The following story contains a bit of non-explicit IMPLIED SAUCIFICATIONS. Do not read it if references to adult fun times is not your thing.
Show Content
Spoiler
Berrod Armstrong's back hit the rug with a light thud that was mostly drowned out by the chorus of deep and heavy panting. He couldn't help the way in which he pulled air into his lungs and released it in exerted bursts -- nor could the short-haired man next to him. They laid there, side by side, upon a rug in front of a fireplace; Berrod and Caden Agron. Sweat drenched them, among other results of the activities the two had just engaged in. The only light came from the fire itself; it glistened orange upon their wet skin. Berrod's thick thigh still remained entwined with Caden's, even as his heart thundered in his chest.
It had been a bit of a risky endeavour, doing what they had done in that location. The basement floor of the Free Company house was quite open to all, and there were very few hours when activity in and out of the area ceased. That night was one such night when they found a window of opportunity. They'd both come home to meet the place dark and shut up for the day, with notices from the two Hyur at staff that they would resume operations in the morning. After a brief inspection of the ground and basement floors, Berrod lit a fire in the lounging area downstairs and sat upon the rug to enjoy some conversation with Caden. One thing led to another, and the rug became the grounds for their carnal indulgences.
The Agron turned his head to the red-haired highlander and idly lashed at his stomach with the back of his hand. It elicited a turn of Berrod's head, complete with a gruff, exhausted chuckle. The toothy grin on his face quickly vanished as he caught a shadow of hasty movement on the staircase that led up to the ground floor. With only the dying light of the fire, he could make out nothing more than a hyur sized silhouette.
Berrod sat bolt upright and tapped Caleb's thigh twice with his fist. The other Highlander frowned and rose a bit more slowly, scanning the direction to which his lover's gaze was affixed.
"Don't bother runnin'. I done saw ya," Berrod called loudly and boldly, "An' I can catch up wit' ya before y'reach either o'the doors." He gave a pause of consideration. "Come on out. If yer peekin' in y'coulda at least done it right."
Caden leveled him with an exasperated look; obviously the black haired Highlander would have preferred to allow their voyeur his or her freedom. Yet, he didn't protest. Instead, he simply reached across the rug for his trousers. Berrod on the other hand, stood up, quite in the raw, drenched and reeking of the night's indulgence.
"Don' make me come up there," came the final warning.
The shadowed figure reappeared with sluggish motion that spoke plainly of an burden of horrified embarrassment -- and perhaps a fear for their life. It lingered on the stairwell like some sort of terrified animal.
Berrod gave an impatient, snorting grunt. "Well, come closer, you was peekin' before so this ain't nothin' you ain't done seen. Makes no sense playin' shy now." As if to make matters worse, the red-head set his hands on his hips and stood in proud display -- one that may not have been as intentional as it looked. Caden had already pulled on the trousers, having already decided that he'd just leave Berrod to his whims.
With a whimper the shadow slinked down the stairs and drew close enough for the muddied orange light of the fire to wash them into dim release. It was a Highlander fellow -- blond, somewhat short and slender, but no less sturdy than the rest of his kin. He was young -- could not be more than nineteen summers in age. His blue eyes stared at anything but Berrod's direction; an unconvincing display.
Berrod on the other hand made a sharp sound of recognition. "...Bolie?"
Bolieron Stonesthrow was the son of an Ala Mhigan refugee, born into ragged poverty in the piss-stinking alley of Pearl Lane. He was a few years younger than Berrod and a bit...slighter and less prone to doing what it took to survive out on the streets. Berrod had never paid much mind to him; he was too busy trying to find food for himself and those around him to focus on protecting a weakling. As time passed and the red-haired Highlander rose from poverty into decent living, he reached out to the youngster and offered him employment in the form of retainership. Only recently had the young man expressed an interest in mining and Gladiatorial combat, and was clearly seen practicing with weathered weapons and tools.
