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WITCH QUEEN OF VIXANIA
Morgana Baron
First published in 1994 by Nexus
332 Ladbroke Grove London W10 5AH
Reprinted 1995
Copyright © Morgana Baron 1994
Typeset by TW Typesetting, Plymouth, Devon Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire
ISBN 0 352 32917 3
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction.
In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.
Chapter One
The need was on Brod again. There was a hunger in him like no hunger he'd known in his younger years. It always came in waves, each pulse of the strange yearning stronger than the one before, until it coiled his body into a tight knot. Brod had no cure. He had to battle the agony by will alone.
He climbed to his feet and looked around, seeking distraction. There was none. At the foot of the gently sloping Eligian hill the goats were fine. They never strayed far from Brod. Fear of the dire-wolves kept them close. Brod and his knobbed ironwood staff were their only protection.
A prowling canine would have been a welcome diversion.
But all was at peace. The spring-born kids were frisking, and most of the nannies were stripping the succulent grass as fast as their chisel-teeth could tear it up. One of the younger she-goats, 'Patches' Brod called her, was bleating. One-horn, the oldest of the billies, was wrestling with her again.
The first time Brod had seen the goats playing like that - the billy climbing halfway onto the nanny's back and thrusting his trembling loins at her, Brod had thought that he was hurting her. Theocritus, the old hermit, had explained that it was all a goat game and that the nanny didn't mind at all.
It had to be a special Spring game - they always did it the most at the soft beginning of the year. Brod's need was a Spring thing too. It'd started like a slight itch, three Springs ago. Last year it had been an occasional nuisance; this year it was a torment that plagued him constantly. Sometimes it was great, sometimes less so, but it was always with him.
He'd learned that if he didn't do something to ease the strange yearning, a shaking would start in his massive thighs. The club between his legs would rear up and swell with the stiffening sickness.
Brod thought that it had to be a sickness. Theocritus had refused to explain it to him, which was strange because Theocritus liked to explain everything. Theocritus would drone on for hours about why the star-lamps didn't fall, and why the sun's fire burned strong in summer and weak in winter, and about the three-legged one-eyed people who lived in the moon, but when he was asked about the stiffening sickness, he just mumbled and went a strange colour.
Not twenty paces away there was a rock. Part of it stuck out of the ground and was about half as big as Brod. He went to it, dug his fingers under the edges, and heaved. His shoulders bunched. The rock moved, and then tore loose from its earthy bed. Brod wrapped his arms around it and hefted it up onto his shoulders. Press - arms at full stretch, and down.
He repeated this a dozen times, until his arms began to quiver, and then hurled the rock away. Brod bounded down the hillside, tearing his loincloth off as he ran, and plunged into the stream. The water ran deep from the Spring run-off out of the mountains and was icy.
It was the only cure that he'd found for the awful need. Vigorous exercise and a cold bath. It was becoming a nuisance. It was the fourth time he'd been forced to do it since dawn, and it was not yet noon.
With the main strength of his nagging need chilled out of him, Brod climbed the stream's bank and threw himself down on goat-clipped grass for a nap. He wouldn't sleep for long. The ache between his thighs was sure to waken him. .
Five young females rode through the woods. They were cloaked and hooded and veiled, lest their uncommon beauty cause comment. The sight of any one of them would have sent rumours spreading from village to village as fast as news of a Vixanian invasion.
Eligia prided itself on the comeliness of its maidens, but simple village wenches were as coarse clay compared to the exotic porcelain of these five sirens.
The first one was mounted on a pure black unicorn. Three were on horses. The last trailed astride a mule. They were a team, personally chosen by Vixia, Witch Queen of Vixania, so that any man might find at least one out of the five that would embody his erotic ideal.
R'rleeh, the leader, was an ebony-skinned Styxian. She was slender as a wand, except that her breasts were as full and as ripe as the poisonous black fruit of the tropical ahnn tree, her tribal totem. Through the magic of her Queen her pouting purple nipples secreted the sweet heady juice of that fatal plant.
R'rleeh had nestled the heads of a score of men to her bosom, and yet she remained a virgin. All had died in agony within a dozen moments of suckling at her breast. The juice of the ahnn has the peculiar property of dissolving the bones of all who taste it. R'rleeh's would-be lovers had first suffered the indignity of feeling their teeth softening in their gums; then the rubbery collapsing, and finally death by slow suffocation.
She alone of the troop of female spies and assassins could ride the unicorn, for it would gore any female who tried to mount it unless she retained her maidenhead intact.
Behind R'rleeh rode Nephenie, a delicate albino whose twenty nails were all honed blades, though only three were poisoned. Nephenie was followed by Suisuma, a plump curly-headed giggler, whose shapely thighs were strong as pythons and whose internal muscles could crack hard-shelled nuts. Her particular delight was to bring crushing death to a man at his moment of greatest pleasure. It was her habit to use her constricting vaginal clamp to hold her victim captive, and then to squeeze him slowly to death between her thighs at her leisure.
Arachne, the fourth in the line, had bright red hair that, were she not cloaked and hooded, would have floated about her voluptuous form like a crimson cloud. Her weapons were silken scarves. The transparent whisps of gauze were woven from the silken web of a tiny ice-spider found only in the far frozen Mountains of Icefast. The threads had the peculiar property that once they were wrapped they could be tightened but not loosened, except by their owner. Even Arachne's deadly companions gave her wide berth.
Trailing the four was Raven, on her mule. Her beast was short and clumsy, yet she sat on it as if it were a noble charger. No taller than a girl-child, her form was womanly. Her hips were curved as a lyre and her breasts, above a waist so slender that a big man could have spanned it with his hands, were ripe to the point of bursting. Her nipples, virginal pink, pouted as wantonly as those of any Temple harlot.
Mayhap Raven had been named for the glossy blue-black cap of her hair, mayhap for the tiny but perfect image of a blackbird tattooed at the side of her delicate throat. Each of the five bore a tattoo, engraved in tender skin by the cunning needles of the Rune-writers, to magically enhance each one's particular talent.
It was Raven who lit their caippfires, who fetched water, who cooked their meals. She was but a novitiate in the service of Queen Vixia. Raven had been trained by the Priestesses of Havoc in the Note of Chaos, which was not a note at all, but a terrible chord. As yet, she had only mastered the singing of each eerie tone separately. If and when she conquered the throat-twisting art, her singing would strike instant terror in the hearts of any who heard her. At close range her voice would be deadly to all but the strongest. Until then, she was but a servant.
As the five rode, Raven hummed softly under her breath.
'Will you stop that!' Nephenie shouted back at the crooning girl. 'You're making my teeth ache.'
Raven stopped instantly. Even if she displeased them, her superior sisters wouldn't likely kill or even maim her; they'd have to answer to the Priestesses, or even to the Queen herself, if they didn't take her back whole. They were, however, quite capable of subjecting her to an evening or two of agony, just for idle amusement. They were all well-versed in the ways of delivering unbearable torments without leaving a single mark on their victims' bodies. Raven had nothing against torture in principle, even if she didn't dote on it the way the others did, but she did object to being the subject.
The black unicorn nuzzled against a bush and trotted out onto an open plain. R'rleeh raised a hand, halting them.
The Hermit's cave should be beyond that hill,' she said, pointing. 'We will dismount now and make our devotions, that Havoc be with us.'
Arachne gave Raven the reins of her mount. Arachne was the group's huntress. One of her duties was to provide sacrifices.
'I doubt I'll find any children this far from a village,' she told R'rleeh.
'Anything with red blood will do,' R'rleeh told her. 'Havoc willing, we'll have the Hermit to offer up before dusk.'
Arachne loped away on her long lithe legs and was back by the time Raven had the fire started. She was carrying a burrower by its spade-footed hind leg.
R'rleeh took it from her and tossed it, yet living, into the flames. It crawled out with its fur smoking and was tossed back four times before it finally succumbed.
'A good sacrifice,' R'rleeh grunted. 'A burrower's usually only good for three throwings. Very well, make your prayers.'
All five threw themselves prostrate. R'rleeh led the chant.
'Oh Havoc,' she droned, 'hear or ignore our humble prayers at Thy whim. We, Thy devoted victims, pray that even as it is Your nature to heap misfortunes on the heads of rich and poor, humble and high, beautious and ugly, so we, in obedience to Your nature, so spread our small evils, in the forlorn hope that by so doing, we might be spared Thy Terrible Wrath for one more day. If our feeble efforts on Thy behalf find some semblance of favour in Thy Awful sight, we beg Thee to visit us not, but to destroy others in our stead, even unto our own families, our lovers, and our companions.
'If we are raised, it is so that Thou might abase us.
'If we are well favoured, it is so that Your Hand might mar us.
'If we are rich, you will make us poor.
'If we are wise, you will make us stupid.
'Only in Thy service, in the spreading of Thy Chaos, is there hope, and that hope is but human vanity.'
Then all five bit into the earth, filling their mouths with dirt.
R'rleeh spat mud. 'There's a stream over there,' she mumbled, 'running 'neath that hillside. Let us rinse out our mouths and so soil its sweet waters.'
As they were kneeling on the stream's bank, their faces dipped into frigid water, a boulder rolled down the hill on the other side and splashed into the shallow rill.
Nephenie, who was almost blind to things that were close but could see clearly far into the distance, stared up at the hill.
'What is it?' R'rleeh demanded. 'I smelled nothing.'
'A man. Up where this stream runs deep. Perhaps a dozen bowshots uphill from here.'
'Havoc take him! We were told that only the Hermit lived within five leagues of here; him and his goats.'
'Are we under attack?' Raven shivered.
'No. It was an accident,' Nephenie told her. 'He's not even looking this way. The clod is gazing down the slope towards - yes - goats, I believe. Only the tips of two horns are visible, but I'd swear that they are goats.'
'Could it be a guard?' Suisuma asked. 'If what we are told is right, and the Hermit is a member of the White Lodge, could he not be guarded?'
R'rleeh sneered. 'The fools of the White Lodge believe in no such sensible precautions. They hide behind secrecy. No - it's just a stupid goatherd.'
'But he moved that rock,' Arachne said.
'A big stupid goatherd, then.'
'And when the Hermit screams?' Suisuma asked.
'You think the goatherd might come to his aid? Very well. You and Raven will take care of the goatherd.'
'Permanently?' Suisuma giggled.
R'rleeh frowned. 'You know our orders. No unnecessary killings. Eligia is a peaceful land. When Vixania marches, it will fall like a ripe fruit. Too many unnatural deaths may alert them.'
'But if necessary?' Suisuma squeezed her fleshy thighs together beneath her voluminous cloak.
'Then it would be Havoc's will.'
'And his will be done,' they all intoned.
Suisuma and Raven stripped to their short undergarments and waded the stream. The others rode off to seek the Hermit.
As the two plodded up the hillside, Raven panted, 'And how are we to "take care" of the goatherd, Suisuma?'
Suisuma paused for a breath. 'Why - we shall distract him, of course. Perhaps with his head cradled between my thighs he'll not hear the Hermit's cries.'
'And if he does?'
'As I said, his head will be between my thighs.'
One-horn stopped in mid-thrust, poised atop a particularly fine young nanny. The billy-goat pricked up his ears.
'What is it, old friend?' Brod asked. 'I thought that nothing could disturb you when you were playing the
Spring game.' Brod shaded his eyes under a broad palm and peered.
There were two strange creatures toiling up the slope. He might have taken them for people, like him and Theocritus, but they were strangely misshapen. Their hips were wide, their waists were unnaturally narrow, and their chests .. .
Brod doubled over, hugging himself. The need had hit him like a bolt from Hor the Thunder God's quiver. It was the shape of their chests that had done it. Both of the strange creatures had double bumps high on their torsos, like softly rounded hillocks. Could these two be gods? Or the emissaries of gods? Gods were mighty, and neither of these two would stand as high as Brod's shoulder, or weigh much more than one of his legs.
But even if they weren't gods, one of them at least had to be some sort of noble. Brod had seen pictures on a scroll of the Hermit's. There had been a group of the nobility standing in a great hall. Theocritus had told him that they were 'lawmakers', whatever that was. The 'lawmakers' had been dressed in togas, as was one of the strangers. None of the 'lawmakers' had been so smooth of face nor so round of limb though. Perhaps the 'lawmaker's' companion was a serving boy. There'd been one of those in the picture as well, also wearing nothing but a short kirtle. But that boy had been flat chested, whereas this one had those strangely interesting bumps.
Brod scratched at his palm. Looking at those bumps made him itch. Mayhap it was a further manifestation of the stiffening sickness.
'Hail!' Brod shouted as soon as they came within distance. 'And what manner of creatures might you be?'
'What manner of creatures?' Suisuma called back. 'What sort of question is that? We're people, of course, like you.'
'Like me? But you have ...' He made vague motions in front of his chest. '... and ...' His hands moved like fish around his waist and hips.
'Of course,' Raven laughed. 'We're women. Would you have us lumpishly shaped like you?'
'Women?'
Raven covered her mouth. 'You don't know what a woman is?'
'Huh?'
'How about your mother, dolt?' Suisuma snapped.
'My mother? Oh, she died years ago, when I was just a boy. A dire-wolf ate her.'
'Oh,' Raven said, 'I'm sorry. What was she like?'
Brod rubbed his chin. 'My mother? I don't remember very well, it was so long ago. Maybe - yes - sort of like her, but all one colour.' He was pointing at the she-goat, Patches.
'Your mother was a goat?' Raven exclaimed. She turned to Suisuma. 'Could it be?'
'It's happened,' Suisuma said, 'but rarely. Usually when the other parent is a god. More likely he was lost as a child and the she-goat brought him up. He doesn't look very goatish, does he? He's not particularly hairy, and he has no horns, though when I look closer ...' She stared pointedly at Brod's naked loins.
'So who was your father?' Raven asked Brod.
'Father? I had none. The Hermit raised me.'
'So you've really never seen a woman before?' Suisuma said. 'And you don't know what to do with one?'
'Part of him does,' Raven observed.
Brod looked down at himself. The club between his legs had risen up like a snake about to strike. It was swollen; worse than it'd ever been before. That's the stiffening sickness,' he said.
The stiffening sickness?' Suisuma asked with a grin. 'And how do you treat this rare ailment?'
'I use rocks.'
'Rocks?' Raven smothered a laugh. 'I'd like to see that. Either you know of some very soft rocks or else you are even harder fleshed than you look.'
'Very well. I'll show you. Like this.' Brod selected a boulder and raised it over his head. After he'd pressed it a few times he hurled it away.
'Very impressive,' Suisuma said. 'And that treatment works?'
Then I take a swim,' Brod added. 'After that the stiffening goes away for a while.'
'A brief while,' Raven guessed. 'There is another treatment, you know.'
There is?'
'Certainly.'
'A permanent cure?'
'Well, no, but it might give you relief for a day or so, if it's rigorously applied.'
Brod held his arms out to them. 'Is it a salve? Do you have some?'
Suisuma looked at Raven and then back to Brod. 'A - a salve is part of the cure. As it happens, we each have some with us.'
'You have?' Brod screwed up his forehead. 'But where? I see no pouches about your persons.'
Raven put on a very serious face. 'The salve of which my sister speaks is very precious. We carry it with us at all times, but so concealed that none may discover it unless we will it.'
Brod dropped to his knees. 'Friends, I implore you, succour me in my need. Aid me and anything I have that you desire is yours.'
Suisuma raised an eyebrow. 'Anything? Stand up, fool, and tell us what you offer in exchange for our healing magic.'
'Er - a goat? Any of the nannies, good milkers all?'
Suisuma shook her head.
'Well,' Brod continued, 'I have a loin-cloth, made from the skin of a kid that died at birth, very soft.'
Raven shrugged at him. Her chest bumps shook. Brod's stiffening became even worse.
'My staff? 'Tis made from the limb of an ironwood tree and has slain three dire-wolves.'
Suisuma put her fists to her ample hips. 'I see that you have nothing that we value,' she said. 'Mayhap we shall be charitable and give aid from the goodness of our hearts.'
'Or we might take our fee in service,' Raven suggested.
'Anything,' Brod begged. 'As you see, the sickness grows more severe by the moment. If I find not relief soon, this bulb,' he touched the pulsing purple plum that headed his pain, 'will surely burst.'
'It may get worse before it gets better,' Raven warned him, 'but fear not. My sister and I have treated this ailment before, and always with complete success.'
'We guarantee satisfaction,' Suisuma added.
'Then I am in your hands,' Brod said. 'If you can cure me, I will be forever in your debt.'
'First,' Raven said, 'we must make close inspection of the site of your discomfort.' She dropped to her knees in front of Brod and reached out a delicate hand. The shock of those cool fingers wrapping the base of Brod's hot flesh sent convulsions through his belly.
'Now,' Raven said. 'By what name do you call this rigid staff?'
'I have been told none by Theocritus,' Brod explained, 'and so I call it my club.'
'A good name,' Raven told him, 'but it is rightfully called a "cock".'
'Like a rooster?' Brod asked.o
'Aye, and we will make him crow.' Her other hand joined the first. She eased Brod's foreskin forwards and slowly back again.
Brod doubled over.
'Keep still!' Raven commanded. 'Would you spoil the cure?'
'I humbly beg your pardon.' He stood straight and stiff. 'I will be courageous.'
'Indeed you will,' Suisuma snapped. 'Whatever we do with you, you must bear it bravely.'
'I will,' Brod promised, gritting his teeth. Raven was pumping steadily, squeezing whenever her hands neared the weeping bulb at the top, coaxing fresh milky tears from its eye.
'Is that so bad?' Raven grinned up at him.
'Huh, huh, no. 'Tis strange indeed. The stiffening and the swelling seem to be even greater than before, yet the pain is turned to some strange pleasure.'
'We warned you,' Suisuma said. 'We told you that it would get worse before it got better.' She licked her lips. The fool's cock was risen so high now that its head was higher than his navel. To crush such a fine tool would crown her life's achievements, but before destroying it ...
She pulled loose her belt and shrugged. Her filmy toga slithered lovingly down her voluptuous body -paused for a heartbeat at her hips - and dropped to pool around her feet.
Brod stared at the downy juncture of Suisuma's thighs and shuddered. His cock, drooling already, jerked in Raven's hands.
'You have no ...'
'But we have something better,' Suisuma told him. 'But before we get to that, tell me - do you milk your goats?' As she spoke, her fingers were wandering over the jiggling surfaces of her breasts.
'Why, of course, how else ...'
'Then show me how you work.' Suisuma took both of her pouting nipples between thumbs and fingers and plucked at them.
'I ...' Brod couldn't speak. It had to be the magic of the mounds striking him again. No sooner had he understood the woman's words, no sooner had he envisioned his fingers working on those spiked crests, than ...
It was unbearable pleasure. The jet fountained out of him, spurting and spurting and ...
'Havoc, take him!' Raven spat. 'Will you look at that! He's done now, and I had barely started.'
'Am I cured now?' Brod gasped. The woman ignored him.
'Wipe your cheek, little sister,' Suisuma said. 'As it flew over your shoulder some splashed. Don't despair. Though this goatherd be as big as any man I've seen, he is but a lad, and a virgin. We are the first two women he has ever seen. You are the first woman to touch him. Do you wonder that he was speedy? We shall yet take our pleasure of him. See? He flags not one whit.'
'But am I cured?' Brod asked again.
'The cure is barely begun,' Suisuma told him. 'Raven did but ease a little of the pressure from your stones.'
'Stones?'
'Stones - balls - testes. That which you carry in the hairy sac that dangles between your legs.'
'And how is the cure completed?'
'Age alone can do that. We can but bring temporary succour. The nature of your sickness is this; that to obtain relief, you must first be made even more sick. We, my sister and I, are skilled in this science. You must do all that we tell you. Agreed?'
'Willingly.'
'Then tell me, boy, what know you of the art of kissing?'
'Kissing?'
Suisuma sighed. 'I can see that we must start from the very beginning. Raven, will you aid me in this? We must make haste. I would that we reach the part where Brod's head is close between ...'
'Of course.'
Brod frowned. 'My head close between what?'
'All in good time. We have so much to teach you and so little time.'
'I have until dusk,' Brod said. 'That is when I return to the cave with my herd.'
'Then let us start. Brod, take Raven by the shoulders and put your mouth to hers.'
'The sickness is not in my mouth.'
'Do it.'
It seemed a strange command, but Brod obeyed. Stooping, he pressed his uncertain lips against Raven's soft and moist ones. It was passing strange. The 'woman' licked at his lips with the tip of her tongue. It tickled, but pleasantly so.
'Open your mouth, fool!' Suisuma ordered. 'No -not like a cave-bear roaring! You aren't trying to swallow the girl whole.'
Brod pulled back. Then how ...?'
Suisuma made an impatient gesture. 'Let her go. We'll show you. Now watch closely.'
Raven turned to meet her sister's embrace. Brod was fascinated. Their 'bumps' squished together. Each slid a thigh between the thighs of the other. Silken skin slithered against silken skin. It seemed that this 'kissing' was more complicated than just pressing mouth to mouth.
He scratched his head. The kirtled one was tiny, but closer to the other's size than he was. He was so much larger. How was he to fit his body to one of theirs so neatly?
Their mouths were close. Brod peered, so as not to miss any part of his lesson. Both pairs of lips were parted by about a finger's width. Two moist tongues stretched out, touched, caressed, lovingly sported, and then ... The lips pressed close together, mouth to mouth. Brod couldn't see the tongues at all. How was he to learn his lesson from what he could not see? Perhaps they continued that strange dance, each one's tongue writhing against that of the other, but he could not be sure. What would it be like, tasting the inside of another's mouth?
He put a finger between his own lips. It was warm in there. Warm and moist and soft. If the inside of his mouth was so soft, then how much softer would the inside of one of these delicate creatures' mouths be?
His - what did she say it was called? - his 'cock' was beginning to ache again.
The women were acting strangely. Their bodies were writhing against each other. Where their bodies were pressed together, long undulations moved down them, from soft shoulder to dimpled knee. It reminded Brod of the mating dance of the herons. Although the birds did not touch until their dance was almost done, the movements were just as intricate.
As each serpentine wave passed through the softly entwined bodies and reached the lower halves of their torsos, it changed into a juddering, as if belly were attacking belly.
How could he memorise all this? He rehearsed it in his mind. 'Bodies close, as if fitted. Lips apart. Tongues together. Mouths pressed. Wriggle. When the wriggle reached the lower belly ..Oh! Now how was he to achieve that? Their lower bellies were curved and soft. He looked down at his cock. Now that was sure to get in the way!
One of them moaned. Was this treatment painful for those who didn't even suffer from the sickness? Raven, the smaller of the two, was now bending back, her waist supported by the other's arm. Raven's leg was between her sister's thighs, rubbing up and down, her foot lifted so that its sole caressed the drawn-bow calf of her friend.
The parts where their legs joined together were pressed so close, each to each, that a finger could not have been insinuated into the gap.
Now, why did the thought of his fingers trapped in that fleshy clamp jerk his cock?
Brod sighed. So much to remember!
Their mouths had parted. Suisuma was bending over Raven, suckling on her like a newborn kid at its nanny.
Would these women give milk like goats? Surely their bumps were in the wrong place to be teats?
The women disentangled and turned to Brod. 'Could you do that?' Suisuma asked.
'I might need' - what did Theocritus call it when Brod got confused part way through a lesson learned by rote? - 'prompting.'
Til coach you while you try with Raven,' Suisuma said.
'And then I'll give directions while you work with Suisuma,' Raven added.
Brod felt his face and neck turning red, though he didn't understand why.
Raven came into his arms. 'Now don't squeeze me too hard,' she warned him.
Brod stuck his tongue out.
'It's more usual to wait until our mouths are closer,' Raven giggled. She stretched up on tiptoe to reach him.
Her tongue was ... Well, honey was sweeter, but honey wasn't alive and squirmy. Honey didn't wriggle in your mouth and slither around like it was tasting you.
Her bumps were touching his chest. Where the sharp points were moving over his skin it felt as if they were leaving trails of fire. Brod reached between their bodies and got a grip on one bump so that he could draw its tip across his own flesh.
'Yesss!' Raven hissed into his mouth. 'Do my breasts. Play with my nipples.' Her breath was like clover-wine.
'Nipples?' Brod pulled back and asked.
'These.' She flicked her fingers over the springy spikes. Brod thought that they looked bigger and sharper than before. Was it some woman-sickness? He took one of the nubs between the fingers of each hand. They felt springy, like the half-dried resin from a wound in the trunk of a pine tree.
'Keep doing that,' she told him. 'But don't stop the kissing.'
Brod tried the belly-bumping, but as he'd feared, his 'cock' got in the way, and the difference in their sizes meant that he was nudging her much too high. The head of his cock was almost prodding the undersides of her - what were the bumps called? Breasts?
The other one, Suisuma, was a span taller. Perhaps he'd do better with her.
Now what else? Yes, the leg tangling. Brod lifted one foot and thought how best to proceed, but Raven stopped him.
She was already scaling his body, shimmying up him like he was a fruit tree and she was hungry for apples. Her thighs wrapped his hips. That was better. Now when he bumped, at least the base of his cock came in the right place. Her body there was hard, with a soft squishy centre.
