The Eldar trading outpost on the southern continent of Treponema IV had been a small one, even by the standards of such things in the later years. Farseer Idranel had spoken out bitterly against deploying troops to this wretched backwater mon-keigh world even before she had learned that she was to be transferred here also--but the orders had come from no less than Eldrad himself, with a brief personal note to her containing two words: "Trust me."

That was all very beside the point now, a small part of her mind thought with dark humor. An Ork rok had landed on this world scant kilometers from the mon-keigh town and the trade outpost it surrounded. Thousands of orks had poured forth to loot and plunder. The command post had not yet been set up--Idranel and only a handful of command troops and bodyguards had only barely arrived when the rok appeared in the skies moving at a significant fraction of the speed of light, decelerated with impossible speed, and landed. The mon-keigh had mustered such troops as they had on this poor isolated planet, whose sole value to the Imperium was its palladium mines in the mountain range to the west. She had to admit, grudgingly, that with so little time to prepare and organize, the mon-keigh had fought with astonishing courage and ferocity in defense of their homes and families. But the town was soon overrun, and the greenskins were now within the outpost itself.

She could not keep from grinning, even now. Especially now. The old, old bloodlust rose in her heart. Once she had wanted to be a Banshee, to gird herself in wraithbone armor and charge screaming headlong against the foes of her people, weapon in hand. But she was found to have psychic talent in the yearly Tests, and a psyker must walk other paths. She still yearned for melee combat, though, as some women among the Eldar yearned for a lover.

A few of the mon-keigh guardsmen had tried to protect her, inexplicably, pleading with her to flee in their loathsome chattering language, but she had not deigned to answer them, and all but one of them had been cut down as she watched. The last had followed her into the building, but she had lost sight of him when a dozen greenskins saw her and charged, cackling.

So here she stood on the top floor of the burning building, still wearing a ragged garrison uniform, wraithbone broadsword humming in one hand and laspistol in the other, laughing as the Orks came, laughing as she cut them down--for their minds were simple and unshielded, and they could not conceal from her when they would feint and when they would strike.

By the Laughing God, she thought. I live for this. She grinned. Her cheeks were flushed and her nipples were so erect that they were visible through her uniform, had anyone been there who cared about such things.

She turned and shot the last Ork neatly through the forehead--and the mon'keigh was there, panting, lasrifle in his hands, fresh blood adorning its bayonet. She scowled at him.

And he astonished her by speaking in recognizable Eldar, though his accent was atrocious. "You're magnificent."

The Orks, apparently finding little worth taking, vanished as quickly as they had appeared, and were already gone when they emerged onto the rubble-strewn street.

The mon-keigh had not spoken another word as they walked out of the burning town, and up a narrow overgrown trail into the thick forest. She kept noticing out of the corner of his eye that he was staring, but if she turned to look, his cheeks would redden and she'd look away.

In eerie silence he led her to a small hut of wood and stone on a small plateau, beside a spring, then opened the door and gestured for her to enter. It was as crude within as it was without. Like some Exodite's hunting cabin, she thought, but without the style or beauty. He sat at a rough-hewn little round table table and retrieved combat rations from his pack, and held them out to her, wordlessly, not meeting her gaze.

"What is this place," she said, sharply. "Why have you brought me here, mon-keigh? I know that you have the High Speech. Answer me." Idranel in a foul mood for a number of reasons. One of them was that she'd been feeling the urge to masturbate since she killed the last Ork.

His voice was soft, and his accent was still horrid. "This hunting cabin belonged to a relative of mine, now dead. And we are here because there is nothing left, and no other place to go."

This was, to her mind, surprisingly logical and reasonable, for one of the lesser species. She nodded slowly, sat across the table from him, and took the tin of beans and plastic spoon he held out to her. It smelled foul, but she was hungry. The mon-keigh probably was also. She wondered idly if he was as horny as she was, the sick little mon-keigh.

He spent the next hour silently cleaning and sharpening his bayonet, combat knife, and entrenching tool, then broke down his lasrifle to inspect and clean it, and reassembled it, all without a word. She watched him, watching the practiced movements of his hands. A primitive killer with crude, primitive weapons, she thought. Though, of course, he and the others in the town militia had piled up dead Orks in waves before their positions were overrun.

As the sun set, he unrolled his bedroll on the floor by the entrance, and gestured to the bed, which to her relief, at least had a manufactured mattress on it. She was half expecting a pile of pine boughs stacked on the frame under the blanket. At least he knows his place, she thought, one corner of her mouth quirking upward. She sat on the bed, its ancient springs squeaking obnoxiously.

Oh, Slaanesh take it, she thought. If I try to masturbate on that thing, the Orks will be able to hear from low orbit.

She asked him, again in Eldar, "Why have you been staring at me since you first saw me, mon-keigh?" Her cheeks were flushing again.

He spoke softly. "You're beautiful. And brave. And strong, and quick. The way you fight impresses me as much as your beauty. When I saw you today, I wanted to protect you, but you don't seem to need protection."

