Chapter 1: The Fortnightly Feast
Skell hunched over the cluttered workbench in Elara’s dimly lit apothecary, his gnarled green fingers sorting through dried herbs with practiced precision. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and brimstone, a peculiar mix that clung to the back of his throat. His bulbous nose twitched as he stole a glance at the fiery-haired witch who owned his labor—and, in a twisted way, his desires. Elara, with her voluptuous curves barely contained by a deep emerald corset, leaned over a bubbling cauldron, her crimson locks cascading over her shoulder like molten lava. Beside her stood Laya, her equally stunning girlfriend, whose raven-black hair contrasted sharply with her alabaster skin, her tight leather vest doing little to hide her ample assets.
“Oi, Skell, stop gawkin’ and pass me the mandrake root,” Elara snapped, her voice a sultry whip that cracked through the haze of his thoughts. Her emerald eyes glinted with mischief as she caught his stare, a smirk curling her full lips. “Or are ya too busy fantasizin’ about tonight’s payment?”
Skell’s warty cheeks flushed a deeper shade of green, his jagged teeth clicking as he fumbled for the root. “Ain’t fantasizin’ ‘bout nothin’, mistress,” he grumbled, though his beady eyes betrayed him, darting to the swell of her chest before he could stop himself. “Just doin’ me job.”
Laya chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down Skell’s hunched spine. She sauntered over, her hips swaying with predatory grace, and leaned down to whisper in Elara’s ear, loud enough for him to hear. “Bet the little gremlin’s already droolin’ at the thought of us, babe. Should we give him a teaser now, or make him squirm ‘til midnight?”
Elara’s smirk widened as she turned to Laya, her gaze smoldering. “Oh, let’s make him squirm. He’s earned a good torment after botchin’ that last potion batch.” She reached out, tracing a finger along Laya’s collarbone, her touch deliberate and slow. “Ain’t that right, Skell? You like watchin’ us play, don’t ya? Gets that shriveled little heart of yours pumpin’.”
Skell’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his clawed hands gripping the edge of the workbench. “I... I don’t care for none o’ that,” he lied, his voice a gravelly rasp. But the way his eyes bulged, practically turning into throbbing hearts, told a different story. He didn’t want to touch, didn’t even crave the act himself—just the sight of them, their lips on each other’s skin, was enough to set his blood boiling in a way he couldn’t explain.
“Keep tellin’ yourself that, goblin,” Laya purred, her dark eyes locking with his as she pressed closer to Elara, their bodies brushing in a way that made Skell’s breath hitch. “We know you’re countin’ down the hours ‘til you’re sittin’ on that ratty bed o’ yours, watchin’ us feast.”
Elara laughed, a wicked sound, and tugged Laya’s vest down just enough to reveal the creamy curve of her breast, stopping short of anything more. “Midnight, Skell. Don’t be late. We’ve got a show planned that’ll have ya sweatin’ through that ugly hide o’ yours.”
As the clock ticked closer to the witching hour, Skell found himself in his cramped room above the shop, his lumpy bed creaking under his weight. The door creaked open, and there they were—Elara and Laya, their silhouettes framed by the flickering candlelight, their eyes gleaming with playful cruelty. They climbed onto the bed, ignoring him completely as he sat frozen at the edge, his drool already pooling at the corner of his mouth.
“Ready, love?” Elara murmured, her voice dripping with heat as she cupped Laya’s face, pulling her close.
“Always,” Laya replied, her tone sharp and hungry, her hands sliding up Elara’s sides. Their lips hovered inches apart, teasing, taunting, as they turned their heads just enough to catch Skell’s wide-eyed stare. And then, with a shared, wicked grin, they closed the distance, their mouths finding the soft, forbidden curves of each other’s chests, a slow, deliberate dance of lips and tongues that promised an explosive display of raw, untamed desire.
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