She stopped the kissing and lifted her breasts up to his mouth. Right - the suckling! Now he'd find out if she was giving milk.
She wasn't, but it was still very pleasant. Perhaps if he just kept on sucking?
'Harder!' she demanded. 'And lick at the same time.'
Brod had never sucked and licked at once, but it wasn't a hard skill to learn. He even tried nibbling, without being told.
Raven was bumping back at him. The fabric of her kirtle seemed to be in the way. Brod thought that he'd much rather be bumping skin to skin.
Perhaps Suisuma could read thoughts. She came close to Brod and Raven and tugged Raven's brief garment up to her waist. Then it was really nice. Bumping upwards dragged the skin of his 'cock'. The squishy part of Raven, at the base of his cock, felt warm and moist. Brod started to get that feeling again - the one he'd had when Raven had rubbed him, and his cock had spat all that thick milky stuff. He bumped harder.
'We'd better get him to the next lesson,' Suisuma said. 'It looks like he's about ready. My turn, I think.'
Raven scrambled down. 'I thought that you wanted his head between your thighs,' she pouted at Suisuma. 'If you go first that way, I might not get a turn.'
'Very well,' Suisuma indulged. 'We'll both use him at once. I can ...' She swallowed the word 'crush'. 'I can "take care of' him equally well either way.'
'We don't have to make it permanent, do we?' Raven asked.
Suisuma cocked her head, listening for distant cries. 'I don't think they've really started yet,' she said. 'Hurry up so that I can muffle his ears. But if he does hear . ..'
'I understand.'
'What next?' Brod asked.
'Lie down on your back,' Raven told him. She dropped her short kirtle to the ground. Brod thought that she was prettier in that area than Suisuma. The older sister was more curved, and wobbled more, but the younger and slimmer was sleek as a gazelle. The cleft between her buttocks was not so deep, and more inviting. Whereas Suisuma grew a dense bush at the juncture of her thighs, much like he did, Raven was almost bare there. Brod saw what looked like a strange vertical mouth with tightly-clamped lips. He knelt for a closer look. Just above that peculiarly attractive slit was a little ridge. He reached out a finger to prod at it. Raven gasped. A shiny little morsel peeped out from the lower end.
'He has a natural talent,' Suisuma observed, 'but we must hurry.'
'Lie down Brod,' Raven repeated with an urgent shiver.
Brod obeyed. Raven bestrode him. He looked up at her. The small mouth was opening, like that of a tiny baby animal. What would you feed such a mouth? Beneath the tender slot's lowest reaches he could see a pale mark on her skin, a more livid white against whiteness. Mayhap she'd been scarred sometime? Still, it was such a small blemish, and so cunningly hidden; it marred her not.
Raven squatted. She took his cock in both hands and guided it towards her slightly parted nether lips.
'Will it bite?' Brod asked with sudden trepidation.
'No more than my mouth did bite your tongue. Besides, I have no teeth there.'
'But it will never fit. My part is so big and yours is so small.'
Raven smiled. 'I'll allow that you present a challenge, goatherd, but we shall see. Have you never seen a big serpent ope up its throat to swallow a goat whole?'
'Yes - but ...'
'Observe.' Raven stretched her legs wide and gave a little shake. Her hips bumped. The engorged head of Brod's cock nestled into a warm, wet bed. The strange new pleasure was almost more than Brod could bear.
Raven rotated from her waist down. Brod stared. A fraction at a time she was opening wider and wider. He was slowly sinking in. The lesser was swallowing the greater!
There was a hot spring to the north, about two days' march. It was surrounded by a bed of warm mud. Now he felt as if he had been dipping his cock into that bubbling, gently resisting morass.
Raven jerked down. The head of Brod's cock disappeared.
'Can you feel the salve?' Raven asked. 'The cure for your sickness is hidden deep inside me. Push up, my brave goatherd! Drive your flesh into mine and you will find relief.'
Brod pushed. Yes, there was a liquid inside that peculiar mouth. Deep in its throat he could feel a hot slickness that was already bathing the aching dome of his weapon.
'Deeper!' Raven ordered. Her hips were grinding. Her face showed an agony of delight.
'A moment!' Suisuma said. She stepped across Brod's face. Looking upwards, he could see that she was formed almost like her smaller sister. The tangle of curly hairs concealed her second mouth, but looking straight up between the spread columns of her shapely legs ...
And it was descending. She was squatting. It came closer and closer, until Suisuma was kneeling astride his face. Her musk was heavy in Brod's nostrils. He could already taste her spicy scent. Saliva ran beneath his tongue.
Brod felt that he was supposed to do something, but what? >
'You remember your kissing lesson?' Suisuma asked.
'Yes.'
'When your tongue was inside Raven's mouth?'
'Of course/
'Then kiss me, goatherd. Kiss me there. Kiss deep and kiss hard. Between whiles, to rest the stretching of your tongue, you may lick me here.' She pulled up on the area of skin above and to either side of her nether mouth. That ridge, half concealed by her hairs but very similar to that of Raven, slid back. The movement uncovered a tiny crimson nub.
What complicated creatures these women were!
'By what names are these parts called?' Brod asked.
Suisuma's fingers parted her lips. 'This is named a "coynte", and this,' the tip of one finger stroked the glistening nub lovingly, 'a "clit".' It throbbed in response.
'A "coynte" and a "clit",'. Brod repeated, his breath making Suisuma quiver.
Ever eager to learn, he licked Suisuma's lower mouth, her coynte. Her lips tasted salty yet sweet. It was a strange flavour, but like the savour of the beer that Theocritus brewed, Brod thought that it was a taste that he could grow very fond of even if the first taste was tart on the palate. He lapped deeper, seeking more of the savoury juice and Suisuma's thighs, feeling like padded and silk-sheathed iron, cuddled close to his head.
Raven, with three parts out of four of his cock impaling her, was jerking up and down. Brod reached his hands up blindly and found one of each women's nipples. Both were hard. Suisuma's was fatter, but Raven's was longer. Brod was glad that he didn't have to choose between them.
Both women were crouching forwards now. His hands were pressed between warm soft pillows. Brod heard the wet sound of kisses. It was beautiful music, sweeter to his ear than the dawn's birdsong. Had his own tongue not been so busily employed, it would have envied their tongues their sport.
Raven began to croon deep in her throat. The thighs that clamped Brod's head squeezed tighter. Raven's eerie note was joined by a higher tone. Brod felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. His toenails began to itch.
Raven's hips were going wild. It felt to Brod that she was desperate to injure herself, to stab him into her, or to bruise the lips of her vertical mouth, her coynte, against his rigid bar of flesh.
'I'm coooooomm ...' Raven yodelled.
'No!' Suisuma screamed.
'. .. iiiinggg!' In that final screech there were not two notes, but three. Raven had reached her majority.
She unplugged herself and staggered to her feet. Brod was flat on his back. His cock lay limp. The great slab of his chest was moving, so he yet lived. Raven was pleased. This strange simple man had been the instrument that had brought her to her power.
The Queen taught that all good deeds should be repaid by evil, for Havoc's sake, but somehow Raven had always had problems with that particular article of faith.
Suisuma had slumped sideways. Raven knelt and put her ear to her sister's chest. Her heart still beat. Raven took hold of Suisuma's ankle and dragged her.
There were no live goats in sight. Raven's cry had scattered the herd, except for the three that had dropped dead. Pace by pace, Raven dragged Suisuma's unconscious body downslope to the icy stream, and tumbled her in.
Suisuma rose up, spluttering. 'What of the goatherd?' she asked when the shock passed.
Raven shrugged. 'Likely slain. Come, there is no time. We must join the others.'
Suisuma, still too stunned to think clearly, tottered after Raven down the hill.
Chapter Two
Queen Vixia lay asleep beneath black satin sheets. The man who sprawled beside her cracked a wary eye. The chamber was grey in the dawn light. He crept to the edge of the bed, careful that his weight should not disturb a mattress that was stuffed with the chest hairs of snow tigers, and stretched his foot down towards the floor. His toe felt something soft and warm. The body he had touched stirred. A slender hand took the man's foot by its instep and guided it. A warm wet mouth closed over the man's great toe and sucked.
'Shush!' the man hissed. 'It is I, the smithy. Your poor mouth can rest. She sleeps. Let us leave now, before she wakens.'
The lips withdrew. A tousled head nodded wearily, a black silhouette against dimness. Doubtless the girl was yet unable to speak. Her tongue had laboured long and hard. It very likely ached to its roots.
They had commenced their duties, the man and the girl, at dusk of the previous day. He was a smithy, of the village called Crossom. She was a miller's daughter, from some northern province. Each had been noted as comely by one of Queen Vixia's Scouts of the Bedchamber. They had each been summoned to the Royal Palace to await Vixia the Insatiable's whim.
The smith had been selected for the breadth of his massive shoulders and for the length of his iron yard. The girl had been chosen partly for her simple beauty, and partly because she was both betrothed and innocent. Queen Vixia had a taste for debauching virgins.
The girl was still a virgin, in part. It was her mouth, and only her mouth, that Queen Vixia had used - and used. From the sun's setting until that blessed moment, but half a watch before sunrise, when the Queen had finally fallen asleep, the girl had been using her lush but innocent lips and sweet unschooled tongue to pleasure the Queen's depraved body.
She had been instructed to lick, and suck, and squirm the full sinuous length of her maiden tongue into every last intimate crevice that the Queen possessed.
Not a pore of Her Majesty's perfect body had been neglected. Each toe had received its due, each finger. From heels to nape, the girl had lapped, fast or slow, at command. A maiden whose lips had but brushed those of her beloved swain the twice, had learned the art of pleasuring an Imperial anus with her tongue.
At first the girl had been shy, reluctant. After a while the Queen had allowed the smith a brief rest, and the girl had been instructed to serve a recently vacated Royal coynte. Once the Witch Queen had flooded the girl's mouth, she had become frantic, voracious, and wantonly avid for each glistening drop of the aromatic body-dew.
The smith knew little of magic, but he suspected that, as in the tales told, Queen Vixia secreted some mystic substance that was both an aphrodisiac and an addictive drug. He himself had become doubly lustful and lecherously drunk, and that, just from sucking the heady nectar from the Queen's mouth.
It would suit Vixia well to send the girl back to her betrothed, knowing that the girl would hunger for unnatural pleasures for the rest of her life.
Vixia, herself insatiable, took a special delight in bestowing appetites on others, and denying any chance at relief.
The smith, strong as he was, found himself loath to leave the Queen's side. He knew that if he spent just one more night in serving his ruler's debased needs, he would become besotted. No matter that his massive thighs still trembled from the efforts of his nightlong labours; no matter that his back felt as if his spine had been tied into a dozen intricate knots; he would crawl to her eagerly, and plunge his flesh into hers, again and again, until his great heart finally burst from the strain.
The smith had never met a man as strong as he was, but, beside the Queen, he was less than a worm. The Queen's body fluids were mighty magic, but she had stronger magic in her armoury. The Rune-writers, those two powerful beings who had served the White Lodge for so many years, had turned their coats once Queen Vixia had usurped the Four Thrones. In her evil service, they had cast their spells upon the skins of many. Some of the tattooed runes granted power, some enslaved. If the Queen decided to take a fancy to the girl or the smith, she would likely commit them to the Graving Room. Once the designs were under their skins, they would be slaves forever.
The smith had heard of weak men who, once graven, performed prodigies at the Queen's bidding. Virgin nuns had, compelled by a small design, become sex-crazed erotomaniacs. The smith had heard tell of one who, in her frenzy, had lain with a score of strong men, exhausting them all, and had then run to the beasts of the stable to seek succour.
i
27
When the Queen's Rune-writers gave a need, it was sated only in death.
The smith led the miller's daughter from the Queen's chamber, on tiptoe.
'Is she awake?' one of two cowled figures asked in a quivering feminine voice.
'Not yet.'
One black hood turned to the other. 'She instructed that she be woken at dawn.'
'But if she be wrathful?'
A glossy ebon cloak shrugged. 'If we wake her not, it'd be disobedience.'
'And if we wake her, we risk her ire.'
'Then what's to do?'
'A gentle and pleasant awakening, mayhap?'
'How?'
'Let us go in to her together. I, being senior to you, will instruct you in the wakening.'
'And will it be safe?'
'We are in her service. There is no safety. We must choose the lesser danger.'
'Very well.'
The two figures, slender under their voluminous wrappings, slipped into the Queen's chamber.
'What must I do?' the younger whispered.
'First, remove your robe.'
'Remove .. ?'
'Your beauty is your best protection.'
'Oh!' Black silk slithered and pooled at the girl's feet. She was slender as a boy, with new-budded breasts and softly sleek hips. 'And now?'
'Pull out the sheet from under the mattress. Fold it back carefully, as far as our most magnificent Queen's waist.'
'And now?' the girl asked when she had done as she
had been bid.
'See the beauty that you have uncovered? Is she not wonderful, our Queen? What say you, Rena?'
'Indeed, but .. ?'
'See how she sleeps, wide-legged? Note the sculpted alabaster of her regal thighs. How privileged we are, to gaze on such!'
'Yes, but what must I do?'
'She dreams, sweet dreams. In wakening, she must be led from pleasant fantasy into even more delectable reality. In this wise there will be no rude awakening. You must creep softly up onto that lucky bed and kneel in worship. See that Divine coynte? That must be your tongue's sure target. Do it! Yes. Closer now, so that your breath might waft o'er those tight-pursed lips. Breathe gentle now! See how they pull apart? Yes! Was ever a pink so perfect as the shade that tints the inside edges of those portals to Paradise? The flower opes. With your tongue now, just its tip. Find that narrow crack and pry it wider.
'She sighs! Havoc be praised! More tongue now, and deeper. See how her legs stretch wide, inviting you in? To your tongue's greatest length now. Be slithery, girl! Run the length of those most fragrant petals. They part! The dew, girl! Let it not run and waste. Lap every precious drop up. And now, above that open bloom, see the pinkest pearl emerge? That superb morsel is timid. You must coax it forth. Polish it, my child! Smooth it with your unworthy tongue! It grows stronger, more daring! Have at it, girl. Polish with a will! Polish and suck! Draw that rosy clit from out its soft sheath with all the power of your lips! Bite it not, but treat that sweetmeat with due reverence, the while laving strong and fast, for its pleasure.'
Rena, eager at her task, all fear forgotten now in the delight of her service, felt the tendons that ran the insides of her Queen's thighs twitch. Fingers with the strength of eagle's talons locked behind her head. Her face was mashed into the Queen's core.
'Yes!' Queen Vixia grunted as she bucked her gaping coynte at Rena's face. 'Yes!'
The clit between Rena's lips seemed to swell to twice its previous size. It pulsed.
'Now!' Queen Vixia shouted. Her spending, tasty as a mixture of strong spirits, cream, and precious spices, flooded.
Rena lapped and slurped and sucked. She found herself thirsty with a thirst beyond any craving she had ever known. She sucked and swallowed, but still the torrent flowed. She tried to burrow her face between her Queen's sopping lips, seeking to follow the sweet nectars to their secret source.
'Your Majesty, it is dawn,' Rena's hooded companion said.
'Past dawn,' Vixia snapped. 'Why so tardy?'
'Your Majesty,' the hooded one stammered, 'this girl was dilatory in her efforts. I swear by Havoc that had she but lapped harder, with more will, your Majesty would have woken at the first touch of morning's soft finger.'
The Queen swung one long slim leg up over Rena's head, pulling her still-weeping coynte away from avid lips. 'Not eager enough, eh? There's a ready cure for that.'
The words penetrated Rena's erotic fog. 'Your Majesty ..!' she protested.
'Quiet! I have spoken.' She snapped her fingers. Two Styxian eunuchs entered the chamber. 'Take her to the Rune-writers,' the Queen commanded. 'She is young and strong. Tell them I would have her body adorned with the Runes of Frenzy.'
Rena didn't struggle, not did she cry out, as she was carried from the chamber. She knew that any protest would only bring worse punishment upon her young head; though what could be worse than the fate to which she had already, been condemned, she knew not.
Chapter Three
Evening dew woke Brod with its wet caress. He rolled over, still mind-numb, and climbed to his feet.
The goats! Where was his flock? All that remained on the slope were the corpses of three. The rest were nowhere to be seen. It was a tragedy. Brod and Theocritus relied on the goats for their livelihood. Those magical creatures, those 'women', had brought great evil. Rage swelled up in Brod's mighty chest. He would hunt those vile beings down and slay them, but first he must hurry to the Hermit, lest more evil be visited upon them.
Brod shouldered the two largest of the dead goats - they were light enough not to slow him down - and set off towards the cave at a steady lope.
He found Theocritus slumped in the bonds that bound him to a walnut tree,
'Master!' he cried as he tugged at a rope's end, 'are you injured?'
Theocritus peered through swollen eyelids. 'Leave the rope,' he croaked. 'There is no time.'
'No time?'
'I am dying, my son.'
'I see no wound.'
'There is none to see. The servants of Vixia have that skill. None the less, I have but a few breaths left in me.'
Brod fell to his knees, weeping.
'Listen to me, Brod,' the hermit said. 'Listen with all your being. There is much I must teach you, and so little time.'
'Teach .. ?'
'Hush, and listen. Brod, you are not what you seem. Neither am I. This secrecy has been for your safety's sake, until I deemed it time. Will it or no, the time has come. Know then, you are a Prince.'
'Prince?'
'Did I command you hush? Listen. You are a Prince of the land that was called "Arcadia", now Vixania. The thrones were usurped by an evil sorceress, Vixia. She now rules with a cruel hand. The only hope for your poor land lies with you, and with the other three heirs to the thrones. I, and the other survivors of the White Lodge, spirited you all away when you were but babes. Since that evil day, Queen Vixia has sought you, in dread fear that might someday lead the people against her, and regain your rightful places. I was but a junior in the White Lodge, but entrusted with your safety because of my youth and strength. I know not all that I should know of the Lodge's magic, but this I do know. There is a pillar in the Palace. Engraved on that pillar is a rhyme. The verses are a riddle. If you, and your fellow heirs, can but solve that riddle, you will topple Vixia's evil empire.
'Find the others, my son. Keep them and yourself safe, until you can gain entry to the Palace. Destroy Vixia and bring peace once more to your land, my Prince.'
'But how will I know them, my brother Princes?'
The old man bowed his head. 'Alas, I know not, but find them you must. I can but give you a clue ...'
'But the "women" who struck me down?' Brod interrupted. 'I must find them and avenge you upon them.'
'No!' the hermit barked. 'You must not.'
'Are not women our enemies?'
'My son,' the hermit whispered. 'You have been kept from the knowledge and company of women for your safety's sake. There is that about you that consorting with females might reveal. Now is the time for you to come into your full strength. Seek out women and let your instincts guide you, for there is not time for me to teach you what you should know.
'When I am gone, dig beneath this tree. At its root is a small store of gold which will help you in your travels. Take it and travel West. Go to Vixania, which was Arcadia, and there search out your fellow
5
'The clue?' Brod asked. 'The sign which will lead me to my fellow Princes?'
'Prince,' the hermit corrected. 'One other Prince and ... and ..
And he died.
His eyes blinded by his grief, Brod dug beneath the roots. He found a wooden box, half rotted, in which were a dozen discs of yellow metal. He buried Theocritus in that hole. The walnut tree had been the hermit's favourite. Then Brod made a bag out of goatskin for the coins, shouldered his staff, and turned his face West.
Chapter Four
Rena waited in a stone-walled cell The taste of Queen Vixia was still in her mouth. Although fear quivered in her belly like a small wild animal, she still thirsted for more of the ambrosia that she had tasted as it flowed from between the Queen's nether lips. Rena would have endured a thousand cruel torments for just one more sweet sip. But it wouldn't be. She was condemned.
Her sentence was unjust, but Rena didn't even consider that. Justice was unknown in the court of Queen Vixia. Havoc ruled. Under that dire God, justice was forbidden.
Heavy footsteps sounded on a flagstoned floor. Rena huddled in a damp corner and shivered. The door opened. A pair of Styxians entered and dragged the terrified girl to her feet. She was towed, drooping and limp, from the cell and through torch-lit corridors, into a great and brilliant chamber.
The room was high-vaulted and furnished sparsely. Rena was dazzled by the light. There were flaring flambeaux on every wall. A chandelier hung from a chain, bearing a hundred candles. Stands bore candelabra in fantastical shapes, each laden with a dozen or more tapers.
Rena was carried to the centre, beneath the chandelier. Hanging there, from chains at each corner, was a square wooden frame.
'No!' Rena screamed, but the Styxians heeded her not. She was taken to the frame and placed within it. They spread-eagled her slender body, wrapping each wrist and ankle in leather bonds. When she was tightly fastened they moved out of her vision. Rena heard chains clanking and wheels turning. The chains which held the frame began to move. Rena was lifted inside that dread square, lifted and turned until she was suspended face down, horizontal with the floor and chest-high above it.
Never before had she felt so vulnerable. Stretched like a starfish, hanging, her breasts dangling, her arms and legs already aching with the strain, her thighs so widely spread, every intimate part of her so readily available.
Had she been expecting a lover, it might have been perversely pleasurable, but it was no sport that she awaited, it was ...
'Hope you're not too uncomfortable,' a soft voice whispered.
Rena twisted her head sideways and blinked into the glare. 'We'll be as quick as we can,' the voice continued. A figure stepped through the wall of light. It was a woman, a mature woman; ripe but not overripe. She was dressed in a floor-brushing black skirt but was naked from her hips up. Her navel was deep enough to hold a shadow despite the bright lighting. Her breasts, heavy and swaying with her breathing, threw pointed shadows of their own. Her body, her arms, her face, all were covered with intricate designs in a dozen colours.
'It's Rena, isn't it?' the woman said. 'I'm Karina, the Rune-writer. Betohl, my brother, will be with us shortly. He is making sure that we will not be disturbed.'
'Making .. ?'
The Queen has spies everywhere.'
Then .. ?'
There is hope? Yes. All is not as it seems, Rena. We will help you, but our aid has its limits.'
'You will set me free?'
'Alas, no. But if you are brave, little one, you may free yourself.'
Rena tugged at her bonds. 'How?'
A deeper voice said, 'You have told the girl, Karina?'
'In part, brother.'
Then continue as we work. Vixia is impatient.' He came closer. Rena saw that he was clad exactly as was his sister, even to the tattoos that covered his skin. He drew a bench across the floor until it was beneath Rena's belly. To Rena's horror she saw that it was covered with dye-pots and needles.
'But you said ...' she protested.
'Hush, my child,' Karina comforted. 'The Queen must have her entertainment. You are aware of your sentence?'
'Yes,' Rena gulped. 'I am to be graved with the Runes of Frenzy. Once the pattern is complete I will be consumed by insatiable lust. Then I will be given to whatever creatures the Queen chooses. My fleshly craving will be so great that I will couple again and again, never sated, until my heart bursts within my breast.'
'Yes, that is your sentence. My brother and I cannot redeem you entire, but perhaps we can lessen the severity of your torment.'
'Lessen? How?'
Betohl selected a needle and dipped its point into a pot. 'You must be brave and strong,' he told Rena.
'I am but a girl.'
'And that will be your strength,' Karina told her. 'Were you a man, I doubt we could save you. It is the nature of us females that, in the bed-chamber, we are stronger than males. A lusty wench may bring the strongest man to his defeat.'
'But Queen Vixia may give me to a dozen strong men, not just one. And I will be lust-crazed. How will I escape with no mind but for coupling?'
'Have faith, child. It will be in this wise. First we will grave you with magic runes which will increase your strength. Then must we add the designs of the Frenzy, but incomplete. We will leave small gaps in the patterns. Even partial, your lust will increase, but not so much that you become mindless. Finally, the gaps will be closed, so that for a while you will be as the Queen wishes. These parts of the patterns will be inked upon your skin, not under it. While they remain, you will be as one crazed, but when they wear off, you will return to sanity.'
'But I will still be caged.'
'Queen Vixia gloats on lust unslaked. It is her special pleasure to see her victims chained by their need alone. When that time comes, you must seize your chance.'
'And then? Where will I go?'
'You must make your way East, child. In the land called Eligia you must search out a hermit called Theocritus. He will hide you from the Queen. When you find him you must give him a message. Tell him that we have discovered one other of the Four. He will know her by the sign of a black bird, which is tattooed on her throat. Will you do this?'
'I will.'
'Then we must commence. Betohl - the first needle!'
Betohl, standing between Rena's spread thighs, reached over her body and found that pad of muscle which covered the very base of her spine. It is this muscle which, when a delicate maid is covered by a strong man, gives her the strength to return thrust for thrust.
The needle touched her skin. Rena flinched.
6Be brave,' Karina said. 'Don't move, for the etching must be exact. My brother will strengthen for you those muscles which you use in lust, so that you will be match for any man.'
'It doesn't hurt,' Rena said. 'In fact ...'
The tingling was spreading. Each prickle of the needle sent out fresh waves of sensation. Rena's sphincter twitched. A glow radiated down through the sensitive area between her anus and her coynte. The waves of pleasure reached her nether lips. Rena could feel them engorge and part. Her clit twitched once, twice.
And this was the graving that was to strengthen her? The magic runes that were to transform her into ravening sexual beast were not yet begun!
