Bread Dildos

Without looking up, he nodded. Almost imperceptible. Her offer had turned his head an even darker shade of red.

"Wonderful," she said. Then: "I'm ready," her voice careless now, and business-like. He almost dropped the cover down on her. She gulped down two-thirds of her decoction and licked her lips. "I'm ready," she repeated. Syrupy lead flooded her bloodstream, reached her heart. Her breathing was slowing down.

"Oh – okay then." His hands still shaking, he moved the lid back over, and handed her the rope. "Here. Pull."

She tried. Her muscles were sluggish, ossified, but she prevailed. The last specks of light disappeared. Rory was alone. Alone with her slowing breath and nervous thoughts. She still feared a trap, but nothing happened. Only darkness and her waxen mind.

Lingering decoction still numbed her fingers. She stretched them out and balled them up while she listened. It was quiet. The sounds of cooking, washing and chatting had been silent for a while now. She touched the lid and pushed. Cramping only a little, she soon got a grip. The cock slid open without sound.

She found herself inside the large, empty kitchens. Embers still glowed in the stoves at the wall, and on the long, oaken tables vegetables and mushrooms were waiting for the morning. The windows on the other side were small and up high but panelled with real glass. Backpack in hand, she crept over and looked out, perched on the tips of her toes.

Outside a muddy courtyard, encircled by stables and the servant's quarters. Oinking pigs burrowed through the dirt or fed from a distant trough. Rorvalen turned and pointed at where she guessed the laundry was. Just to be sure, she checked out the other rooms. Stairs led her downwards.

Wine-cellar (as expected), back up the stairs, kitchen again, corridor. Then up a second flight of stairs. The plan clear in her mind, she crept over deep red carpet to the small library. None of the gilded sconces could be moved. Rory mumbled a curse and scanned the books. Most had legible titles and the right amount of dust.

The fourth fishy folio she pulled produced a satisfying click. A panel slid open and revealed the locking mechanism. She probed at the edges. The feysilver needle inched forward and sideways, until it touched the invisible trigger. A faint blue flicker confirmed her suspicions. A warding ritual.

Unwilling to take any risk, she doused the whole panel with midnight water. Droplets hit the wall, produced orange sparks and wisps of greasy smoke. Again, she raked it with her probe, but she had defeated it. After massaging away the nervous twitch in her fingers, she smudged three runes. Blue protection. Shearstone suppression. And the invocation of the Fox in scarlet. With a soft cloth she wiped away all other smears.

The lock itself proved easy. The cover was loose already, and her wires hooked into the pulleys with ease. Even the chain was well-oiled, and she needed only a gentle pull to open the door. A low rumble, and it moved. Animated by invisible cogs and counterweights, it glided along concealed tracks. Deep inside the wall, almost inaudible, the hiss of tarfire and steam.

Behind, a short, dark passageway and the hidden safe-room. Further beyond, stairs that led all the way up to the master bedroom. She paused on the threshold and decided to take a risk. Browsing the bookshelves, the two books she selected were innocuous and small. No one would miss them.

Within the safe-room, she found a bed, a desk and even a shelf stocked with twice-bake and preserves. Relaxing somewhat, she set down her backpack and turned to face the inside mechanism. The brass lever would close the door, and the gilded dial lock would shutter it to any outside attempts. A more paranoid house owner might have secured them too with a warding ritual, but her probe found none.

Another low rumble, and it shut behind her. The lever arrested in a half-way position. She had already prepared her new cylinder pick when she noticed wear and fingerprints.

The numbers on the dial were rendered in dwarven numerals, some untouched and covered with dust. Others not so. Rorvalen had a hunch. One. Two. Three. The signs on the four were subtle, but she felt confident. Five. A satisfying click, and with a pull of the lever, heavy bolts slammed shut.

Rory breathed a sigh of relief. The construction was supposed to withstand an invading army. Besides, regular security sweeps seemed unlikely. Her limbs felt like lead, and in the corner the bed beckoned. Her work, however, was not done.

She retrieved a notched candle from her backpack and lit it with flint and tinder. She placed it inside her thieves lantern and set to exploring. From the map she could guess, but she needed to know. For her security, and because she might want to use the tunnels latter.

A few furtive steps into twilight, and she reached the stairs. Upwards. After a short walk, she had to close the blinds. Maybe I oughta have sprung for owleye. Crystalline light streamed through the cracks, brighter when she found the next door. A patrol, men dressed in white-and-blue livery and chainmail, passed her by.

