Chapter 4: Sabrina rides Belethor's cock raw on the shop counter, his sweaty hands gripping her ass as coins and potions clatter to the floor with every thrust. He whimpers 'By the Nine—take your discount, just keep squeezing like that!' as she milks his cock with her tight cunt.
The cold air of Whiterun’s plains was a blessing. It scoured the smell of mead and male sweat from her skin, if not the memory. Sabrina walked with purpose, her pack heavier with supplies paid for by the Jarl’s “hospitality.” The gold felt dirty in her purse. She wanted to be rid of it, to trade it for something useful, something that cut.
The bell above the door of Belethor’s General Goods jingled with cheap cheer. Inside was a cramped world of organized chaos. Sacks of flour competed for space with stolen idols, rolls of faded fabric, and the pungent, dusty smell of too many things from too many places. Behind the counter, a man with a perpetually calculating smirk watched her enter. Belethor. His eyes, like a hungry rat’s, skimmed over her armor, her face, her body, appraising potential profit.
“Everything’s for sale, my friend. Everything,” he said, his voice a wheedling singsong. “If I had a sister, I’d sell her in a second.”
“I need a proper blade. Light. Sharp. Not this Nord pig-iron.” Her tone was flat, cutting through his patter.
His eyebrows rose. “Ah, a discerning client! Just in from Solitude, perhaps?” He didn’t wait for an answer, turning to rummage beneath the counter. He produced a long, narrow box, blowing dust from its lid. Inside, nestled in faded velvet, lay an Elven dagger. The metal was a pale, moonlit gold, the blade subtly curved, the hilt etched with swirling, ancient patterns. It was beautiful. It was deadly. It called to the blood in her veins.
She reached for it. His hand, dry and spidery, covered hers on the box. “Now, now. Let’s discuss terms. A piece like this… it has historical value. Sentimental, even.”
“Name your price.” She didn’t pull her hand away. His skin was cool.
“Eight hundred septims.”
“It’s worth four hundred. The etching is worn near the pommel. There’s a hairline flaw in the alloy along the back edge. I can see it from here.”
Belethor’s smirk faltered, then widened into something more genuine, more predatory. “You have an eye. Five-fifty.”
“Four-fifty. And you throw in that whetstone and a bottle of Frost Mirriam oil.”
They haggled over the next few minutes, a dry, clinical dance. The bell jingled again. A woman with kind eyes and a basket entered—Ysolda, his wife. She gave Sabrina a polite nod and began sorting through a crate of frost salts.
“Be a dear, Ysolda,” Belethor said, not taking his eyes off Sabrina. “The Companions are expecting that shipment of honningbrew. You have the stronger back for it.”
Ysolda sighed softly, a sound of familiar resignation. “Try not to bankrupt the poor girl, Belethor,” she said, hefting the crate with a grunt. She gave Sabrina another, almost apologetic look, and left, the bell chiming her exit.
The moment the door clicked shut, Belethor’s demeanor shifted. The merchant’s avarice sharpened into something more personal, more lecherous. He flipped the lock on the door with a soft, decisive click. The sounds of the market outside muted to a distant murmur.
“Where were we? Four-fifty, was it?” he murmured, leaning across the counter. The smell of him was ink, dust, and sour wine. “A lot of gold. For a woman heading into the wilds. Gold is heavy. Perhaps we can… lighten your load.”
Sabrina looked at the locked door, then back at his eager, pointed face. The memories of Dragonsreach were still fresh—the transactional grasp of power, the way her body had become a coin everyone felt entitled to spend. A cold, reckless calm settled over her. If this was the currency, she would dictate the exchange rate.
“Perhaps we can,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She shrugged off her pack, letting it thud to the floor. Then, with a fluid motion, she hoisted herself onto the cluttered counter, sending a pile of tin cups clattering. She sat on the edge, the worn wood cool through her leggings, and slowly, deliberately, spread her legs.
Belethor’s breath hitched. His rat-like eyes bulged, fixed on the junction of her thighs. “By Zenithar’s ledger…”
“The dagger. The stone. The oil. For free,” Sabrina stated, holding his gaze. Her pale blue eyes were icy, commanding. “And you don’t get to use your hands.”
He was fumbling with his trousers before she finished speaking, his fingers clumsy with lust. “Yes. Yes, of course. A trade. A barter.”
His cock sprang free, already fully hard, thick and ruddy. It was an ugly, functional thing, veined and bobbing eagerly. He shuffled closer, the counter edge digging into his belly. He smelled of stale arousal now, sharp and animal.