'Karina', Betohl said, 'I need more hands here.'
Rena tensed. Where would the needle touch her next?
Karina laid a palm on each of Rena's buttocks and eased them apart. Rena's anus clamped tight. What shame! She was helpless, and they, the two mages, were baring her most intimate flesh, opening her up to their eyes. The needle touched, touched the very rim of that rosebud, and with the touch came a thrill that relaxed both anus and rectum, and made them want!
'The runes that my brother is drawing,' Karina explained, 'will encircle your opening and extend inside
you. When the time comes, when you are in the arena, you will face a number of males. If you are to survive, you will have to use every weapon that you have. Has a man ever taken you this way?' Her finger probed, making Rena quiver.
'Never.'
'Then you are but recently come to the Queen's court. Be not afraid. The Runes of Frenzy will make you eager for buggery, and the other rune will make you adept. When Betohl is done, you will have inner muscles that are both strong and flexible. Try to relax now. We must work deeper.'
Rena bit her lower lip. Karina's thumbs spread Rena's rectum, opening up her secret depths to Betohl's probing. The needle purred.
Rena screamed.
'Did that hurt?' Karina asked.
'No! More - do it some more!'
'Did you complete the Rune of Frenzy?' Karina asked her brother.
'No. A gap remains. She is still under only a part of the influence.'
'Perhaps she is already affected by some other aphrodisiac. Rena, were you sent to us direct from the Queen?'
'Yes.'
'And were you intimate with the Insatiable?'
'Yes. I woke her this morn by the ministrations of my tongue.'
'At her coynte?'
'Yes.'
'Then this will be the harder for you. We heap coals on a fire already lit. My brother and I will do all we can to help.'
'What can you do? My anus already . .. Put something up me, damn you! Stuff my poor arse full! Ram me!'
'Fetch a taper,' Betohl told his sister. 'It will be useful to test my work and may give her some relief.'
Rena knotted her fists and curled her toes. 'No damned taper! Bring me a good candle, the biggest you have!'
She felt smooth wax touch her rectum. 'Ram it in, damn you!'
'No,' Betohl said. 'That would be no test. Take it in, Rena. Work your muscles and engulf it.'
'I know not ...' Rena began, but her anus was relaxing, and gripping, and relaxing, and ... Little by little the slender length of wax was being worked deeper and deeper.
'Well done!' Karina said. 'Keep squeezing, my child. Think it a man's flesh, and milk on it.'
The taper jerked out by the length of a man's thumb, and was instantly sucked back in.
'Excellent!' Betohl exclaimed. 'And now we must proceed.'
Chains rattled. Rena felt herself being lifted and turned. When Betohl was done she was face up, and lower.
'What next?' Rena demanded.
'Now my brother and I will be able to work at once,' Karina told her. 'Concentrate on the taper.'
The female mage arranged her own pots of dye beneath Rena's head. Leaning over the suspended girl, she took a needle in her right hand and Rena's left breast in the other. The needle's point touched the rim of the breast's halo. A bolt of ecstasy jagged through Rena's body, from nipple to anus.
Rena screamed.
'That was her third orgasm,' Betohl remarked. 'If
she is to keep her sanity, she will need more. Do what you can for her, sister, and I will do likewise.'
Karina leaned further over Rena, so that the fullness of her breast dangled just above the captive's mouth. 'Suck on me, child,' Karina said. 'It will help.'
Rena lifted her head and took Karina's nipple between her lips. The needle began its magic work once more. Rena sucked and chewed. The needle buzzed. It felt to Rena that a swarm of wasps had been trapped inside her breast and that every one of them was trying to sting its way out through her skin; every sting meanwhile was a spur that drove her to greater lust. She grunted and mewed around the mouthful of tender flesh, begging Karina to stop, to never stop, to torture her nipple so divinely, more and more.
Rena was lifted up on wave after wave of desire. She knew that she had reached the ultimate peak of lust, that there could be nothing more.
And then Betohl's needle pierced the inner lip of her coynte.
Her bonds held Rena taut, but still she writhed. She twisted and screamed and spasmed. Great shocks of completion wracked her.
And it didn't stop!
Each orgasm was just a plateau from which she was lifted higher to another level of erotic nirvana, and then higher, again and again.
The two magicians paused. The tremors that ripped through Rena's body slowly subsided. She jerked. She twitched, and was still.
But the need was still there.
'More,' she begged. 'Do me more! Coynte, clit, arse, nipples, anything, but do me!'
Betohl dabbed between Rena's thighs with a cloth.
'Just a moment,' he told her. 'This is very delicate work, and with you twitching so, and so wet ...'
'Shall we change nipples?' Karina asked. 'You've almost chewed through this one.'
'I'm sorry,' Rena said, 'but ...'
'I know.' Karina bent to kiss Rena tenderly, but Rena didn't want tender kisses. She plunged her tongue into the sorceress's mouth.
Karina snatched her head back. 'No - the Queen's potion - it's on your tongue. I mustn't ... Too late. Brother, we must work faster. I can feel the lust building up within my core!'
'Fight it sister! The fates of both Arcadia and Eligia may depend on your work.'
With feverish haste, Karina offered her second nipple to Rena's hungry mouth. Betohl's needle began to trace its intricate designs around the inside of Rena's coynte, deeper, and deeper. Rena went rigid.
'Hurry, brother,' Karina panted.
'Let the girl help you retain control,' Betohl suggested.
'What? Oh! Of course.'
Karina pulled her breast from Rena's avid lips, unbuckled the belt which held her skirt to her hips, and let it fall. Naked, she moved closer to the suspended girl, lifted herself, and presented her own coynte to Rena.
'Use your tongue, child,' she demanded. 'While I am being satisfied, at least in part, I will be able to continue my work.'
Rena's tongue wormed into Karina's body.
'No!' Karina said. 'My clit!'
The pulsing nub had already thrown back its hood. Rena's mouth found it. She sucked it between her lips and began polishing it with her tongue.
'Yes! Harder!'
Rena surrendered to sexual delirium. Her tongue lapped. Her lips sucked. Her rectum worked on its wax invader. The lips of her coynte writhed and fluttered. Betohl's fingers and his needle were deep inside her, stretching her, distending her flesh as it had never been distended before, but it still wasn't enough! She let loose Karina's clit for just long enough to scream, 'Fuck me someboy! For Havoc's sake, fuck me!'
The buzzing at her coynte paused. Betohl let his skirt fall. 'In the name of the White Lodge, Runes help me now,' he chanted.
Rena twisted her head from between Karina's thighs and looked along the length of her own body to where Betohl stood. His cock was unfurling, rising up like a cobra - no - a python. It was enormous. But a day before, Rena would have been terrified to see such a monster. But now ...
'Yes! Give it to me!'
'I'm finished,' Karina exclaimed.
'Then brace her,' Betohl ordered. 'I can do her clit even as I ...'
The head of his cock, as big as a baby's fist, nestled into Rena's soft wet socket. His hands took hold of her hips, and he surged. Rena felt her waist thicken as the mighty rod drove in, and up, and d-e-e-p. 'Yeeeees!' she screamed. Her mouth sought Karina's clit, but it wasn't there! Karina was dragging the bench from beneath Rena. She climbed up on it and stood with her legs spread above Rena's face. Rena craned her neck, but still she couldn't reach what she craved.
'Karina!' she begged.
'A moment!' Karina had one of the biggest candles in her fists. She put it between her own thighs, eased the blunt end into the wet gape of her coynte, and stabbed upwards with all the force of both hands. A handspan of hard white cylinder disappeared, then another. Karina's coynte-lips stretched.
'Beautiful,' Rena gasped. 'But what of me?'
'Be still!' Betohl ordered. He was holding himself rigid, still plugging Rena's coynte, while his hands worked with deft speed, tracing lines of fire the length of Rena's taut-skinned clitoral ridge.
Maddened by frustration, Rena convulsed her internal muscles on his cock, milking it furiously even though neither of their bodies moved. She found that, if she concentrated, she could squeeze both the cock in her coynte and the taper that skewered her arse, at the same time. But that left ...
'My nipples!' she sobbed at Karina. 'Do something!'
Karina, squatted obscenely astride Rena's face, still pumping into her own coynte with the massive candle, dipped even lower. She had forced enough of the glistening length into her body that she could cup one hand under its base and free the other hand to strum her clit. Without missing a beat, she lowered first one knee and then the other, until she was kneeling on the bench. Her coynte was a finger's length above Rena's face.
Karina was so wet that her juices were squirting around the tight-fitting, pistoning candle. Spray splattered Rena's face. She licked her lips, savouring every drop.
'Nipples,' Rena begged again.
Karina shimmied back on the bench, removing the delightfully obscene vision of her own self-abuse from Rena's eyes. A tattooed breast brushed Rena's chin. A nipple - a wonderful, engorged, rubbery nipple, touched Rena's lips. They clamped, sucking.
Karina changed hands, reaching behind her to where the candle stuck out like a lewd stiff tail, and craned her neck forwards. She caught Rena's nipple in her mouth, nipping cruelly with small sharp teeth.
Each woman chewed at the flesh of the other, worrying at the other's nipple; each drawing out the other's flesh.
'Done!' Betohl declared. He cast his needle aside, took hold of Rena's hips with his hands, and began to pound into her. Betohl pumped. His sister violated her own coynte with her candle and sucked Rena's nipple. Rena convulsed her vaginal muscles around Betohl's pistoning cock, the muscles in her rectum around the rigid taper, and gorged her mouth on Karina's succulent flesh. She felt as if her whole body had become a smithy's furnace, and that every new sensation was a fresh blast of forced air. Deep in her belly was a sealed pot. It had boiled, and was now full of erotic steam. The pressure was building, and building ...
Somewhere inside her, at the very root of her soul, she exploded.
'Quickly,' Betohl ordered his sister. 'While she is yet a-swoon. We must tattoo her lips and her tongue and draw in the painted lines that will complete the patterns. The time of poor Rena's ordeal is almost upon us.'
Chapter Five
Mahia took hold of the cold bronze pump-handle and kneeled naked before the spout. It was a good pump; the water gushed on her first pull. In early Spring the water was icy, and this was exactly what Mahia needed. She had a hard day of labour ahead. The best way to get through it would be on a wave of sexual energy. When desire was strong in her, Mahia could perform prodigies.
The first spurt splashed between her breasts, rinsing away the dried sweat of night lusts. Since her man had been eaten by a cave bear, six years before, Mahia had rarely slept through an entire night. Apart from a few months, two years past, between the time old Gerimber had become a widower, and his own passing, she'd been sleeping in solitude.
Mahia missed passion. She longed for the feel of a man's hard and hairy thighs, clamped between her own soft and smooth ones. She ached to feel a thick wedge of man-flesh, stretching her, bruising her, and penetrating her most intimate depths. She craved the touch of a man's fingers on her breasts. Two strong fingers on each of her nipples. Caressing, plucking, twisting and pinching.
Damn and double damn! Sloona, Goddess of Carnal Lust, torment me not, or, if thou must plague me, send me a man that my fire may be quenched!
Still pumping, Mahia arched her body up, letting frigid water course the roundness of her belly and trickle between her parted thighs. But it was her breasts whose demands were the most urgent. Her palm was scarce broad enough to cup the divinely ample weightiness of either of them, but she spread her fingers wide, and pointed her left nipple directly into the spate.
Its reaction was instant. Goosebumps tingled its halo, but its peak ... It was a joy to behold. From but a soft bump, it grew, and grew. Cold throbbed through it, clawing it to the root, but the pain was so ... Within the space of a delighted gasp, its size doubled, and tripled; from something like a firm raspberry, it engorged to the size of a late-season purple strawberry. And hard. Vibrantly, quiveringly hard -demandingly hard.
But Mahia was strong. She ignored its entreaty, pumped once more, then hefted up to the cruel torrent the sweet offering of her right breast.
And then they both ached her.
Preceded by rigid urgent prongs, Mahia towelled off her body and her hair as she went back into her inn, The Widow's Welcome'. Each movement wobbled her breasts. Her nipples were frigid stones, set in warm flesh, and felt almost loose in their soft settings.
Mahia sat down naked on her bed. Now, if she could just maintain her nipples' arousal right through the day, the benefit would be two-fold. Her lust would give her energy, and hard labour, while she was under an erotic influence, might easily bring her frequently to climax. The rubbing together of sweaty straining thighs, even though they would both be her own, would easily provide enough lubricious friction - if she concentrated, and if she were already well aroused.
It would not bring her the joy that riding a man might have brought, but it was all she could expect.
Mahia brushed her breasts' tips gently. They screamed at her for more exacting torment, but she denied them. And she thought.
After a while Mahia reached up to her head and plucked out two long hairs. She laid them carefully upon a stool, side by side, and lifted up her left breast while bending her face down towards it. Her lips reached, with ease. Mahia had practised over the years. She nibbled, and sucked. Her tongue flickered over hot springiness. The cone threatened to erupt, and grew yet larger. When Mahia knew that it could inflate no more, when the fiery pressure was so great that one more lap of her tongue would cause it to boil over, bringing momentary release and thus a softening, Mahia drew it full into her mouth, that she might grip its base between her teeth.
With it held and indented, she reached out with her fingers for one of the plucked hairs; her lips pulled back, as if in a snarl. She tied the fine strong hair in a loop around her nipple once, twice, and deft fingers fashioned a tight bow.
It was agony. Released from her mouth, the nub pulsed and throbbed and twitched. Like a child's toy bladder, over-inflated by some doting parent's too enthusiastic lungs, it threatened to burst. No longer a cone, it had become an enpurpled sphere set on a narrow-waisted base; it perched on the blue-veined whiteness of her globular breast.
'Yesss!' Mahia hissed through gritted teeth. Any man who was to see such a sight would be moved to reach out to her, and with his forefinger and thumb he would ...
She dared not complete the thought. Her arousal was so intense that even a mental image might take her over the brink. With a shivery spine, with fingers that quivered, Mahia lifted up her other breast.
The second bow tied, Mahia rested. She lay and fought the demands that her nipples were sending to her fingers, until she thought that she was able to stand. Thighs trembling, insides roiling, she took her working dress from its nail.
Mahia was not poor. She owned three dresses. Two were linen, one beige and the other blue, but when she did hard physical labour, she wore the coarsest sackcloth. Sackcloth is durable, and scratchy to the skin. It was the scratchiness that she craved at that moment. Before putting it on, she held it in her hands, the fabric stretched taut between her fingers. Her thumb rubbed the rough weave. Yes. Yes.
She lifted the cloth and held it before her, a finger's width beyond the focus of her pleasure/pain. And Mahia took a deep breath.
Sensitised to the point that a waft of warm air burned, and then brushed lightly by stiff threads, her nipples ...
A convulsion wracked through her. A scream gurgled in her throat and her knees gave way. Mahia tumbled back onto her bed, and writhed and bucked, until at last it subsided. In part. The opalescent roiling in her belly waned and her toes unclenched. The long muscles in her thighs slowly relaxed, but her nipples? With the wild glee trapped inside them, tied in, they knew no surcease. Quickly, before they could take control of her once more, Mahia spread her bed linen so that the damp patch might air, and slipped the sackcloth dress over her head.
And then she shrugged her shoulders, and her breasts wobbled. Mahia caught her breath and sat back down for a moment. She lifted her fingers and took hold of the sackcloth, and sawed it backwards, and forwards, gently, gently, and she let out three full rasping breaths before her fingers' movement became frantic.
Eventually, but still in a reverie of lust, Mahia went to call her daughter to her chores.
Leiala was her mother's daughter. The air of her room was so sodden with the sweet scent of feminine musk that Mahia felt she could have squeezed liquid lust out of it between her fingers. The child - no, not a child, Mahia reminded herself, not after eighteen summers - was kneeling up on her bed, a thick pillow grasped between her slim young thighs. Even as the girl rode the pillow's seam, she gasped out to her mother, 'Mother, we must find a man, soon!'
'I know, my daughter,' Mahia sympathised. 'But the village boys .. ?'
'Are boys! I need ...' Her pubes ground down. Her legs scissored. 'A ... maaaaaaan!'
Leiala juddered and collapsed. Mahia took the wet pillow and laid it across the ledge of an open window. 'Who knows,' she said over her shoulder, 'perhaps even now, on the road and heading this way ...'
'Praise be to Sloona if it be true,' Leiala sobbed.
Mahia was moved to take her daughter into her arms and comfort her, but dared not. One touch of skin and ...
'Come, child,' she said. 'The dray will be here soon. We will have work to do. Mayhap if we labour hard enough fatigue might dampen our ardours.'
Leiala looked up. 'You think the drayman .. ?'
'He is old, my child, and weak.'
'But he has a cock, has he not?'
'A small one, and useless.'
'You've tried it?'
'In vain, else I'd be sleeping nights, daughter. Forgive me, child, for passing on to you my passionate nature. Other women burn, but not as we do.'
Leiala smiled. 'It is my inheritance, mother. I regret it not. In due time I will bless you for it, I am sure.'
'And so will some fine young man,' Mahia grinned.
'No mother. Not "man". An army of fine young men, I hope.'
Mahia handed her daughter a broom. 'To work, slut! Cover your hot-fleshed self, harlot, daughter of a whore, and to your labours.'
The vintner's dray arrived when the sun was high. The driver clambered down from his perch behind four hefty mares and tottered into the inn's coolth, where Leiala tried ogling him as she served him his usual free stoop of ale. The senile old fool didn't even notice her flirtation. Leiala flounced out to help her mother.
Together, they arranged two strong planks to serve as a ramp from the back of the dray to their low, flat, wooden-wheeled cart. Together, they wrestled the first big cask onto its side and rolled it to the edge. Mahia steadied it, poised, while her daughter scrambled down and took up the wedging pole. And bending over, Mahia's breasts swayed inside her dress. Her nipples grazed coarse sacking. She shuddered and grasped at her own prickling breast.
The cask trundled down the ramp before Leiala could reach it, and smashed the cart.
Together, Mahia and Leiala said, 'Fuck it!'
Working without the cart, they were both dripping with sweat by the time they'd rolled the first cask into the inn. Mahia was so exhausted that she wasn't even thinking about sex. Mother and daughter scrambled back into the bed of the dray, and took hold of the second cask, when a deep voice said, Til do that for you.'
�

Chapter Six
Mahia had never dreamed that she might someday be jealous of her own daughter, but she was. It wasn't right for them to be in competition, but they were. The contest had begun from the moment they'd set eyes on the young giant. Mahia had known immediately, and she'd known that her daughter knew. They were no longer mother and daughter. They were two bitches in heat, fighting over the same magnificent male.
So far it was a draw.
No sooner had Mahia given this Brod instructions on where the casks were to be set, and he'd heaved the first one effortlessly onto one godlike shoulder, than she'd noticed that Leiala had disappeared. The little minx soon returned though. She'd taken the opportunity to change out of her working clothes into a short kirtle and the one and only silk blouse that the women shared between them. It fitted neither of them well. On Mahia the front wouldn't close properly so that the thongs stretched across a gaping span from neck to waist. On Leiala it always hung loosely, but today it hung looser than ever. The little trollop had left it undone. Not only did the soft silk drape lovingly over her hard little breasts, but every time her body swayed, it parted, and exposed them.
Mahia stormed up to her room. Two could play that game! She shrugged out of her sacking. Her nipples barely reacted to the slither; by then they were numb. Mahia took the ends of the two hair-bows, and tugged.
She crumpled to her knees.
The returning flow of blood! It felt as if a myriad needles of lust had pierced her tender flesh, from the inside outwards. So intense was the spasming of her nipples that she didn't even feel her own orgasms; not until the insides of her thighs were oily-slick and dripping.
She mopped herself, took down her best blue dress, and attacked it with a sharp knife.
When Mahia descended the stairs again, the seams of the skirt of her dress were open from hem to waist. The one in the centre of her bodice had likewise been unpicked. All that remained of the front of her dress above her waist were two triangular flaps. Each point just covered a nipple. They were held by the insecure stretch of a loosely tied matching ribbon, stretched across a curved valley, like a rope bridge crosses a gorge.
The drayman was gone. Brod sat at a bench in front of a trestle table, with a ham on a platter before him. The casks, half a day's work for two women to move, even with the cart, were neatly stacked in their proper places. Brod wasn't even sweating.
Leiala put a jack of ale on the table and fisted her hips, drawing her blouse wide and swaying her shoulders to draw Brod's attention, lest he miss her display.
'Is there anything else you see that you'd like to try?' the wanton asked him.
'There likely is now,' Mahia snapped, pushing a shapely thigh through the slit in her skirt and taking a deep breath.
'M'fine,' Brod mumbled around a mouthful of ham.
Mahia slinked to where Brod sat and eased her rump onto the bench beside him. Her sliding motion dragged her skirts, exposing one leg from dainty toe to curvaceous hip.
'Brod,' she mused. 'An unusual name, in these parts. Could it be that you are from the Southland, Brod?'
Brod shook his head and cut another slice of ham.
'My poor departed husband was from the South,' Mahia continued. 'In the tongue of his village,' "brod" meant "fertile soil", or "rich earth".'
Leiala interrupted by taking the other side of Brod's bench and snuggling just as close. Brod's eyes left Mahia as his head turned away from her towards her daughter.
'There's a tasty morsel,' Mahia said, as she took the knife from Brod's hand.
While she sawed she contrived to trap the dangling ribbon that fastened her bodice, with her elbow.
'Whoops,' she exclaimed as it tugged undone, but she made no move to retie it.
Feeding Brod slices of ham, it was only natural that her breast would nudge his bicep, and her nipple would drag across his skin.
Then Leiala found a succulent tidbit, and fed it to Brod. With the women feeding him, Brod's hands were free. Mahia took his left in her right and dropped the linked fingers to her thigh. Her leg moved, subtly, until Brod's fingers began to appreciate the satiny slither, and forsook Mahia's hand for softer flesh. She shifted forward a fraction on the bench and her thigh glided under Brod's palm. His smallest finger brushed the crease of Mahia's groin. She lifted up her skirt and covered Brod's hand with it. A finger tip brushed springy pubic hair. Mahia bit back her groan, and parted her thighs the wider.
Surely he could feel the heat? The lips of her coynte were sighing apart, waiting ...
Mahia screamed inside her head, Touch me! Touch me!' Did he need a signal?
And Mahia had a hand free now, didn't she? That totally inadequate loin-cloth, Brod's only garment, had been drawing her eyes since the moment she'd seen him. She dropped her hand into his lap - and found Leiala's there before her.
Both women snatched back. Brod grunted, and drank ale.
'Should we not open our door, for our customers, mother dear?' Leiala asked sweetly.
'To Havoc with our ...' Mahia caught herself. 'Tonight we are closed,' she purred. 'In honour of our guest.'
Brod stretched a titanic yawn, the expansion of his chest almost nudging the women from their perches. 'Your guest thanks you,' he said, 'but he is tired. I have marched many leagues this day. Is there some corner where I might stretch myself?'
The two bare-bosomed women smothered delicate yawns, each lifting her breasts enticingly as she did so.
'I too, find myself...' Leiala began.
'An early night would do me good,' her mother interrupted. To Brod, she said, 'As my guest, you shall, of course, take my room.' Mahia caught her daughter's eye, and added, 'I will be fine down here.'
'But mother,' Leiala protested. 'Old bones need soft beds. I would be happy to give up ...'
Brod stood. 'I have no need of beds,' he declared.
The hearth will suit me fine.' So saying, he crossed the room in two long-legged strides and stretched himself before the embers of the fire.
Mother and daughter looked at him, at his broad back, his narrow waist, his taut buttocks and massive thighs.
'Go on up,' Mahia told Leiala. 'I think a mug of wine before I retire ...'
'I'll keep you company,' Leiala offered.
'No. I'll take my wine up with me,' Mahia decided. 'Mayhap two mugs, just in case ...'
'Then I too will take wine to my room, in case of night-thirst,' her daughter declared. 'A flagon, I think.'
Mahia followed her daughter up the stairs, and saw her into her room. Finally, reluctantly, she found her own bed. Spread upon it, naked, wide-eyed and yearning, sleep failed Mahia. Eventually her fingers crept to her breasts and found her nipples eagerly waiting. But they were not her fingers; in her mind they were his. Soft pads ringed prickling halos, and spiralled in.
The first sharp tweak brought forth a moan from Mahia's lips. A pinch forced a sigh. She licked her lips, her tongue seeking the phantom of his. Her thighs strained yet further apart, until her ankles each hooked an edge of the wide bed. Beneath Mahia's pillow she kept a cylinder of hard wood. Her husband had carved and polished it for her years before, for her comfort when he was away hunting. It had a handle, for easy gripping, and was curved. When he'd whittled it he had found a proud knot near the shaft's base.
'I'll grind that down for you,' he'd offered.
'No,' Mahia had told him. 'Leave it, provided that it is smoothed. It will not discomfort me.'
And he'd laughed.
That night her thumb caressed the knot as her fingers steered the rod, and then, with the shaft deep inside her, Mahia used that knob as she always did, but with more frantic desperation than she'd felt for a long time.
She woke in the dark, still wanting. The carved stick was just that, a dead piece of wood. What she needed was warmer, and alive. She could feel it, the dead replica of a cock, but it could never feel her. More than anything, Mahia needed to be felt; to be desired, and to give completion to the man-flesh that desired her.
