Yara the Barbarian

The sun warmed the sand of the Eldorian arena, and the roar of the crowd echoed all around, a vibration that thrummed Yara’s bones. She stood in the gate, her green eyes scanning the sea of faces. Today, her blood sang. Today, would be another victory to build her legend.

“Champion Yara,” a nasally voice cut through the din. It was Silas, the Empress’s arena steward, a man who looked like a strong wind would snap him. He wrung his hands, a scroll clenched in his fist. “A word. A change in the… proceedings.”

Yara didn’t look at him, keeping her gaze on the arena. She hefted her axe, the familiar weight a comfort. “Speak, little man. The spirits of battle grow restless. They smell blood.”

“It is the Empress’s decree,” Silas stammered, unfurling the scroll. “For this spectacle, the traditional combat is… suspended. The Empress, in her wisdom, has devised a new contest of supremacy.”

Yara finally turned, her braid whipping over her shoulder. “New contest? I fight. He fights. One yields. No?”

“Not today,” Silas said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though his face flushed red. “Today… the victor shall be decided by a different form of… submission. The first warrior to, ah, to bring their opponent to… climax… thrice shall be declared the victor. No weapons. Only… touch.”

For a moment, Yara just stared. The words seemed to bounce off her bronzed skin, not sinking in. Then, like a crack in ice, understanding spread, followed by a heat that had nothing to do with the sun. It flooded her cheeks, burned the tips of her ears. A contest of… that? In front of the entire city? Her hands tightened on her axe handle until the leather creaked.

“This… this is fool’s magic,” she sputtered, her folksy proverbs failing her. “A battle is strength! It is honor! Not… not bedplay!”

Silas shrank back. “The Empress’s command is absolute. You may forfeit your title, of course. But to refuse is to show cowardice before all of Eldoria.”

Cowardice. The word was a poison to her pride. Her mind raced, a storm of humiliation and stubborn fury. She saw the faces of her clan, imagined their laughter, their scorn. ‘Yara, who ran from a fight because it made her blush.’ Never. She could not. A challenge was a challenge, and a barbarian did not back down.

A strange, traitorous flutter stirred low in her belly, a sensation she viciously shoved down. Weakness. Confusion. She buried it under a wave of bluster.

“Ha!” she barked, the sound too loud, too forced. “So the Iron Empress wishes to see a true champion’s dominance in all things? Fine! I have broken all those who have challenged me. Breaking this… this new rule will be no different. I accept! Let them send in some simpering courtier. I will have him weeping for mercy before the sands are warm!”

Silas bobbed his head, relief washing over his features. “Very good, Champion. Your… opponent awaits.”

Yara threw her axe and shield to the ground with a clatter, the sound final. She adjusted the straps of her scalemail bikini, drew a deep breath, and pushed her shoulders back. Confidence. She had to project confidence. She was Yara, arena champion. This was just another battlefield, with strange, soft weapons.

She strode out into the blinding light of the arena, the crowd’s roar shifting, becoming something else-less a cheer for blood, more a hungry, anticipatory buzz. She lifted a fist, acknowledging them, her smile a fierce, brittle thing.

Then she saw him.

Emerging from the opposite gate was not a simpering courtier.

It was an orc. A mountain of a creature, with green skin and thick corded muscle. He had lower tusks, yellowed and sharp, protruding from his lower jaw. His eyes, an intelligent amber, found hers across the sand. Her eyes, trained to assess an opponent’s strength, their stance, their weapon, were dragged helplessly lower. A simple loincloth was his only garment. The coarse fabric strained, bulging outward with a obscene, undeniable mass. The shape of him was clearly outlined, huge and heavy.

Yara’s confidence flickered. The heat in her cheeks returned, hotter than before, but it was no longer just embarrassment. It was a lick of something else, something that slithered down her spine and pooled, warm and shameful, in the very core of her. Her throat went dry.

The orc simply stood there, a monument of primal, masculine power, watching her.

Before Yara could collect herself, the arena steward announced, "let the fight... begin!"

The Salty Kiss smelled of cheap perfume and ale. It was a far cry from the sands of the arena. Yara's eyes, usually scanning for physical threats, darted instead at the draped silks and the giggling, scantily clad women. She felt her face grow hot.

“Well, well. The arena’s champion, blown into my parlour.” The voice was like honeyed wine, smooth and intoxicating. Madam Scarlett emerged from a shadowed archway. She had long, flowing crimson hair and intelligent green eyes. Her dress clung to every curve, both seductive and strangely comforting. “You are far from your usual battlefield, warrior.”

Yara puffed out her chest, the metal scales of her bikini straining. “A warrior seeks knowledge where it is kept. My clan says, ‘To know the river, ask the fish.’”

One of Scarlett’s perfect eyebrows arched. “And what fish are you seeking?”

“The… the blonde one,” Yara mumbled, her pride making the words taste sour. “The one they call Aurelia. I am told she is… skilled.”

A knowing smile played on Scarlett’s lips. “Oh, she is skilled. But her time is gold. Come.”

