Erado's Journal

Story by Flesh_Seraph

Author's Note: (All "Erado's Journal" entries will be going in this thread. Feel free to check back and follow our sinfully beautiful concubine on his dickgirl adventures. I'll be writing these in my spare time.

ERADO’S JOURNAL #2

RICHES BEYOND MEASURE

I am wrapped in an embroidered blanket as I write this- the feeling is soft against my skin. I don’t know how much such a wonderful piece of cloth must have cost the master of this house- but I wager even my father, that old veteran of trade and finance, would have raised an eyebrow at the price.

It is funny how we find ourselves to be in such a fine room only days after I had predicted wild lands and a lack of amenities. It seems our maps were incorrect, old as they are- and a private trading post has cropped up not two days ride from the border.

How brave my Leila was! It was clear that word had already reached the oasis warlord concerning a Cradle Spire expatriate and her fetching young squire- and that considerable sums had been offered for information leading to my capture and return to Zalia’s side. In arriving, we were confronted at once- my mistress had barely the time to scold herself softly for not skirting the outpost entirely before a burly guardsman was giving us a the knowing eye.

We were brought before a warlord. How I must have been shaking! I was clinging to her shapely thigh like a shorn lamb, my face and body shrouded in a riding cloak. I had spent the day siding, legs hanging side-saddle, while clinging to my mistress’ waist. The master of the outpost was a thick, deeply-tanned man. It was obvious that he was very wealthy, having stolen and corrupted that which he could not conquer via small-time conquest. Though a walled city like Cradle Spire would be far beyond him, it seemed easy to believe that many of the villages of the area were paying him tribute in some form. He spoke to us as he was reclining on a large and effete pillow, with two desert-tanned maidens rubbing his legs with painted fingertips.

“You may go in peace,” he said, addressing Leila, “but leave the boy with us, and take one hundred pieces of gold for your trouble.”

I clutched her tighter. In that moment, all I could think about was never letting go. I had painted my lips with spice-tasting cinnamon gloss that morning, had adorned my head with a crown of sweet blossoms. I had anointed my body in perfumed oils, and all for her. It was, to my mind, a tragedy that it should be the last time that I look beautiful for her. My protectress, my one and only.

“No deal,” she said, and my heart lept. “Not for a thousand.”

The burly man furrowed his brow, his sun-darkened skin seeming to turn an even deeper red. He was in his forties, I would guess, and the few white hairs that had crept into his beard and moustache were stark against his tan. He gestured, and a guard approached. I felt Leila tense, and prepared to crumple to dive out of the way quickly, should violence ensue. She had taught me how to take cover and protect my vital areas. The guard reached for my head, and in the blink of an eye, Leila’s sword was out and ready. The other guards drew theirs in response, and all was still.

“You don’t touch a hair on his head,” she intoned, holding her sword poised in a horizontal defensive position. I could see how polished it was, and that her eyes could, by virtue of the reflective blade, easily detect any guards approaching from behind. Which some were.

“Don’t fucking take another step,” growled Leila, and all motion in the room ceased. The silence was deafening. As I cringed at her hip, all I could think about was my desire to feel my body entwine with hers one last time, if this was to be our final moment. How I wanted to die, when my time came, with her taste in my mouth.

After what seemed like an eternity, the warlord spoke. “Stand down, all of you” he scolding, his voice weary and dismissive. “We only want to pull back his hood. To see the face of this boy, whose beauty is so renowned.”

Gradually, all swords were returned to their scabbards. My mistress was no fool, and left hers for last. It was her, not the guard, who pulled my hood from over my brow. I hugged myself to her side, my eyes wide and afraid. I think all present must have seen something beyond their understanding of beauty, in that moment. My wide eyes, their long lashes fluttering, fanning the air above a small and child-like nose and lips sparkling with gloss.

“A treasure!” I heard one guard whisper to himself.

“A true beauty!” said another, and I wonder now if those guards, masculine and astonished, might have been rethinking their sexual orientations in some far-away corner of their minds. In

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