"You like what you see, then? You sick, contemptible half-evolved beast." She felt herself getting more aroused, thought of the hilt of her sword in her hands, and the years that had passed since the last time she'd touched a cock, before this creature before her was even born. "Sex with me would probably kill you."

She looked at him, there, sitting on his bedroll, silhouetted in the doorway in the last slanting red rays of the sun. She grinned. "Come to me, thrall. I have need of you."

She stripped off her uniform and was reaching to unbutton his shirt even before he reached her. Her nipples were painfully erect. He leaned forward to kiss her on the lips, gently, for a moment. She put her tongue into his mouth and held the back of his head with astonishing strength. "Let's fuck," she hissed. "And call me 'Mistress.'" If only I had my whip, she thought.

"Yes, Mistress," he whispered. "You're so, so beautiful," he said, touching her red hair, touching her cheek, moving his head around to kiss and lick the sensitive tips of her pointed ears.

"Hush," she said, kneading her own small firm breasts with her fingers, plucking at the stiff nipples. "Here," she said, gesturing to them. "Suck them, thrall."

He nodded and went to the task with a will. She moaned and growled at the touch of his lips and began rubbing her clitoris. He moved his hand down and slid a finger inside him, then two. She growled and pulled her breast back from his mouth, and squeezed his fingers firmly with supple inhuman muscle. "Don't stop. Don't stop," she whispered. She was slickly wet and had been for hours. This was what she needed. She'd heard rumors that the Banshees had secret rituals after battle--but it was too distracting to think about that and this at the same time. She ran her fingers through his close-cropped hair and kissed him again, more gently this time, and said, "Lick me down there. Do a good job, give me pleasure, and I'll make you feel good." She growled and pointed to her groin.

He nodded. "Yes, Mistress. Anything for you, anything," leaving a trail of little kisses across her chest and down her belly before reaching her groin. She lay back on the edge of the squeaky bed, and he knelt on the rough floor, first touching her clitoris gently with the tip of his tongue, then licking it, which made her moan, then sucking it lustily, which made her growl and put her hands on the back of his head to pull his mouth toward her. He entered her with two fingers as well. She moaned and snarled and thrust with her hips and felt the tickling tingle at the base of her spine that meant she would come soon. He reached up to pinch and gently pull on her nipples with his free hand, and that was all it took to take her over the edge. She panted and screamed as a sudden, violent, almost painful orgasm crashed down upon her, leaving her breathless. Afterwards, she wondered if it caused her to faint, because her next memory was lying in bed beside him, in his arms, as he ran his fingers through her hair tenderly.

She smiled at him and kissed him softly on the lips. "And now," she said. He nodded. She looked at his cock. Back when she had been in training to become a Farseer, there had been rumors among the apprentices that mon-keigh males had bigger penises than Eldar men. She had not cared much about such things even as a giggling schoolgirl, and just now, looking at his erect penis, already beginning to dribble, its tip bobbing up and down in time with the beating of his heart, she decided that it was of an appropriate proportion with the rest of him, neither too big nor too small. She stroked it with one hand for a moment, making him squirm and sigh.

"Lie on your back," she instructed, wishing for ropes or manacles to complete her control over him.

Hmm, she thought. How to proceed? The direct approach, I think. She kissed the tip of his cock and noted its saltiness, which was alien to her but not displeasing. She took it into her mouth, making him groan, licking it with her tongue and bobbing her head up and down several strokes. Then she stopped, and looked at him. "Are you close?" she asked. He nodded mutely. "Beg for it," she said. "Beg me to fuck you, to finish you off."

"Please, Mistress? I nee--" and that was all she needed to hear. She mounted him and guided him inside her, centimeter by centimeter, and grinned when he moaned at the hot slickness of her. She moved slowly down and took all of him inside her, and leaned forward. He reached up to pluck at her dangling nipples. She sighed and squirmed, and began milking his cock inside her with inhuman muscles over which she had almost complete conscious control. He groaned and squirmed, and she began to move up and down, rubbing her clitoris against his shaft. She bent down to kiss him on the neck, then on the lips. After only a few more strokes he arched his back and groaned. She felt his hot seed squirting deep inside her, which brought her to a second, milder orgasm.

Afterwards they lay together on the bed in sweaty bliss, and she wondered what the next day would hold.

Six months later, during this world's winter season, she was inside the cabin, stitching tanned carnivore hides into a winter coat for her mon-keigh lover while he was out hunting. She sensed something moving in the Warp just as brilliant multicolored lights flashed through the windows, startling her, and there was a knock at the door. With her laspistol held behind her back she went to answer the door. "Who's there?" she asked in the Low Gothic tongue of the local mon-keigh.

Only then did she sense the power of the mind behind the door. She opened it, and Eldrad of Ulthwe walked in and sat at the rough table. He leaned back against the wall in the chair, before looking at her with a grin.

"Just as planned."

"What?"

"You really have no idea how impossible it was to work with you."

"I don't--"

"Next time, don't go thirty years without getting laid."

"..."

"Oh, and if Macha calls you a 'mon-keigh fucker,' tell her she needs to get laid too."

END