One floor below, sprawled before her hearth, was a man. The flames would be rosy on his flesh. Blood pulsed in his veins. If her tongue-tip flickered on his skin, he would flinch with the pleasure of it. His mouth would be bitter with the ale he had drunk. In return, he would be able to taste the sweetness of wine on her tongue. And when he entered her, she would gaze a welcome into his eyes.
Mahia slid from her bed, put on her blue dress once more, tied the bow loosely, and descended.
The fire was dead. Brod wasn't there.
Mahia wanted to stamp her way back upstairs, but she crept. On trembling legs she tip-toed, and eased her daughter's door open.
Three candles were burning, half consumed. Brod was in Leiala's bed, filling it with his hard bulk. Mahia couldn't see her daughter but Brod was moving under the thin covers. He was on his side, his back to Mahia. His hips were moving, slowly, grindingly, but moving, until the leisurely lascivious advance halted, paused, and became a dragging, well-savoured retreat.
Mahia sidled into the room on soft feet. Beyond Brod, shielded from candlelight as if in the shadow of a great oak, Leiala lay slumped, also on her side, her slender back towards Brod. Her slim white arm dangled, swaying slowly, over the edge of her bed. Her fingertips brushed the rush mat. Her face was pale as in a swoon, and slack, but her tongue moved. Its tip protruded, first from one corner, then from the soft centre of her lips, and finally from the other corner. Her hair was soaking wet; strands clung to her face like seaweed.
One of Brod's slow thrusts reached its peak and surged to gain a fraction deeper reach. Leiala moaned. Her tongue flickered. Brod's hips began their slow reluctant retreat.
Mahia knew that expression - the one on Leiala's face. She'd worn that same silly grin herself, often, but in the distant past.
The little bitch had been fucked stupid!
Mahia found her voice and said, 'What are you doing to my daughter?'
Brod looked up at her, over his sand-dune of a shoulder, focused his eyes, and said, 'I'm fucking her, Mahia. Can't you see?'
And he brushed the bedclothes down, took Leiala's knee in his grasp, and lifted it up until the girl's toes pointed at the ceiling, all without ceasing the movements of his hips.
Mahia sucked in a breath and shuddered. She'd never seen anything so deliciously obscene. Her wooden toy was an oversized replica of a man's cock, but beside the branch that grew out from Brod's body, it was a twig. Leiala's narrow girlish slit had been stretched into a great distended ring, encircling Brod's mighty rod. Dilated by its vast circumference. Clinging to it.
On each outstroke the labia were drawn down, as if the girl might be turned inside out. When the suction of withdrawal could extend them no more, they slithered, as if sucking Brod's pole. On the instroke, those same lips puckered, inverted, and were driven up inside Leiala's body - and Leiala's coynte became a wound, a pierced and healed wound.
'Mother?' Leiala moaned.
'Yes, daughter?'
'Don't let him stop, mother. Don't let him ever stop. I think that I am going to start screaming soon. When I do, make him keep on, please mother?'
'He's hurting you? You're in pain?'
'Pain? No. But I don't know how much longer I can bear this pleasure. I don't want him left incomplete. Pray to Sloona for me, mother. Pray that I may prove myself a woman before I faint away from the joy. Pray that Brod reaches his pleasure before I fail him.'
'You little slut,' Mahia spat. 'You've been getting yours, time and again, and haven't got him off yet? What have you been doing, child? Just lying there?'
'But mother - I am so impaled that movement is denied me. What could I do?'
'What to do? I'll show you what to do. There's more ways than one to milk a bull.' Mahia drew her skirts aside and knelt on the bed. 'We'll just get this over with, child, and then I'll show you how a woman pleasures a man.'
So saying, Mahia bent down and put her face close to the site of her daughter's welcome violation. She breathed a hot breath, tickled with the tip of her tongue, and lapped. Her lips trailed a wet path, from Brod's anus, to her daughter's clit, and back. Sucking, slurping, slavering, she muffled not a sound, for the sounds of eros have their own magic. Mahia's fingers joined in, stroking, probing and cupping Leiala's mound to drag it back, while encircling the exposed portion of Brod's staff to urge it forward. Ere long Leiala was sobbing. Brod was grunting. Their rhythm became urgent, demanding, critical ... And they froze.
While they were yet in rictus, the aromatic froth foamed and squirted.
And they slumped.
And sighed.
Leiala rolled onto her belly. Brod rolled onto his back. His cock lay limp and glistening along his thigh. Mahia licked her lips.
Pulling off her dress, the mother straddled her daughter's lover's chest. 'Watch,' she told him.
With a grind and a wriggle, she spread the lips of her coynte into a slithery hot wet kiss on his skin. Oozy with the oils of her desire, her open flesh slipped easily, up higher, until a throbbing female clit met a small but hard male nipple.
Mahia jerked. Clit flicked nipple, once, twice, till it became a frotting blur. The clenching began inside her, and then the fluttering.
With an iron will, Mahia commanded her body to be still, and to retreat. Her gaping vulva traced the same path back, leaving an aromatic trail, until Mahia could lean over Brod, and lap up her own juices from his flesh.
Her hips still in subtle, but constant and slithery, motion, Mahia stretched high, lifted up her own left breast to her mouth and puckered her lips.
Behind her, Brod's cock twitched on his thigh and reared. Mahia felt a hard, smooth, bulbous wetness nudge between her buttocks.
'Art ready again, so speedily?' she asked Brod, with a coy smile.
In response, he reached up towards the pendulous prizes of her breasts.
'No, lad,' Mahia admonished. 'I bade thee watch.'
Brod rested his head back on Leiala's pillow. Mahia took up her breast once more, thumbed its nipple once, twice, thrice, and pushed the quivering nub between her own lips once more. Her cheeks hollowed and her lips nibbled down the enpurpled spike, to its base. She bared her teeth, showing Brod how cruelly they tormented her own flesh. She shook her head, and growled like a dog; the entire weight of breast-flesh wobbled.
Brod too, growled deep in his throat.
'You may do likewise, to the other,' Mahia mouthed around quivery flesh.
Brod sat up, in eager obedience. The head of his cock traced a wet path from the base of Mahia's spine, to the crease that concealed the pucker of her anus.
'Hold him firm, daughter mine,' Mahia mumbled.
Leiala, with a trollop's instinct, understood straight away. She took Brod's shaft between her two fists, and steadied it. Mahia, her hands free, reached behind herself and took her buttocks in her palms. She pulled, parting those soft globes, and wriggled back by the space of a finger's width, so that Brod's mighty plum-head nudged the folded petals of her anus, and jerked backwards.
Her yelp of anguished delight released her breast. Wet with her own saliva, jiggling, indented with the bite of her own teeth, it was a prize that any man would covet, but Brod heeded it not. All of his being was focused. His cock, firm in Leiala's double grip, was slowly, but inevitably, being engulfed into the narrow furnace of Mahia's rectum. The passage was scalding velvet, not slick, like the few coyntes that he'd enjoyed, but hotter, and tighter, dragging on the sensitivity of his glans. He jerked his hips, aiding Mahia's self-impalement by a fraction, probing his glans to even straighter tightness .. . And Mahia's sphincter squeezed. And relaxed. And squeezed.
The fleshy compression held tight for the space of a heartbeat, and then it moved. The throbbing contraction travelled slowly up Mahia's rectum. The heavenly constriction seemed to be trying to draw Brod in deeper, and deeper. It was unendurable. Though it had been but moments since Brod had flooded Leiala's young vagina, the obscene, debased, unbelievable internal massage of cock-stem by rectal passage ...
Brod juddered. Thick cream pumped, up the length of his shaft, to his glans, and Brod spurted and spurted. And still the milking caresses drew from him more and more, until he was drained to his very soul.
He sank back. Mahia relaxed her aching internal muscles and raised herself up, savouring every slither as the softening flesh was drawn out from her body, and said, 'And now Brod, there are acts of love which require three bodies. The first of these which I will teach my young pupils, requires some lubrication. Leiala - the oil, if you will.'
Eventually the candles guttered out. Later, birds sang a pean to the dawn. They were not heard by the three in the inn. The young titan, the mother and the daughter, were making their own music.
Come dusk, the inn's patrons found its doors still barred. Within, Mahia, naked, was stooped before
the hearth, building a fire and crooning to herself. Leiala, bare to her skin, cut sausages for the frying, and trilled deep in her throat. Only Brod was silent.
'What is it, Brod?' Mahia asked as she straightened. 'Is your tongue worn to the root?'
Brod drained his jack of ale and put it to the cask's tap. 'No, sweet innkeeper. One more draught and I'll lick the pair of you till you scream for mercy, I promise you. I was mourning tomorrow, that's all.' He leaned his bulk back against the crude oaken bar.
'Tomorrow?' Leiala asked.
'I must be about my journey, and I regret our parting.'
The women rushed to him. Each wrapped one of his thighs with both of her own. They pulled down his arms to enfold their waists.
'Why?' Mahia demanded. 'Why must you leave us?'
'I am on a quest,' Brod explained.
'A quest? What do you seek?' Leiala asked.
'I must find my lost sibs, for one,' Brod said. 'And I must make my way into Arcadia, now called Vixania. There I will discover the Witch Queen, Vixia, and slay her.'
Mahia swallowed hard. Leiala shivered.
'Find? And kill? On your own? Leiala gasped.
Wise in the ways of feminine persuasion, Mahia stroked her fingers gently down the length of Brod's cock. 'Then it is simply done, if that is your will,' she told him. 'You will need a guide, if you would find the Witch Queen, of course.' Her thumb smoothed the glistening plum-head.
'A guide?'
'Watch how I do this,' Mahia told her daughter. 'Watch very closely.'
The child knelt, dutifully, and followed the movements of her mother's hand.
To Brod, Mahia said: 'When you arrived here, you were near your goal. The border between Eligia and Vixania is but two more leagues to the West. The fame of our inn is known far and wide. Not a moon passes but some Vixian border guard sneaks across for a decent mug of wine and a well-spiced sausage.'
Leiala had extended the flat of her tongue. Even as she spoke, Mahia was bending Brod's cock down to that soft moist surface, and ...
'But . . ?' Brod asked.
Leiala stretched her mouth wide, and fitted her lips to Brod's glans.
'The next one, you will capture him,' Mahia explained. 'He will lead you to the Vile One. This inn will be your lair, your place of ambush.'
Brod scratched his head. 'I ...'
'Use both hands,' Mahia told Leiala, as she released Brod's shaft to her daughter's tender care.
Leiala pumped with her right, as she had been taught, and tickled Brod's scrotum with her left, as she had been instructed. Her mouth sucked. Her head bobbed. Her tongue pressed up on the underside of Brod's cock, so that its velvet head rubbed the hot hard ridges of her palate. He was too big for her to swallow, but Leiala's mother had taught her more tricks than one during the long triple-backed night.
Mahia boosted herself onto the counter, lapped once into Brod's ear, twice into his mouth, and stood. Brod stared up at her, craning his neck backwards and pressing his groin forwards, to Leiala's further delight.
'Put out your tongue, Brod,' Mahia commanded.
She bestrode his face, and parted the lips of her coynte with her fingers to their widest. Her clit crept out from beneath its hood, avid. Mahia smiled a deep secret smile, and lowered herself.
If Brod had an argument against her plan, he was unable to voice it. The women's case was made by Leiala's avid lips, her thirsty mouth, and her rapacious tongue, but needed no voice.
Chapter Seven
Queen Vixia's dressers came to her. And waited. The Insatiable One was not yet ready to dress.
The Queen of Unslaked Lust had a new toy. It was a simple device, but effective. The inspiration had come to her at her supper. She had called for vellum and charcoal, and had sketched the machine between sips of clover wine. Her artisans had laboured through the night. At dawn it had been complete, and was assembled in an antechamber next door to the Queen's bedroom, ready for its first trial.
She had chosen her victims with care. He was a smith, a mighty thewed man who had been granted the privilege of the Queen's bed, and had later attempted to flee the Palace. The Queen had selected him partly so that he should suffer the first stage in a series of punishments, partly because of his ridiculous moral code, but mainly because of the length and girth of his yard.
Styxian slaves had performed the first part of the smith's preparation. Carpenters had constructed a special bed. Two semicircles, like two wheel-halves, had been linked at their rims with planks. The structure stood to half the height of a man. The smith had been laid naked on this, carefully positioned, so that his groin was at the peak of the arc, and then he had been chained. Bronze manacles encircled his wrists and his ankles, and dragged them down towards the focus of the wooden curve. Further metal bands clamped his forehead, his thick neck, his broad chest, and his sturdy thighs.
Once Vixia was satisfied that the smith could not move even a fraction, the Styxians had turned their attentions to the girl.
She was a slender thing from the northlands. Her chin was weak, but her mouth betrayed a lascivious appetite to those who knew how to read the signs. Narrow of body, kittenish of hip, boyishly slender with breasts that looked newly budded, fair-haired and pale-skinned, she was the very incarnation of all that the smith would deem 'innocent'. His stupid chivalry would be a torment to him.
Before bringing the girl, Vixia's Eastern Odalisques had treated her with a douche of lemon, honey and essence of willow bark, to pucker the channel of her coynte, and render it like that of a virgin.
The wheel to which the girl was strapped was a full circle suspended above the half-wheel on which the smith lay, helpless. There was a carefully gauged gap between the two wooden curves.
Like the smith, the girl's arms and legs were drawn hard back, towards the centre. Being weaker than he, and slender, her skin was drawn achingly taut, as were the sinews in her thighs.
With one finger resting on the raised tendon that ran the length of the girl's inner thigh, the Queen commanded, 'Another turn. Another. Half more.' The finger tried the tension of the girl's sinew, as a harpist might tune his instrument. 'A quarter - and ... Yes. That will do.'
Like the smith's, the girl's body was pinioned and immobile. Like the smith's, her sex projected proud of the wooden bed to which she was fastened.
The Odalisques brought sweet oils and ointments. They began the anointing.
Leaving dry only that flesh that was pressed firm on wood, or trapped under bindings, each victim was laved, and smoothed, and caressed, from toe to crown. When the bodies glistened and ran with oil, when both the male below and the female above showed their arousal, he by his rigid tumescence, she by ragged breath and the moistening of the petal-lips between her open thighs, Vixia bade her slaves start the subtle mechanism that turned the wheel that bore the girl.
A candle might have burned to half its length, so slow was the turning before the girl's gleaming thighs were spread an arm's length above the smith's head. In modesty, the smith screwed up his eyes.
An Odalisque took a jar of yellow cream, and applied balm to the smith's member. His erection and the wide-opening of his eyes were simultaneous. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His neck and tongue strained to lift up, but in vain.
The Queen also took a dab of the magic lotion. She stretched above the smith's head to the girl-captive's core, and touched the girl's clit.
As hard as the smith strained up, the girl strained down. But only the mechanism could bring them together, and then only at the one point, the place where he was hardest, and she softest.
An Odalisque's tongue-tip touched the smith's straining groin. Another treated the hanging girl in the same wise. Both victims writhed. A pointed fingernail traced delicate patterns along the smith's thigh, to his scrotum and beneath. His foreskin retreated yet further. The glistening fruit that headed his fervid stalk pulsed, growing darker and yet larger.
A regal tongue flicked a pale pink nipple. The girl screamed like a mink screams, when her mate's teeth fasten in the fur at her nape.
That same tongue licked swiftly across young and trembling lips, and retreated as the girl's tongue sought to answer.
The mechanism moved. There was a hand's span between the smith's throbbing glans and the girl's eager coynte ... the width of two fingers together ... one finger.
'Be sure they fit,' the Queen snapped.
One Odalisque took the smith's burning flesh, and aimed it. A second Eastern beauty reached between the frantic bodies, and parted the fluttering lips of the girl's coynte.
The mechanism moved.
Dark purple head nudged pale pink inner lips. It probed until it felt the first resistance of constriction and ...
'Stop,' the Queen said.
A Styxian pulled the lever that applied the brakes. The girl was suspended, her face but the width of two palms above the smith's. Lust fogged the air between them. Yearning reached out from eye to eye. Two tongues strained, but tasted only air.
A single palm's width was all that separated her breast from his chest. No matter how deeply they breathed, skin could not quite burn on skin.
Body heat radiated up from the smith's lean belly, and burned the tight-stretched skin between the girl's navel and mound. Her heat beat down on him, in return.
But they touched at one point only.
Pulsating glans on throbbing inner lips. He could twitch. She could flutter. No more.
The Queen stooped and put her mouth to the girl's ear. 'You won't mind waiting a while, will you?' Vixia purred as her nails dug into a virginal nipple. 'My Brigade of Guards awaits my inspection. I shall return.'
To her Odalisques and Styxians she said, 'Maintain their desire at its present level until I return. See that they neither flag, nor achieve release.'
'Your Majesty?' one Odalisque enquired, bolder than the others because she was the Queen's special favourite.
'Yes? Speak.'
'Your day is a full one. Scarcely a moment is free, for Your Majesty.'
'There is a period tomorrow, in the forenoon. It's likely we shall continue then.' And the Queen swept from the chamber, into her robing room, also known as, 'The Salon of Ten Thousand Mirrors'.
Having bathed already on awakening, Vixia ignored the steamy onyx pool at the room's centre, and laid herself across a tiger-skin divan. The Anointers anointed her. Young girls, selected for the delicacy of their touch, scraped her skin with ivory scrapers. Her feet and hands were massaged. Gold leaf was applied to her nails, and gold dust to her eyelids. Pollen was dusted over Vixia's nipples and a salve of the same magic was smoothed over the ever-hard head of her clitoris.
Cosmeticians painted the Queen's cheeks and lips, while Vixia amused herself by fondling the cocks of pubescent boys, and the breasts of both maidens and matrons.
Her midnight hair was coiffed, and recoiffed, until the fantastical creation that towered an arm's length above her head was to her satisfaction.
Finally they dressed her in the uniform of Absolute Commander of the Vixian Forces. Her boots were of golden leather; even the iron spikes which formed their heels had been plated with gold. When they wrapped The Insatiable's loins in a golden chain-mail kirtle, a pale gleam of upper thigh, the width of a man's hand, showed between hem and boot top. A similar width separated the top of the kirtle from the Queen's deep navel.
Vixia raised her arms. The last garment had been made from fine gold chain. The chains had been formed into two wide-meshed cups of net. Each cup had been designed to exact dimensions - small enough to bite into the delicate flesh of Vixia's breast, tight enough to extrude blue-veined white diamonds of skin between each square of chain. And, by pulling the thongs at Vixia's back, the garment could be shrunk down into a tortuous pair of flexible cruel cages.
'Tighter!' Vixia demanded. 'Tighter yet!'
When her discomfort was to her liking, Queen Vixia, Ruler of Vixania, Usurper, Witch, Priestess of Havoc, strode into the Grand Hall to inspect her guards.
There were a hundred and fifty of them. The shortest stood a full head higher than an average man. Like Vixia, they were uniformed in metal and leather. Iron-shod leather boots, leather kilts studded with bronze, leather harnesses around their chests, fastened by great round metal buckles.
Vixia stalked the length of their line, inspecting, musing.
She stopped before a bearded guard. 'Lift your kilt!'
He obeyed.
The Queen shook her head. 'No - drop it.'
Eventually twelve were selected. The dozen were instructed to strip, form a tight line, fall flat on their faces, and do push-ups, in unison.
On the third dip, Vixia stepped onto the buttocks of the end one. He grunted, either from the sudden weight or from the stab of iron-spike heels, but he kept his rhythm.
Vixia marched. From back to back, arse to arse, across the twelve, and back again, and turned ...
On the fourth passage a man faltered.
'Out!' Vixia commanded, and strode on, grinding her heels deeper with each step.
When only six were left, Queen Vixia told a slave, 'Tend their wounds and bring them to my Council Chamber.'
The Council Chamber from which Vixania was governed, had once been circular, back when Vixania had been called Arcadia. Two Kings and two Queens had sat on four thrones, around the great White Stone at its centre, facing East, West, North and South. The Southern Throne had been carved from a gigantic ruby, into the design of a frozen flame. The Northern Throne was formed of clear crystal, and signified Air. The Eastern Seat was modest baked clay, and stood for the good rich earth. To the West was the most magical throne of them all. A fountain gushed forth from some never failing subterranean spring. By some enchantment, the spurt of water formed itself into the semblance of a flowing couch, firm enough to bear the weight of that Ruler whose special provenance was the sea and the lakes, and all of the rivers and waterways.
The Rulers of Arcadia did not sit back-to-back because of any fear of knives behind them. They sat around the White Stone to guard it from harm. By legend, the fate of Arcadia was writ, and foretold, upon that pure alabaster cylinder.
Four shall die, and four times three, Slain by a Witch, from out the Sea. Four shall live, sought by Fives, Hidden by Seven, from seeker's knives.
The square's a circle, the circle's a ring. Compass me round, and make me sing. Nought vibrating, with love's song, Turning the weapon, righting the wrong.
The Witch Queen dead, the people free, When Four are joined, elementally. Love conquers Hate, Chaos takes flight, When the sweetest Queen descends from her height.
When Vixia had led her armada of pirates and renegades out of the sea, and 'liberated' Arcadia, the meaning of the first verse had become clear. She, 'the Witch from the Sea', had slain the two Kings and the two Queens, and a dozen of their families. Four dead, and four times three. Four babes had escaped, spirited away by the White Lodge, presumably seven of them. Vixia, with her own cruel irony, had formed her bands of assassin-agents into groups of Five.
The next verse was complete nonsense. But so had the first been, until Vixia had given it meaning. And the last verse? 'The Witch Queen dead'? There was but one 'Witch Queen'. The meaning of that riddle was ominously clear. 'When Four are joined'? Four babes. Each represented a family that symbolised an element - Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Could that be it? Could the Four, once united, be powerful enough to defeat even the Witch Queen's magic? The magic of the Elemental Thrones had once been mighty, but Vixia had Havoc. Or did Havoc have Vixia?
'Chaos takes flight'? And Havoc was an Aspect of Chaos. Havoc was Chaos on Earth. Havoc was mindless, motiveless Evil. Havoc was drought, tidal wave, earthquake and forest fire. Havoc was the nemesis of all Hope. Without Hope, what was humanity but a toy? A toy. Vixia's toy, to use, to break, to discard at whim.
Vixia worshipped Havoc. Havoc made Vixia strong.
In the beginning there was Chaos. And out of Chaos came Destruction, and Pain, and Disease, and Havoc. But - but somehow - in some strange manner - Pattern had been born. And Order, and Peace, and Healing. The stuff of Creation had divided. No longer was all raw plasma. Now there were Elements, which intelligence could manipulate - or if not manipulate, predict.
'Predict'? That was the rub. The White Pillar. It had foretold Vixia's coming, and her triumph. It predicted her fall.
And who could the 'sweetest Queen' be?
Elephants had been chained to the White Pillar, and goaded. The chains had broken. Great trees had been felled, and beaked with iron spikes to make battering rams. The rams had splintered. Oil, camphor and sulphur had burned around the Pillar for a hundred days and the sky had become blackened. The entire Palace had become an oven. The Pillar did not burn. Soot would not cling to its sides. Alchemists and mages and engineers had laboured day and night, for a decade. And the White Pillar yet stood.
Now it was walled away. Queen Vixia had ordered a thousand masons for the labour. Blocks of granite had been cut from out the sides of mountains and dragged. Villages that had stood in the blocks' path had been levelled. Rivers had been dammed, causing drought where there had been no shortage of water for a thousand years, just to smqoth the passage of the great stones.
Twenty thousand or more slaves had died, crushed, worked to death, or whipped into bloody rags.
And now the Great Council Chamber was divided in two. Between the back of Vixia's Throne of Night and the White Pillar stood an impenetrable wall as thick as the height of four tall men. There was no way into the other side.
But there was a way out. The fount that formed the Throne of Water still ran. Fearful lest the eternal power of water erosion might eventually eat an exit, Vixia had channelled it. A single secret duct now led out from the Pillar's chamber, and fed the Palace moat. It was an exit that Vixia was sure could never become an entrance. The duct was wide where it was fed, but it soon narrowed like a funnel. Where it debouched at the bottom of the moat, it squirted with such force that not even the strongest swimmer could approach closer than a man might cast a javelin. Vixia was sure. Ten valiant men had tried; all had drowned.
And now there were the cannibal fish. Each no larger than a man's finger, they were voracious, and many. Any booted foot that slipped on the path around the Palace, and but dipped into the murky roiling waters, became just the skeleton of a foot, even if snatched back in an instant.
No, Vixia feared no assault from that direction.
And yet she still feared. There would be no rest for Vixia until the babes, the four babes, were in her grasp.
If the Five led by the Styxian maid, R'rleeh, were successful, the first of the babes would be screaming for mercy within the month.
But that was not the thought that brought a smile to Vixia's cruel lips as she sprawled upon her black throne. She had left a man and a girl in an agony of sexual need. Once the dreary business of governance was done, she would watch a dilatory servant fuck herself to death, unslaked. What Witch Queen could but smile on such a happy day?
