Chapter 1

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic, Reluctant, Coercion, Magic, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Paranormal, Rough, Group Sex,

Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1 - When the Goddess of Chance teams up with an unlikely ally to fulfill the terms of a lost wager, chaos, deceit, danger and passion lurk just beneath the waves.

"No cheating, Fortuna!" Pan's braying laughter grated on the goddess' sensitive ears and she scowled, rattling the dice in her cup fiercely.

"I never cheat," she retorted. The sardonic lift of a bushy eyebrow was her only reply and she threw the dice with more force than skill, watching as the polished ivory cubes rolled across the table. Pan's own dice already sat neatly lined up at the edge of the low marble gaming table, three fives winking cruel black eyes at her.

Her dice tumbled across the stone, settling one by one with a musical tinkling. Six, six... the last die trembled on its edge for a moment and she held her breath as it teetered. It wavered, then fell. One.

"Unlucky thirteen, my dear." The satyr grinned in maniacal glee. "I do believe I've won our wager."

Disbelief and fury flashed across the goddess' face as clapped his plump hands in delight, leering.

"I can't lose! I'm the bloody Goddess of bloody Games!"

Pan tsked reprovingly. "You wouldn't try to welsh on our bet, now would you Fortuna?" He laughed again as the room filled with thick gray mist, obscuring the glittering hall from her view. "Remember, my dear, you agreed to the terms of this wager. All of them."

"It's not fair!" She wailed, and darkness swallowed her protest with a watery gurgle.


There was a awful taste in his mouth. It was nothing compared to the stench that filled his nostrils, and he buried his face under his arm to try and escape it. Unfortunately, the reek seemed to be emanating from his own person.

Jasper Larkin, twenty-seven years old and already wishing for death, rolled onto his back, staring blindly up at the smoky sky. He had no idea what port he was in, what country, or even what year. The last dregs of cheap rum swirling through his head obliterated much of his memory of the last few weeks, but he remembered a few things clearly enough.

For instance, the mutiny of his crew which led to him being dropped overboard strapped to a barrel and left for dead.

"Neptune's balls," he muttered, and fell silent, considering the rusty croak of his voice.

"Are not nearly as big as one would believe. Well, Lark, you're in a fine mess." The voice was low and assuredly female. A tall figure swathed in black loomed over him, and he scowled as he tried to bring his blurry gaze into focus on it.

"What the hell d'you want?" he slurred out, and the figure shrugged.

"To change your luck, Jack Larkin." There was an impression of a scathing glance that raked him from head to toe, and he flinched under the contempt in the woman's voice. "Get up, Lark. I have work for you."

"Dun want work. I want rum!" he roared, and then fell back to the warped wooden pier with a wince as his own voice ripped through his head.

"Rum? I have something much better than rum, my boy."

"You and every other doxy on the wharf." His leer was wiped away as a black gloved hand reached down, wrapping in his collar and hoisting him to his feet without the slightest tremble of strain. From inside the enveloping black hood of her cloak, the woman's eyes blazed, gold as new-minted coin, and filled with angry light.

"Get up, and follow me, or what has happened to you thus far will seem like child's play, Lark." The hand wrapped in his shirt gave him a shake that rattled his teeth and widened his eyes. "Are we clear yet, you filthy little barnacle eater?"

"Yes'm," he whispered, caught by the eyes that still flashed with fury.

"Good." There was an alto purr in her voice that chilled him, and she released him and turned away down the dock. Swaying, he followed the dark figure away from the stinking waterfront and into the equally unsavoury streets. Even through the haze of his hangover he could appreciate the menacing aura that surrounded his companion. Street urchins and wharf rats alike scurried out of her way as she stalked past, giving her a wide berth.

He felt wretched. His head was simultaneously stuffed with cotton and ringing like a warning bell, and the fitful light from the open tavern doors and tinny music of whores' laughter pierced his throbbing eyes and ears like knives. He was stumbling with exhaustion when she finally halted, and he nearly barrelled into her.

"Good evening Grandmother." The woman had stopped before a laundress' shack, and the smell of strong lye soap overrode the stench of the streets. The air was filled with steam, nearly obscuring the wizened Chinese woman who hunched over a vat of linen. Her slitted dark eyes widened at being addressed in her own language.

"What do you want?" she asked suspiciously. "You want your clothes washed, it costs a shilling."

A golden guinea suddenly appeared in the tall woman's black gloved hand. The laundress watched as it danced back and forth across the slender fingers, winking in the smoky light of her lantern.

"I want you to wash him." A dismissive flick of those slim black-swathed hands indicated Lark. "He's filthy with lice and who knows what else. I will give you this for the trouble." The guinea spun on the tip of her index finger. "And another for a clean set of clothing for him. One that fits, mind you."

"Ha!" The laundress cackled with glee. "You teach your man to go get stinking drunk. A good lesson." Shrewd eyes swept over the miserable hulk of the man behind her. "I will wash him like a whore's sheets- he won't go crawling into any more after that!"

"Good." Unseen lips curled into a smile that radiated through her voice, and the cloaked woman turned back to Lark.

"She's going to bathe you. And give you clean clothes. Strip."

"Damned if I will!" Lark drew himself up with a flash of wounded pride. "I don't need a bath!"

"You do, and you will be, if you don't take off ever louse-infested stitch on your body and get in that tub." Those odd golden eyes speared into his again, and his knees weakened. "I am not in the mood for games."

"Well aren't we Madam High and Mighty," he muttered under his breath. She just watched him, making him squirm uncomfortably as he started unfastening his clothing. "Do you mind?" he asked irritably. The Chinese laundress gave him a toothless grin and wandered off into clouds of steam, but the tall woman in black simply shrugged, her unnerving gaze remaining on him.

"Not at all."

"Suit yourself then."Angrily he stripped off his soiled shirt and breeches, discovering a pair of rather moldy socks beneath his cracked and filthy boots. His hands left grimy prints on his hips as he turned back to face her.


"Better than I expected," she said coolly. "At least the rum you've been swilling hasn't affected your body too badly." The laundress reappeared and wrinkled her nose at the heap of garments. "Burn those, and get him into a tub."

He looked back over his shoulder as the Chinese woman grabbed him and pulled him away, jabbering at him in scolding tones. Just who the hell is she?

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