“Hands on the counter,” she ordered. He obeyed, planting his palms flat among the scattered goods, his knuckles white. She reached down, guiding him with one cold hand. Not to her core, but lower. She positioned the slick, fat head of his cock at the tight pucker of her ass.
He groaned, a sound of pure, desperate avarice. “Oh, you dirty elf bitch… you’re full of surprises.”
She didn’t answer. She breathed out, relaxing muscles that fought instinctively, and sank down.
It was a brutal, burning invasion. He was not overly large, but the act was one of sheer, shocking possession. There was no natural give, only the slow, relentless stretch as her body yielded. A sharp gasp was torn from her lips. The pain was bright, clean, cutting through the psychic grime of Whiterun. It made her feel present, raw, and utterly in control.
“Fuck,” Beletor hissed through clenched teeth, his body trembling with the effort of stillness. “Tighter than a Draugr’s fist…”
Once he was fully sheathed inside that clenching, improbable heat, she began to move. A slight, rocking rise and fall of her hips. Each motion was a fresh shock, a searing friction that made her vision spark. She set the pace, slow and deep, using the leverage of the counter. He could only stand there, impaled on her, his hands splayed, watching her use his body like a tool.
“This is the bargain,” she breathed, her voice tight with strain and a perverse kind of thrill. “You get this. You get to feel it. And I walk out with what’s mine.”
He was beyond speech, reduced to guttural, choking sounds. His hips began to stutter, trying to thrust, but the angle and her control thwarted him. She clenched around him internally, a vicious, rhythmic squeezing that milked his length.
“You’re going to… you’re going to make me…” he babbled.
“Yes,” she hissed. “Come. Spill your petty little lust inside me. It’s all you can afford.”
The crudeness, the sheer dominance in her tone, shattered him. With a strangled cry that was half sob, he erupted. She felt the hot, pulsing flood, a violation that was also a victory. She held him there, locked in that intimate degradation, until his shudders subsided.
She lifted herself off him, the separation a slick, obscene sound. He slumped against the counter, gasping, his trousers around his ankles. Sabrina stepped down from the counter, her legs steady. A dull, deep ache throbbed within her, a receipt for services rendered.
Without a word, she walked around the counter. She took the Elven dagger from its box, feeling its perfect balance. She snatched the whetstone and the small blue bottle of oil. She placed them in her pack.
Belethor watched her, his face pale and sweaty, a complex mess of shame, awe, and sated greed. “A… a pleasure doing business.”
She walked to the door, flipped the lock, and pulled it open. The daylight and market noise flooded back in.
“Everything’s for sale,” she said, echoing his words without looking back. “Even you.”
She stepped into the stream of people, the weight of the dagger at her belt a clean, hard truth. The path to Ivarstead, and the Throat of the World beyond it, lay to the east. She walked toward it, the gold still in her purse, every step a quiet punctuation mark on the ledger of a whore. The Greybeards were shouting. A dragon’s challenge was burned into the earth. And she, Sabrina, carried the proof of her journey not just in her soul, but in the relentless, accumulating tally written on her skin and in the depths of her body. The road was the only clean thing left.
The road was the only clean thing left. But first, the steel. The rhythmic, percussive clang of a hammer on an anvil drew her through the dusty plaza like a beacon. Warmaiden’s. The forge’s heat hit her in a palpable wave, scorching away the lingering, unclean dampness from the shop. It smelled of charcoal, hot metal, and honest sweat.
A burly Nord woman, her arms corded with muscle, worked a glowing billet of iron. She glanced up, her gaze assessing. “Adrianne. You need something forged or mended?”
“Upgraded.” Sabrina drew the Elven dagger, its pale gold seeming to drink the forge-light. She placed it on a scarred worktable. “I need the edge made lethal. Not just sharp. Murderous.”
Adrianne wiped her hands on a leather apron, picking up the blade. She ran a calloused thumb near the flaw Sabrina had spotted. “You see true. The alloy’s weak here. A heavy parry might snap it. I can temper it. Infuse the edge with a shard of moonstone. It’ll hold a keener bite, longer.” She looked at Sabrina, then past her, and nodded toward the interior smithy. “My husband’s the better honer, though. Finer hands. He’s in the back. Eorlund. Tell him the work’s for me.”
The interior smithy was darker, hotter, a sacred cave dedicated to the god of the forge. The man within was a contrast to his wife—older, leaner, his movements precise rather than powerful. He was polishing a magnificent greatsword, his concentration absolute. The air thrummed with latent heat.
“Eorlund?” Her voice was a foreign thing in the space.