A small gangway led away from the stairs. Rorvalen had to lower her head. Darkness, almost enough to uncover the lantern, then a room. Not a soul moved inside, but there were papers piled high on the desk and a steaming cup set down beside. She noted another panel and considered whether the same combination would open it. Suddenly, the door opened, and she scampered away.

She found the final room atop of the hidden stairs. It was not lit, but Rory could hear her. Breathing, tossing and turning; a female shadow alone inside the large bed. The thief returned to the safe room.

Smiling, she finally claimed her bed. Roostertooth always wreaked havoc on her body, and she had the time. Groggily, she placed down the flickering light, and fell into a deep and dreamless slumber.

When she woke, the candle had burned down to the fifth notch. Midday. She helped herself to twice-bake and preserves. Chewing, she opened the first book.

Rorvalen had always wanted to broaden her knowledge of alchemy beyond the practical and fragmentary. But even the introduction of the monograph she had borrowed proved too much for her, and she put it aside with a frustrated sigh.

She licked clean her jam-stained fingers and cracked open the other book. Despite Father Trawlings' best efforts, she never had developed any interest in religious matters. Recent hang-ups notwithstanding. But even she, heathen that she was, recognised blasphemy this flagrant.

None of the creation myths she knew mentioned the Void Dragon's cock. Much less two. Depicting the world as a feyish maiden and as their daughter besides, would have been enough to enrage the kindly priest. Having her spread her willing legs for the Divine Dragon, however, seemed designed to annoy all religious authority. Such claims would test even the indulgence of the Senate.

Rory bit her lip. She turned the pages with fevered imagination. Flowery, filthy descriptions and crude yet clear illustrations. Her other hand rested on her breasts, teased, and slid lower. "Fucking chains," she whispered. That's why you brought it. She took her dildo from the backpack.

Mumbling another curse, she pulled down her pants. She opened up her flower, but she was not yet ready for the plunge. As the First Mover railed the lust-crazed maiden, she licked and swallowed the baked shaft.

Shudders gripped her body, the book forgotten. She brought it down, slick with spit. Teasing at first, she soon needed more. Faster and faster, she forced it into her hungry hole. With her legs spread apart, with pants still wrapped around her ankles, she fucked herself.

She bit down on her fist to muffle her moans. Someone was moving inside the library. Taking a small risk, she threw herself down on the bed. Burying her head in the pillow, she touched herself. Furious and hot and wet and wild. Again, and again, she rubbed and pounded, and fucked herself.

Through half-lidded eyes she could almost see her draconic lover. Or the dirty, scaly shop assistant who had so obviously lusted for her. With another desperate thrust, she rocked herself on the cock.

Imagining the lewd tongue, she pushed deep into her pussy. She licked her breasts, and cleaned her fingers. Her skin perked under the ministrations, real and imagined. Stroking the shaft, she felt the scales. The hard, alien member she had seen on the perverted creature. Responding to a sudden need, she impaled herself. Rocking back and forth, she fucked herself, until juice gushed from her slit. And until her orgasm washed over her.

Rorvalen then spent a pleasurable day lounging around on the bed, reading. Not a good book, in any conventional sense, but it did pass the time ably. And again, and again, scene after scene, it aroused her fancy.

By the time the candle had burned down, her dildo was broken; rendered unusable by vigorous use. Rorvalen rose, stretching, and began her preparations.

She picked out dress and cloak, and laid them out on the bed. Stripping naked, she applied the perfume. Dabbed it around her sex, and under the pits of her arms. Comfortable warmth spread on her skin. Gone was the sweaty funk of debauchery. Instead, subtle notes of warderwood promised seduction to humanoids, and nothing at all to dogs.

The glamour smelled like moss and morning dew. Checking herself in the polished bronze mirror, she reapplied the creamy magic. Light around her mouth and on her nose. A smattering on her bust. And a whole lot on her ears.

Next, she fastened the belts and garters along her legs. She placed the small pouches, filled with her tools and potions, and tried to move. Her movements were awkward at first, but she adapted. Two fast steps, a jump, and a half spin. Even dancing would be possible, with all her gear hidden under the velvety wood-green dress.

