager!" laughed Sweetknife. "And this will be my third touch. Traditionally a point of reward, is it not? I shall even extend a generous offer to you on this bout, that if you give me your first touch here I shall treat it as your third."

"Shut up." And with that Verik lunged forward, furious strength filling his limbs and he dove upon the unprepared satyr.

But his flatfootedness proved fleeting. Sweetknife brushed the spear aside with his sword and spun the other way, ending in a perfectly balanced stance. "You learn! Slower than some, but quicker than many humans." The satyr thrust, Verik caught it on the shaft of his spear, and then Sweetknife began a rapid series of advancing strikes.

Pushing himself farther than he ever had before, Verik parried every blow. Still he was pushed back, the satyr's relentless assault denying him the time to regroup or retaliate. Sweat poured from his skin, itching radiated from every line of the marking salve, his lungs heaved like bellows, and Verik realized he had nearly been backed out of the ring. With all his might, he met Sweetknife's sword with his spear, stopping the blow and pushing the satyr back enough to move aside, the rope no longer right at his back.

Sweetknife smiled indulgently, allowing Verik the space to attack. He moved forward on unsteady legs, attacking with exhausted arms, and Sweetknife, with the lightest touch of his dagger, moved the spear aside to avoid the blow. Verik tensed, but no counterstrike came. Sweetknife danced backwards, out of his own range and Verik's. The human continued attacking, exhausted but controlled, and the satyr moved back, carefully deflecting each strike and making no move to retaliate, controlling the movement of the fight like a choreographer.

Finally, without warning, Sweetknife struck at the shaft of the spear with both sword and dagger. The ferocious blow drove the spear from Verik's hands, and a kick of the satyr's leg drove the butt against the human's knee. Verik pitched forward, his leg driven from under him, and landed with his hand on the head of his own spear, staining it red.

Verik drew a deep breath. A thick, musky smell filled his nose, and without thought, without the possibility of thought, he lurched forward, tongue extending to taste the source of that heavenly smell. It landed on a spire of skin rising from a sea of fur. Verik opened his eyes, realized that Sweetknife's cock was poking slightly from its sheathe and he'd just licked it, and that he wanted nothing more than to do it again.

He dove forward, engulfing the sheathe in his mouth, feeling the thin fur tickle his tongue as the cock began to extend. Above him, and beside, Sweetknife was reaching for something. Verik swirled his tongue around the tip of the cock, savoring the salty taste, the musk of the balls still filling his nose. Sweetknife grabbed locks of his hair, a greasy feeling leaking down to his scalp, and the satyr pulled his head back slowly. Verik desperately lapped at the cock, its growth keeping it just in range of his tongue. Then Sweetknife forced him back down on it, the fully erect cock jamming its way into his throat, the invasion filling him with indescribable joy.

Sweetknife roughly shoved Verik's mouth up and down on his cock, the human using what little control he had to lick and suck at it in passing. The satyr's grip gradually grew firmer as he continued to use Verik like a toy, finally jamming himself fully into the mouth. Verik felt the cock twitch once, then explode into orgasm, cum pouring directly into his stomach. Sweetknife's seed felt like it bubbled in Verik's stomach, until the volume grew so great that it overflowed into his mouth and his nose, wiping the scent of musk away but replacing it with the taste of salty ambrosia.

Sweetknife removed Verik's head from his cock and dropped it. Verik felt it thud onto the ground, the sensation off in some way. As he reached up, Sweetknife commanded "Breeches, off." Verik obeyed, one hand moving down to work at them as the other came up to his head. As he pushed his pants down past his throbbingly erect cock, his other hand felt a horn, two horns, sprouting from his head where Sweetknife had held him. He looked up. Sweetknife stood above him, pot of salve at his feet, hands doused a deep red and nearly dripping with still-clear globs of the concoction.

Sweetknife sat and grabbed Verik's penis. The itching on Verik's body, formerly centered around the touches from sparring, began migrating, leaving lines of fire drawing from this whole body to center on his cock. Sweetknife began slowly massaging Verik's dick, long strokes leaving it nearly glowing with salve, hands switching off between tugging gently at the rod and fondling areas around the crotch - balls, taint, asshole - until they too were thoroughly coated in carnal red. Verik twitched with mindless pleasure, gasping soundlessly and shuddering under Sweetknife's ministrations.

The satyr continued playing with Verik, shifting strategies repeatedly, bringing him near the peak and backing off again and again. The human vibrated with suppressed power, like an instrument seeking the long-delayed climax of its song, and still it did not come. Verik felt his mind warping, sensation swirling around his body and shifting seamlessly between old familiar comforts and exotic new vistas of pleasure. Sweetknife straddled Verik, leaned down, whispered in his ear.

"Do you wish release?"

Verik found the wherewithal to nod, jerkily, once.

Sweetknife plunged his cock into the satyress's new cunt. Verik cried out in orgasm, her pussy spasming around the welcome invader. Her walls rippled, trying to coax as much sweet seed from it as possible. Verik clutched at the man above her, orgasm continuing, pulsing in time with the rhythmic stretching of his thrusts. Then Sweetknife came again, and Verik rose higher once more, warmth filling her pussy, spilling out to run down the crack of her ass, filling her womb as she milked the fertile treasure from her owner's musky golden orbs.

The pleasure ebbed, and Verik collapsed, drifting to sleep as she felt somebody pick her up and carry her.

---

Verik finally had a chance to leave Master's house, and it was on the day that the humans were leaving.

She'd never seen humans before - she was very new - so of course she went to the thoroughfare that lead to the Gate from the Faerie Realm, and convinced somebody to give her space right up front where she would have a clear view of them and maybe even a chance to touch some.

She idly bobbed her mouth on the grey cocks of the stolid, stonelike fae who'd given her space, keeping an eye on the road for the humans. And after only three blowjobs, they appeared!

The human entourage passed by: the finely bedecked carts, the healthy but unexceptional horses, the mercenaries in their varied armor. Verik stood and stared, pushing a bit to get to the very, very front, and then they were so close. She knew this would be her only chance for months and months.

She put a foot up on a rock by the thoroughfare, angling herself just right. She loved the patch of red fur on her crotch so much, it was so good at calling attention. And with her legs spread like this, you could also see her pussy, always enflamed with lust and dripping, just like she liked it. She hugged her stomach, pushed her breasts up just a bit more, and watched the humans pass.

She could see them staring at her! So many eyes passing by, so exotic. The flow of her juices increased momentarily, and she waited for one of them to come for her, to fill her and fuck her over and over and be her human.

But they didn't. Even with so many of them, looking at her with such delicious hunger, none of them moved. They just stayed in their group, some ogling openly, some trying to hide it, the last she could see a big grey haired man with dented but sturdy armor and dashing scars that gave her the most disapproving look, for no reason she could think of. And then they were gone.

Verik's thoughts curdled in her head. What was wrong with her, that they wouldn't come? Was it the little pudge of her stomach? But that was the best part of her, it was Master's new child even if it was still small. Maybe she wasn't smiling enough. Maybe they didn't like her hair, it was still so short, but she was trying to get it long that would just take time...

No, it was the humans. So many stupid little things they wanted that they couldn't focus on the important part and just do what feels good.

Somebody grabbed her hand and put it on his cock. Verik blinked and looked at it, bent over to offer herself to him, and joyfully felt all the thoughts in her head vanish. She was filled again, and everything was amazing.