Your dragonborn avatar stands in the frost-kissed landscapes of Skyrim, the wind howling around you. A mysterious, hooded figure approaches, their intentions clear. They push you against a tree, their hands eagerly exploring your body. They undo your belt, pulling out your throbbing sword - not the steel one at your side, but the one growing stiff in your pants. They wrap their gloved hand around it, stroking it expertly, their eyes locked onto yours. The surrounding snow and ice can't cool the heat building between your legs as they bring you to the brink, their hand moving faster, their grip tighter.