Fully dressed now, she listened. Quiet filled the small reading room. Rorvalen punched in the code again, then closed the secure door behind her. Walking upright, she marched through the palatial estate. To the gardens. Servants passed her by but did not dare approach her.

Outside, cloth canopies had been erected to protect against the threat of spring rain. Torches, candles and distant dragonlight lanterns bathed the central area in warm light. The earliest guests, dressed in imported jungle silk and other highest fashion, crowded around the long tables. They sampled food and drink. New arrivals filtered past them, and disappeared behind rose bushes or into the colourful tents. Servers flitted to and fro, carrying yet more morsels.

The bread cocks had been raised upright and adorned with sage and spring flowers. Some guests looked at them with shock or amusement, but most were focussed on their conversations. Numbers, coin enough to outfit a whole legion, were bandied about with contemptuous ease. Each and every one would have made a worthy target for a break-in.

"All alone?" Three women stood together at a smaller table. Rorvalen had tried to pass them by when the largest, a striking redhead with steely blue eyes, had stopped her.

"Jake promised he'd be here by now," said the thief with deep disappointment in her voice, and with her face disfigured by sadness.

"Your boyfriend?"

Rorvalen nodded.

"Oh you poor thing." The redhead offered her a glass filled with white and sparkling wine. "Here. Have a drink and join us in misery. I am Sissy. The gorgeous blonde is Kasha, and Ms. Dark-and-Handsome is Rosa."

Rory forced a smile. "I am Ror – Roberta. But my friends call me Rory. And I would gladly join you. So, have you been deserted as well?" She took a sip and studied the other women.

Kasha and Rosa nodded. Both wore creamy linen dresses with an almost floor-length hemline and double slit legs. A cut that had been in popular fashion three years ago.

"I have a husband," said Sissy. And given her new, light green silk dress, Rorvalen believed her. "But his health has been poor as of late. So, I have come all by my lonesome. Somebody needs to represent the family. You know how it is." Her tone made Rory think that she did not expect her, or her friends, to know.

"I am a bit nervous," the thief pretended to admit, "and I have been wondering about the," she paused as if searching for a word, "course of events." She looked down at the floor. "Is it okay for us to eat?"

"First time?" Sissy asked.

Rorvalen looked up at the woman and managed a blush. She nodded, quickly and daintily.

"Poor thing," Rosa spoke with an accent Rory could not quite place. Northern Tar, maybe. "Did the guards give you any trouble? They can be so rude."

"Not much. They were actually really nice. Maybe Jake told them?"

"Sure thing, sweetie," said Sissy. Condescension came easy for her. "And don't worry your pretty head. You can eat, and after they have gone for their silly bit of play-acting, there will be dancing." She pointed out the empty hardwood stage constructed under the grand baldaquin.

"Play-acting? Jake was so mysterious. Do you think I could?"

"Watch?" Sissy grinned. "It is strictly forbidden. Isn't that right, Kasha?"

The woman turned crimson and cleared her throat. "I sneaked a peak, last year," she whispered. "I think they were doing a magic ritua -."

"Hardly," the red-haired woman interrupted her. "Play-acting. Pretending to be dragons, or witches, or something."

"But there were naked women and chanting," Kasha said, louder. "I think they use mystical powers to bless their businesses. Or to curse their rivals."

"That sounds frightening," Rory claimed, "but I wonder if I could – if I should sneak a peek. I always wanted to see real magic."

"You'll see old perverts pretending like they are in some jungle ziggurat. Leave men on their own for a while, and they will forget their tasteful mansions, and instead only think about fucking or fighting. Or childish games." Sissy gave Rory a wink. "But I suppose it will be a sight to behold, regardless." She lowered her voice, "We shall help you, of course."

Kasha had grabbed Rory's hand. "There is garden lodge, out there behind the hedges, in the far corner of the gardens. They will take the middle path, but there is a side passage," she pointed into the darkness. "It is a bit muddy, so you'll have to be careful. Oh – and they will cover up the windows, but you can see through the cracks in the wall. No one will even expect you."

"What if I get caught?" Rorvalen asked. What if you are trying to trick me?

"Oh, I hope not," said Rosa, "maybe you should stay here with us?" She too took the thief's hand.

"Stumble around a bit. Slur your words, pretend you're drunk," said Kasha.

"Tell them you are a personal friend to Elisabeth var Fabian. Worse comes to worst, they'll have guards escort you back to us."

