Interlude: The Morning Shift
Callis opened his eyes to the weak morning light filtering through the wooden shutters. He stared at the ceiling planks, cataloging the state of his body. He had slept through the afternoon and most of the night. The sharp pain in his ribs had settled into a dull throb. He placed his hand flat against his side, pressing his fingertips into the mottled bruise covering his ribcage. The bone held firm beneath the skin. He drew a slow breath, testing the expansion of his lungs. The air felt cold against his bare chest.
He pushed the heavy quilt aside and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. His bare feet met the cold floorboards. He reached for his linen trousers, pulling the rough material up his thighs and fastening the brass buckle at his waist. He left his tunic draped over the chair. His stomach carried a hollow ache, demanding calories to rebuild the muscle tissue torn during the canopy fight. He needed food before he could address the demands of the day.
He opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway. The Stag & Ember sat quiet. The taproom below held no patrons. The mercenaries had likely moved on to their morning patrols or sought out cheaper alehouses in the lower wards for their early ale. Callis walked down the stairs, his hand trailing along the wooden banister. He bypassed the empty tables, the stacked chairs, and the cold hearth in the main room, heading toward the back corridor.
The smell of frying salted pork and toasted oats drifted through the air. The scent guided him to the kitchen.
He pushed the door open. Mara stood at the cast-iron stove, shifting a heavy skillet over the hot coals. She held a wooden spatula, turning thick cuts of meat in the rendered fat. The grease sizzled, spitting small droplets onto the iron surface. The radiant heat from the stove pushed back the winter chill, making the room the warmest place in the building. Mara glanced over her shoulder. She offered a brief nod, acknowledging his presence, and turned her attention back to the stove. She did not offer a greeting. Her focus remained on the timing of the meal.
Callis took a step toward the preparation table. He stopped. A pile of discarded clothing lay scattered across the floorboards near the chopping block. He recognized Lysa’s heavy wool skirt and her flour-dusted apron. The garments sat in a tangled heap directly over Yselle’s soot-stained tunic, a pair of linen trousers, and a heavy leather belt with a brass buckle. He stared at the pile, parsing the timeline of the morning.
A loud, rhythmic smacking sound echoed from the open door of the dry storage room.
Callis crossed his arms over his bare chest. He walked across the kitchen, his bare feet making no sound against the wood. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe of the pantry and looked inside.
The storage room held the earthy scent of root vegetables, raw grain, and sex. Dust motes drifted through the dim light leaking in from the kitchen.
Lysa stood bent forward over a waist-high stack of burlap flour sacks. Her bare thighs were spread wide apart. Her hands gripped the rough fabric of the sacks, her knuckles turning white as she anchored her weight. She wore her linen blouse, but it was pushed up around her ribs, exposing her bare back and the plush swell of her hips.
Yselle stood right behind her. She wore nothing. A heavy leather harness strapped tightly around her waist and hips, the dark straps contrasting against her pale skin. Extending from the center ring of the harness was a massive, thick leather strap-on. The shaft possessed a blunt, unforgiving shape, slick with moisture.
Yselle had both hands gripping Lysa’s wide hips. She planted her bare feet on the floorboards, bracing her stance, and drove her pelvis forward. The thick leather shaft sank into Lysa’s dripping core.
Every upward thrust echoed with a loud, wet, slapping sound. The sheer volume of Lysa’s natural lubrication mixed with the aggressive friction of the leather, creating an obscene, continuous squelching noise. It popped and slurped with every stroke, filling the small storage room with a filthy, rhythmic clamor.
Callis watched the mechanics of the movement. Yselle pulled her hips back, letting the thick shaft slide out until only the blunt tip remained inside. Lysa let out a ragged breath, her hips rocking backward, chasing the friction. Yselle slammed her pelvis forward again. The leather seated itself to the hilt. A wet smack echoed off the wooden shelves, followed instantly by a sloppy, suctioning slurp as Lysa’s flesh gripped the intrusive shape.
"Gods, listen to it," Yselle growled. She leaned forward, her breath ghosting over the damp hair clinging to Lysa’s neck. "Every single time I fuck you, it talks to me."
Lysa whimpered. She buried her face in the burlap sacks. "Yselle—"
"It does," Yselle insisted. She laughed a low, rough sound and maintained the punishing pace. "It talks right back. Clapping and slurping around the leather. Tell me you hear it."
