XXII Connubial Nuptials
I would take her home to Lakeview Manor, the grand home I had built for us in Falkreath. Rayya, my gruff countrywoman housecarl, was already there as steward, but my children remained in Solitude for the nonce; I would send for them later. For a few days, we would have the manor to ourselves. Yet, the necessity of travel by coach meant that our first night need be spent on the road, as guests of Borgakh in the Orsimer stronghold of Largashbur. The orc woman had used her skills and the treasures acquired whilst travelling with me – not to mention the dowry I paid on her behalf – to earn a place with another clan, as the respected first wife of their new chief, Gularzob. She would, I believed, be a steadying influence on him, who yet protested his unworthiness to succeed the cowardly Yamarz, whom I had slain after he betrayed an alliance we had formed to lift a curse from his tribe.
Before we could retire, however, the tribe would treat us to their version of a matrimonial fête, celebrating Vilja’s and my nuptials as well as those of Borgakh and Gularzob. I was obliged to prove myself repeatedly in wrestling matches and mock combat, as well as drinking and boasting contests (though I decline to confess my prowess – or lack thereof – in either). Vilja joined in as well. Although she began the night shyly performing on her lute and singing, she soon progressed to challenging me to arm wrestle – having often bragged about her ability versus her brothers. Losing that, she professed herself thirsty, so I brought her another flagon of Blackbriar mead. Whilst I was not counting, I estimated her to have consumed at least two of the heady brews already.
“Oh, thank you.” She drained half of it in one swig, wiped her mouth with the back of one hand ere she downed the remainder. “I’ll tell you what.”
Oh no. I knew what was coming.
“Why don’t I show you what we do in Solstheim? It will be fun – come on!” Jumping up on a table, she began to dance, writhing as the local bard began a tune and the crowd stomped and clapped, keeping time.
“Awww… isn’t this fun?” she beamed.
I gazed at her, no longer even slightly embarrassed by her behaviour; I felt only love and admiration, enow to Shout it at her, project it as through will.
Orcs kept thrusting drinks at her, and she did her best to keep up. She leapt from table to table, a roar erupting as she stumbled or stepped in the remains of someone’s meal, knocked over a tankard. Many greenish-grey hands kept her from falling – a few, I noted with some annoyance, a bit too helpful, lingering overly long in places that were not the most likely spots to save her from falling. Yet this, too, I had learned was an Orsimer tradition: A near-orgy would ensue after a wedding, but although the festivities would begin communally, most paired off with their usual spouses into their own huts or rooms (many of which were shared in any case) ere long.
For now, however, the night was heating up as Vilja continued to dance – and imbibe more spirits. Here and there, a few orcs began the celebratory rites, biting each other’s lips bloody – hardly avoidable, given their tusks – as they roughly kissed. A few even swatted one another’s cheek or buffeted an ear, playfully professing their love and lust in the orcish way. Soon, clothing and armour made its way to the floor – including, I was suddenly horrified to see, Vilja’s!
Several green hands steadied her as my love stepped out of her blue dress, more than one on her round buttocks as others held – or rather stroked – her ivory legs. Again I restrained myself; orcs frequently pawed at one another thusly, going so far as engaging in heavy foreplay, though they rarely actually coupled with someone other than, as I have mentioned, their usual spouse (or spouses; orc chiefs, especially, were allowed – even expected to have – several wives. I briefly wondered if a female could become chief, and thereby acquire more than one husband; I felt it only fair…).
The crowd became more raucous, the smoky longhouse air heavy with the strong odours of orc sweat and intensifying sex, the sweetness of mead, headiness of orcish ale. Couples and trios began to conjoin, grunts, moans, guffaws punctuating the murmured sounds of love: “You’re too pretty for an orc, but I still love you.” “Grr… Stick that in me, you great, ugly horker!” “My, what big tits you have.” “Grr! That’s the biggest sword I ever seen!” Not exactly my idea of lovemaking, but to each his or her own, I thought. Perhaps not long ago I would have found the scene intensely arousing; just now I had thoughts and eyes only (well, perhaps not entirely) for Vilja.
Approaching her, I could not believe that she seemed oblivious to the activities around her; whilst at least two couplings went on beneath her she danced and clapped, accompanied by neither music or clothing, quite nude but for a ring or two and the Amulet of Mara, bouncing above her enticingly jiggling breasts. Withal, her eyes did not leave mine as a big, naked orc male bent an ample female over the table virtually between my bride’s feet, began to thrust vigorously into her. Another male sat naked upon the same table, large thews splayed, two females slurping noisily at his engorged green member as he rumbled encouragement. I plucked Vilja, half giggling, half shrieking in surprise and (I hoped) excitement, from her perch.
