Chapter 3: The Lash of Khe’Haggimo

When Philip returned to retrieve us, we were as ready as we were going to get. Zoe looked predictably stunning in a sheer silk dress the color of emeralds, and aside from my noticeable erection and busted lip, I thought I looked rather dashing in my black and gold jerkin and half-cape. Sure it went out of style like a thousand years ago but the classics never really die. Zoe and I glanced at each other as Philip beckoned, and taking a deep breath, I took the lead. We were off into the Slow Poke Kelly to go meet The Patron.

The door opened into the common room of the establishment, a bustling tavern-room full of long dirty tables packed with dirty customers, all drinking from stone mugs and smoking pipes. The smell of stewed beef mingled with that of sweat and tobacco in the air, and the pungent reek of strong stale beer was overpowering. A few tallow candles provided lighting along the bar, with a roaring hearth illuminating the room from the other side. Maia was waiting behind the bar to escort us to The Patron’s Suite.

Although I’d seen it all before, it was Zoe’s first experience in the Slow Poke Kelly. I glanced over my shoulder to find her wide-eyed, staring about the room in wonderment. All of the familiar fantasy tropes were on display: a table full of dwarves, each with huge bushy beards adorned with rings and beads; a cadre of elves, blue-skinned, tall, and delicate; a half-dozen ebony tribesmen, ears stretched out by huge bone hoops. The Slow Poke Kelly was a crossroads of sorts, catering to almost all of the varied races of the East, so all of these were commonplace sights. In fact, the two most unusual characters in this bar right now were the two fair-skinned Truvians with blonde hair and blue eyes, even if my hair was more of a sandy brown.

“Pretty incredible, huh,” I whispered. Zoe nodded mutely. My first time here was similar. The environments were beyond lifelike. It was as close to reality as graphics could get, and was far more colorful and vibrant than anything the real world could produce.

“You make me wait that long ere again and you’ll regret it,” Maia spat. “Now get on after me, the Nightmen is waitin’.” As she walked us to the nearest stairwell, I noticed out of the corner of my eye about a dozen drunk bearded medieval peasants all staring at Zoe as I was. She didn’t seem concerned however, and instead addressed me conspiratorially over her shoulder.

“Are these the same Nightmen from Invictus?” she asked. “The famed horsemen and hound-keepers of Khe’Shogi? The ones with “souls even blacker than the tattoos that adorn their skin?””

“Yeah,” I said, impressed that she knew of the lore. “They’re a bunch of assholes.” I fretted about what was about to take place when we reached their rooms. “Listen Zoe, I’m really, really sorry about all of this.” Hearing the words come out of my mouth felt strange. I never apologized, for anything, but I felt truly despicable and ashamed about getting her into this. I wondered about that. It was a very new feeling for me. I never felt bad about abusing Miss Proud. I usually felt amazing afterwards.

“You can apologize by getting us the fuck out of here, prick.” She followed Maia up the stairs and down a balcony hallway that overlooked the bar underneath. Her ass looked magnificent climbing those steps. “I’m a gamer,” she said, as if to herself. “This is what I do. Nothing but a game.”

I cringed. Zoe was a gamer down to her core and a good one too, but the situation we were about to experience didn’t call for a gamer, it called for a whore. And as an avid channel subscriber, I was well acquainted with Zoe’s wholesome personality. She may have had a boyfriend - some chad from school named McDavid - but she wasn’t a whore. She was too family-friendly for that.

We reached the third door on the left, and Maia pulled it open and stood by, waving us inside. We entered the dimly-lit chamber and heard Maia close and lock the door behind us. It took a few seconds for our eyes to adjust to the light.

The chamber was large for a bedroom and extravagantly outfitted, with furs, rugs, curtains, and tapestries covering all available real estate. There was a wooden platform set up in the center of the room, upon which two naked girls gyrated to an unheard rhythm, and round the outside of the room were large cushions, upon which reposed the Nightmen, five of them, holding the chains to three enormous wolfhounds. Two of the hounds were presently engaged in rutting with two oiled-up nude women who were on all fours underneath them.

Zoe gasped at the sight. “Oh, dear God...”

The Nightmen - also known as the Beastmasters of Khe’Shogi - were a nomadic race of subhumans from the far East. They were dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and all members had frightening tribal tattoos covering their arms, shoulders, and faces. For all their fearsome appearance however, they were a short breed, only about four to four-and-a-half feet tall, like pygmies. None of them weighed more than a hundred pounds.

Their hounds, on the other hand, were massive. Nightmen wolfhounds were snarling, two-hundred pound monsters with dicks bigger than mine, trained to carry loads, to hunt, and to bear riders. The Nightmen lived for their animals. They rode them into battle, ate with them at mealtimes, slept with them inside their animal skin tents, and even worshipped the dog-faced deity Khe’Haggimo - The Windlasher.

As the lore went, Nightmen practiced bestiality, believing that copulation with their beasts would make them more ferocious in battle. The men would lay with any female in heat and women of the tribe weren’t considered marriage-worthy until they’d spent a night in the pens servicing the pack. Over the years, the practice had become widely known and there were even establishments along the Eastern border like The Slow Poke Kelly who catered to the Nightmen, because accommodating their odd sexual preferences meant that their establishment wouldn’t be looted and burned to the ground by the nomadic horde. Most of the whores agreed that it was better to be fucked by dogs than to be eaten by them, and some women even grew to like it. Zoe wasn’t having it, however.

“You’ve got to fucking kidding me!” she hissed. “I am NOT fucking a goddamn dog, Deacon.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t make the rules. There might be some other way out. For what it’s worth, I’m not going to enjoy this anymore than you.” Two of the Nightmen were actually Nightwomen, though both shared the shaved heads, pierced ears, and tattooed exteriors of their male counterparts. Their bared breasts looked nice enough, though, as did their slender frames and sick eight-packs. Plus, I was a pervert. There was a good chance that I was going to enjoy this. “Try not to show any fear,” I added. “It’s been a long time since I saw this code, but I think I remember...”