"I hear it," Lysa gasped. Her heavy breasts swayed beneath her as the force of the thrusts rocked her body against the flour sacks. "Please, Yselle."
"Take it," Yselle murmured.
She shifted her grip. She moved her hands from Lysa’s hips and wrapped her arms around the baker's waist, pulling Lysa back against her pelvis. The change in leverage altered the angle. Yselle drove her hips upward, burying the massive shaft deeper into the swollen, plush folds.
Lysa cried out, her spine arching. The wet squelching sound grew louder, snapping and slurping with a frantic cadence. Lysa’s internal walls seized around the leather, trying to accommodate the girth. The friction produced a heavy, rhythmic popping noise that echoed through the pantry.
Callis felt a rush of blood pool in his groin. He watched the dark leather slide in and out of the pink flesh. The contrast held a brutal, utilitarian beauty. Yselle worked her hips with the steady, measured stamina of a woman used to swinging a heavy hammer. She did not rush. She treated Lysa’s body the way she treated heated iron, applying consistent, deliberate force to shape a specific reaction.
Lysa’s thighs trembled. Her skin flushed a dark, chaotic red, the color spreading down her neck and across her back. She took the punishment without trying to pull away. The shame that once dictated her movements had burned off, replaced by a raw surrender to the physical sensation. She spread her knees wider, giving Yselle better access, and let out a long, shuddering moan.
"Good," Yselle praised. She slapped her hand against the plush curve of Lysa's backside. The sharp smack layered over the wet slurping. "Keep your legs wide. Let it talk. I want to hear it slurp around the base."
Yselle set a relentless pace. The leather shaft slapped against Lysa's wet flesh, popping and squelching in a chaotic symphony of sound. Callis rested his hand against his stomach, his breathing growing shallow as he observed the raw display of ownership. This was not a quiet, tender exchange. This was Yselle laying claim to the baker, ruining her before the morning shift began.
Mara continued cooking at the stove. The sizzle of the salted pork accompanied the filthy sounds leaking from the dry storage room. Mara flipped the last piece of meat onto a ceramic plate. She scraped the toasted oats from a second pan into a large bowl. She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced over her shoulder.
She caught Callis’s eye as he stood paralyzed by the doorframe. She offered him a dry, knowing look, unbothered by the chaos unfolding a few feet away. She picked up a wooden spoon and tapped it against the rim of the cast-iron skillet. The sharp, metallic ring cut through the damp air.
"The eggs will be ready in five minutes," Mara announced loudly. Her voice carried clearly through the kitchen and into the pantry. "If you two want to eat before the iron gets cold, I suggest you finish your conversation."
A sharp gasp tore from Lysa’s throat. The sudden, mundane announcement shattered her focus. The shock triggered her climax instantly. Her internal walls clamped down around the thick strap-on with crushing force. The loud, wet slurping reached a frantic pitch as her body milked the unyielding leather.
Yselle drove her hips forward one final time. She buried the massive shaft to the hilt and held Lysa tightly against the flour sacks. Lysa shuddered, her legs locking as she weathered a violent release. She sobbed into the burlap, her hips twitching against Yselle's pelvis.
Callis let out a slow breath. He pushed off the doorframe and walked over to the sturdy oak table. He pulled a chair out and sat down, a lingering smirk pulling at his mouth as Lysa’s ragged breathing spilled out of the pantry. His household was awake.
He rested his elbows on the table. Mara brought the plate of salted pork and the bowl of oats over, setting them in front of him. She returned to the stove to crack three eggs into the hot grease.
Footsteps sounded from the pantry. Yselle emerged first. She had removed the leather harness, holding it in one hand as she walked toward the pile of discarded clothing. Sweat plastered her dark hair to her forehead. She picked up her linen trousers and pulled them on, leaving her chest bare to the cool air of the kitchen. She walked to the table and sat in the chair opposite Callis. She offered him a fierce, satisfied grin.
Lysa stepped out a moment later. Her hair was a tangled mess. She clutched her apron against her chest, her face burning a dark crimson as she realized Callis had been watching. She hurried over to her skirt and pulled it on, her hands trembling as she fastened the ties. She retrieved her blouse from the floorboards and slipped it over her head.
"Good morning, Callis," Yselle rasped, resting her elbows on the table.