I carried my bare bride over a shoulder into the starry night. She gasped as the cold air nipped her delectable bits, though mere moments passed ere we entered our own hut that the grateful clan had loaned us. Though small, it was larger than a tent. Gently, by the light of a banked hearth and single brazier, I placed Vilja on the low cot. Propped on her elbows, she ceased her giggling, chest still heaving with recent exertion, rosy nipples standing erect a half-finger, one supple pale leg crossed over the other, as though to hide the near-hairless crease betwixt them; the distended pink lips, however, were not as shy. I absorbed the sight, forgetting to breathe.
“S-Sweetheart?” The plaintive tone bespoke tomes to me; she was afraid, almost certainly a maiden. Of course, I knew that, but why had I never thought about it?
The awareness made me dizzy. “You are…? Have you never…?”
“N-No.” Her exhilaration had waned; no longer did she appear drunk. Eyes wide, frightened, she seemed to have stopped breathing. Moreover, she was almost in tears.
My mind whirled; no wonder she had drunk so much. Why had it not occurred to me ere now? How could I have been so selfish? What should I do now? I had never had a virgin…
“P-Please…”
“Shhh…” I sat on the bed beside her. She was shivering – I imagined, not solely from the cold. I knew what I needs must do. At least, I could think back to when I lost my maidenhead – not something I cared to do – and consider what I would have preferred. I pulled some furs over her, covering her neck to toe, tucked them in around her.
“D-Do… Do you not w-want to…?”
“Hush, love. You are cold and… frightened – I know. You must breathe, and get warm.” I began to chafe arms and legs through the furs, tried not to think of all the naked flesh beneath them.
She stared at me, eyes as twin Harvest Moons – blue ones. “B-But…”
I kissed her, a light pressing of our lips. Sat back, looked at her again; eyes the same size, perhaps some wonderment mixed with trepidation.
“You… we…”
“Have never done that, yes.” Vilja had always been content with (frequent) hugs; I never dared ask, either verbally or non-, for anything more. “Do you mean to tell me that you have never been kissed, either?”
She shook her head, looked away. I began to chuckle.
“Don’t lawf at me!” she protested.
Ere my mirth degenerated into guffaws, I suppressed it; she had as much as admitted to me some time ago that Halvdan had attempted to press his advances upon her more than once, and thus she had likely not experienced a proper kiss.
Still, her accent, combined with her wide-eyed innocence…
Smiling, I hugged her close. “I am not making fun of you, love.”
“You… Oh… I…” She began to giggle. At least she was no longer stammering – and that shy smile…
I released her long enough to toss some more fire salts on the brazier, wood into the hearth, move the kettle of cooling wash water closer to the bed. The room was soon warm, brighter as I sat beside her once more. I had brought a cloth, having dipped it into the warm water, wrung it slightly; laid it beside us. My bride’s eyes were no smaller, but I now detected some anticipation therein. I stole a hand beneath the furs, sought her foot, as a snow fox might hunt mice under a blanket of winter. She squealed, snatched it away. I dove in with the other hand, seized a supple ankle and its twin. Shrieking now, she kicked half-heartedly. Grinning, I held her lightly but firmly, looked into her eyes until she quieted. Her blue orbs glowed as a flush crept up her neck, to cheeks; sharp intake of breath as I released one foot to massage the other.
Gradually, I drew one tiny foot from under the furs, kneaded it, the arch, ankles, the ball, heel. She giggled as I worked my thumbs into her instep, writhed as if to pull away; another small gasp when I kissed here and there, treated the other likewise. With the cloth I bathed her feet, kissing toes one by one as I washed between them; took each into my mouth, sucked gently, teased with my tongue as though a Sword of Dibella. I revealed more of her, pulling the furs aside as the room – and my bride – warmed up. I continued upwards, lightly washing legs, thighs, stomach, breasts. For the nonce I paid no particular attention to her most sensitive spots; withal, her breathing quickened as I lifted one arm, washed it and the near-invisible tuft in the pit, then the other, proceeded to neck and face. Eyes now closed, she emitted slight mewling sounds as I kissed around her shallow belly, torso, breasts – ignoring, again, her engorged nipples – throat, eyes, nose.
“Turn over,” I commanded softly.
Her gasps became quiet moans as I helped her roll prone, yet tension remained in her body; legs tightly closed, arms stiffly folded up beneath her chest. After I washed her back, I gently pulled one arm out, then the other, rubbed the stiffness out of each, laid them straight beside her; progressed to her plump buttocks, down each leg. As I kissed the back of her knees, the moans intensified; her legs began to part. I carefully reached between them, rubbed the warm cloth over her cleft, washing the distended lower lips as detachedly as I could. She groaned, moved against my hand.
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