Bus Ride Fantasy

Skyrim FanFiction, Skyrim Erotica, and More

The Guiding Cord

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It had been raining for two straight days. Mortimer figured the leather cord around his wrists was just about worked down to the bone, but he was afraid to look at the damage.

Each passing yank by the Elf drove the thing deeper. And she was awfully generous with her guidance—keeping him in front but pulling left and right as it suited her.

“Am I leading us out of this country, or are you?” Mortimer snarled after she wrenched him sideways for the third time in as many minutes.

“You’re doing as I tell you,” she said. Voice icy and cold. Mortimer had asked her name but just gotten an especially vicious tug as an answer.

And so they walked. Mortimer doing his best to guide them out of the Flooded Lands and towards Whiterun. The Elf doing her best to make him miserable.

It was rough going—the purple waters had rearranged the entire landscape and nothing was familiar. Maps were useless. The only way Mortimer had to navigate was with the dim, foggy memory of when Ajorn led him into the place weeks ago. The Elf would never have made it without him. It did not seem like she knew exactly how she had gotten to the place he’d found her.

And she was still naked.

Mortimer had offered her an extra one of his furs but the Elf had just snorted and then tied him up. She carried the sword in one hand and lashed the dagger to her left thigh with a spare bit of cord. Mortimer stole backwards glances every hour or so—the flash of her thin, supple frame the only source of respite available in his current predicament. Although even that fleeting pleasure lost its allure once the rain began.

The Elf’s body smoked and steamed at the touch of water—as if her skin was filled with some kind of unnatural heat. And hearing the sound of sizzling droplets burning off the Elf’s skin made it difficult to enjoy a fantasy about fucking her.

For all Mortimer knew, she’d burn his prick off.

Mortimer was beginning to wonder if rejoicing at his recently spared life wasn’t unlike the time he’d drunkely fucked an Argonian whore and figured himself safe just ‘cause his cock had completed the initial deed without getting torn off. He’d come down with crotch sores a few days later, and Mortimer had a sneaking suspicion the Elf still planned to end their relationship with a steel blade through his skull.

The punishment’s arrival was just a bit delayed. Same as his cock rot had been.

That night they camped in the wreckage of a fallen tree. The trunk had been violently uprooted and knocked over by something—a storm or a dragon or a giant—which left them with a bit of a roof and space to finally get a fire started. Mortimer crouched so close to it his feet were damn near in the flames.

The Elf sat cross legged with her back against the dirt wall of roots. Sword across her knees, hot breath steaming out into the night. Outline of her tits drawn by the silver light of the moon.

Not a bad view.

As far as Mortimer could tell, the Elf didn’t sleep. The last thing he’d seen each night, and the first thing he woke to each morning was her strange pair of eyes—yellow and narrow, with flecks of glowing purple tossed in. Like some kind of demon cat.

“Tomorrow should be the last of the Flooded Plains,” Mortimer said between bites of a charred skeever the Elf had caught for them. Killed it with a thrown dagger from near on fifty yards away. “You figure I’ll be free to go, once we enter Whiterun?”

The Elf said nothing.

“It’s just, that was the bargain. Might be it was struck with a stretch of steel at my throat, but so far as I can tell I’ve held up my end.”

Still nothing.

“And I really am sorry about the whole trying-to-steal-your-sword-while-you-slept, thing. Truly.”

“So you’ve said.”

Mortimer perked up at that. Finally got her talking some, and in his experience anytime you got a foothold with a woman, there was another somewhere nearby. That sword, he figured.

“It’s a fine blade, have to say.” Mortimer gnawed the last bit of meat from the bone and began using the pointy end as a toothpick. “Where’d you get it?”

Her outlandish eyes flicked over to him. Narrowed. Made him feel like an animal she was thinking about killing, but wasn’t convinced it would be worth the trouble.

“It was a gift,” she said after a while.

“Fine present, indeed!” Mortimer smiled and slapped his knee. “What’d you do to earn such a treasure?”

I decided not to kill a man.”

“Huh.” Mortimer’s smiled faded.

An item designed specifically for murder seemed like a strange reward for sparing a life.

“You know, once we get back to civilization, you’re gonna need some clothes,” he said, changing the subject. “Not that I mind the view so much, but other folk aren’t as polite as me.”

She eyed him curiously for a moment and then allowed the smallest hint of a smile to escape from her lips.

“What do you know about civilization?” she asked.

Mortimer was going to crack another joke—which is probably what she expected him to do—but changed his mind.

“I know you don’t mix in with it any better than I do,” he said softly. “I spent my entire damn life grinding up against the crowd, looking for a spot I’d fit. Never did find one, really. Banditry and violence did suit me for a time, though. Everything else just got me worn down a little closer to the nub.”

She blinked once. Then held her eyes on him.

“Whoever you are, Elf,” he continued. “And whatever it is you did to end up out in that wilderness,” he motioned towards the Flooded Plains they’d come from, “I don’t figure you’ll be finding your way again in Whiterun. Or any other place of…civilization. It’s a different kind of cord that guides people like you and me.”

“I know the cord that guides you.” She raised her end of the leather rope.

Mortimer shrugged. “I’m just saying…you ain’t ever gonna be able to hide all that violence beneath your skin. Doesn’t matter how many layers of clothes you heap over it. If you ever decide to try clothes at all, that is.”

The Elf looked at him for a long time, saying nothing. Finally she shifted a little in the darkness so she was facing out towards the country they’d crossed, away from Mortimer and the fire.

“Go to sleep, Mortimer.”

Might have been wishful thinking on his part, but the Elf’s voice seemed just a little bit softer than it had been.

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2 comments on “The Guiding Cord

  1. Pingback: The List of Promises | Bus Ride Fantasy

  2. Pingback: Tattoos | Bus Ride Fantasy

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This entry was posted on May 9, 2013 by in Skyrim Fiction, Tales of Narova Black Hair.
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