Gods, okay, —I didn’t on fucking twins.

  That’s not a thing I wake up and scribble into my itinerary between “steal candied almonds” and “betray lover for coin.”

  But there I was.

  Naked. Pinned between two wall-sized slabs of man-meat called HjortBrund

  Barbarian twins.

  From the high snows of the Northmarch, where the men are born bellowing and the women bench-press goats.

  And me?

  I was just a sweaty little disaster wedged between their and .

  Let me explain.

  We’d hit a war camp. Classic scam.

  I played the oracle, veils and moans, blah blah. The Dragon did fire theatrics.

  Crowd went wild.

  The twins came up after the performance, shirtless, grinning, reeking of sweat, mead, and testosterone.

  They offered me a mammoth steak.

  I said: "Only if I get to eat it off your chest."

  They said: "We share everything."

  I said: "Do you now?"

  And that was it.

  Back in their tent—spacious, fur-lined, smuggled wine and questionable mushrooms—I realized two things:

  1. 2.bodies made up for .

  They peeled me out of my silks like I was some overripe fruit.

  Hands everywhere. Hot breath on my neck. One of them bit my ass. Not gently. I yelped. He grinned.

  Brund was the quiet one. Hjort made noises like he was wrestling bears.

  They took turns. Then taking turns.

  There were positions I’m violate local ordinances.

  At one point I ended up upside down with one of them eating me out like a starving man at a honey festival while the other fed me grapes and told me I was a goddess.

  I have come so hard I bit Hjort’s shoulder. He thanked me.

  Now, was it emotionally fulfilling?

  No.

  Did they remember my name?

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Also no.

  They called me “Witch-Tits” the entire time and I honestly didn’t mind.

  By dawn I was raw, radiant, and mildly concussed.

  I crawled out of that tent glowing like a temple lantern, hair a mess, tunic inside out, hips ruined.

  The Dragon sniffed me, groaned, and muttered something about “plague-by-stupidity” and “testosterone poisoning.”

  I just winked and said, “They were very worshippers.”

  He rolled his eyes. I couldn’t feel my legs. Worth it.

  So yeah.

  I did the twins.

  And the twins did .

  Ten out of ten.

  Would get barbarian-sandwiched again.

  Just… next time, remind me to stretch.

  Don’t look at me like that.

  Seriously. Wipe that expression off your face.

  Have ever been sandwiched?

  Then shut up.

  Yes?

  Then you exactly what I’m talking about.

  That moment when your soul for a quick smoke break and your legs forget the concept of “floor.”

  Spit roasted.

  One at each end, me in the middle, making sounds I didn’t know I was capable of.

  I think I meowed.

  Once. Maybe twice. Don’t judge. I was .

  And yeah, since we’re spilling tea:

  There was butt stuff.

  One of them called it “breaching the fortress.”

  I screamed.

  Not in protest.

  My hips were holding peace negotiations with the gods while my spine was writing its last will and testament.

  So go ahead. Clutch your pearls.

  Call me depraved, profane, possessed by all seven sins doing cartwheels.

  And I’ll just sit here grinning like a cat in heat who got into the cream, the cookies, and half the dairy farm.

  Because honey—.

  And my temple got thoroughly worshipped.

  Twice. Simultaneously.

  By twins.

  Amen.

  Don’t get me wrong.

  I’m not about hair pulling, slapping, and being pounded into a mattress like a drum in a war parade.

  I mean… yeah, that’s .

  But I’m not some wild beast in heat 24/7.

  I can do gentle.

  Saya can be gentle.

  If you ask nicely.

  If you pay even .

  Soft touches? Sure.

  Sweet kisses? I’ve practiced.

  Slow, sensual grinding while whispering “oh gods yes right there” like I mean it?

  Absolutely within my skillset.

  Just don’t confuse it with affection.

  You want purring?

  I’ll like a kitten in heat on a velvet cushion.

  I’ll sigh and moan and trace your name on your chest with my fingertips while making you feel like you’re the center of my universe.

  I’ll look into your eyes like I’m seeing starlight for the first time.

  Like I you.

  Like this is .

  And then I’ll take the coin, tuck it in my garter, and vanish before your post-nut delusions start forming marriage plans.

  I’ve the gentle thing.

  I've rocked the slow candlelit rhythm.

  I've faked sweet innocence so well I made grown men cry with joy and hand me family heirlooms.

  Gentle is a performance.

  And baby—I’m a professional.

  But don’t be fooled.

  Underneath the silk and sighs and soft hands?

  Still Saya.

  Still sharp.

  Still the girl who’ll ride you raw and rob you blind if you snore too loud after.