Chapter 13: Cellar Secrets
Sabrina heard the soft shush of steel on leather from the stone steps before she saw him. She was deep, her mouth full of Onmund’s thick cock, one hand working in slow, sure circles over Brenya’s clit, two fingers from her other hand buried to the knuckle inside the merchant’s wife. The world had narrowed to textures: the velvet-ridged heat under her tongue, the slick, clenching grip around her fingers, the choked, encouraging sounds from above. The damp cellar air was sweet with honey and sharp with the salt of their sweat. It tasted like stolen time.
The sound was wrong. Out of place. Onmund’s hips jerked, not in pleasure, but in surprise. Brenya’s breath hitched—a different kind of tension. Sabrina withdrew, turning her head, a line of saliva still connecting her lips to Onmund’s glistening head. A city guard, his face young and flushed under his iron helmet, stood frozen on the bottom step, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white.
His eyes, wide and shocked, swept the scene: Onmund, his tunic shoved up to his chest, his cock standing rigid; Brenya, skirts hiked, legs splayed, her face a mask of interrupted ecstasy; and Sabrina, kneeling between them, her pale skin and silver hair luminous in the torchlight, her mouth wet, her expression utterly devoid of shame.
A breath of cellar-chill air snaked down Sabrina’s spine. The moment stretched, brittle.
Onmund found his voice, an edge of panic in it. “Guard… this isn’t… we can explain…”
But the guard wasn’t drawing his sword. He wasn’t shouting for backup. He was staring, transfixed, at Sabrina. His gaze traveled from her icy eyes, down her throat, to the proud, full curve of her breasts, then lower, to where her fingers still glistened with Brenya’s arousal. His mouth opened, then closed. A telltale bulge strained against the front of his leather breeches.
Sabrina saw the decision happen in his face. The duty, the law, the "right thing"—they crumbled like old mortar under a heavier, more immediate weight. Simple, desperate want.She smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was a predator’s smile. The dragon in her blood, sated from last night’s more personal feast, stirred with a flicker of amusement at this new, timid morsel.
“You can sheath your sword or draw it,” Sabrina said, her voice husky from use. “But one of them is coming out now. Which will it be?”
The guard flinched as if struck. His grip on the sword hilt loosened. His other hand, of its own accord, moved to the buckle of his belt. The leather rasped loud in the quiet.
Onmund let out a shaky, relieved laugh. Brenya relaxed, her hand coming to rest over Sabrina’s, pressing her fingers deeper inside with a soft, affirmative moan.
“Thought so,” Sabrina murmured. She turned back to Onmund, taking him into her mouth again in one smooth, deep swallow, her eyes rolling back in mock ecstasy as she re-established the rhythm. But she was watching the guard from under her lashes.
He fumbled with his armor. The iron chestpiece clattered to the stone floor with a shocking, metallic crash. The helmet followed. He was younger than he’d looked, barely out of his teens, with a thatch of straw-colored hair and a face still holding the softness of a boy. His cheeks were flushed scarlet. He shoved his breeches and smallclothes down his thighs, his cock springing free, already hard and leaking.
He just stood there, clutching his discarded gear, looking lost.
“Don’t just admire the view,” Brenya gasped, arching into Sabrina’s touch. “She’s a gift from the Divines, boy. Get over here and unwrap her.”
The guard—boy, really—stumbled forward. His cock bobbed with each clumsy step. He stopped behind Sabrina, his shadow falling over her. He smelled of polish, cold iron, and the nervous sweat of a long watch.
Sabrina pulled off Onmund with an obscene pop. “Touch me,” she commanded, not looking back.
A trembling hand landed on her shoulder. The touch was hesitant, feather-light.
“Harder,” she snapped.
His grip tightened, fingers digging into her muscle. Better.
She reached back, her hand finding his hip, pulling him closer until his erection brushed against the small of her back. The heat of it was startling. “You want to fuck this pretty merchant’s wife?” she asked, her fingers still pumping inside Brenya, who whimpered.
“I… yes,” the guard stammered.
“You can’t. She’s busy.” Sabrina tilted her head back, looking up at his upside-down, overwhelmed face. “You’ll take what you’re given. You’ll fuck my mouth while I make her come. Understand?”
He nodded, mutely. His cock twitched against her skin.
“Then do it.”
She turned fully to face him, kneeling up. Onmund groaned in frustration but shifted, his hands going to Brenya, taking over. Sabrina ignored them. This new toy was hers.
He was beautifully, shamefully erect. Not as thick as Onmund, not as seasoned as Ralg, but achingly hard, the skin stretched taut. A clear bead of pre-come welled at the slit. She leaned forward, her silver hair sweeping the dusty floor, and licked it off, a long, flat stroke from root to tip. He tasted of salt and youth and fear.
“Name,” she said, before taking him in.
“T-Torvar,” he choked.
“Alright, Torvar,” she purred, her breath hot on his sensitive head. “Don’t think. Just fuck my face.”
