1. Orlagh

ONE

Twelve and a half minutes.

I have exactly twelve and a half minutes to figure out how I'm going to explain to PointyPrick69 and hundreds of other horny internet strangers why I can't deliver on the goods they paid for—the goods in question being a livestream of my bare ass getting spanked six ways from Sunday for their porny viewing pleasure.

Unless…

I stop my frantic pacing and race back into my bedroom, an idea blossoming. The heel of one leather thigh-high boot gets tangled on an extension cord in the hallway, because of course it would, right? First time I'm not streaming solo, so naturally things are unraveling all around me.

After several precious seconds wasted wrestling with the offending orange cable—and nearly upending my carefully curated lighting setup in the process—I slip free of the extension cord's hold and belly flop onto my bed with an audible oof, right beside my phone.

My mind is racing as I scroll through my contacts, trying to figure out who I know that would be both able to get here in time and willing to bend me over their knee while hundreds of my OnlyFannies subscribers watched. My fans are expecting an orc, but that option is out the window; the only orc in my phone is the flaky cam-dude who was supposed to collaborate with me today.

I chew on my bottom lip a little before remembering my makeup and mentally smacking myself. Just under twelve minutes now—no time for touch-ups. I scramble off of the bed for a quick once-over in my vanity mirror, relieved to see that everything is still in place: red lips glossy, inky black wig snug and secure, cut crease liner immaculate, and both rows of teeny tiny rhinestones dotting my ears still sparkling all the way up to their pointed tips. My silk robe is slightly askew, but I'll be losing that once it's lights, camera, action anyway. Underneath is the real money maker—the skimpy scalemail bikini that helped me make a name for myself, and it's exactly where it should be. The shiny metal nerd-magnet sure doesn't classify as armor, but it definitely helped this elf divide and conquer her way into a very niche corner of the amateur porn market.

I turn my attention back to my phone after I'm sure that I'm still camera ready and scroll a little faster, going past friends and family and coworkers until my fingers slow and then stop, hovering over my ex.

Wolf.

Big and brawny and covered with fur in any form, with a wolfish grin and gigantic hands that are great for smacking ass, or at least for making a lot of noise while they do it.

Elf and werewolf wasn't really a pairing my fans were clamoring for, but in a pinch… an unexpected werewolf would be better than going solo when so many of them had already voted for and paid a premium to see me ass up in someone's lap, wouldn't it? And like it or not, Wolf is the only actual option I can think of in a pinch. I know I finally canned his ass last month but… this plan could work, right?

My eyes drift towards the wall above my recently thrifted vanity—Wolf had taken most of our furniture on his way out—and even though I know the clock is ticking, I can't help stopping at every one of the hastily patched holes I'd finally plastered over last week, or at the slightly off off-white paint I'd used in my unsuccessful attempts to cover them up.

Wait—what am I thinking?

I shake my head, fingers still hovering, the urge to gnaw my lip even stronger. Even if this could work, it's a bad idea, a terrible idea, and yet… my ring light shines brightly behind me, reflecting in the mirror and reminding me of the stakes at hand.

I sigh.

Wolf.

Am I really this desperate? The clock is telling me I am, the generously lined pockets I have from this new venture into premium content are telling me I am, but even in this ultra-panicked state my brain is screaming hell-to-the-fucking-no.

What am I going to do?

Okay, pros first.

I know Wolf would jump at the chance to smack my ass raw after that huge fight we got in before I finally sent him packing. I know he can get that reckless motorcycle of his anywhere in the city in five minutes flat. And aside from all that, I know he's free most days because he's pack alpha and doesn't have an actual job.

And now… the cons.

I know better than anyone that Wolf is a lying, cheating, self-worshiping werewolf with rage and jealousy issues. One who disrespected me every chance he had, disrespected my cam work every chance he had, and only "allowed" me to keep my OnlyFannies once we became serious because of the money. And even if I could convince him to help me… Wolf would more than likely want to do more than just smack my ass on camera. Sex was the only thing we did well together, and right now I'm just about desperate and vulnerable enough to let him reopen that door. And then what? He'd show up super late one night—probably smelling like cheap perfume—and somehow manage to sweet talk me into letting him crash here for at least a week, and then punch ten new holes in the walls before I finally stopped letting him fuck my brains out and broke it off again.

Eleven minutes.

What am I thinking? Is there really even a question of what I should or shouldn't do here? No, there isn't. Hell-to-the-fucking-no wins, and thank the goddess that it does, that I didn't let panic allow me to tear my life apart again. I shudder a little at the level of desperation I'd just reached and remind myself of that never again mantra I'd repeated over and over during my tear-stained apartment repairs last week.

Wolf isn't just bad news, he's tabloid trash; super flashy and over the top on the outside, full of hateful garbage on the inside. There is no way I can let that dick back into my life, even if that means I might have to rebrand and start from scratch. He leaned a little too hard into that whole alpha role for me, inside and outside the bedroom, demanding a level of respect and deference that he wasn't willing to give in return.