"Good morning," Callis replied. He picked up his fork and speared a piece of the salted pork. "You seem to be starting the day with a lot of energy."
"I had an urge," Yselle admitted. She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head. Her muscles shifted beneath her skin. "I wanted to clear my head before I fired the forge. Lysa was generous enough to help me out."
Lysa walked over to the table, her head ducked. She sat down next to Yselle, her movements stiff. The lingering sensitivity of her climax made her shift uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat.
"It sounded like a productive conversation," Callis noted, chewing the meat. The salt and fat coated his tongue.
Lysa covered her face with her hands, a muffled whine escaping her lips. Yselle laughed, reaching out to rub her hand up and down Lysa's spine.
"It is," Yselle agreed. "She has a lot to say once you get her opened up."
Mara arrived at the table with a platter of fried eggs. She set it in the center of the wood and handed Lysa a serving spoon.
"Eat," Mara instructed. "The Damaris wagons are dropping off another load of winter wheat in an hour. I need you both fed and capable of lifting a sack."
Lysa uncovered her face. She took the serving spoon and began to portion the eggs onto the plates. Her flush remained, but the embarrassment gave way to the practical demands of the morning. She served Callis first, placing a generous portion of eggs and oats on his plate. The yolks broke over the salted pork, mixing the rich, yellow fat with the dark gravy of the meat. Callis took a large bite, the contrasting textures filling his mouth. The domestic ritual grounded him. Out on the merchant roads, life was measured in inches of steel and ounces of spilled blood. Here, it was measured in fresh eggs and warm oats.
Callis watched Lysa work. He appreciated the stark contrast between the woman whimpering over a sack of flour and the woman quietly serving breakfast. They existed in the same space, overlapping without conflict. The brutal, unapologetic sex did not diminish her domestic role; it reinforced her place in the household.
They ate in a comfortable silence. The rhythmic scrape of silverware against ceramic replaced the wet slapping from the pantry. Callis finished his pork and started on the oats. The heavy food settled in his stomach, easing the ache of hunger.
Yselle finished her meal quickly. She stood up, retrieving her soot-stained tunic from the floor. She pulled it over her head and fastened her heavy leather belt. She tied her hair back with a piece of rough twine.
"I need to get the fires lit," Yselle announced. "I have two dozen spearheads to forge for the municipal guard before sunset."
"Seraphine’s iron allowance arrived?" Callis asked, taking a sip of the water Mara had placed in front of him.
Yselle nodded. "Four crates of raw ore sitting in the alleyway. The merchant queen kept her word. The independent smiths are working today."
"Good," Callis said.
Yselle walked around the table. She paused behind Lysa, leaning down to press a firm kiss to the side of the baker's neck. Lysa sighed, leaning her head back against Yselle's stomach. Yselle stepped away and headed toward the back door, stepping out into the cold morning air.
Callis pushed his empty plate away. He looked across the table at Lysa.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
Lysa nodded, a shy smile touching her lips. "I am fine, Callis. Just sore."
"She pushed you hard," Callis observed.
"She always does," Lysa said. She stood up, gathering the empty plates. "But I like it when she does. It makes me feel useful."
Callis watched her carry the dishes to the washing basin. The word struck a chord. Useful. On the frontier, utility equated to survival. Lysa had spent her life feeling useless, a burden to the people around her. Here, in this kitchen, she provided sustenance through her baking and release through her body. She was essential to the functioning of the household.
Callis stood up. He walked over to the basin, stopping behind her. He placed his hands on her wide hips, his thumbs tracing the curve of her waist. She leaned back against his chest, trusting his weight to support her.
"You are more than useful, Lysa," Callis murmured, resting his chin on the top of her head. "You are ours."
Lysa rested her wet hands on the edge of the basin. She took a slow, deep breath, letting the words settle into her bones. The fear and uncertainty that had defined her past dissolved in the warmth of the kitchen. She belonged here.
Callis turned away, leaving her to the dishes. He had to prepare for the day. Seraphine Damaris would expect him in her parlor before noon to discuss the next target on her ledger. He would have to sit across from the silk-spinner, drinking spiced wine while she plotted the slow starvation of her rivals. But as he walked out of the kitchen, the memory of the wet, slurping sounds from the pantry echoed in his mind, a raw reminder of the life he was fighting to protect.