Lady Blades

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My father was an elf, my mother, an orc. You can spare me that look—the one where you cringe, as the others did before you, trying to imagine what perversions drew him to her. It’s a long tale with perversions aplenty—none of them pertain to you unless you pay.

For now, let’s keep it simple.

Father was too big and awkward for his kind. Mother was too delicate for hers. Both were rejected by their own. They met, by chance, on a lonely road and fucked their way to an alliance. It resulted in their marriage and my birth.

Rebel. Outcast. Lady Blades.

She taught me the art of war. He taught me how to dance. Though long departed, I owe them both.

Between the two of them, they made me something special. Something for which mercenaries of any species will pay a handsome price.

It’s free to watch me dance. Everyone likes to, and I don’t mind. The sway of a lean hip, the flash of a rounded breast—it all hints at the pleasures to come.

But if you want to touch or taste—to slide into this honeyed cunt, my rough-hewn friend—then you have to lay your money down.

Lay your money down and dance with my pretty blades.

 

 

 

 

 

 

High Plains Flirter

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I wouldn’t normally be that big on robbing banks but … around these parts, I’m what you might call a repeat offender. And, no my Daddy didn’t raise me that way. My Mama neither. If it was up to them I’d still be covered from neck to toe in a Gibson skirt and blouse and married off to one of the preacher’s sons or some boring old cowpoke by now.

Doesn’t matter what they want, though—not since we got the new Sheriff in town. The man’s got eyes like chocolate and the raspiest voice you’ve ever heard.

Don’t worry. The bank teller’s not scared of me these days. He rolls his eyes at me, and we both know I don’t need to brandish a weapon or pretend I’m taking anything.

All I have to do is saunter past the Sherrif’s Office on my way there. He shows up a few minutes behind me, just shaking his head and showing me those dimples.

“Darlin’,” he drawls in that wicked voice of his, “I reckon I’m gonna have to detain you.”

“Sherrif,” I always tell him, looking at that sizable bulge in his dungarees while he’s reaching for the handcuffs, “I’m feeling pretty mean tonight. If you’re looking to protect the fine citizens of this town, you’re gonna need to detain me all night long.”

 

 

 

 

Nadia The Dragon (S)Layer

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The first time I met Rolth the Red, I was working for  Discreet Intergalactic Liaisons as Naughty Nadia, Nympho of the Nardoz Nebula.

I seriously loved that job.

Unfortunately, the management at DIL was permanently decommissioned (from life) thanks to a hyperjump ship piloted by a crew of rough and ready Cyborgs. It turns out they were looking for spare parts and loose women—I’ll let you guess which one I was. I had a hell of a time with those boys and even managed to parlay my charms into quite a few upgrades and some weapons training before we parted ways.

The second time I met Rolth, I was working a slightly different gig for the Federation of Assassins and Thieves. Not a bad outfit but one of the worst acronyms ever.

This time, I’d been hired to slay Big Red, only he thought I said something else when I ran into him at the local tavern. Honestly, I might have goofed up the word after one too many pints of Delurian ale. Who knows? Either way, it’s funny what a huge difference a little S can make in the grand scheme of things.

I tried explaining the job to Rolth later—and killing him—but, wouldn’t you know it, things didn’t go exactly as I’d intended. They were super awkward between us after that, but we finally managed to work through our differences in his dungeon.

A good thing, too because you know what they say about dragons.

No?

Oh, well, let’s just say they don’t call him Big Red for nothing…

The Midnight Show At Phaeton

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When I returned to that little town in the middle of nowhere with a flier for The Midnight Show in hand, I was somewhat prepared. I mean, I knew what the townspeople were going to tell me, in their peculiar, half-sleepy, judgmental way.

You must not have the sense God gave a goose, girl—go home. There is no new management. Phaeton burned to the ground and nobody in town mails those fliers anymore.

Don’t worry, my sweet connoisseurs of depravity; this is not where my story ends.

True enough, a deeply zealous gaggle of Brother Thises and Sister Thats had torched the Phaeton ten years prior, and nothing had been built in its place since that fateful night. But one of those fliers had reached me from somewhere, signed by an old friend who made it to the last show exactly one year ago.

Above the haphazardly scrawled signature was the most intriguing message. It consisted of four words and five syllables: it will transform you. Rest assured, I had decided there was no way I was leaving before midnight.

Do you know what inspired the name Phaeton? There are two answers that work, by the way—an open carriage pulled by horses in the late eighteenth century or the son of Helios, who nearly set the earth on fire driving the chariot of the sun. Both were fast and dangerous, and, therefore, appropriate as a namesake for the place in which I was about to set my well-booted feet.

At the exact stroke of midnight, the clanging of the old clock tower in the heart of downtown split the air. A spot of earth in the rubble where the club had once burned became lava. It twisted, and writhed, and arose as a funnel of magic. The magic jumped, and it spun, flinging out the foundation, walls, and roof of the Phaeton all around it; its former glory was restored, in seconds, before my astonished eyes.

When the door opened up, music and laughter waited just beyond the threshold. A rather large, decadent man wearing nothing but a feather mask and a lovely smile appeared. He slipped an open book, a leatherbound ledger of sorts, into my hands, mentioning that initials were required. Having come this far, and desperate to see the marvels that lay ahead, of course, I agreed. What’s a little blood, anyway?

Inside the building, my loves, there were such wonders to be seen—barbarians and contortionists, shuddering angels and marvelous fiends. If you gave me a lifetime to describe the delights—the sensual pleasure, the fabulous torment—I sampled and tasted in one night at Phaeton, quite frankly, it still wouldn’t do … which is why I decided to stay on as part of the show.

We’ll be visiting your town soon—you might call it a once-in-a-lifetime engagement. Look out for our flier in the mail, and promise me you’ll come at midnight.

Don’t be late.

It will transform you.