At that moment however, he stood before his bare employer, staring with intense focus at a portion of the wall. He was dressed for bed; a loose shirt and slops, all colored as white as his pallid, terrified mein. "Yessir," Came the meek response.
Berrod was taken aback for a moment -- he had planned out a cruel punishment for their voyeur, but he knew that he had a soft spot for the lad -- regardless of if he'd ever admit it or not. At that point he even slightly regretted not putting something on. Still, it wouldn't do. Berrod was the one who caught him; who knows how many other people he had been peeking in on? Granted, the basement rug was...not exactly the place for an encounter usually reserved for privacy. With an internal gnashing of his teeth, the redhead pressed on. "I suppose it's our own fault we got caught down here, but yer still gonna pay." His tone was serious; almost malicious. A bit of guilt struck him as he saw how much paler the poor boy got.
"So, yer gonna be the one ta clean this rug in the mornin'. Make sure it's scrubbed good as new and ain't stinkin' o'fun times." Berrod folded his arms. "That, an' yer gonna keep an ear out for anyone who's havin' a good time on this rug in the dead o'night -- we know we ain't the only ones, we ain't stupid -- an' clean the rug every time that happens. S'part of the job now. Got that?"
It was a cruel and unfair sentence, but Bolie nodded in obedient terror. "Yessir."
"Look me in the eye, Bolie, not like you wasn't gettin' a eyeful quarter bell ago."
With a monumental effort, he managed to let blue meet green. "Yessir."
"Now go on, get some sleep. Y'got a busy day t'morrow."
The younger Highlander brooked no delay in pelting off at top speed, vanishing into the dark and up the stairway. He didn't even bother to close the Private Chamber hall door quietly. It slammed like a firesand explosion. Berrod sighed and shook his head. "Stupid kid. Least we got somebody ta clean the rug now."
Caden got to his feet with a bundle of clothes in his hand, half of which he shoved into Berrod's chest. "Yer too tough on 'um," He commented with mild disapproval, "Just a curious kid is all. Now put those on before ye poke somebody’s eye out."
Berrod Armstrong's back hit the rug with a light thud that was mostly drowned out by the chorus of deep and heavy panting. He couldn't help the way in which he pulled air into his lungs and released it in exerted bursts -- nor could the short-haired man next to him. They laid there, side by side, upon a rug in front of a fireplace; Berrod and Caden Agron. Sweat drenched them, among other results of the activities the two had just engaged in. The only light came from the fire itself; it glistened orange upon their wet skin. Berrod's thick thigh still remained entwined with Caden's, even as his heart thundered in his chest.
It had been a bit of a risky endeavour, doing what they had done in that location. The basement floor of the Free Company house was quite open to all, and there were very few hours when activity in and out of the area ceased. That night was one such night when they found a window of opportunity. They'd both come home to meet the place dark and shut up for the day, with notices from the two Hyur at staff that they would resume operations in the morning. After a brief inspection of the ground and basement floors, Berrod lit a fire in the lounging area downstairs and sat upon the rug to enjoy some conversation with Caden. One thing led to another, and the rug became the grounds for their carnal indulgences.
The Agron turned his head to the red-haired highlander and idly lashed at his stomach with the back of his hand. It elicited a turn of Berrod's head, complete with a gruff, exhausted chuckle. The toothy grin on his face quickly vanished as he caught a shadow of hasty movement on the staircase that led up to the ground floor. With only the dying light of the fire, he could make out nothing more than a hyur sized silhouette.
Berrod sat bolt upright and tapped Caleb's thigh twice with his fist. The other Highlander frowned and rose a bit more slowly, scanning the direction to which his lover's gaze was affixed.
"Don't bother runnin'. I done saw ya," Berrod called loudly and boldly, "An' I can catch up wit' ya before y'reach either o'the doors." He gave a pause of consideration. "Come on out. If yer peekin' in y'coulda at least done it right."
Caden leveled him with an exasperated look; obviously the black haired Highlander would have preferred to allow their voyeur his or her freedom. Yet, he didn't protest. Instead, he simply reached across the rug for his trousers. Berrod on the other hand, stood up, quite in the raw, drenched and reeking of the night's indulgence.