Chapter Eight
Pasnar, Queen Vixia's Seneschal, was as obsequious as ever. He had not been born humble. Humility had been taught him. When Pasnar had arranged the revels to celebrate the fifth anniversary of The Insa-tiable's ascension to the Throne, he had misused his power. The most nubile of the fifty virgins who had been assembled to add the spice of their deflowering to the orgy, should have been reserved for Vixia's pleasure. But Pasnar had been smitten by lust.
When the fifty had been presented, only forty-nine had still retained their maidenheads. Vixia had a magic that revealed to her any nearby attempt to deceive her. The premature use of the girl had been revealed.
It was a measure of Pasnar's value that he yet lived, although death might have been kinder. So that the Seneschal should never forget that he had allowed his cock to rule him against the will of Vixia, his cock had become his torment.
It was erect now, eternally erect. It stood in a proud scimitar curve that arched up and out from his body, and never flexed nor failed. But it craved.
Night and day, it craved. Pasnar had joined the ranks of the Insatiable. His cock's hardness had led him into error. Now, no man had a weapon so hard, nor wanted one. Pasnar's penis had been transformed into iron. Perfectly formed, as it had been as flesh, each vein, each ridge, reproduced in unfeeling metal as if moulded by a master hand. His balls had turned to bronze. The flesh-become-metal knew internal sensation; it throbbed with desire. But it could feel nothing. Though Pasnar was frequently required, on gala occasions, to demonstrate the length and strength of his iron cock, it was senseless to the sweet flesh that it ravaged. Whether Vixia's command was that he deflower the tight virgin cleft of some cringing maiden, sate the eager, well-used, oily coynte of a lusty matron, or bugger the depraved arse of the most debauched, novelty-seeking harlot, there was no pleasure there, not for Pasnar.
For almost fifteen years there had been no welcome release, no gleeful climax, no joyous spurting forth. Only bronze could have contained the throbbing ache that Pasnar lived with day and eve, and especially, night.
In the beginning there had been eager wenches by the score, creeping into his chambers, curious, prurient, lusty, or perverse. Every technique known to man, to woman, or to Sloona, had been lavished on that iron prong - in vain.
Even the most lickerish of females, yearning in her ribald dreams for a man with an infallible yard, concludes her reveries of lust with the copious foaming of man-milk. There is little pleasure for a bawd, in the final erotic accounting, when she may take her own joy again and again, but give absolutely none in return.
There were still those ladies of the Insatiable's Court who took small pleasures from Pasnar. There is a wicked whim, a cruel fancy, that takes all women from time to time. To tease, and then deny? To lure, and then spurn? To rouse, and deny release?
A pleasant game and idle amusement - to bare a breast by chance, or accidentally smooth thigh against thigh - and Pasnar was the perfect target. Eternally frustrated. Perpetually denied. Pasnar had been a lover of women, an adorer, a worshipper. Now, a canker grew.
Pasnar had been born with a weak will and a lustful body. Lecherous he was, but not cruel. One day he would be though. Unrequited lust will sour even the most saintly eventually. Are not the celibates who become teachers of the young and weak, the quickest to use the whip on their helpless charges?
Pasnar dreaded the day when he would find himself using his iron staff, no longer for the pure joy of giving and receiving lustful pleasure, but viciously, and to wound. He had vowed that when that day came, he would dive into the moat, and see what the cannibal fishes made of metal meat.
Thus it was that Pasnar bowed low as he told Queen Vixia, 'And this is the last of the six that you chose to effect the servant, Rena's, punishment. If your Majesty approves, I will confirm today's edicts, while you prepare him.'
Vixia nodded, but her eyes were hooded, and already secretly sucking in the maleness of the final Guard. This was the biggest of the six. He stood a head taller than any other. His yard was long, even in proportion to his height. His hips were neat and his waist was trim. His chest was hard and ridged as a sandy beach when the tide leaves it.
With his hands tied behind his naked back, he climbed the steps and kneeled before his Sovereign.
Vixia let one long leg loll from her divan. The Guard's eyes followed the slithery movement.
Pasnar began the litany of executions to be arranged, tortures to be inflicted, villages to be levelled so that their folk could labour in Vixia's mines, old taxes to be raised, and new ones to be levied. But Vixia wasn't listening. She had drawn up her golden kirtle to her waist.
The Guard's eyes bulged.
Vixia's fingertips smoothed the baldness of her mound. 'Watch closer,' she commanded.
The Guard leaned forward.
The pad of a regal forefinger was laid along a clit-oral ridge. A gilded talon touched the very mouth of crinkled skin. And drew it back.
The Guard sucked back a gasp.
A royal leg stretched out. A toe that was shod in golden leather nudged the Guard's cock where it lay along his thigh, already twitching. The toe hooked beneath the pallid stalk, and lifted it a fraction.
'Closer yet,' The Insatiable hissed. 'Let me feel the heat of your breath.'
The Guard wriggled on his bare knees, and dipped his head between those sinful thighs. His cock expanded, in girth and in length, and pressed up against his belly. Vixia pushed at it, and held it pressed between the sole of her boot and his flesh. Stretching forth again, the iron heel probed and, finding the crease in his sac between his balls, scratched gently, but threateningly.
Despite the peril to his manhood, or perhaps because of it, his cock became the harder.
'Closer,' the Queen ordered once more.
The Guard moved. Vixia's leg bent at her knee. Had it not, the Guard's scrotum would have been ripped on the wicked spike. But that was not Vixia's pleasure; not on this day.
She humped forward to the edge of her divan. 'You may lick my coynte,' she told him. 'Once - slowly -from base to clit.'
He moistened his lips, extended his tongue to the fullest, and did as he was bid. The Queen had commanded, 'slowly', so slowly he lapped. The tip of his tongue found the little lip that finished her luscious slot, at its very base. Dew already pooled that tiny cup. His tongue flickered there, before delving deep. It is just above that fold that a coynte is deepest -bottomless, except to the most exceptionally endowed. His tongue could never stretch to the most intimate depths, but as far as it could stretch, it reached. He pressed forward until his mouth was spread by the pressure of wet flesh on wetter, and still he lapped deeper.
No two women have the same flavour. Some are sweeter, some saltier, some with a hint of lemon in their musk, but none tasted of brandy wine, and honey, and spice ... That spice? What was it? His tongue tested, and rolled, and sought out every last drop, but he could not name ... But he wanted more! More!
Forgetful of whose coynte he was delving, heedless of the assembled company, the Guard slobbered and squirmed his face closer, until the Queen's nether lips were spread wide over his prickly cheeks. Had his hands been free - he would have spread her with the strength of his swordsman's fingers and buried his face to her very womb, yea, even until she screamed for mercy. But his hands were not free.
'Higher,' the Insatiable ordered. 'My clit!'
Returning, in part, to sanity, the Guard obeyed. There was more of that delicious spice, slickly coating her inner lips, which were jasmine yellow, quite different from the delicate pink of other women's labia.
He lapped and sucked and lifted his head until his tongue found a throbbing ochre pearl ...
And that was the source!
His cheeks hollowed. His tongue-tip strummed. There was no Council Chamber, there was no Seneschal, there wasn't a Queen with power of life and death and agony, there wasn't even a Guard. In all of the Universe, there was a tongue, and taste-buds, and that smooth hard pulsating, infinitely desirable ...
The Queen jerked her hips and rewarded him with a fresh gush of that wonderful... But her foot thrust. A spike gouged his chest. He tumbled back down the steps, helpless.
'He is ready,' Vixia said. 'Take him to the theatre. Those of you who will, may follow. There is going to be an entertainment.'
Chapter Nine
The bonds were silk. Soft, but strong. A silken rope cinched Rena's narrow waist. Her wrists were fastened to it, behind her. Her wrists were tethered, each to each, as were her elbows. Her arms were tied together the length of her forearms, dragging her shoulders back harshly, making her breasts stand so high and proud, and so widely separate, that Rena felt the skin between them might tear.
Rena's skin. Never before had she been so intensely aware of her skin. It was as if she had lived her life encased in coarse unfeeling hide, and now she had emerged like a growing snake, more than naked, in a new and tingling skin, to really feel.
The fine invisible down on the back of her forearms stood erect and quivering, as if each individual delicate hair was sniffing at the air. Each pore in Rena's skin gaped, sucking in, athirst for the least traces of sensation.
But sensation was denied.
Rena's hands were encased in padded gloves. There was nothing that she could do to herself with her hands. Nothing!
And her legs? She was standing, spread-legged, between two posts. The rope from her right ankle was stretched to one post, the rope from her left, to the other. Thus bound, and prevented from throwing herself down by a third rope which stretched from her elbows to a ring above her head, she was helpless. It was another wooden frame, rather like that which the Rune Gravers had used, but fixed erect on a platform, and wheeled.
Just as before, Rena was at the mercy of any who discovered her. Any man, any woman, any creature could have used her at will. Her mouth was available. Her breasts were uncovered. Her sex was spread by the forced parting of her thighs. Even her rump was unprotected. A violator could have had his will and choice of any orifice that she possessed. Cruel nails could have clawed her skin without let or hindrance. Lips might have sucked - a tongue could have probed - teeth might have nibbled, or bitten, or ...
But there was no violator. No one touched her. No one toyed with her aching nipples. No one thrust a tongue into her thirsty mouth for her to suck upon. No one probed into her coynte or arse, with finger or tongue or cock.
Which was why Rena was screaming. For Rena was quite mad.
The Rune-writers had done their best for her. From the moment the graving of the Runes of Frenzy had been completed, they had serviced her until the eunuchs had come for her. Karina's tongue, Betohl's cock, fingers ... And when flesh had grown weak, candles. Rena had undergone a score, two score, perhaps five score orgasms, and she had begged for more. And more.
But that had been ... A watch? A day? A month ago? Even a single heartbeat would have been too long. Her thighs were spread wide; she couldn't even rub them together to ease her craving for sensation. She could thrust her mound at the air, and she did.
She could gyrate her hips. Rena could buck backwards, tilting her buttocks, contracting the newly mobile muscles that ringed her sphincter, but at nothing. She found that if she flexed the long muscles that ran the insides of her young thighs, some trace of tremor travelled high enough to tease the quivering lips of her coynte. A convulsiye contraction of her belly twitched the hood of her clit - or did it? The movement was so slight that she couldn't be sure.
Her breasts though ... If she jerked her shoulders back even further than they were tethered, and rotated them, and if she flexed pectoral muscles that were now even more taut than they had been before the graving ... At least there was some sensation. A jiggle. A wobble.
In her mind it was the palm of a man's hand that hefted them, and made them bounce. Hard lips, sharp teeth and vicious fingers were what she needed, but any attention - any at all ...
The plump houris of the desert are taught a dance that quivers and quakes every last portion of their ample bodies. Their wildest movements are placid, compared to the tremors, the ripples, and the manic writhing that convulsed Rena from the tips of her straining toes to the sweat-soaked strands of hair that tossed about her whip-lashing neck.
Any natural woman, ungraven, would have slumped limp in her bonds long before, but Rena had the strength of the runes, within and without.
And her beauty had not been spoiled. It had been changed by the Rune-writers' art, but not spoiled. The magic of those skin-written designs is not in what is seen, but in what is.
Rena had not been a virgin since her thirteenth Spring, but her youth had still granted her a semblance of purity. No more. Now her flesh vibrated with the special tautness of lust, and was enhanced by that tightness. Her breasts lifted higher, and more urgently. Her buttocks now quivered and clenched, as they had done before, but with a dynamic firmness. The ripple of her belly now spoke not of the normal movement of muscles, but of deep hunger.
Even the colours.
Rena's nipples, their halos and her lips, had all been a subtly different shade of delicate coral. Now all three were tinted the same. Crimson. Even the head of her clit shared that violent hue.
Where Rena had been tattooed externally, Karina and Betohl had worked with the utmost care. What is writ in red, on a field of red, is almost invisible.
If Rena had carried with her an aura of innocence before, then now she radiated depravity of the most rare and precious kind.
Depraved innocence. Debauched purity. A virginal voracity. Her whole being proclaimed, 'I am a page on which but few words have been inked. Scribble on me your foulest obscenities!'
A door opened behind her. A breeze cooled a patch of her skin, on the back of her thigh, just below her left buttock. Rena screamed aloud with the ecstasy of sensation.
Two sway-bellied, henna-haired, loose-lipped eunuchs took hold of the frame that Rena was lashed to.
'In the name of Havoc, in the name of Sloona, please do something to me,' Rena begged. 'Give me your cocks, or if they be too limp, your fingers, your tongues. Stuff me full, before and behind. Let me suck you, oh kindest of friends. Let me draw from out of your cocks whatever I might siphon. Be it thin, be it stale, be it bitter, I will savour every last drop, I pledge you.'
One giggled. One pouted disapproval. They both laid beringed hands on the frame, and trundled it.
'Let me lap up the sweat from your groins,' Rena pleaded, as dimness changed into glaring light, and she entered the Insatiable's arena.
Blinking, Rena looked around her. There was musk in the air. Male musk. Female musk. She sucked the mingled aromas deep into her mouth and tasted them to their fullest, before drawing them down into her lungs.
There was magic in that scent. When Rena sucked it in there was a response deep inside her. She felt, and heard, the roaring rush of the blood in her veins. Liquids flowed in her core. Bubbles of scintillating female power rose up through her flesh. Rena became an ocean, a storm-tossed, tempestuous ocean. Great forces surged up within her. Her femaleness welled, and flooded, and filled her. Currents swirled, and spiralled. Three maelstroms there were, three whirlpools; each an opening into Mother Ocean, that would draw, and suck, and overcome, and finally drown any male thing that came within the reach of their vortex forces.
Suddenly powerful, suddenly unafraid, Rena looked about her with sharpened senses.
The great dome above her was painted with scenes from the carnal inspiration of a drug-crazed erotomaniac. Pillars supported that debauched cupola. Each marble cylinder had been carved into bas-relief.
Sprites and nixies at the bases sucked the rampant members of the satyrs who had climbed one stage higher up the pillars. The satyrs, in their turn, probed the coyntes and anuses of the nymphs, yet further ascended, with tongues of serpentine length and thickness. Demigods climbed demigoddesses. Sprites were buggered by the equine yards of centaurs. Mermaids fellated ogres. Ogres, in their turn, performed cunnilingus between the widespread thighs of giantesses. Dryads and naiads and oreads sported in tribadic tangles. Not a hand's width was there, but depicted some heroic perversion.
The hall was well lit. There were candles and lamps aplenty. What if each candle was a cock? What if each lamp was formed like a coynte, or like a breast with a wick for a nipple? The light that they gave sufficed; the flickering shadows gave a semblance of life to the columns' stone revels. It was but a semblance, surely? That minotaur hadn't moved? The elfin hand that fondled the breast of that sphynx? The fingers had been plucking a rigid nipple, no? Or had they been but cupping a moment ago?
Rena blinked. A sylph was detaching herself from the column, stepping down, and swaying away. But no. It was just a human bawd who had been finding her pleasure on the raspy protruding stone tongue of the carved troll.
Which troll then licked his lips.
But that was surely an illusion, brought on by Rena's sexual delirium. Surely. She turned her gaze away from the sculptures.
Tiered benches rose high in a circle around her. Vixia's courtiers sat, or lay, or sprawled, or kneeled in serried ranks. A few greeted Rena with cheers or laughter. Most were already anticipating Rena's ordeal of lust with small indulgences of their own. Men and women masturbated, toying with their own flesh, or that of others. A fat man had a naked girl sitting on each of his kneading hands, while a third girl-child tied pretty ribbons around his cock, and anointed it with honey.
A matron wore a wooden cock strapped before her, and an ivory one behind. Each artificial phallus was embedded in the flesh of a stooping man. With erotic efficiency, the woman buggered tliem both at once.
An obese woman with a bloated and blank face lay on her back, naked from her belarded waist up, while a Styxian slave beat gently on her enormous lolling breasts with a small whisk.
Another woman, tall as a man but slender as a wand and almost breastless, lifted herself up from her seat, and placed upon it a studded cone of gold, encrusted with opals. She sat down again, impaling herself, with no sign either of discomfort or of joy.
A man with an intricate pattern of tiny rubies set into the skin on the underside of his cock was plucking hairs from a woman's pubic mound, one by one, with a pair of silver tweezers. She, in turn, held a phallic candle's flame to the heavy gold ring that pierced her left nipple. Beside her, a naked slave with his cock in a jewelled cage held a bowl of crushed ice ready.
A woman with silver hair and pink eyes was smearing butter on a white mouse.
A dwarf with the sexual attributes of both male and female was ...
In the madness of her frenzy, there was nothing that Rena saw being inflicted, that she would not happily have meted out. There was nothing that was being endured, that she would not have eagerly submitted to.
The sucking and slapping sounds; the occasional squeal or grunt; they were music to Rena. The sights of jaded, casual debauchery were works of the greatest art. No flower exuded a perfume so fragrant as the scents of male and female spending, or of lust-engendered perspiration.
If Rena had suffered before alone, her suffering was now multiplied tenfold.
Queen Vixia, in a raised box, snapped her regal fingers. Pudgy hands fumbled at Rena's wrists, elbows, and waist. The binding ropes loosened, and fell.
Rena lunged to the side, reaching out to grab flesh, any flesh, be it ever so vile, but the eunuchs skipped backwards, and were gone.
Her legs were still lashed to the upright posts. Rena hooked one hand into the moistness of her own core as she dropped to a knee, and reached with the other hand to unloose the knots. They were too intricate for just five fingers. Sobbing with frustration, Rena forsook her small pleasure, and used two hands. With one ankle released, she could at least turn her body and tuck the freed foot beneath her. As she fumbled at silken cord, Rena rocked, grinding her pubes down on the blessed hardness of her own heel.
The Insatiable snapped her fingers a second time. A door of bars at the other side of the arena grated open.
A man - a large naked man - ululating lust -bounded out from a cage and raced towards Rena, preceded by the wagging urgency of his erect cock.
Rena snatched the silk away from her ankle. She was sure that the man meant to have her, but she dared take no chance. As he reached out for her, she tripped him with a long scything sweep of her leg. He tumbled, rolled, and, as he was upon his back, struggling to sit up, Rena pounced.
Squatting astride his hips, she thumped down on his chest with both her fists, flattening him again. Her hands wrapped his cock. Her hips dipped. She guided. The massive glistening bulb nudged, lodged, was encupped by labia, and then ...
An instinct that Rena had not known she had, took over her body. She became an erotic statue. Only one part of her body moved - that which held her soul's desiring. Her coynte lips fluttered. The muscles of her lesser labia twitched, and gripped. The smooth-skin-ned funnel which led to the greater constriction of her vaginal walls, clamped. Then every muscle in Rena's abdomen and pelvis began a pulsating erotic saraband.
The Guard had but started his penetration, and was already in a transport of delicious sensation. He lay still, not daring even to twitch, lest the slightest movement dislodge the divine juxtaposition that seemed to be sucking his very soul up through the hollow core of his cock.
He endured it for ten heartbeats. Even in the paroxysm of his climax, he did not move. He lay, belly ridged with tension, and stared open-mouthed as his foam spilled out from the inverted cup of Rena's sex.
Rena dipped once, shocking his cock deep into her own body, slapping the sopping lips of her sex against his groin, and elevated herself again.
It began over again.
Had he not tasted the essence of the pollen, his erection would have retreated, defeated; but it remained, rock-hard, pulsing with an inner life, and endured ecstasy.
A purple dot - as tiny as the eye of an ant, that joined a curlicue and a pentagram that had been inscribed inside Rena on the less-smooth skin of coynte-wall, where the channel passed behind her pubic bone - smudged.
Vixia snapped her fingers.
Another cage opened.
A second naked Guard bounded out.
Rena glanced back over her shoulder and grinned like a vixen in heat. She impaled herself a fraction deeper onto the cock beneath her, ensuring that her coynte's grip was more secure, and tilted herself forward, elevating her peach-cleft rump.
Hot breath panted upon her spine. Fumbling fingers found the soft fissure between her buttocks, and crude male thumbs spread her. Satin heat, hard as stone, nudged at the clamped vestibule to her most intimate passage.
Rena opened up to the welcome invader, and rocked back. The man grunted his shock, reached out to grasp Rena's hips and drag himself into her, and paused. There was no need for further impalement. The mouth of her rectum was working on him. It mumbled his flesh, drew it in, ejected it, and drew it back again. Pulsations rippled around Rena's anus. Throbbing travelled the length of her rectum. Her rim spasmed; muscles clenched, and relaxed. The rubbery channel flexed, warped, worked left and right, up and down, and rotated.
The second Guard's first orgasm came at the same time as the first Guard's second one. Rena hissed with the pleasure of her twofold anointing.
A streak of violet ink, deep within Rena's rectum, ran.
Vixia snapped her fingers twice.
Still spitted front and rear, Rena reached out left and right. Each slender hand wrapped a burning staff of flesh. Rena twisted her body; her head dipped; her mouth stretched open wide and a glistening glans was engulfed. As Rena's right hand held firm to the cock she was slurping, her left pumped.
In the audience, a man moved a girl's thigh to one side, that his view of Rena's performance not be blocked.
Vixia snapped her fingers.
Rena jerked her hips. Forwards brought agonised gasps from the man she was riding. Backwards brought squeals from the Guard whose cock was reaming her rectum. She relinquished her suction on the cock in her right fist, and dragged it down to butt against her breast. Her torso twitched, aligning nipple with eye of cock. And on the left also. Nipples stabbed, and the fifth man reached Rena.
Her mouth was ready.
The girl whose thigh had been pushed aside, turned her head to see what her companion was studying so intently.
The sixth Guard was freed just as Rena's first Guard's cock flopped out from Rena's body, limp. The exhausted man wriggled backwards, extracting himself from the tangle. A quiver of desire still urged him. Had he been female, he could have endured more, but a jug can only pour until it is empty.
The sixth Guard took the place of the first. The cock in Rena's right hand fountained between her fingers and splattered her breast. The bugger behind Rena tumbled backwards, lay panting for a moment, and then clambered to all-fours and crawled towards her.
With each thrust, the man using Rena's mouth eroded the pattern behind her lip.
In the audience, a woman made a kissing sound in Rena's direction. The man whose rectum she was toying with followed suit. A third debauchee joined in.
Rena crouched, a thrusting cock caught in the fold behind each of her knees. Her mouth was a gentle cup, upturned, holding a Guard's hairy scrotum. Her tongue was, for once, stilled. It lay under man-flesh, curious and alert, awaiting the subtle constriction that would signal the birthing of a new gush of male cream. Rena's eyes were fixed on a maroon plum, in adoration. The fingers of her left hand stroked slowly, but with a quivering, restrained urgency. The movement of her right hand was, in contrast, frantic. She flicked her fingers across the head of her clit in an erotic blur. Rena's capacity was infinite. Her spending flowed again and again, until the man whose face she squatted was close to drowning.
The orgiastic knot, with Rena at its centre, collapsed. Rena stood up first, stooped into the tangle, and dragged two men up by their cocks.
The occupants of three ranks of benches all ceased their groping. Sibilant lips said, 'Kiss', pause, 'Kiss', pause, 'Kiss'.
With her heels hooked over the bar of the wooden frame, Rena was standing on her hands. A kneeling giant was fucking her face and lapping into her pussy. A second man had two fingers in Rena's rectum, pumping. Each pump erased a dot of jasmine ink.
The hiss of kissing noises grew louder.
The kneeling man fell back, and was replaced. Rena unhooked herself, and formed her body into a wrestler's bridge. Male tongues licked her. Fingers probed. Jism splattered her body and rinsed away minute traces of exotic dyes.
Of the six Imperial Guards, four serviced Rena, while two recovered. Then it was three and three. The men who worked Rena's body changed places, but the periods of rest became longer, and longer.
Half of the courtiers were applauding with their blown kisses. Rena, the tattooed pattern now broken in a dozen places, began to return to her senses.
Two men thrust. Four lay still.
Rena became demanding. One stalwart walked circles, with Rena's legs binding his hips. With Rena's core beating at him. Two Guards hung from the crossbar by their hands, Rena supported between them by her double impalement.
One man, too weary to move, but standing, lolled against the frame as Rena pumped and sucked. When he finally jerked, a single drop of clear fluid leaked out from the eye of his glans, and he slumped to the floor.
Rena wandered among the stuporous bodies. Her toe prodded a thigh. She stooped, and lifted a limp cock up between her fingers before letting it flop down again. She squatted on a supine man's face, and ground her pubes against his mouth. He snorted, but didn't stir.
The entire audience was insisting. The rhythmic sound of lip on lip filled the hall.
Queen Vixia frowned. Sympathy - or even worse, open admiration - for her victims, was not to be encouraged.
A page came and stood before Vixia. She bent her head to receive his message, and nodded.
'Very well,' she said, straightening. 'Let her go.' She paused, smiled, and added. 'By the passage that leads by the cages.'
Vixia was content with that. She would return to complete Rena's torments after she had received her Five's report. Rena - free or no - wasn't going anywhere. The passage by which Rena would be allowed to leave, was lined with caged and sex-starved men.
Under the influence of the Frenzy, Rena wouldn't get past the first one.
Chapter Ten
The Five shared one steaming bath. The oiled and aromatic water was nipple-deep on Raven but below the breasts of her taller, and senior, companions.