He looked up. His eyes, a clear grey like river stone, took her in without a flicker of the lechery or calculation she’d grown accustomed to. They held only a craftsman’s quiet focus. “Aye.”
“Adrianne sent me. The dagger needs honing. After the tempering.”
He set the sword down carefully and approached. He took the blade from her, holding it up to the light of the central forge. His silence was a physical presence. He studied the metal for a long minute. “This is old craft. Not many left who know how to treat it. It’s brittle. It’ll take time. And a steady hand.”
“I need it before nightfall. I’m for the road.” She heard the unspoken question in her own statement. The Jarl’s gold was still in her purse, but it felt like a contaminant here. This man didn’t want gold. He wanted something else, something she could see in the slight tightening of his jaw as his eyes finally left the blade and traveled over her face, her neck, the line of her body under her travel-stained clothes.
A different kind of transaction, then. But here, it felt less sordid. It was elemental, like the forge itself. A trade of one kind of skill for another. He nodded slowly, a decision made.
“The steel needs focused heat. And patience.” He set the dagger down on a leather pad. His hands, scarred and stained with soot, went to the buckle of his worn trousers. “I’ve been at this since dawn. My mind’s crowded. I need the clutter gone.”
Understanding passed between them, wordless. He wasn’t demanding. He was stating a condition of the work. The clarity he needed had a price. Sabrina felt a peculiar thrill, clean and sharp as the dagger’s potential edge. This was not about power or fear. It was about utility, a mutual focusing of purpose.
“Then clear it,” she said, her voice low.
He leaned back against the heavy anvil, his trousers now open. His cock was already thick and half-hard, rising from a nest of grey hair. It was a working man’s cock, heavy, straightforward. She knelt on the hard-packed earth before him, the forge’s heat bathing her right side.
She didn’t hesitate. She took him in her hand, feeling the solid, pulsing weight. She bent her head, her silver hair falling forward, and licked a broad, slow stripe from root to tip. He tasted of salt and smoke and clean male skin. A sharp inhale above her was her only reward.
She opened her mouth and took him in. She didn’t play, didn’t tease. She applied a ruthless, dedicated focus, the same she demanded of him for her blade. She worked him with her tongue, tracing the prominent vein underneath, swirling around the broad head. She took him deeper, letting her throat relax incrementally until his entire length was sheathed in wet, sucking heat.
“By Ysmir,” Eorlund grunted, his hand coming down to rest, not roughly, but firmly on the back of her head. His fingers twisted in her braids. His hips gave a minute, helpless thrust.
Sabrina pulled back until just the tip was in her mouth, then sank down again, establishing a slow, deep, relentless rhythm. Her jaw ached. Drool slicked her chin. The obscene, wet sounds were loud in the forge, mingling with the crackle of the coals. She looked up, her pale blue eyes meeting his grey ones. He was watching her, his face a mask of intense, almost pained concentration.
“Good,” he breathed, his voice gravel. “That’s it. Just like that. Take it all.”
She increased the pace, her head bobbing faster. One of her hands cupped his balls, rolling the heavy orbs gently, then with more pressure. The other hand worked the base of his shaft in time with her mouth. She was an engine of suction and friction, a living tool for his release. She felt him hardening further, swelling, the tension coiling in his lean frame.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his grip on her hair tightening. “Gonna fill that pretty elf mouth.”
She hummed in acknowledgement, the vibration making him shudder. She took him as deep as she could, her nose pressed into his skin, and held him there. With a raw, guttural shout that echoed off the stone walls, he erupted. Hot, bitter pulses flooded her throat. She swallowed steadily, efficiently, until he was spent, until his softening length slipped from her lips.
She sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her lips felt bruised, used. He sagged against the anvil, breathing heavily, tucking himself away. The quiet of the forge returned, but it was a different quiet now, stripped and clean.
Without a word, Eorlund turned to his workbench. He selected a honing stone and a vial of fine oil. He picked up the Elven dagger. His hands, which had just been tangled in her hair, were now perfectly steady. He did not look at her again. The focus was absolute.
He worked for an hour. Sabrina watched from a stool, the taste of him still in her mouth. The shhhick-shhhick of the stone on metal was a meditative sound. He turned the blade, examined the edge against the light, applied the oil with a meticulous brush. Finally, he handed it to her.
The blade was transformed. It gleamed with a cold, inner light. The edge, when she lightly tested it against her thumb, parted the skin without pressure. A perfect, blood-beading line appeared. It was indeed murderous.
“It will cut through dragonhide now,” Eorlund said, his eyes finally meeting hers. They were clear, uncluttered. The transaction was complete. “The road is waiting.”