"Don' make me come up there," came the final warning.
The shadowed figure reappeared with sluggish motion that spoke plainly of an burden of horrified embarrassment -- and perhaps a fear for their life. It lingered on the stairwell like some sort of terrified animal.
Berrod gave an impatient, snorting grunt. "Well, come closer, you was peekin' before so this ain't nothin' you ain't done seen. Makes no sense playin' shy now." As if to make matters worse, the red-head set his hands on his hips and stood in proud display -- one that may not have been as intentional as it looked. Caden had already pulled on the trousers, having already decided that he'd just leave Berrod to his whims.
With a whimper the shadow slinked down the stairs and drew close enough for the muddied orange light of the fire to wash them into dim release. It was a Highlander fellow -- blond, somewhat short and slender, but no less sturdy than the rest of his kin. He was young -- could not be more than nineteen summers in age. His blue eyes stared at anything but Berrod's direction; an unconvincing display.
Berrod on the other hand made a sharp sound of recognition. "...Bolie?"
Bolieron Stonesthrow was the son of an Ala Mhigan refugee, born into ragged poverty in the piss-stinking alley of Pearl Lane. He was a few years younger than Berrod and a bit...slighter and less prone to doing what it took to survive out on the streets. Berrod had never paid much mind to him; he was too busy trying to find food for himself and those around him to focus on protecting a weakling. As time passed and the red-haired Highlander rose from poverty into decent living, he reached out to the youngster and offered him employment in the form of retainership. Only recently had the young man expressed an interest in mining and Gladiatorial combat, and was clearly seen practicing with weathered weapons and tools.
At that moment however, he stood before his bare employer, staring with intense focus at a portion of the wall. He was dressed for bed; a loose shirt and slops, all colored as white as his pallid, terrified mein. "Yessir," Came the meek response.
Berrod was taken aback for a moment -- he had planned out a cruel punishment for their voyeur, but he knew that he had a soft spot for the lad -- regardless of if he'd ever admit it or not. At that point he even slightly regretted not putting something on. Still, it wouldn't do. Berrod was the one who caught him; who knows how many other people he had been peeking in on? Granted, the basement rug was...not exactly the place for an encounter usually reserved for privacy. With an internal gnashing of his teeth, the redhead pressed on. "I suppose it's our own fault we got caught down here, but yer still gonna pay." His tone was serious; almost malicious. A bit of guilt struck him as he saw how much paler the poor boy got.
"So, yer gonna be the one ta clean this rug in the mornin'. Make sure it's scrubbed good as new and ain't stinkin' o'fun times." Berrod folded his arms. "That, an' yer gonna keep an ear out for anyone who's havin' a good time on this rug in the dead o'night -- we know we ain't the only ones, we ain't stupid -- an' clean the rug every time that happens. S'part of the job now. Got that?"
It was a cruel and unfair sentence, but Bolie nodded in obedient terror. "Yessir."
"Look me in the eye, Bolie, not like you wasn't gettin' a eyeful quarter bell ago."
With a monumental effort, he managed to let blue meet green. "Yessir."
"Now go on, get some sleep. Y'got a busy day t'morrow."
The younger Highlander brooked no delay in pelting off at top speed, vanishing into the dark and up the stairway. He didn't even bother to close the Private Chamber hall door quietly. It slammed like a firesand explosion. Berrod sighed and shook his head. "Stupid kid. Least we got somebody ta clean the rug now."
Caden got to his feet with a bundle of clothes in his hand, half of which he shoved into Berrod's chest. "Yer too tough on 'um," He commented with mild disapproval, "Just a curious kid is all. Now put those on before ye poke somebody’s eye out."
![[Image: tumblr_ojgu7zoaag1robwlio1_540.png]](https://68.media.tumblr.com/80be4033cdf57fb6268473ef9ce37db6/tumblr_ojgu7zoaag1robwlio1_540.png)