The bathing chamber that formed an anteroom to Queen Vixia's receiving hall, held a dozen such baths, each one large enough to accommodate ten or fifteen bathers at a time. Between the steamy vats stood life-sized statuary, some in classical poses and some in the blatant erotic style that Vixia had introduced. The latter were often formed from alabaster or painted in flesh tones, so that an observer might be unsure whether a figure was formed of hard unfeeling stone, or soft warm flesh that was momentarily at rest. It was whispered that some of the more lifelike pieces had been living souls, who had either angered Vixia by their actions, or so pleased her eye that she had decided to preserve their beauty forever.
In a chamber that was lit by flickering candles, and eternally fogged with multi-coloured steams, it was easy for an eye to be deceived.
'Cleanse yourselves thoroughly,' R'rleeh commanded, 'within as well as without. Her Majesty is most fastidious.'
Raven selected a loofah from the pile at the edge of the bath. Her hand trembled as she scrubbed herself. The thought of Queen Vixia inspecting her for cleanliness ... R'rleeh had said 'inside', hadn't she? Did that mean that the Queen might .. ?
The thought was thrilling, and terrifying. To please the Insatiable - that would be an honour beyond honour. To fail to please her ...
Raven shivered, and scrubbed the harder.
'Like this, little one,' Suisuma told her, not unkindly. Ever since the goatherd, and Raven's scream, Suisuma had treated Raven almost as an equal. Now the plump little assassin took Raven's loofah from her hand and held it up. 'You see how like a fine fat cock it is shaped?' Suisuma asked. 'Sit yourself on the edge, and open yourself up to me. I'll see to your internal cleansing for you. When you are done, and properly instructed in the use of this fine instrument, then you may attend to me.'
Raven obeyed, feeling proud. As the most junior of the Five it had been her duty on many occasions to attend to her sisters' pleasures, with finger and tongue or with intricately carved ivory or ebony, but never before had one of them seen fit to honour her in this manner. Perched on the marble edge, she spread her slender thighs to their widest, to give sweet Suisuma ease of access.
'Lie back, and enjoy,' Suisuma commanded.
Raven lay supine, hands linked behind her sleek head, and looked around the fantastical room, leaving her pleasure in Suisuma's tender care. As one who had served so often, it was pleasant to just lie there, and let the sensations soak in. There was a rough prickling pressed against the tender insides of her thighs. Raven felt strong but gentle fingers part the fleshy lips of her coynte. Harsh corrugations nudged the slickness that funnelled from Raven's spread lips to the more constrained channel within.
'Yes!' Suisuma grunted. 'Yield, Raven. Let it in.'
Raven willed the constrictor muscles that lined her vagina to slacken. Like a thousand little fingers, the bristly cylinder squirmed and rotated, and a fraction at the time, impelled by Suisuma's mischievous fingers, crept higher and higher, deeper and deeper.
Raven sighed. Her eyes hooded with pleasure. Suisuma was feeding her coynte with more of the tingly, scratchy yet tickling, teasing and - and she was full with it. Flexible as it was, it conformed to the shape it entered. It felt to Raven that every surface, every intimate internal convolution, every intricacy of her internal passage, was being gently but firmly brushed by a thousand tiny ridges.
And then Suisuma started to rotate it.
Raven jerked. The muscles in her firm flat belly twitched.
'Keep perfectly still,' Suisuma ordered, 'or I'll stop.'
Raven held herself rigid. Since the goatherd, the only pleasure that her body had enjoyed had been the caress of her own nimble fingers. Much as she'd savoured each night's release, self-love never satisfied her the way that she really craved. For Raven, lust was communion.
The coarse caresser withdrew by perhaps the length of a fingerjoint, and was crammed back up, and twisted one way, and the other; squirming and worming and scouring soft secret surfaces that had never before been touched. Raven strained her thighs yet further apart, inviting Suisuma to use her, use her, use her ...
Her head tossed and turned in erotic delirium. She pressed her cheek against cool hard tiles and gritted her teeth against the overwhelming pleasures. Her eyes focused, lost focus, and focused again. Across the steamy chamber, the attendants waited with soft drying cloths in their hands. Naked they were, and golden skinned. Each perfectly formed but diminutive female would stand no taller next to Raven than her nipples. Slaves from Tibia, slant-eyed and pointy-eared, they were valued by the debauched and the perverse nobility of Vixania beyond ten times their weight in pearls. It was extravagance indeed to use such living treasures as mere bath attendants.
Tiblan females were prized for two physical virtues: they were eternally virgin; their tiny maidenheads always healed within a day of their sundering, and their tongues were unnaturally long and prehensile. A well-trained Tiblan was said to be able to perform deep fellatio and even deeper analingus at the same time.
Beyond the attendants stood perhaps the most beautiful piece of statuary that Raven had ever seen: a naked girl-child, of perhaps a dozen summers, sat beside a small pool, peering down into the mirror-waters. The child's hair was a cascade of golden curls, tied up in a fillet woven from wildflowers. Bracelets of the same floral delicacy encircled one wrist and one slender ankle. Slight of form, and on the cusp of puberty, the maiden's breasts were just promises, her hips subtle hints of blossom yet to come. The artist had coloured his work with a master's hand; even to subtle differences in the shades of the delicate pinks that tinted nipple and lip.
Raven felt it the most delicious of perversions, to gaze upon such chastity, such innocence, even as Suisuma was folding that wicked scourge up at its base, so that the heel of her hand could press coarseness against the exposed head of Raven's throbbing clit, and g-r-i-n-d ...
And the statue moved. It unfolded its lithe young legs and stood up. In a voice like the tinkling of crystal bells, heard over a wide expanse of water through a dense fog, it said, 'No!'
Raven's first thought was, I could do that voice. Her second was, No, Suisuma! Don't stop!
But Suisuma did.
'No, Suisuma,' Raven begged. 'Take no notice of the child. Rub me more! Rub me harder! I'm almost...'
'Child?' Suisuma interrupted. 'That "child" has been unchanged since the day our Queen brought her here, fifteen years ago. No one knows the true age of that "child". Some say twenty-five years, and others claim twenty-five centuries. Whatever her age, she is to be obeyed. She is Mistress of the Bath, and a favourite of our beloved Queen.'
The child-woman sauntered across the chamber towards Raven, sucking her thumb and swinging immature hips like a sulky girl-brat. Pausing at Raven's head, she extended a foot over Raven's body and flicked at a quivering nipple with her toe.
'Naughty!' she said. 'Play is allowed, but no climaxes. Is that clear? Order of Her Majesty.'
Raven just stared up in fascination at the hairless little mound, barely creased by the suggestion of a pucker.
Suisuma said, 'Our apologies, Mistress of the Bath. We are new come, and knew not.'
The unnatural child pinched Raven's nipple between her toes, and said, 'No matter. There is no more time. Come, all of you. It is the time for your audience with Her Majesty.'
All five were patted dry with soft cloths, and each was dressed in the garments prescribed by ceremony, according to her rank.
R'rleeh, as the senior, wore a ground-brushing skirt of transparent white gauze, cinched by a golden belt about her ebony hips, a handspan below her shadowed navel. Nephenie, Suisuma and Arachne each wore identical kirtles of fine lawn, belted by silver chain, that covered them from their waists to the mid-points of their thighs. Raven, as a mere novitiate, was left naked.
The Mistress of the Bath instructed the Five as she led them to Vixia's chamber.
'You do as you are told, no more and no less. If she touches you, you hold still unless she bids you move. If there is pain, you may cry tears, but no squealing. Anything she tells you to do, you do it, and you enjoy doing it. Is that clear?'
And then they were in the Presence.
Queen Vixia the Insatiable lay upon a black couch, naked except for her high boots and a viciously spiked choker.
'R'rleeh,' she greeted, 'are your lovely breasts still as sweetly poisonous as when I enchanted them?'
R'rleeh made obeisance and said, 'Yes, Your Majesty, my milk still runs black, and is as potent as ever.'
'And how many victims, since last we met?'
'But three, Your Majesty. Two males and a female.'
'Only three? My dear, you must not neglect your gifts. Promise me now, promise to suckle a dozen more before the year is out.'
'And my duties for Your Majesty permit, I promise.'
'Well said. Now, child, show me how well they yield.'
R'rleeh took a step closer. Taking her left breast in both of her hands, she kneaded it, squeezing the flesh inwards towards the proud pout of a purple-black nipple. Strong fingers worked at the rubbery spike, milking it, until a single inky droplet oozed forth from its tip, and hung quivering.
The Queen leaned forwards and lapped out with her tongue, scooping the dewdrop of purest poison into her mouth.
Raven held her breath. She had seen what that terrible liquid could do, even to a strong man.
But the Queen licked her lips, and smiled. 'Yes, R'rleeh, as potent as ever. How nice, that agony should come in such shapely vessels. And Suisuma's lusty thighs, of course, and Arachne, with her lovely scarves, and Nephenie's pretty talons. You really are a delight to me, all of you, my dears. You are a credit to Our Lord Havoc, delightful, delicate, and deadly. And you, my child, Raven? How go your exercises? How soon will you sing terror and madness?'
Raven was about to boast of achieving her Note of Chaos, just that once, but she felt a nip at her naked haunch from Suisuma's fingers, and said instead, 'I feel I am close, Your Majesty, very close.' Which was almost the truth.
'And the mission,' Vixia continued. 'Report, R'rleeh.'
When R'rleeh had finished, Vixia asked, 'And this goatherd? Could he have been the one? One of the Four that we seek?'
R'rleeh confessed, 'I know not, Your Majesty. I saw him not. Believing him to be of no import, I sent Suisuma and Raven to distract him, while I questioned the Hermit.'
Vixia turned her gaze on Suisuma. 'You slew him, did you? He is truly dead?'
Suisuma stammered, 'I - I believe so, Your Majesty/
'You believe?'
'Y-Your Majesty, it was in this wise. I had the boy in my thighs' grip and was about to squeeze. At that point - it is unclear, Your Majesty. Mayhap the power of my climax dazed me at the moment that I applied the ultimate pressure, for I know that I did faint. My sister in Havoc - young Raven - she did tumble me into a stream, to revive me, and told me that the boy was dead, but I saw not his cold corpse with mine own eye.'
'Raven!' Vixia demanded.
Raven, fearing that her life was in peril, prepared to lie, and opened her mouth intending to say, 'his head was crushed, My Queen,' but Vixia was caressing the giant emerald that she was wearing on the smallest finger of her left hand. In its baleful green glow, Raven listened in terror as her mouth said, 'I took pity on the lad, because he was comely, and tricked Suisuma into leaving him alive.'
Suisuma, Arachne, Nephenie and R'rleeh all shrank away from Raven, leaving her alone before the wrath of the Queen.
Vixia sat very still. Eventually she purred, 'I have been frustrated the once, this day. One who should have died of a surfeit of passion survived, that I might find her another fate, mayhap less pleasant, tomorrow. But I will see a girl die today, Raven my sweet. I will see a heart burst from ecstasy, or a spine crack from the convulsions of unbearable lust. You Raven. You will sate my need for sport, in Havoc's name. Before the next day dawns, you will scream out your last scream from a throat already raw with crying out your devastating raptures. You will sunder your own sinews, in the paroxysms of your pleasure. You will rupture your own organs, and heed them not, in your erotic delirium. Come, Raven. Come, all. Let us to your happy doom!'
Raven made no attempt to struggle or to flee. She knew the powers of her companions, and guessed that the Queen's own strengths woultf make theirs as of babes. She resigned herself to her fate. If she was to die, at least it would be from pleasure. If she were to attempt escape, her fate could only be worse.
The room into which Vixia led them was sumptuously draped with canopies and tapestries. There were cushions scattered over silken carpets, and luxurious sofas against each wall. The chamber's dire purpose was betrayed by just one piece of furniture. In the exact centre stood a great square slab of wood. It was taller and wider than the tallest of the Queen's Guards. The baulk was supported by an axle that passed behind it at half its height, so that its elevation and angle could be varied at the spin of a wheel. The whole of the wooden table was slotted, horizontally and vertically. A plain chest stood to each side. One drawer bore a pile of leather straps, both broad and narrow, and the other carried an assortment of jars and flasks.
'Your arms,' Vixia demanded.
Raven held out her hands. The Queen wrapped her victim's wrists round and round with a soft leather strap, to which was riveted a strong iron hook.
'Hands above your head.'
The hook was fitted into a hole near the top of the slab. Under Vixia's direction, the four remaining of the Five adjusted the bed of torture until it leaned back at an angle of forty-five degrees, and lifted Raven's small and delicate feet off the floor. Hanging from her arms, even partly supported by the hard slope, Raven felt the tendons in her shoulders begin to ache, but tried to ignore the discomfort. She knew that this small pain was the least of the tribulations to which she was shortly to be subjected.
'Her ankles,' Vixia commanded.
Arachne took the left. Nephenie took the right. Each was a sylph, but stronger than most men. Under Vixia's direction, they pulled, elongating their victim.
Raven bit her lip, but a single small groan escaped her throat. Just when it felt that her shoulders must part, Vixia signalled a halt. A broad strap was wrapped low around Raven's waist, so that the leather's lower edge bit into the flare of her hips. The belt passed through two vertical slots that bracketed her body's slenderness, and buckled on the underside of the slab.
Raven was held, immobile from fingertips to hips, stretched and extended and clamped. Despite her peril, Raven felt a perverse thrill. Elongated as her upper torso was, the tension lifted her breasts, pointing her nipples to an even higher angle than their natural pertness achieved. Raven doted on the flickering of tongue or finger on those sensitive nubs. Surely - exposed and helpless as she was, one of her tormentors at least would be moved to ...
But they hadn't released her ankles. They were drawing them apart. Soon they were spread as widely as if they embraced the hips of a large and demanding lover. And wider! And wider yet! The angle between Raven's thighs grew. The tendons that ran the insides of those slender columns became taut, and stood proud, and just as Raven thought that they must sunder with the twang of snapping harp strings, Vixia signalled a halt.
Fresh straps were passed through the slab, over Raven's ankles, and were buckled.
Raven was fixed. Her body was an inverted T\ strapped immobile, strung tighter than the string of any marksman's bow. She was a living instrument, awaiting the maestro who would pluck from her body the erotic symphony whose ascending cadences would lead to one final cataclysmic crescendo: an orgasm so intense that it would wrench her very soul from its fleshy envelope and fling it, still screaming its joy, into the great unknown.
Trembling, balanced on the cusp between terror and ecstasy, Raven waited.
A taloned finger tapped Raven's pubic mound, and smoothed, thoughtfully.
To shave her first, or .. ?' Queen Vixia mused. 'No - it should prove amusing ... Suisuma!'
'Yes, Your Majesty?'
Two more straps. Here, and here. I want her core to be totally immobile. She must not be able to so much as twitch. You understand?'
Raven could feel the Queen's fingernail indicating where next she was to be bound. Its point barely touched Raven's skin, and yet it left lines of fire, one encircling each thigh, high, next to her groin.
The buckles were drawn tight, and then tighter. Raven felt her buttocks flatten against wood as the straps drew her body harder and harder against that unfeeling surface.
In the fishing villages to the north, they prepare fish for smoking or drying by slitting them open, and pinning their splayed bodies to the walls of shacks with thorns. At that moment Raven felt that her body was a fish, split and splayed and pinned. The delicate slit of her coynte was well-spread by the stretching.
She knew that without seeing it. Raven could feel the movement of air on inner lips, and even higher. A breeze thrilled Raven to her very quick, where Suisuma's loofah had scoured tenderness into acute sensitivity.
Raven quivered and braced herself for whatever might come next, but it seemed that they had quite forgotten her.
There were noises, above and behind, of metal on glass, and wood on wood, and a sliding, and Raven heard murmuring, even though she could not make out the words. Pinioned as she was, Raven could barely turn her head without increasing the strain on her shoulders, and all of the movements were beyond the narrow range that her eyes could scan.
'You'll find this interesting,' Vixia said at last. 'A volunteer for a demonstration? There will be no pain, I assure you.'
Nephenie said, 'Me, Your Majesty.'
'Excellent. Hold out your arm. Dear little Raven should see this.'
Nephenie held out an arm, so white it was almost translucent, across Raven's tilted body. Vixia had a crystal flask in her hand. It was full of some fluid, pale blue, or even violet, and it glittered. The flask was fitted with a nozzle, and a soft bulb.
'The back of your hand, I think,' Vixia said. She squeezed the bulb. A fine mist sprayed from the nozzle, and settled on the back of Nephenie's hand.
'This potion,' Vixia explained, 'is the essence of pure sensation. It will soak into your skin, Nephenie. Once it dries, your skin will be rendered tenfold as sensitive as it was before. Hold still, and I will show you.'
Vixia reached sideways and plucked a crimson hair from Arachne's head. Holding Nephenie's wrist steady, she drew the single strand slowly across the back of the albino's hand.
The girl grunted and buckled at her knees.
'Now wasn't that nice?' the Queen gloated. 'Here, take the hair and amuse yourself.' She turned to the other three. 'You see? Your pale friend will be helpless until the essence wears off. The slightest touch on her hand will thrill her to her core. Watch! You see how she convulses? I'd wager my weight in rubies that she climaxes a dozen times before the power is dissipated. And that is from a single spray - on the back of her hand. Raven, on the other hand, will receive the same benefit, from here ...' A scarlet claw touched Raven's chin. '... to here ...' A finger touched the tip of Raven's left great toe. '... to here ...' The right foot. '... not forgetting ...' Both of Raven's nipples were tweaked at once. '... or, of course ...' One finger traced the length of Raven's clitoral ridge, circled lazily around the straining and distorted gape of her coynte lips, and finally plunged into the moist depths that those lips so ineffectually guarded.
'Once the essence takes effect,' the Queen continued, 'a mere breeze will be enough to wrack her body with lusty pleasure. A gentle caress will bring convulsive ecstasy. What we are going to do, my sweetlings, is to spray her from head to foot, inside and out. Arachne - you will then be most gentle, as you shave the fine down off from her mound. This alone should be enough to drive her insane with desire, but at the same time, my little ones, you, R'rleeh, and you, Suisuma, will each be stroking her poor tortured body with the finest of feathers. I have wands, covered in thick-piled velvet, with which we will caress her. You will let the tips of your tongues lick, my wicked darlings, into each intimate crease. Your lips will purse, and suck on those hard pink nipples of hers, drawing each pointy morsel into your mouths. Finally - when she will feel that there is no greater joy in all of creation, at that moment will I plunge her depths with this.' And she held up, for all to see, a dildo, the horn of a unicorn, that was carved from base to tip with intricate engravings depicting all manner of perversity.
Raven swallowed hard. The phallus was as long, and as round, as her own forearm. The knob that had been fitted to the tapering twisted spike, was as round as her clenched fist. Had she been free, and had that monster been available to her, she might have played with it, introducing it to her body a small fraction at a time, until eventually she might have trained herself to accept perhaps a half of its massive length. To have it rudely rammed into her softest flesh? It would be agony - an agony of ecstasy.
Vixia squeezed the bulb. A fine violet mist drifted down, and settled on the bare flesh of Raven's quivering belly. Her skin cringed in anticipation, became warm, and began to tingle. Raven's torture by pleasure had begun.
Pasnar, Seneschal to the Witch Queen, hurried towards the Queen's private chambers by way of devious corridors. The Insatiable would not be pleased by the news that he bore. Rena, Vixia's chosen victim for the day, was gone. It was beyond understanding. The girl had to be bewitched. Pasnar himself had seen the evidence of the Runes of Frenzy on the girl. The youngster had battled six strong men, in the arena of lust, and defeated them all. If proof were needed of the power of the Rune-writers' art, that was surely evidence enough.
And yet - somehow - by some miraculous means, Rena had broken free of the maddening lusts, and left behind her a dozen or more inflamed and naked males, to escape.
Queen Vixia would not be pleased.
A hundred paces from the Queen's quarters, and but two turns of the corridor before he would enter them, Pasnar paused. How should he say it? 'Your Majesty, the Rune-writers have failed you, and ...' No. Perhaps - 'Your Most Awesome and Vicious Majesty, there has been a miracle .. ?' No. That wouldn't do. Perhaps ...
And then he heard the moan. Moan? What manner of moan echoed so loud so far? What moan warbled, and ululated, and ascended the scale, higher and yet higher, and was then joined by a twin diapason, that played counterpoint, and was itself joined by a third and shriller ...
By The White Lodge! It was the Note of Chaos! Pasnar pulled up his robes above his head and wrapped his ears tight. With his robes so high, his loins were left exposed. The iron shaft which had once been his cock, wagged naked. The corridor echoed, and throbbed, and ...
His metal penis tingled!
For the very first time since that dread day when Vixia had enchanted his flesh, he felt sensation. Pasnar fell to his knees, heedless of the danger that assailed his ears.
And the Note stopped. His cock became numb again.
Scrambling to his feet, Pasnar scurried in the direction from which the divine sound had come, and into the Chamber.
His Queen lay sprawled upon the floor. Four other women lay there also, equally senseless. The one strapped so cruelly to the wooden slab - the one from whose throat that blessed sound must have come, hung in her leather bonds and groaned.
Pasnar didn't hesitate. Some things are worth risking death for. He picked up the Queen's flask of essence and sprayed all four of the torturers with it, liberally. With all sensation multiplied, they would be incapable of reasoned action until the effect abated.
Pasnar unbuckled Raven's limp and sweat-sodden form, and heaved her over his shoulder. If he were fortunate, he had perhaps half a watch in which to spirit her to safety.
Chapter Eleven
Leiala slotted the long slender fingers of her left hand through the handles of six mugs of beer, and the fingers of her right hand through the handles of five mugs of wine.
'Good girl,' Mahia told her. 'Get those to them souses in the corner and I'll be able to manage just fine. You'd better get yourself off to the ridge over Jackrabbit Trail.'
'He's .. ?'
'Yes. He left a while back. It being market day, he might be in luck. There's usually one or two from Vixania's Border Guard as sneaks over on market day. Best take the knife.'
Til try to distract him - and mayhap there'll be none passing that way.'
'Go distract, but remember, if he does catch himself another Vixanian guide, he'll be gone from under our roof, unless ...'
'I know, mother. Unless ...' And she drew her thumb across her throat.
Leiala was not displeased to be toiling up the long grassy slope on a clear Spring noon. Despite her mother's fears, Leiala doubted Brod would snare a Vixanian. Lying in long grass with the sun beating down, the chances were that the young giant would be dozing already. With two saucy wenches sharing his bed all through the night, he'd be ripe for a daytime nap. If he was asleep, Leiala had ways to wake him. Sharing Brod with her mother was a thousand times better than sleeping solitary, but Leiala had a strong yen for time alone with him. He had the strength to pleasure two women till they both fell exhausted, as he'd proved time and again, but just for once Leiala would like to put her hand to his flesh knowing that there wouldn't be another's caressing fingers there already. It would be nice to see that rich cream spurting up out of him, just once, and to know that it was her efforts, and hers alone, that had called forth the male miracle.
And there he was. Brod was on his hands and knees, arse high, shoulders low, head between clumps of thick grass, peering down the other side.
Leiala touched the back of his thigh. 'Brod?'
'Shhh. Make no sound. I have a feeling - today will be the day. At any moment some foolish Vixanian will tramp the trail below, and I will swoop down on him like a hawk.'
'I will be a mouse,' Leiala promised, and scurried her fingers, mouselike, up the back of Brod's bare thigh from the hollow of his bent knee to the very hem of a loincloth that seemed to have shrunk of late.
Brod twitched his buttock, like a stallion flexing away a fly. 'Hush, girl!'
Leiala gave him a mixed 'shhh' and spluttering giggle. 'I'll not make a sound,' she said, 'and be you quiet also, my brave hunter. Just keep your watch, in front, while I amuse myself with my own silent pleasures, back here.'
His thighs really were quite magnificent, and lying as he was, he was hers to use as she would. At first she contented herself by stroking the curly fuzz that coated the back of his legs, with the very tips of her fingers. Each slow caress brought answering tics and jerks, but Brod made no complaint. Mayhap his concentration on the trail below was so complete that he was not aware of Leiala's touch, but she doubted it. Why then would his knees move the further apart?
A tantalizing fingernail traced a line up the inside of one spread thigh, where there was no hair, and the skin was satin smooth over the marble hardness of braced muscle. Up high, up close to where his loincloth bulged down, there was a little hollow. Leiala scratched there, and when Brod seemed to push back a fraction, she stooped and blew gently onto sensitive skin.
Brod grunted, or was it a sigh?
Encouraged, Leiala's fingers found the knot that tied Brod's only garment, and eased it loose, looser, until it fell away, leaving his leonine loins naked.
Freed, his balls hung and swayed in their hairy wrinkled sack. His cock, however, did not hang at all. Leiala was reminded of a bough on the oak tree back in the village, which curved straight out from the trunk, and where all the village children sat and swung. The bark had been worn clean away by generations of squirmy young bottoms, leaving the wood polished smooth. Brod's cock looked just as smooth, and just as hard.
At its root, on the tubular bulge between dangling scrotum and anus, there was a brown mark, likely a birthmark. Leiala puffed a breath there, and grinned as the wrinkled skin on Brod's scrotum cringed in response. She plucked up a blade of grass, and tickled. Brod twitched, wagging his cock, swaying his balls, and knotting his anus.