She opened her mouth and swallowed him down to the base in one fluid, practiced motion. His choked-off cry was pure, undiluted shock. Her throat constricted around him, massaging his length, and she began to move, setting a brutal, demanding pace. No gentle introduction. This was about obliterating his reality.
She sucked him like she was draining poison, her cheeks hollowed, her head a relentless piston. One of her hands wrapped around the base of his cock, twisting in time with her sucks. The other went back between her own legs, two fingers sliding easily into her own soaked cunt, a mirror to the ones still working on Brenya. She fucked herself in time with her own sucking, the vulgar, squelching sounds from her own body adding to the cacophony.
Torvar’s hips stuttered, then began to thrust. He was clumsy, off-rhythm, but the raw urgency in his movements was its own thrill. He grabbed two fistfuls of her silver hair, not guiding, just holding on for his life. “By the Eight… your mouth… fuck, your fucking mouth…”
She hummed, the vibration wracking his spine. She could feel his balls drawing up, the tension coiling. He was close.Too close.
She pulled off completely, leaving him gasping, glistening, and desperate on the edge. “Not yet,” she said, her voice ragged. She turned to Onmund and Brenya. They were a tangle, Onmund now fucking his wife from behind with deep, grunting thrusts. “Switch.”
Without a word, Onmund pulled out of his wife. Brenya, panting, crawled on her hands and knees to Torvar. “C’mere, guard,” she slurred, her eyes glazed, and took his dripping cock into her own eager mouth.
Sabrina stood up, her legs slightly unsteady. She pushed Onmund onto his back on a pile of empty grain sacks. “My turn,” she said, and lowered herself onto him, sheathing his thick girth inside her with a low, satisfied groan. She rode him hard, her own need a bright, screaming knot in her belly. The memory of the night before—of being filled in both holes by Ralg and Bjorn—flashed through her, making her clench around Onmund, drawing a roar from him.
She looked over at Torvar. Brenya was sucking him with fervor, but his eyes were locked on Sabrina, on the way her breasts bounced, on the slick, joining place where she and Onmund met. She held his gaze, rocking her hips, and crooked a finger at him.
“You.Guard. Come here.”
Brenya released him with a wet sound. Torvar staggered forward.
“On your knees,” Sabrina ordered, still moving on Onmund. “Behind me.”
He obeyed, kneeling in the grit and damp. She guided him, reaching back to position the head of his cock at her other entrance, the one still tender and slick from last night’s use. The pressure was familiar and instantly overwhelming. “Push,” she growled.
He pushed. The stretch was less shocking this time, but no less intense. He was smaller than Bjorn, but the feeling of being penetrated again, while already full, sent a violent shiver through her. He sank in, inch by inch, until he was fully seated, his hips pressed against her ass.
“Now move,” she commanded, her voice cracking. “Both of you.”
They found a ragged, staggering rhythm. Onmund thrust up into her cunt. Torvar drove into her ass. The sensations weren't separate; they bled into one another, a continuous, pounding fullness that left no part of her untouched or unclaimed. She was a nexus of pure, animal function, a vessel for their three desperate needs. The pleasure was a heavy, dark wave, pulling her under.
“Gods, you’re tight… both of you… fucking her so deep…” Onmund grunted, his hands scrabbling at her hips.
Torvar was beyond words. He pounded into her with the single-minded drive of a man who’d never imagined this was possible, each thrust accompanied by a shattered gasp. The crude symphony of slapping flesh, grunts, and wet, rhythmic sounds filled the honey-scented dark.
Sabrina let go. Her head fell back, her silver hair a mess down her back. The climax seized her without ceremony, a brutal, full-body convulsion that clamped down on both cocks inside her. Her scream was raw, scraped from the very base of her throat, echoing off the stone and the whispering barrels.
Her spasms triggered theirs. Onmund came first, shouting her name as he pulsed hotly into her core. The feel of it sent another, smaller quake through her. Torvar followed a second later, his body slamming into her one final time as he groaned, a long, low sound of release, spending himself inside her with shuddering thrusts.
The aftermath was a slow collapse into a heap of damp, exhausted limbs on the cold stone. Torvar pulled out first, crumpling onto his side, staring at the ceiling as if he’d seen the face of Akatosh. Onmund lay beneath Sabrina, his chest heaving. Brenya crawled over, curling against her husband, her hand possessively on Sabrina’s thigh.
Sabrina stayed where she was, still impaled on Onmund’s softening length, feeling the warm trickle of two men’s releases begin to seep from her. The air was thick with the smell of sex and honey and torch smoke. The dragon within was silent, content. But as her breathing slowed, a different awareness crept in. The whispers from the barrels, which had been a distant hum, seemed sharper now. They weren't just random echoes. They were forming words. Dark, oily words in a language that scraped against her mind.
Dovahkiin…
The voice was inside her skull. Her eyes snapped open, focusing on a nearby cask. Its wooden staves seemed to pulse in the torchlight.
…Flesh-binder… Thief of warmth…
She sat up abruptly, disentangling herself from the spent bodies. The physical satisfaction drained away, replaced by a cold, prickling clarity. The cellar wasn't just a storage room. It was a sounding chamber. And something here knew exactly what she was.