"Thank you all so, so much." Relieved, Rory joined them for another round of drinks, and for a quick snack. The women were eager to learn about Jake, and they shared some useful gossip in turn.

The thief had enjoyed her time with her new acquaintances. She almost regretted parting when all around her men began to move deeper into the gardens. A wave of flowing togas. Red and white. A few drabber dresses. Black, off-white or dun. Glimmers of gold bound aquamarine.

Rory did not follow them on the path. With her gait quickened, she instead veered off to the left. There. She had found the trail. Shoes in hand, she stepped from stone to stone. Breaking into a sprint, she dodged muddy ground and grasping, thorny branches.

With the lodge in sight, she ducked low. The last wave of members were arriving, and the entrance door stood wide open. She crept past them and reached the backside of the cabin. Soft light flowed from the gaps, and Rory could hear their elated voices.

She found a large crack and peered inside. Candles lined the wall. The smell of wax and flickering flames. Fire pressed too close to claret draperies. About 40 men had assembled inside. Thick golden bands inlaid with deep aquamarine adorned each middle finger.

Between them, on a slab of grey stone lay five women. Naked, on their backs, and arrayed head to sex. Wreaths of quaderean laurels crowned their heads and girded the ankles of their dangling feet. More leaves, quaderean and wine, had been placed on their bodies. Unseen chefs had filled them with meat and mushrooms. Overflowing with bounty, they beckoned. Beckoned from beneath alabaster breasts, and from atop their clean-shaven cunts.

Some men were starring, or even groping. Most had, however, like Rorvalen, trained their eyes on the two men at the end of the room. The first – large, dark skinned and dressed in traditional Tatters' garb – had to be Master Tarhweed. He had to bow down whenever he whispered to the second.

Bulky metallic-red plates covered his squat frame. A heavy helmet and a golden mask obscured his head and face. Each long, braided strand of his red-brown beard was sheathed down to the chest, and oiled and adorned with platinum rings after. A dwarf. An actual, real dwarf.

Suddenly, the dwarf's gauntleted fist hit the slab. The blue gems framed on his knucklebones flared with reflected light, and the ceremony began. He whispered to Tarhweed, then called out in a booming voice. In a chorus, the others responded. The words sounded Feyish. Rorvalen recognised some. But most were gibberish.

Still, the men's fervour rose. They were shouting, stomping their feet, or clapping. Louder and louder, they chanted, until Tarhweed raised his arms. Sudden silence calmed the choir's clamour. The large man spoke.

His pronunciation was graceless, but he formed proper Feyish sentences. He invoked the blessings of Forgemaster and Lawbringer, then invited his brethren to partake of the mysteries. With opened palms, he called them to feast.

If they did not understand his speech, they understood the gesture. Some took from the food and shared it with their companions. Most, meanwhile, touched and groped at pliant, naked flesh.

A wicked smile played around Master Tarhweed's lips. He and the dwarf did not partake; instead, they whispered among each other. Laughter, sharp cries and chewing swallowed up their words.

Not magic. Rorvalen had seen Livia in action. She could sometimes smell the clean metal, or the coming storms. Sometimes, the hairs on her arms stood upright, or she felt it tingling in her gut. At other times, her right ear twitched. Not magic. She should be sure, but doubt remained.

Wincing, Rory crept closer to man and dwarf. Her heart was racing, but nothing happened. Silence surrounded her, and orgiastic gaiety filled the lodge. Another inch, and she could almost hear.

"Statuette," the large man said.

Or maybe status.

"Inside," answered the dwarf.

Inside. She could not be sure, but they did shake hands. A sudden eruption of uproarious cheer made listening impossible.

One of the men had opened his pants and rubbed on his growing cock. The laughter grew louder and mixed with their cheers. Others patted him on the shoulder and pushed him towards the closest woman. Hands grabbed her legs and pulled them apart.

In the corner of her eyes, the Master and the dwarf turned to leave. They passed through the horde of cheering humans but were stopped by outstretched hands. Some, uninterested in the debauched spectacle, shook hands with their leaders. Numbers were bandied about, loud enough for the thief to hear.

Another man, greying and dressed in a drab tradesman's suit, pulled down his pants and freed his already rock-hard member. He plunged into the woman closest to Rorvalen. Moans escaped from painted lips. Then another climbed on the slab and blocked Rory's view with his naked ass.