She led Yara up a winding staircase to one of the establishment's private rooms. It was here that Aurelia waited, perched on the edge of a large bed. Yara’s breath caught. The woman was like a fallen star. Platinum blonde hair was tied in twin, playful pigtails, framing a face of breathtaking beauty. Her light blue eyes held a vacant, pleasant warmth. The skimpy silk dress she wore did little to hide her perky breasts or the enticing, peach-shaped curve of her ass. She was the picture of eager, available pleasure.

“Aurelia, my dear. This is Yara. She has come for a… lesson.”

Aurelia clapped her hands together, a tinkling, girlish sound. “A new friend! How wonderful!”

Scarlett gave Yara a final, piercing look. “Payment is upfront. Ten gold sovereigns.”

Yara fumbled with the pouch at her belt and thrust the money at the Madam. Scarlett vanished, leaving the two women in the soft light.

“So!” Aurelia chirped, patting the space beside her. “What does the fierce gladiator wish to learn? How to please a man with your mouth? How to ride him until he screams? I know all the tricks!”

Yara remained standing, her muscles taut. She couldn’t bring herself to sit. “The rules have changed. In the arena. It is no longer a fight of strength, but of… of this.” She gestured vaguely at Aurelia, at the bed. “The Empress decrees victory goes to the first fighter who can make their opponent climax thrice.”

Aurelia’s pretty head tilted. “Oh! A cum-battle! How fun!”

I cannot believe she used to be a princess, Yara thought suddenly. The tales of her descent after the invasion of the Iron Empire surfacing in her mind.

“It is not fun,” Yara snarled. “It is dishonorable! It is a woman’s trick! But I will not be beaten. I need to know how to make a man… finish. Fast. My strength is no use if he is inside me, grinding away like a stubborn mule.” The vulgar words, spoken aloud, burned her ears.

“Well,” Aurelia said, sliding off the bed. She moved with a liquid grace that Yara, for all her athletic prowess, envied. “It is not about your strength, silly. It is about his weakness. All men have a map written on their bodies. You just need to learn to read it.” She stepped close, and Yara caught the scent of jasmine. “May I?”

Before Yara could ask ‘may you what?’, Aurelia’s delicate hands were on her bracers, unbuckling them with practiced ease. “You cannot learn to dance in full armour. We start with you.”

“What are you doing?” Yara stammered, but she didn’t pull away. The touch was startlingly gentle.

“Teaching. Men are simple. Their bodies are simple. But to control his, you must first know your own. Where are you most sensitive?” Aurelia’s fingers trailed up Yara’s bare arm, making the barbarian shiver.

“I… my neck. And my thighs,” Yara admitted, the confession feeling like a surrender.

“Good! See? If a strong woman like you has weak points, imagine how many a man has.” Aurelia’s eyes gleamed. “The back of the knees. The inner thighs. The perineum. The nipples, of course. A flick of the tongue here, a scrape of the nail there… and he is begging.”

She guided Yara’s large, calloused hand to her own neck, placing the warrior’s fingers on the side. “Press here, just so. It will make him dizzy with pleasure. Now, imagine his cock.” She spoke as if discussing the weather. “The head is the most sensitive. Use your tongue in a circle, like so.” She demonstrated with a lewd, perfect swirl of her own pink tongue. “But the real trick is the rhythm. Start slow, teasing. Then fast, relentless. Then slow again, just as he is about to burst. He will be your puppet.”

Yara listened, a confusing heat pooling in her gut. Aurelia’s clinical, eager instruction was somehow more arousing than any brutish advance in the arena. This is a different kind of strength, a treacherous voice inside her whispered. The strength of pleasure. She hated it. She was fascinated by it.

“And if he… if he is taking me from behind?” Yara asked, her voice hoarse. The image flashed in her mind, being bent over, vulnerable.

“Oh, that’s perfect!” Aurelia beamed. “Reach back. Play with his stones. Gently, then firmly. Or press your fingers against the place behind them. He will see the gods.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “And the words. You must use the words. Men love to be told they are the biggest, the strongest, that they are claiming you. Even if you are the one leading him by his cock.”

Yara’s eyes went wide. “That is… deceitful.”

“It is winning,” Aurelia corrected, her sweet smile never fading. “It is what the Empress wants, isn’t it? She wants a show. Give it to her. Use everything. Your body, your sounds, your words. Make him believe he is conquering a wild warrior, while you are secretly counting his spills.” She gave Yara’s muscular shoulder a pat. “You have a magnificent body. Use it as a weapon. Not just to take blows, but to give sensations he cannot withstand.”

For a long moment, Yara was silent. The philosophy was foreign, twisted. Yet, the logic was sound. It was a strategy. A new form of combat. Her simple mind latched onto that. It wasn’t surrender, it was a tactical feint.

The cool stone of the gate arch seeped into Yara’s back as she waited. Her breaths were steady, her mind focused. The din of the crowd was a distant ocean roar, muted by the heavy iron portcullis before her. This time, she was ready.

“A warrior learns new tricks, or she becomes a rug for the feast-hall,” she muttered to herself, a Bear Claw proverb feeling apt. Her first fight under the new rules… the memory of the orc’s rough, clumsy hands still made her scowl.