So much reaction, from so gentle a touch!
She tickled some more, drawing the green blade from the vertical folds in the loose-skinned cradle of Brod's balls, across his birthmark, to the tight eye that peered from between the twin muscular bulges of his buttocks.
Brod's sphincter jerked, opening and closing like the blinking of a one-eyed drunk. Leiala poked with her stalk of grass, probing. Its tip was caught as Brod's ring knotted, and held like a dangling green tail.
Leiala sat back on her haunches and contemplated. She had new toys. How best to play with them?
She kneeled, and rested her cheek on Brod's buttock so that she might have two playful hands free. Her tongue lapped out, and found the base of Brod's spine. She licked so gently that Brod could not be sure whether Leiala was sweetly tormenting him, or whether he felt a bead of sweat roll. The fingers of one hand found the stem of grass and twirled it, tickling Brod within. Her other hand weighed his sac and smoothed it; she prickled at it with nail-tips.
Brod jerked, and arched his back.
Leiala grinned. She had the young lion close to purring. Her lower hand deserted the weighty purse that it was cupping, and tried the thickness of Brod's wagging staff. Its warm circumference was too great for the fingers of one hand to encircle, so she made a ring of two, and stroked long and slow, from Brod's cock's sturdy base to just beneath the bulge of its head. And stroke. And stroke.
Nor was her tongue idle. Leiala nuzzled her face deep between the cheeks of Brod's arse, until her probing tongue found a clenched knot, and persuaded it to loosen and give free access.
Leiala's fists pumped as the hot squirminess of her tongue slithered deeper and deeper. Brod groaned. Leiala pumped the faster, stabbed and squirmed the further. Her efforts made her pant. Steamy breath puffed down Brod's crack, and breezed between his legs in a humid airy caress.
There was a rumbling in Brod's chest. His legs stiffened. He grunted in a wordless language, common to all rutting men, and understood by all lewd women. Leiala mewed her answer into his rectum.
Beneath her thumbs' gentle pressure she felt an urgent throbbing. Yes. It was coming. He was close ... so close ... so very, very ...
Brod reared up. A strangled cry twisted out from his throat. Leiala snatched her face back, warped her body around Brod's upraised hips, swooped, and ... yesssssss.
Hot and thick, and creamy as milk squirting fresh from a young cow's teat, Brod blessed Leiala with the very essence of his manhood. She gaped her mouth wide, and clamped her lips over the ripe purple-plum source of snowy ambrosia, sucking and lapping and sucking some more - pulling the sweetness out of him with the working of her throat and her cheeks and her tongue, and swallowing and ...
There's one!' Brod cried.
For a moment Leiala didn't understand. Brod stood up, plucking his burning flesh away from her eager fingers and her thirsty mouth.
'It's a Vixanian,' he said.
'Damn,' Leiala muttered as she followed the bounding naked giant down the grassy slope. The place of ambush was different, and this was the first time that she'd been present when Brod had caught his prey, but her duty would be the same as before. Brod would hit the Vixanian, and that would render the poor man unconscious. Leiala would offer to nurse the captive. As soon as Brod turned away, Leiala would draw her knife out from the secret sheath that hung down her back. When Brod returned she would tell him the same story as she had told him, or her mother had told him, on four occasions before.
'Brod, my hero, you must learn to smite with a softer fist. This poor man has died. Oh well, tomorrow is another day. There'll be another along, for a certainty.'
Chapter Twelve
M'ree held the sponge in her two hands and filled it with warm ass's milk from the pail beside the couch.
With her very gentlest touch, she smoothed the sponge across the underslope of her poor charge's softly rounded belly. Blue-white milk ran, and pooled in a delta formed of slender thighs and plump pubes. M'ree wrung out her sponge, and soaked up the puddle.
Raven moaned.
M'ree dabbed gently at Raven's groin, and smoothed the sponge the length of one slender thigh.
Raven moaned once more.
'Hush - and be still,' M'ree admonished her. 'The Essence of Sensation is still on your skin, though less potent now. I will be gentle, but if you move I may perchance touch you in some place where the magic still lingers. You have dwelt in the land of lustful dreams for four days and nights now, and are weak from lack of sustenance. I would not have you slip away from me again, sweet Mistress Raven, for I am charged by my Master to restore you entire.'
'Four .. ?' Raven paused, and licked her lips. 'Four days? And how came I to be rescued from the Queen's chamber? And .. ?' Raven blinked her milk-soaked eyelids open. 'Oh! You are a slave, I see. Of the Tiblan people, are you not? But why are you .. ?'
M'ree recharged her sponge, and squeezed trickling milk between Raven's breasts. 'Be still, Mistress. One question at a time, and it please you. And excite yourself not, till I am done. Firstly, I know not how my Master came to rescue you, but save you he did. I am charged by him that I remove every last trace of the tormenting fluid from your skin.
'Before you ask me, I am instructed to keep his name privy from you, until he gives it to you himself. And yes I am a slave, and I am Tiblan. As for why I am as you see me, well, Mistress, it is as I am, and always have been. I would not be otherwise. My condition gives some small pleasure to mine Master's eye, and that contents me. Strictest obedience to my Master's slightest whim is my main delight. I feel little discomfort from my bondage, Mistress, and I manage such tasks as my Master sets me.'
'But... ?' Raven was overcome by pity. The Tiblan slave was fettered, from neck to ankle. A broad golden collar encircled her slender neck, wide enough to hold her chin high. A corselet, formed from the same heavy metal, was moulded to her torso. Its upper edge formed shallow cups in which her full-fleshed dark-nippled Tiblan breasts sat, like dishes of pudding, presented at table. The precious garment's lower extent came to a hand's breadth above M'ree's pubic mound. The gold had been cunningly formed to an exact replica of the body it enclosed, showing finely carved curves of delicately arched ribcage, and even the dimple of a gilt navel. It might almost have been a coat of golden paint, except that its waist was so much narrower than the girl's natural waist could have been. Tiblan females tend to largeness of breast and hip, divided by wandlike slenderness. M'ree was likely voluptuous even by Tiblan standards, even when unconstricted. The unnaturally strict cincture of her waist served to emphasize the overflowing bounty of her form above and below. Raven thought of the giraffe-necked women of M'butti, who dared not remove the rings that encircled their throats, for fear of their elongated necks breaking from the weight of their heads. In the same wise, this girl would also risk death, were she to remove the cinching corset that nipped her waist so cruelly that a man could have wrapped it between his palms and fingers.
A band of gold bound each of her thighs, just above her knees. Two more bands ringed her ankles, and another pair encircled her wrists. Each golden band was formed with rings attached at either side. To one who had been in Vixia's service, such as Raven, the function was obvious. At any moment, at the whim of her Master, M'ree could suffer the indignity and discomfort of having her wrists clipped up to each side of her neck; or be forced to double over and have her wrists and ankles manacled together; or her ankles could be fastened each to each; or her thighs could .. . Despite her pity, Raven could not help but wonder just how obedient this lush little slave might be. If she, Raven, were to command the girl to clip her right ankle to her left wrist, for instance, and her ...
'Your Master is not kind,' Raven remarked.
'Oh no! Think not so, Mistress. The restrictions on my limbs are against my temptation. You see, Mistress, my Master did not bind up my body in this manner. He found me so. Fearful lest I stray from his house, and be slain for sake of the metal that both compresses and preserves me, he had these extra fetters forged, to protect me from mine own foolishness. Unless I am put to task, I am kept enchained. He is the kindest of Masters, believe me, Mistress.'
'He found you - encased in gold?'
'So I am told, Mistress. While on a journey that took him through a high mountain pass, he found me. I was as you see me, encased and nipped tight in the most precious metal. Some poison was in me, and I knew not who or what I was. My Master has speculated that I, being Tiblan, was bought as a child to be raised as a bride for some barbaric mountain god. He has determined that only by being bound about my waist from childhood, could my proportions have been so narrowed without the constriction proving fatal. Mayhap it is a requirement of the ritual. As you know, Mistress, many sacrifices demand a virgin, and what better candidate than an eternal maiden of the Tiblans? How the sacrifice came to be interrupted, and what part the poison that crazed me played in the ritual, I know not, but my Master nursed me to my senses, and added my protective fetters, and now I am his forever.'
'You love your Master?'
'Dearly.'
'And tell me, M'ree, does your Master release your legs or fasten them close when he takes you to his couch? And which brings you the greater pleasure?'
M'ree cast down her eyes. 'Alas, Mistress, I have never enjoyed his favour. That has never happened. For reasons - for reasons that I am forbid to explain, my Master has never rended my maidenhead, nor used my body to his pleasure in any other manner. The special virtue of my Tiblan coynte, that my maidenhead heal no matter how often it be riven, has never been put to the proving.'
'But he plans my ravishment, does he not? He rescued me from Queen Vixia's clutches with lewd intent, surely? I mistrust a man who would render such service solely from the purity of his heart.'
'When you are ready for him, yes. You will be blessed to the duty of pleasuring my Master, if you are able.'
'A pretty conundrum,' Raven mused. 'Here you are, available and beautiful - eager to serve your Master's body - and he leaves you untouched. Me -who he knows not, and can have no affection for - he risks life and soul and more to save, and does so for the eventual use of my body. What means this? Why is my body the object of his greatest desire, and yet your body tempts him not? And why say you "if I am able"? Why should I not be able? Does your Master have special needs? I am not without carnal experience. But if your Master requires some exotic perversion beyond the ability of normal wench to perform, why does he not purchase him a holy whore, from out the Temple of Sloona? Explain, I beg, for I find this matter most perplexing.'
'I may not. Press me not, pretty Mistress. All will be made clear in due course, by my Master himself.'
'And when will that be?'
'When you are cleansed, Mistress. When the last trace of the Queen's Essence of Sensation is gone from your skin, and the rude touch of male fingers will no longer threaten your sanity, then he will come to you.'
'Then let us to it. Or is it done? I feel no special tenderness.'
M'ree drew the point of one fingernail down Raven's belly, from navel to mound. Raven doubled over, gasping and shivering.
'Some trace yet remains,' M'ree observed. 'Let me fetch you something to eat and drink, Mistress, and we will proceed.'
While Raven drank spiced wine and nibbled fruits preserved in honey, and the raw flesh of sea-urchins, M'ree explained to her the process that had already been performed while Raven had been out of her body.
On the first day, M'ree had bathed her in spirits of wine, and dried her by soaking up the spirits with the fresh opened insides of steaming loaves of bread. On the second day it had been warm olive oil that had washed Raven's body. She had been dried with tufts of thistle-cotton that had been warmed in dry ovens. On the third day it had been the juices of lemons and meriangs, combined five parts to eleven, and warmed to blood heat. The drying cloths had been woven from the chest hairs of snow tigers.
This is the prescription,' M'ree explained. The ritual of bathing away the Essence must be followed most strictly, else your very sanity would be forfeit.'
'And today I am washed in asses' milk? With what will I be dried then? The hair of winter stoats?'
M'ree smiled a secret smile. 'No, Mistress, nothing so exotic or precious. Mistress, the ritual of cleansing predicted that you would regain your senses on the fourth day, and you have. Are you also able to walk?'
'Walk?' Raven stood up and tottered a couple of steps. 'Why - now that I am fed, most certainly. Are we to journey far?'
'No, Mistress - just as far as another room. The next ritual is to take place in the sudorium. Heat is needful, that the essence that has entered into your pores be flushed out.'
'And not just my pores,' Raven mused. 'The Queen was most diligent in her application of the potion. She - ah - you see, M'ree, it is within me, also.'
'Indeed it is, Mistress,' M'ree giggled. 'Deep within. Have I not flushed your private parts a dozen times a day, for the cleansing thereof?'
'Oh!' Raven blushed. M'ree was not the first to make close inspection of Raven's coynte, within or without, but she was the first to perform so intimate a ritual upon it, and all without Raven's knowledge. Somehow - that it happened uninvited, unlet and while Raven slept, it seemed to be a more intimate invasion. Raven knew not whether the idea pleased her or no. Had she been a bound captive, and forced to suffer douche after douche with exotic fluids, then she doubted not that the experience would have been pleasurable indeed. The sensations would doubtless have been enjoyable, but the main part of the pleasure would have been in feeling the lust that her debasement roused in her tormentors. M'ree had performed these intimate services whilst Raven slept. Had the girl been roused by her tasks, or had she felt no more than if she had been at the cleansing of some mere object?
Well, Raven was aware now. She'd soon determine whether or no M'ree found her desirable.
'And will this "sudorium" be hot enough to sweat the Essence out from my very depths?' Raven asked.
'Likely not, but other measures are prescribed. If you can walk, Mistress, follow me.'
The sudorium was lined with aromatic woods, and filled with steam that rose from invisible sources. In the centre, a peculiar bench stood atilt.
'Let me help you onto the bench,' M'ree offered. 'You must lie with your feet up, buckled by your ankles, Mistress.'
'And straps below for my wrists, I see,' Raven observed. 'Is this truly for my well-being, M'ree, or some device of torture?'
M'ree smiled. 'The two are not exclusive, Mistress. In the course of removing the Essence, its power may well be invoked. My Mistress is a lusty bawd, if I may make so bold, and in her writhing may well do herself some injury, if not restrained.'
'A lusty bawd, am I? And how come you to this intelligence?'
'Have I not nursed you, through almost four days and nights? And did the Essence not inspire your dreams? Your lusty nature can be no secret, Mistress, to one who has witnessed the fervent bucking of your slender hips and the ardent sucking of your sweet mouth. And when it was my duty to cleanse your dainty little coynte, did you not seek, though unconscious, to rape my poor hardworking fingers, even unto my wrists?'
'Hardworking fingers?' Raven grinned. 'It seems that the work was not without its compensation, M'ree. Tell me truthfully, was there not some degree of pleasure in your chores?'
'The degree of my pleasure, Mistress Raven, will soon be easily seen, if you will mount the table?'
Raven eased herself onto the hard wood. Vixia had applied the Essence only to the front of Raven's body, so there was no special pleasure or pain from the contact.
'Your legs?' M'ree reminded.
Raven swung herself around on her butt and lay back. M'ree lifted up her ankles to the waiting straps.
'I am to be constrained with my legs well spread,' Raven observed wryly.
'I must have access, if I am to cure you.'
'With what tools, may I ask?'
M'ree pulled tight the strap that held Raven's right wrist straight out from her body. 'It will be a gentle cleansing,' M'ree assured. 'Deep and thorough, but gentle.'
'Then to it,' Raven commanded.
M'ree pulled a narrow tube down from the ceiling.
'What's that?' Raven asked.
'There is a vat above us,' M'ree explained. 'It is filled with warm oils, and sealed tight, so that there is pressure. When I release the valve a thin jet of warm oil will squirt from out the, end of this tube -but first . ..'
Raven grunted. There had been no pain, but the intrusion had been unexpected. The tube, no thicker than the body of a grass snake, was insinuated between the lips of Raven's coynte - and deeper, and deeper. M'ree turned a valve. Raven felt a warm wet oiliness trickle into intimate hidden crevices, and wondered whether her womb might be filled or no. The sweat was beading on her belly. Was that just the steamy heat, or was it caused by internal warmth?
M'ree picked up a fine-bristled brush. 'The oil will soon overflow,' she said. 'As it trickles down from out your coynte, it will spread across your body. I will brush it away as it flows, cleaning away the Essence with it.'
'I well remember the sensations that the Essence can bring,' Raven said. 'The feelings may be beyond my containing. Have you no means to seal up my mouth, that I not disgrace myself with crying out?'
'A gag?' M'ree asked. 'I hadn't thought ...'
'Then we shall find one, shan't we?' Raven said. 'You must needs use your hands in the plying of your brush, M'ree, but if you were to sit astride ...'
M'ree needed no prompting. She scrambled up eagerly, and knelt with one knee beside each of Raven's breasts. Her rump, like twin full moons, hovered, a hand's span above Raven's face.
'Here it comes,' M'ree said. 'The oil is overflowing.
Be ready, Mistress. The first drops will soon be at your clit, and it is there that I must cleanse you first.'
Then lower your Sloona-blessed rump, damn you, slave, and stop up my mouth.'
The torture of delight, the agonising ecstasy, began. The oil, flowing up out of her, felt to Raven like some never-ending spending. Its flow, trickling and then flooding over and around her clitoris, was a subtle liquid caress.
And then M'ree used the brush.
Had they not been restrained, Raven's thighs would have clamped together. Had they not been strapped spread-eagled, Raven's hands would have clawed her own flesh. The muscles of her vagina spasmed, fountaining a great gout of oil that splashed down across her belly. Her thighs went into tremor. Her belly rippled shock-waves of desire, completion, and desire. Raven's fingers and toes clenched. She moaned into M'ree's sweet wet flesh, and burrowed her face as deeply into the tight and tiny puckered slit as she could, mewing and groaning and begging M'ree to stop; and to never stop; to be kind and to be cruel; to be gentle and harsh, and to ... Raven knew not what she wanted, or if she wanted, or if there was such a thing as desire, or such a state of peace as the lack of it.
M'ree laid aside the teasing brush. She parted the quivering lips of Raven's coynte even wider, with soft fingers, and leaned forward, so that the lower edge of her golden corset brushed Raven's straining nipples. Then M'ree - M'ree of the eternal maidenhood, of the impossible figure, of the incredibly long, unnaturally lithe and limber tongue, let the full slithery length of squirmy flesh slither out from between her lips and ...
Raven screamed. Muffled as she was, she screamed and screamed again.
Chapter Thirteen
Oania, a one-time Holy Submissive Whore in the celebration of Sloona, Goddess of Lust, now novitiate in the service of Havoc, reached out with her mind and caressed the iron collar that encircled R'rleeh's neck. She coveted that collar. She lusted after it. It should have been given to her, not to R'rleeh, for did Oania not have an affinity with iron? And was Oania not born to be shackled? The black metal circlet was rightfully hers, on both counts.
Oania had been content, in her old life. Already comely and lustful at puberty, she had been given the choice of which aspect of Sloona she would follow. Sloona, as the Embodiment of Female Lusts, was triple-natured. The Goddess was worshipped as Sloona the Mistress, Sloona the Mate, and Sloona the Slave. Oania had not hesitated. Slavery had been her craving since the first stirrings of her female needs. She had never regretted her choice. Oania adored her chains, and she loved the services that her various masters and mistresses demanded. And then - and then her small special magic had been revealed. A careless mistress had left the lock to the fetters around Oania's ankles undone. Made restless by the unwanted freedom, Oania had reached down with her mind, and nudged the wards of the lock.
And the simple enchantment had been observed.
A Whore-Slave who carries the keys to all locks in her mind, is no captive at all, and cannot be tolerated. Within the waxing of a moon, Oania found herself sold into the Temple of Havoc, and now she was the novitiate to one of Queen Vixia's Fives, and on a mission.
There were compensations. None of the other Four were kind, thank Sloona and H&voc both. Arachne's scarves made interesting bonds, and the threatening caresses of Nephenie's razor-sharp nails were thrilling, in their own perverse way. But no one whipped her, or made her wear the divine weight of manacles. It was the manacles that she missed the most.
Perhaps - perhaps if she performed well on this mission, she might be rewarded as R'rleeh had been rewarded: with an iron collar. The one that circled R'rleeh's black throat was set with gems; crudely cut knobs of blackest jet. Oania preferred plain iron, unadorned; a plain, heavy, iron collar made her feel so deliciously subservient. Nevertheless, the one that the Queen had given R'rleeh was so very thick and heavy that its weight was ample compensation for its ornamentation.
R'rleeh reined in her black unicorn and raised a slender hand. The other Four, and the troop of soldiers that followed them, all halted.
In a clear, carrying voice, R'rleeh said, The village is in the next valley, just beyond this ridge. Be prepared for surprises. In the last three months eight of Her Majesty's border guards have disappeared in this area. Be especially wary of a young titan, who we suspect may be hiding here. Her Majesty's orders are that we are to take him alive, if possible, but if not, we shall return his head and his hide to her. As for the rest of the village, no survivors! Subdue them, and then they are yours to rape, torture and slay. Loot at will. When we are done the village must be embers, and the corpses of the villagers just bloody rags. Is all clear?'
The Five, cloaked and hooded, rode into the village. One by one, the villagers came out to stare. Five stalwart steeds stood fast, unmoved by the growing throng: a unicorn, three proud stallions, and a donkey, each bearing a mysterious rider - the simple folk had never seen such a wonder.
R'rleeh threw back her hood and loosed her cloak. She was skirted, but bare from her slender waist to her tight hair. Before the villagers had time to do more than gawk, each of the other Four was likewise unveiled.
Nephenie leaned down from her steed, and stroked bloody furrows down the cheeks of Pardue, the smithy. Arachne flickered gauzy scarves to left and to right. The two largest men within her range choked and clutched at their throats. Suisuma vaulted down from her mount, onto the slabby shoulders of Wat-the-Fat, and wrapped him in the circle of her python thighs.
Only one man in the crowd was armed with iron. When he tried to draw his dag, he found it fast in its sheath, warped by Oania's ferrous command.
R'rleeh whistled a shrill blast. From North and South, from East and West, mounted soldiers of Vixia's Fourth Light Cavalry galloped; the front ranks dipping the bronze points of their ashwood lances, the rear ranks with sabres high.
Even above the squealing of fleeing villagers, Oania heard a thunderous bass roar. There - there in the doorway to the village inn, stood a young giant: the most magnificent specimen of maleness that Oania had ever seen. He held a cask above his head - a barrel that likely held enough rough wine to keep the village drunk for half a moon - and he hurled it!
Three Cavalrymen were crashed from their mounts before the cask splintered into a foam of flowing red in the street. But Oania's eyes were not on the flying cask. The rebel was naked. His manhood swung between statuesque thighs, glistening as if fresh drawn from out some oily living sheath.
Oania felt the pulpiness of her coynte's lips throb as they engorged. She ground down upon her cloth saddle, seeking and finding the bony ridge of her donkey's spine.
The warrior swung to one side, and snatched up a bench that was set outside the inn for the use of idlers. The seat had been formed from the splitting of a tree trunk, and had been set on stump-blocks. Half of a thick pine was twitched through the air as though it were a twig. Four more soldiers were batted from their horses as if they had been straw dummies.
And as he swung the bench, so swung the rampant length of his cock. Oania bit her lower lip, and groaned.
Though it be against Havoc's will, Oania prayed beneath her breath to Sloona, to save this young god. To save him that he might master Oania, and bend her to his will. At that moment, slavery became an insufficient goal for her. Oania knew that she would never rest content until she could devote her body to the service of this one male, this man among men, this virile embodiment of all that she craved.
Almost swooning with the sudden shock of her lust, Oania reached out with her mind once more, for the comfort of iron. Her thoughts caught the magic amulet that encircled R'rleeh's slender black throat and fumbled at the clasp.
A naked girl appeared beside the lone fighter, bearing a sickle and a pitchfork. At a window above, bare-breasted Mahia tossed earthenware into the tangle of milling horses.
The smithy's 'prentice, fresh from the forge, lunged a bar of red-hot iron at a squealing mare. An old man leaned on one of his crooked oaken crutches while he swung the other.
The Captain of the Cavalry charged at Brod with a lowered lance. Brod brushed it aside and punched the horse between its armoured eyes. The horse sank to its knees, and toppled.
R'rleeh called, 'Retreat!' Her unicorn reared. The ebony temptress slipped backwards over gleaming haunches, heedless of the necklet that hung loose and low between her poisonous breasts.
A flying unicorn hoof clipped the shoulder of Nephenie's snowy mount, spooking it. A moment later only Oania was still amount. The other Four were snaking through the melee afoot, intent on their own safety. Oania wheeled to follow - but there - in the wine-mud - lay the iron collar! And behind her, she could smell the maleness of her heart's desiring.
Feigning weakness, she let herself slither bonelessly into the mire, and fell to where the collar lay. Once it was snug at her throat, and the fastening sealed in such a manner that only she could release it, Oania allowed herself to faint.
She awoke to the plucking of a dozen hands. Fingers were twitching the cloak from her back, the boots from her feet, the bound cloth from about her loins, and even the ribbons from her hair. Strong hands pulled on her wrists, dragging her face-down through the mire. Buckets of icy water were splashed over her naked body as she was pulled erect, the softness of her belly and breasts pressed against the harsh splintery wood of some great wagon's wheel. Coarse ropes bound her arms, spread-eagled them, and then her legs were similarly stretched apart.
Oania felt a glow of pleasant anticipation. She knew this position so well. She was to be whipped, and then perhaps ravished. Renouncing Havoc, she gave herself to Sloona once again, body and soul. Sloona was good.
The first slash of willow-wand took her low across the buttocks. Oania jerked forward, battering her mound against the wheel's axle-cap. The second cut welted her thighs. There would be no mercy - she knew that. She had come with soldiers, to kill and ravage. The villagers would have their revenge on her. The blows felt as if wielded by a female; Oania had been beaten by masters and by mistresses, and knew the difference well. Men were stronger, but women were generally more vicious and knew how to administer pain to their own sex.