And his pack? Good goddess, they made everything worse. Always popping into our apartment unannounced, getting into fights in the complex parking lot, practically terrorizing our neighbor's cat, and making my life ten times harder by constantly feeding their alpha's already dangerously inflated ego. The result was a grown-ass were-man with the emotional maturity of someone who punches holes in walls on a regular basis.

And that fight, the straw that broke our relationships back? When he busted into Perk Ya Later with three snarling lackeys to scream at me, while I was making a latte, in front of a room full of customers? Hurling ridiculous accusations that I had been fucking random neighbors, demanding to see my text messages, and nearly costing me my part-time job?

Hell-to-the-fucking-no. It was over, over, over. Besides, the sex wasn't great because he paid attention to what I wanted, what worked best for me—it was just simple physiology. But not even a knot I couldn't get enough of was able to keep me tied to him in the end, to keep our relationship afloat amidst a sea of possession and rage and, if I'm being petty and perfectly honest, annoying little tufts of fur all over the fucking apartment.

No, calling Wolf and letting that crazy werewolf back into my life would not be worth it; it had been a dumb, desperate idea from the start.

I let my phone slide through my fingers and watch it clatter onto my vanity as I rub my temples, careful not to press hard enough to leave a mark or smudge anything. Wolf had been the start and end of my panicky plan, and since I didn't have any other past paramours in the city to call, I was going to have to figure out how to save face solo. Or ass. Save ass?

Ugh.

Part of me hopes my subscribers will understand and be super cool about it all, but I know a lot of them won't. What was I going to do after getting branded a flake, a scammer? Scrap all the work I put in to getting where I am with this persona that I actually really like and start over? I guess I'll have to if it goes down that way, but I'm loathe to do it.

The cold, hard financial fact of the matter is that without the cash my shiny bikini rakes in… I can't cover half of the bills I used to split with Wolf. Plus, getting paid to dress up as a horny barbarian while getting people off is super fun. I know I don't want to do it forever, and if I can keep it a secret until I get my inheritance, then I won't need to do it forever… but I certainly want to do it for the foreseeable future. I love dressing up in this getup and getting myself off in front of an audience, and I love getting spanked live on camera, even if historically it's always been me doing it to myself. I love making the kind of money I do from the comfort of my home and I absolutely love the fact that it's a big middle-finger to the stuck-up cloister of sun elves I grew up in.

The thought of some horny asshole back home inadvertently discovering that Orlagh Skylark, Governor Hortensia Skylark's wayward daughter, was a sex-worker of all things? The one who'd fled Fair Isle and abandoned her social standing to live amongst the rabble in Galtree?

The thought filled me with equal parts joy and terror.

I'm pretty sure my mother would leave that secluded coastal enclave for the first time in her privileged life just to travel across the country and tear me to literal shreds with those perfectly polished talons she calls nails, my older sister stationed dutifully behind her with one immaculately groomed eyebrow arched in judgment. It wouldn't take long for that law firm my mother keeps on retainer to find some fancy financial loophole to hang me out to dry with by keeping the trust my great grandmother set up for me out of my reach. Sometimes I wonder if I should just cut to the chase and leap away from that safety net myself. The lasting social repercussions my family would have to endure from all the gossipy fallout might just make it worth all the hassle, but with barely a year left… might as well just keep my head down and stick it out.

My phone flashes. Probably another apologetic text from IguanaDong32 that I am going to politely ignore. I definitely don't have time to engage in a furious text exchange when there's only…

Oh, no.

Nine and a half minutes left.

I throw myself down into my new favorite armchair—super plush velvet in what my mother would call a poororange—and indulge my frustration in a super unhealthy way that makes me feel idiotic and guilty even as I do it; I kick the edge of my bed with an exasperated little screech and send the headboard smacking into the wall behind it—the wall between me and the orc in 17C.

The orc in 17C.

Sun above, how could I have forgotten?

I guess there is one orc I sort of know who could get here super fast, though I definitely don't have his number and I'm embarrassed just thinking about having to walk over there and ask him since I've never even spoken to him before.

But I've… I've definitely smelled him.

I walk past his gigantic boots almost every day, the ones that should disgust me, the ones that should stink instead of smelling inexplicably like blood oranges, the ones that he refuses to take inside his house no matter how many complaints I've lodged with management. Because who just leaves dirty shoes outside their apartment and never cleans them? It's ridiculous and insane that those big leather monstrosities smell the way they do when they're covered in grime and grit because, I mean, for Solstra's sake… does he work in a grocery store, a juice factory, an extraction plant, an all-season orange grove?

I… I've never gotten up the nerve to ask.

Sometimes I hear him shout at his television while he's playing video games or watching bloodball or whatever the hell he gets up to in there; I cringe just thinking about what he's heard on his side, because every so often we take an incredibly awkward elevator ride together, sneaking glances at each other out of the corner of our eyes and never saying a thing.

I know his name, though.

I heard Wolf dragging it through the mud a few times, along with some of the other guys who live at Cockatrice Commons, always threatened by any males within a three-block radius of me.

Rok'nhar.