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Isabela's Last Lay	By : necroguy Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 7309 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Author does not own Dragon Age Origins or make any money off writing

Chapter List
- 1-Isabela's Last Lay
- 1
It was almost sunset by the time Castillon got to the dock. When he got there, he was surprised to find Velasco alone, none of the other henchmen with him. From the look of the man’s bruised face and torn clothing, it was clear that something had gone very wrong with their plan.
“Where is she? Did you get her?”
Velasco pointed a bandaged hand toward a open door behind him. “In there.”
Past the doorway in a small storeroom, Castillon saw a tarp, stained with blood, covering what was big enough to be a body. He turned back to Velasco in anger.
“I told you to take her alive!”
“And did you think she would let us? Put up one bloody hell of a struggle, she did,” Velasco snorted. “Killed Marco and Cris... and Bruno is with some healer in Darktown. Was his lucky blade that finally did it for her.”
Castillon exhaled, struggling to comprehend all that he’d just heard.
“And Hawke?”
“Paid in full, as you asked. Damn bitch just stood and watched us fight the whole time.” Velasco shifted uneasily as he spoke. Perhaps the pirate had injured him, as well.
“Are you going to be alright? No healing for you?”
“I’m fine. Just want to get out of this damn town.”
“We’ll set sail at dawn, as soon as we can pick up a couple new hands.”
“Aye. I’ll start looking.” With that, Velasco turned to leave.
After the man was gone, Castillon cautiously made his way to the storeroom and closed the door behind him. The remaining daylight filtered through a high window, falling on the large tarp in front of him. He briefly recoiled from the strong smell of blood, but then held his breath and pulled the thick fabric back.
“Oh... Damn... ”
Indeed, the Rivaini lay dead on the floor before him. Her face was wide eyed, frozen forever in the moment of her defeat. Velasco had hastily deposited her in an empty corner of the storeroom, leaving her arms and legs sprawled helplessly to either side. Blood had pooled beneath her, and her white shirt was stained red all along the left side of her body. Apparently her famed skill as a duelist was not enough to save her this time.
“Always worked so hard to guard your flank, didn’t you?”
Castillon knelt for a closer look. Without her trademark blue headscarf, her long dark hair spilled on the ground around her head, a few strands plastered to her temples by blood and sweat. He noticed that her gold necklace and piercings were also gone, probably taken by Velasco after the fight.
At last he forced himself to meet her gaze. Isabela’s dark eyes stared vacantly into space, as if in a final expression of surprise. Her mouth had fallen open, eerily relaxed, as if she were about to speak.
Timidly, he reached forward to touch her body, to convince himself that she was truly dead. With a finger he pushed against her cheek, swiveling her head gently back and forth.
At first he felt relieved that the woman who had betrayed him and caused him so much trouble, ending his slaving trade and forcing him to chase her across the sea, would no longer be a nuisance. He was more disappointed though; he had wanted to be the one to punish her himself, to torment her and have a little fun with her, to teach her a lesson for everything she had done.
And besides, he admitted to himself, he would even miss her.
In a corner of the storeroom he saw an opened crate, packed with bottles of Antivan brandy. He went to fetch one, and pried out the cork with his dagger.
“A toast, to Isabela of Rivain,” he said as he raised the bottle. “Queen of the Eastern seas.”
As he drank, he remembered how he had met her years ago in a tavern in Llomerryn. He had fallen for her instantly, and she had toyed with him for a week before losing interest and moving on. After that, they were to remain no more than uneasy comrades. Though he would occasionally supply her with work and coin, he would never bed her again. Still, he had no regrets.   From the beginning, he had known that no man could have hoped to hold on to a woman like her.
He had seen her rise to become the most famous pirate on the seas, the deadliest blade and the most daring smuggler - and the best lay, on top of it all... But now she was no more, brought down by a group of common thugs.
“What a bloody waste, Isabela. Why’d you have to put up such a fight?”
It stung him to realize that she had chosen to risk death rather than see him again.
As Castillon sat and drank the brandy, he reached over to caress her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw and the tendons of her neck. The dead woman’s body was now cool, but not yet stiff.
Idly, he trailed his fingers down towards the swell of her breasts... and then immediately, he felt his erection spring to life.
His laughter echoed through the storeroom. Surely, this brandy is playing with my mind, he thought to himself. A bold notion came to him... did he dare indulge it?
Isabela. Here she lay, the woman - the arrogant bitch - who used to tease him and every other sailor he knew, leading them on, playing games as if she were too good for them.... Now helpless, and unable to fend for herself. Now at last, she belonged to him, and he could do whatever he wanted to her. The very thought of it was grotesque, and yet strangely arousing to him.
Castillon reached for her lifeless hand and fondled her callused fingers, pondering the fact that only a hour ago they had gripped a dagger as she fought desperately for her life. Then he placed her hand upon his swelling crotch, and smiled to himself.
It would be a fitting way to say goodbye to her.
He imagined Isabela herself laughing at him, at the entire scene. The woman was known to indulge her own vulgar appetites while alive; surely she would be amused if she knew what he was about to do to her corpse.
Velasco was long gone. The dock was empty, and Castillon was all alone. No one would ever know.