But Aurelia’s training had been different. A soft, knowing smile played on Yara’s lips. The princess turned whore had taught her things. How to use her hips, men's secret pleasure points, the way a whisper could undo a buckle faster than a blade. ‘It is not a battle of strength,’ Aurelia had said in her melodic voice, tracing a finger down Yara’s sternum. ‘It is a campaign of sensation. You must map your enemy’s body like unfamiliar territory.’ Yara had practiced diligently, on pillows and on the eager, paying patrons Aurelia found for her to train on. She tasted a new kind of power. Let any man stride through that gate. She would have him weeping his pleasure into the sand before he could count to three.

The iron grate began its shuddering ascent, chains clanking. Yara pushed off the wall, rolling her shoulders, a boast already forming on her lips for the crowd.

“Come then! Let’s see what weak-kneed boy the Empire sends to… to…”

Her voice died. The figure that slunk into the arena light was no man.

She was an elf. Willowy and tall, with skin the color of moonlit birch and hair like a spill of liquid silver down to her slender waist. She moved with a silent, predatory grace that made Yara’s own muscular stride feel like a stomping ox. The elf’s garments were mere wisps of amethyst silk, clinging to high, small breasts and the gentle swell of her hips, leaving little to imagination. Her eyes, the violet of twilight, found Yara’s and held them with an amused, ancient intelligence. A slight, knowing smile touched her lips.

Yara’s gut clenched. Her new-found confidence, so solid a moment ago, evaporating.

A woman... Aurelia’s lessons had not covered women.

The crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch, scenting her hesitation. The elf simply stood, one hand on a delicately cocked hip, waiting.

Yara’s mind scrambled. This was a trick. A spirit sent to confuse her! “Pale one!” she shouted, the bravado ringing hollow even to her. “My people have tales of your kind! You... you... tricksters!”

The elf’s laugh was a wind-chime melody, carrying easily across the sand. “And mine have tales of loud, simple bears who trip over their own feet,” she called back, her voice smooth as honeyed wine. “I am Lyriel. Shall we dance, little bear?”

Anger, familiar and hot, flooded Yara’s veins. Good. Anger was better than this flustered, hot confusion. “I do not dance,” Yara growled, settling into a fighter’s crouch, though it felt absurd without a weapon. “I fight!”

“As you wish,” Lyriel said, and she moved.

It wasn’t a charge. It was a glide, so swift Yara barely had time to react. She lunged to grapple, to use her superior strength, but her hands closed on empty air as Lyriel spun past her. A whisper of silk and then cool, clever fingers tracing her all the way down to the small of her back. A shiver, totally unwelcome, racked Yara’s frame.

“I can tell that you've never lain with a woman before. I've lain with thousands.” Lyriel murmured, her breath startlingly close to Yara’s ear.

Yara snarled, whirling and swiping a heavy hand, but Lyriel was already three steps away, that infuriating smile still in place. The crowd cooed and laughed. They were seeing a spectacle, the brute being toyed with by the phantom.

This is not happening, Yara thought, panic bubbling beneath her rage. Aurelia taught me for men. How they think. What they want. What did this elf want? Her eyes weren’t filled with the blunt lust Yara knew how to manipulate. They were… curious. Amused. Appraising.

Lyriel darted in again. This time, her hands didn’t retreat. As Yara tried to catch her wrists, the elf’s fingers danced over the scaled plates of Yara’s bikini top, not groping, but tracing. A fingertip circled the swell of a breast, skirted the sensitive skin of her underarm, then dipped to skim the hard plane of her stomach. Each touch was feather-light, deliberate, and sent jolts of something that was not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but a terrifying mix of both, straight to Yara’s core.

“So strong,” Lyriel purred, her violet eyes locked on Yara’s widening green ones. “So tense. Where is the warrior who was so boastful at the gate?”

“I am here!” Yara bellowed, finally managing to seize Lyriel’s slender upper arms. Triumph flared. Got her! She could crush this delicate thing, throw her to the sand…

But Lyriel didn’t struggle. Instead, she went pliant, allowing Yara to pull her close. Their bodies pressed together, hard muscle against soft, yielding curves. The scent of jasmine and night-blooming flowers filled Yara’s nostrils. The elf looked up at her, lips parted, a blush on her high cheeks.

“There you are,” Lyriel whispered, her voice a secret just for them. Then she arched her body, rolling her hips in a slow, undulating motion against Yara’s thigh.

A bolt of pure, white-hot sensation shot through Yara. A gasp tore from her throat, unbidden. Her grip on Lyriel’s arms slackened.

It was a mistake. Lyriel’s hands were free. One snaked behind Yara’s neck, fingers tangling in the hairs at her nape. The other slid down the back of Yara’s scalemail loincloth, cupping her toned ass with a possessiveness that made Yara’s knees tremble.

“The strong ones,” Lyriel breathed, her mouth a hair’s breadth from Yara’s, “always have the softest centers. Let me find yours, little bear.”