With his dagger, he began cutting away Isabela’s shirt. The tattered white fabric came off easily, followed by her smallclothes. The long leather boots he left on, not troubling to pull them off. Once finished he sat back to admire the naked body that lay ready before him.
“There we are …still lovely.”
Even after all these years Isabela was still shapely and fit, her lean muscles firmed and tanned by a life at sea. Aside from the obvious blow that had killed her, there were few others scars or wounds, a testament to her great fighting skill. Her ample brown breasts sloped loosely before him, every bit as glorious as they were in life, their nipples large and dark and perfectly round. Just above her boots, the shaved cleft of her sex was smooth and inviting.
Castillon dragged her out the pool of blood and over to a pile of large sacks of grain in the corner, leaning her up against them. With a discarded rag he cleaned off her torso as best as he could, and with his fingers he tried to smooth out some of the tangles in her long dark hair.
Eagerly, he reached for one of her large breasts, weighing it in his hand as he stretched his fingers around the great bulk of it. It felt sadly different to him... So cold, and soft... Dead.   Years ago when he had bedded her, she had laughed with delight as her warm body turned under his caresses. Now she could only stare emptily at him as he pawed at her.   Still, he felt excited, his heart racing with anticipation, anxious to fuck her again, even if she could not respond.
He stripped off his pants and stroked his cock, already longing to be inside her, but the woman’s body was so cold and still, it was unnerving. He drank more brandy to give himself courage.
Then he searched the storeroom for something to ease his entry, and discovered an unused oil lamp. After oiling his erection generously, he returned to kneel by the body.
“Isabela... please forgive me, my dear...”
He parted the dead woman’s thighs and fingered the dry lips of her cunt, guiding his oily, throbbing cock inside it, sinking into her completely as he settled his weight onto her lifeless frame. Curling his fingers around the lips of her boots for traction, he pulled her towards him, pressing her firm, muscled thighs closely against his flanks. The heavy sacks of grain beneath supported her, cushioning his force as he began to thrust.
“Ahhh, you Rivaini whore... you’re all mine, at last...” As he groaned against her chest, Isabela’s head lolled back and forth gently upon her shoulders as if in acknowledgement.
As Castillon lay upon her, he stared into her beautiful, blind eyes, at the dark and lovely face that once smirked and laughed so easily at everything, now fallen quiet and still. Brushing away dirt and grime, he ran his fingers through her matted hair, cradling her head in his hands as he kissed her eyes and then her mouth. At first the taste of blood gave him pause, but then he resumed with passion, tonguing even further past her dry lips.
”Mmm, yes... Isabela...,” he moaned in her ear as his erection throbbed deep within her.
He clasped her hands within his, stretching her arms out straight upon the sacks in order to better display her chest. As her breasts warmed in his grasp, he rolled her nipples between his fingers, wishing the sad little nubs would somehow spring to life again.
“Do you remember how you used to enjoy this?”
Briefly, he shut his eyes and summoned his memories of the living Isabela, how she had looked and talked at the moment when she had first begun to seduce him, and the magnificent evening they had shared together afterwards upon her ship, both of them rocking in time with the rolling of the waves. He imagined her alive again in his mind, as beautiful and as brash as ever, caressing the motionless body beneath him as he did so, arousing himself even more as he realized how badly he still wanted her.
“Ohh...Isabela... you dead bitch...”
Castillon wrapped his hands around her slender waist, steadying her against his increasing speed. Then he grasped her knees, leaning forward against her thighs to stuff himself into her even further. Her well oiled cunt parted loosely before his thrusts, and the squelching sounds of his cock grew louder and faster, accompanied by the rustling of the grain in the sacks beneath as he fucked her.
With sadness, he remembered how Isabela used to scream in Rivaini at the end, urging him on towards his own climax. The memory of her cries sent him over the edge and he bounced furiously against her, forcing a stale puff of air from her lips as he finished.
“Isabela...” he whispered after he gasped for breath. “Even dead... you’re still the greatest fuck a man could have.”
As he lay upon her in a daze, he embraced and explored her body, gazing into the stillness of her eyes, tonguing her salty skin, smelling the sweat-soaked leather of her boots. He tried to fix every detail into memory, knowing that every recollection would serve him well during lonely nights alone at sea. With his dagger, he cut loose a generous lock of her hair as a keepsake.
After a moment's reflection, he decided to pull off her fine boots and take those as well.
When he noticed that another crate in the storeroom was full of deep mushrooms, he hurriedly opened it and ate until his erection returned, so hard it was almost painful.
“Well... shall we have another go at it, my dear?”
Castillon turned her over and entered her ass, and then her mouth, using the mushrooms to refresh himself, visiting each orifice in turn, trying to wring as much pleasure as he could from the dead woman’s body until every part of her was wet with his discharge.
As evening fell, he recognized the smell of death, and decided that he had had enough. By now Isabela’s body was cold and rigid, and it took a great effort to fold her arms across her chest and push her legs together. He dragged her to the edge of the dock where he found a length of rope and a rusted anchor to tie her to.   With a sigh, he pushed her and the anchor into the dark water and watched them sink out of sight, following the trail of bubbles until they ceased and the water was still again.
“Farewell, Isabela,” he said.
- 1
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Isabela's Last Lay