Yes! Yes, that one had sliced her sex where it pouted backwards between her thighs. One more like that and ...
Yeees! The climax spasmed through her belly, clutching at her coynte, sending sparks of lust skittering up across her skin to the peaks of her flinty nipples.
Now, all that was needed to complete Oania's ecstasy was the brutal thrust of that young giant's cock, while her coynte yet tingled from the sting of the willow switch ... 'O Sloona, Lusty One, giver of all pleasures of the ...'
A deep voice said, 'Cut her down!'
Mahia protested, 'But Brod, we are barely ..
Leiala cried, 'She brought death to our ...'
Oania sobbed, 'Don't stop now - not yet - please
Brod said, 'The horse-soldiers are all slain. The other witches escaped me. This one is the last. She shall be my guide to the lair of the Witch Queen.'
Mahia managed to deliver one last vicious slash of the wand to Oania's back before Brod snatched the withe away from her.
A dozen leagues away, in a secret room high in a black tower, Queen Vixia peered into the eight jet stones that were set in an iron ring that hung from above. Through the magic gems she saw the welts rising on Oania's skin, and watched as Brod snapped Oania's bonds between his fingers.
And she smiled.
Chapter Fourteen
If M'ree was typical of her breed, Tiblans really did have incredibly long tongues. That morning, after they had broken their fast, Raven had bade the girl stretch herself out along a padded bench, and then she had fastened her slave-captor's wrists and ankles, each to each, beneath. With the girl so helpless and exposed, she was Raven's toy.
Having stroked, caressed, and tweaked, Raven had sat herself across M'ree's face, facing towards the Tiblan's feet. M'ree's sinuous tongue had crept out of her mouth like a snake seeking, and had found the puckered lips of Raven's sex. A wet pink tip had teased, until the tight-crimped fold had eased apart, and moistened. M'ree's tongue had probed between the parting folds, tickling oyster-pink inner flesh.
Raven, impatient in her lust, had reached down, and opened herself wide with her fingers.
'In deep,' she had commanded, as she writhed and juddered herself down on M'ree's glistening face.
M'ree's tongue had advanced, retreated, and advanced again, each slow penetration deeper than each reluctant withdrawal. Raven reached down once more, and found the quivering nubs of M'ree's nipples.
'Make it hard, and stab me to the quick!'
M'ree's tongue folded, stiffened, and eeled upwards, slithering over soft corrugations, penetrating Raven's fleshy passage until Raven felt that her very womb must have been invaded.
'Yes!' Raven gasped. 'And out - and in again!'
Raven tugged and twisted at M'ree's breasts, lifting them up out of their golden cups. 'Spike me!' she sobbed. 'Spike me to my depths, and then worm yet deeper, sweet sluttish slave!'
Despite her manacles, despite her contorted position, M'ree bounced her hips up off the bench. Raven had been long enough in Queen Vixia's service to revel in the frustration of others. M'ree's frantic need just spurred her own lusts to greater heights. The slave girl's share of passion would be in having her mouth flooded with the honey of Raven's spending. Raven determined that M'ree would suffer the erotic itch a thousand times before she granted her release. Only Raven's own lust had import. The needs of others were irrelevant - except perhaps the need of that strange goatherd. Had it been his tongue that had been pleasuring her, she would have delighted in returning the joy tenfold.
Raven fucked down at M'ree's spend-slick chin, but it was not enough. Deserting the torture of M'ree's nipples, Raven pulled back the hood of her clit with the ball of one thumb, and flicked the glossy wet head of that eager polyp with the spread fingers of her other hand. Yes. Yes! It was so close - c-l-o-s-e ...
A male voice said, 'Is she ready, M'ree?'
The infinitely delightful tongue retreated. It slithered back, and down, and out from Raven's coynte.
'There is no trace of the Essence left, My Lord,' M'ree answered.
Raven twisted to face the intruder. He was tall, but she could tell no more of his form. The man was wearing a stiff robe, brocaded with metal threads so that it stood about him like a tent. His face was masked in silver that had been formed into the semblance of a bearded elder, but the resonance of his voice denied any infirmity of years. The robe was hooded, so that she could not even tell the colour of his hair.
'You are recovered from your ordeal at Vixia's hands?' he asked Raven.
'My saviour? How might I repay you for rescuing me?' Raven enquired, dismounting M'ree's face and moving towards the strangely garbed man. In truth, titillating as M'ree's oral services were, Raven craved a bulkier invader. Much as her coynte delighted in being explored to such incredibly intimate depths, it also felt a need to be distended; to be tightly stretched around some fleshly shaft of more ample girth. None would have suited Raven, or her coynte, as well as that of the goatherd, but here at least was a male.
'She is cleansed,' M'ree said. 'The Essence has a flavour, My Lord, and no trace of such savour remains, not anywhere.'
'Well done, my good and faithful servant.' He swung his mask to face Raven. 'You are possessed of the Note of Chaos,' he said. 'I command that you sing it for me.'
Raven looked back at M'ree, and then at M'ree's Master. 'I have it,' she admitted, 'but not to my command. Twice now have I succeeded in the Triple Tone, but it comes when it wills, not when I will it.'
'What!' He raised a hand, as if to strike, and let it fall. 'When does it come then, girl? What were the exact circumstances?'
'With my climax, and it please you, My Lord.'
'With your climax? But you and M'ree have been at sport for six days - surely ...'
'A special sort of climax,' Raven explained. 'Neither finger nor tongue bring it forth, My Lord. I doubt that any ordinary man could evoke it either.'
'Then?'
'The two occasions, My Lord, were special. The first time it came I was astride a young giant. He was so well formed that, well, My Lord, suffice it to say that he was no ordinary mortal, and his cock was that of a young god.'
'And the second time?'
'In the Queen's chamber, My Lord. She had at me with an ivory instrument, formed from the horn of a unicorn. I doubt me any mere man could stab me so true, and so hard, and so deep and ...' Raven bit her lip, lest her words carry her away.
The masked man laughed a sour little laugh. 'When it comes to hardness, and stiffness, little Raven, I bow to no man. As to size and vigour - we must put it to the test, must we not?'
Raven whispered, 'As My Lord commands,' and dropped to her knees before him.
'No!' He drew back. 'No, not that way. It is not by your mouth that the cry will be evoked.'
'I thought but to prepare you, My Lord,' Raven said.
He laughed the same laugh again. 'I need no preparation, Raven. I am ready for you. I am always ready, Havoc help me. Back to the bench, little one. Bestride my sweet M'ree once more, and brace yourself for the stiffest assault your flesh has ever endured.'
Raven climbed over M'ree, set herself on all fours, and braced herself with her arms, not knowing what to expect next. Once more M'ree's tongue crept out, and lapped, preparing the way. Raven stared down at M'ree's naked mound, and ...
Brocade rustled. Something hard, and smooth, and cool, nudged at the soft slack lips of Raven's sex. Her coynte opened up, willingly. Firm hands gripped Raven's hips. Raven dipped her head, and planted a little kiss on the exposed head of M'ree's clit.
'Are you ready?'
'And eager,' Raven assured him.
'Then so be it.'
The hardness moved, forcing Raven's channel wide. The subtle curvature of her vagina was forced into unnatural straightness by the inexorable rigid piston. Her flesh was malleable - the cock that pierced it was adamantine.
At that moment Raven realized who it was who was fucking her, and the nature of the cock that would be ...
'Ugh! Aaaahhhh!'
'Did I hurt you?'
'No, Master. It is just so, so unyielding. Other men's cocks, no matter how stiff, have some ... They conform, somewhat, to that which they plunder. Yours, Master, it makes me do all the conforming.'
'And that is unpleasant?'
'By no means. Just, different. Continue, I pray you, Master. My surrender is absolute. Make me take it -to the very hilt!'
Pasnar surged, driving his hips until the brass globes of his testicles slapped Raven's puffed and throbbing labia. Raven was driven forwards, mashing her face between M'ree's thighs. M'ree squeezed inwards, bracing her Mistress, her tribadic love. Raven mumbled her lips around M'ree's clit, and flicked its head with her tongue. M'ree, in return, sought Raven's clit, and sucked it. Pasnar pulled back, almost to the point of withdrawal, and rammed once more.
'Yes!' Raven squealed. 'Plough me, Master. Bury your shaft deep into my body. Fuck me! I am your whore, your slut, your wanton! Use me! Batter me with love. Stab with desire. Again, and harder, and faster, and deeper, please, oh please, don't stop, don't ever stop, and keep on fuckfuckfuckfucking meeeeeeee!'
And the 'me' rose into a warble that was joined by a trill. Pasnar did not pull back, but drove harder and harder, grinding his hips against Raven's raised buttocks, seeking depths that ...
And the third note was born!
Pasnar lifted his head, and began to scream, 'Yeeess ...'
Raven raised her face from between M'ree's limp thighs. Pasnar had withdrawn at last, and had sprawled backwards to the floor, smitten unconscious. Raven climbed down from the bench and hobbled from out the chamber. Somewhere there would be clothing, and perhaps gold. Sad as she was to be leaving sweet M'ree and brave, iron-cocked Pasnar, somewhere out in the world, Raven had to find Brod, the simple goatherd; the only man who had brought her to the ultimate ecstasy, with his living flesh.
Chapter Fifteen
Vixia pulled down the iron circle on its chains, until it ringed her head. Her eyes peered through one small jet window after another, until she found that which she sought. Through the magic of the iron collar, from the viewpoint of Oania's throat, she watched Brod's broad back, and cursed.
The way they were going, Vixia had no force of armed men with which to capture them. And as for the Four - well, Havoc knew where they were scattered. Vixia had watched the battle in the village, by means of the same far-seeing enchantment. There was no doubt that Brod was one of the Four Heirs. No mere mortal fought like that. She'd sent five deadly female assassins, and forty of her best soldiers. Brod had slain the troop, and scattered the assassins. Vixia pondered.
Knowing where Brod and Oania were, and with Oania wearing Vixia's enchanted iron, it would be a simple matter to send a storm, and a bolt of lightning. But ... But Brod was only one. There were three other Pretenders to Vixia's throne. Perhaps Brod knew where they were.
But how to slow Brod's progress until she could send sufficient force to chain him? How .. ?
They were in the foothills known as The Thighs of Sloona, approaching The Mound. There were those who dwelt there - forces that could slow the passing of any man, or male beast. That magic was beyond Vixia's power to invoke, unaided.
So she would seek Terrible aid.
Queen Vixia prepared and then drank a strengthening potion. She was strong beyond the strength of any natural man or woman, but then, no normal human could survive the ordeal to which Vixia was about to submit. No other mage would dare gaze upon the Power that Vixia was going to invoke, and Vixia was going to do much more than gaze. Vixia was going to offer up her body, and her very soul, to the ultimate debauchery. She would make herself the willing whore to Evil Incarnate!
It was a simple magic. Like invokes like. Lust invokes lust. Even with mere humans, the knowledge that another craves one's touch tempts. Vixia lived in subtle communion with her Beast, for in her heart there was hate, and rage, and in her body lust coiled and uncoiled, ever present, never fully slaked. To bring about an even closer union, all that she had to do was increase her own ruttishness, until not even an Aspect of Chaos could resist its lickerish lure.
Queen Vixia, the Insatiable, passed from the Chamber of Viewing, through the Glass Passage, to Her Library of Unnamed Books. There, by the light of nine candles, three each of jasmine, ochre, and tangerine, she studied a volume that she knew by heart, with eyes that were sightless, and learned new lies. Her breathing slowed. The beat of her heart became an occasional soft spasm.
Although they had been burning for half of a day, and although none of their length was consumed, the candles dimmed, and went out.
The Priestesses came for her. They lifted the Book from numbed Royal fingers, and replaced it on its shelf. They took hold of Queen Vixia's limbs, and bore her down a pitchy stairway, and down, and down.
Beneath the Palace there was a Cavern. Beneath the Temple of Havoc, there was a Cavern. Although half the City separated the Palace from the Temple, and although the Cavern was riot large, it was the same Cavern. It had been dug, formed, or in somewise shaped, by beings who might have disappeared from the World long ago, or perhaps who had not yet evolved.
Withdrawn from her own body, for the sake of its sanity, Vixia's Spirit hovered, and watched over the preparations.
Armed with enlarging glasses and fine silver tweezers, Priestesses plucked from Vixia's skin every last tiny body-hair. When they were done, more Priestesses bathed the golden form with soaps and oils. Then they scrubbed it with a fine grit made by grinding the shells of minute sea creatures. When they were finished, every trace of dead skin had been scoured away. Vixia was pristine, pure, and ready to be debauched. Her pale yellow body was covered with steaming cloths, that the pores of her porcelain-fine skin be opened up.
Temple Virgins brought in the pieces of Vixia's bridal raiment, and laid them beside her. The Priestesses shed their robes, and donned protective aprons and gloves. Honey from the Magic Bees was heated in copper vessels, and mixed with the essence of wine made from that same aphrodisiac honey. Although the women worked with averted heads, and held cloths to their faces, the steam of the brew that they prepared brought fiendish lights into their eyes, and many of them walked with thigh rubbing thigh, and twitchy urgent gaits.
The foaming yellow potion was ladled onto the inner surface of each piece of glossy black fabric, and spread to cover every part. Removing the cooling cloths from Vixia's body, they put her boots on her feet and legs, and smoothed the supple leather up to her groin. Next came the gloves, which were formed so finely that once they were fitted, the cuticles of Vixia's nails could be clearly seen. The gloves too, were long, and stretched even unto her shapely shoulders.
Lying on a black onyx slab, with her limbs encased in a black that was equally glossy, Vixia seemed but a torso, a statue formed from gold, that depicted the very epitome of depraved female beauty.
The hood and mask were one piece that drew down to cover her eyes, leaving only her nose and mouth bare. Her body, even though uninhabited, began to twitch as the magic lotion soaked through her skin, into the hot slow stream of her already-tainted blood.
The breastpiece of Vixia's bodice was thicker than the other parts. Inside each perfectly formed cup, rings of flanges accepted her flesh, but having accepted, gripped. Each slow breath massaged her breasts, squeezing subtly from base to nipple, and again, and again, so that the proud spikes engorged more and more, pumped with each inhalation and milked with each breathy sigh.
The seams of the bodice overlapped in the middle of Vixia's back, and when they met, they sealed, never to unseal. When the ordeal was done, and if Vixia survived, she would have to be cut out of the garment, and a new one prepared.
Vixia the Spirit, drifting in arched shadows, felt a tugging from her corporeal form, drawing her down. 6 Be quick!' she commanded, though none could hear her discorporate voice.
The last garment was readied. The shape that was to cover Vixia's loins was more than a mere covering. The crotch of the garment was fitted with two hollow spikes, formed from the hardened resin of a tree that grew in the Bee's Valley. One spike was no longer than a man's hand from wrist to fingertip, and slender. The second spike was half as long again, and twice as thick. Warm liquid was poured into each priapic container, before they were introduced into Vixia's most intimate orifices, before and behind.
And then the last garment was sealed in place, and nothing was shown of the Witch Queen save her cruel lips.
With deft speed, the Priestesses stretched out Vila's encased limbs, and clamped wrists and ankles into the padded manacles that were riveted to each corner of the slab. A broad leather strap was passed across her body, and fixed down. A resinous bulb was inserted between Vixia's teeth, and tied in place with strong thongs. The Priestesses, almost in flight, left Vixia alone.
Vixia's Spirit catapulted down, back into her body - and into a cauldron of lust.
Blind, deaf, and sealed hermetically from all outside sensation, Vixia was wracked with desire. Her body bucked, and writhed. Had her limbs not been constrained, she would have torn her own skin to shreds. Had she not been pinned down by the encircling strap, her arching would have snapped her spine. Had her jaws not been kept apart by the hard black gag, her teeth would have ground on each other, even unto shards.
Her hips juddered on hard stone, driving the rubbery spike deeper into her anus with each thud. Her thighs twitched and her labia squirmed, seeking to suck more of the vaginal impalement into her depths. Her heartbeat became normal, and then fast, and then a fibrillation that would have burst the organ of any lesser woman. Vixia's lips sucked great draughts of air around the hard ball, pumping her chest - and each pump brought more divine prickling agony to the screaming tips of her engorged nipples.
Three - six - nine orgasms, all within moments, carried Vixia to a plane of lust higher than mortal woman knows, but it was only the beginning.
Wracked, grinding, screaming into the darkness, Vixia sweated. Each bead of perspiration dissolved yet more of the essence of honey, and soaked it back into her pores. Each quintessential droplet lifted Vixia higher. She became 'Vixia' no more, but just a living need. Her throat thirsted for the savour of male spending. Her coynte, her clit, her vagina, her womb, her arse, her nipples, all hungered!
While at that lofty peak, in an ecstasy beyond ecstasy, Vixia spasmed. Her vagina squeezed. Her rectum clamped. Her jaws bit. The impaling cylinders were compressed, and squirted. The bulb between her teeth jetted ichorous nectar into her mouth. Soaked in the potion, within and without, even the marrow in Vixia's bones demanded and begged.
Elsewhere, elsewhen, elsehow, a thing that was nothing, and everything, felt her need.
And Havoc went to her.
And Havoc entered her.
Havoc went into her mouth, and her coynte, and her anus, and into each of the twenty-seven intricate orifices of her soul.
And what had gone before was as dew on an ocean, for congress with that Aspect lasts an eternity, bringing need upon need, but never satisfaction.
Chapter Sixteen
The woman was a strange creature. Brod had offered her a felt cloak for her back, and boots for her feet, but she'd insisted on going naked, except for the iron collar. She'd claimed that going unclad was fitting for a captive, and a slave. What was more, she had insisted on carrying their pack, even though it bowed her down while it would have been no burden for him at all. When the way grew steeper, she had still refused all aid.
'My Lord .. ?' she began.
'I am no "Lord",' Brod interrupted. 'My name is Brod.'
'Lord Brod,' Oania continued, 'must we continue on this path?'
'What? Did you not tell me that yonder mountain pass is the way we must go? And does not this valley lead almost directly to it?'
'A longer path might be safer, Lord Brod.'
'In what wise, "safer"?'
'We near Holy Ground, Lord Brod. Land sacred to The Whore Goddess, Sloona.'
'Are you not in Havoc's service? And is He not mightier than Sloona?'
'I have renounced Havoc, Lord Brod. I was raised in the service of Sloona, in Her Aspect as Concubine and Body-Slave. I was sold into the Temple of Havoc but recently, and am now returned to my true faith.'
Brod scratched his head. The world had become full of puzzles. Women were enigmas. Religion was a tangle. Life had been so much easier when he had been with the Hermit. Except for the itch, of course. It was a curse that the women, who he needed to assuage his needs, brought with them such headaches. 'I see a cleft ahead,' he said. 'It might even be a cave. We will camp there for the night, and you may inform me of your womanly fears.'
It was indeed a cave, a high thin slot in the rock, that receded into darkness. The air within was dank. The cavern's pinkish walls ran with moisture, so Brod made a fire at its opening, and spread fresh bracken to make beds.
'Might there be creatures within?' Oania asked, shivering.
'Cave-bears? I see no spoor, nor do I smell their musk. A pity! If we must climb into mountains, it might be cold. The hide of a cave-bear would make cloaks for us both, and warm boots besides.'
Oania prepared their simple supper, and scoured Brod's wooden platter after they'd eaten. She poured wine from a skin into the brass-bound horn that Brod had received as a parting gift from Leiala, took it to where he sprawled, and knelt by his side to present it.
'Will you bind me before you ravish me, Lord Brod, or after?'
'Ravish? Bind?'
'Am I not your slave, Master Brod? And is it not fitting that a slave, when not about her chores, should be kept strictly tethered, lest she flee? We have little with us, in the way of cord or thong, Lord Brod, but a sufficiency for my ankles at least? And mayhap my thumbs?'
'You said, "ravish"?'
'A Master may use his slave's body, for his pleasure, either bound or unbound, my Master. If bound, then the female is reduced to a mere toy, to a simple yielding instrument. On the other hand, unbound, some slaves have training in certain arts, and that might please a slave's Master.'
'Certain arts?' Brod asked, his interest beginning to show.
Oania dared to lay a soft hand upon Brod's hairy thigh. 'As I told you, Lord Brod, I was raised to the service of Sloona, Harlot and Hetaera. My training is in the pleasing of men, in all its forms. I can bring a man to his brink, my Lord, and keep him there for as long as it shall be his wish, using hand, or mouth, or coynte, or arse. I am skilled in the revival of slaked lust. My body is supple, that I may bend to my Master's will, no matter what his desire.'
'Supple? How mean you?'
'Would you have me show you, Master?'
Brod settled back into the bracken. 'By all means.'
'Might I have a little wine?'
'Of course you may.'
Oania stood, and dribbled a few crimson drops from Brod's horn onto her right nipple. Smiling down into Brod's eyes, she held the horn aside, and, with her free hand, lifted up her breast as she bent her neck, and so sucked the wine from her nipple.
'I've seen that before,' Brod snorted. 'Often.'
'And this?' Oania asked, tilting the horn once more. A dribble spilled between her breasts, and ran down her slender midriff, to pool in the depth of her navel. Oania bent her head once more, and lapped up the stain from between her breasts. She followed the glistening line, licking as she went, and coiling her body, so that eventually her tongue delved into her navel, and lapped there.
'Er - no,' Brod allowed. 'And if you can .. ?'
'Indeed, yes, My Lord.'
She lay down on her back, across from Brod, and lifted her knees. 'If my Lord would pour?'
Brod scrambled to her. 'Er, where?'
'For now, over my clit, and it please my Lord Brod?'
With a trembling hand, Brod slopped wine over an already engorging ridge. It spilled in two thin streams, following the creases of Oania's groin.
She rolled her body once more, licking the length of her own supple form, down to her navel, and to the lower curve of her belly. Without using either hand to pull herself, she dipped low enough that she nuzzled into her own sweet coynte.
Brod endured the lascivious slurping for a dozen heartbeats before he leapt to his feet and tore off his loincloth.
'A moment, my Lord,' Oania said. 'A supple wand bends two ways, my Lord. If you will permit .. ?'
She unrolled and knelt up. Brod reached out to her breast, but she was bending again, this time backwards. Brod was torn - he so wanted to touch, but there was a fascination in her movements.
And she bent yet further, and further again, until her hair brushed the ground between and behind her knees. Still she folded. Her face appeared between her knees, between her thighs, and at last the back of her neck was tight up against her own groin.
Bracing herself on her knees and the palms of her hands she looked up at Brod and gasped, 'If you will hold me, my Lord Brod, in this position my mouth is yours, and my coynte. It would honour me if your cock ...'
She said no more, for Brod had knelt before her, wrapped his great hands about her hips, and surged into her coynte. A woman less skilled might well have failed the onslaught, but Oania was well trained. The fit was tight, but not impossible. Brod pulled her to him, until he was sheathed to the hilt. Oania reached out and grasped his thighs, so that she might pull her head just that little further forward, and be able to . ..
Brod gasped. In his time at the inn he had enjoyed congress with one woman while the other had laved his swaying scrotum with her mouth, but he had never dreamed that he might ever enjoy those two sublime attentions simultaneously, from just one woman.
He withdrew, slowly. Oania's tongue licked the underside of his cock as it unsheathed! The ecstasy was so great that Brod froze, but Oania did not. She pulled on Brod's thighs, rocking on the fulcrum of her bended knees, and then pushed, and pulled, and ...
Brod didn't move. He didn't need to. She - the wonderful slave-bitch - was fucking him! And her mouth - she nibbled and licked and sucked so avidly that his cock scarcely knew which pleasurable torment it craved the most: mouth or coynte.
Faster she rocked, and faster. Brod felt the pressure build. The vein beneath his cock was pulsing, and it was so cloooose ...
And Oania pulled back, snatched up with one hand, and brought Brod's erupting, fountaining, jetting cock to her mouth. The plum had grown too large for her lips to encompass, but she could press her mouth to its puckering eye, as in a kiss, and suck the boiling jism out of him.
Brod fell onto his back. Oania, in a spasm of joy, uncoiled with a leap, and coiled again still standing, so that her arse was presented to Brod with her face between her thighs once more, grinning at him upside-down.
'Now all three paths to Paradise are presented,' she smirked. 'My Master's choice?' Her fingers pulled the cheeks of her arse wide, presenting a tight-clamped rosebud, that relaxed even as Brod stared at it. The thumbs of those same hands tugged the puffy sweat-meat that bulged backwards between widespread thighs, and exposed the slick-pink inner surfaces. Oania's tongue flicked its own subtle invitation as her mouth formed an 'o'.
Brod took a step, torn with delicious indecision.
Deep within the cave, something grated.
Oania uncurled. 'What .. ?'
Brod said, 'A rock moves. That is all.'
'It sounded like the creaking of some gigantic gate, or the swing of a cyclopean door.'
Brod laughed. 'A door? But who .. ?'
Three figures stepped out of the cave's depths. Oania fell to her knees and pressed her forehead to the ground. 'O Sloona ...'
'No, child,' the centre one said. 'We are not the Aspects of Sloona. We are but succubi, from the Nether Regions, and formless until summoned.'
'But .. ?'
'Our mission is but the pleasure of those who summon us, my child. What other forms would we take, than those most pleasing? Your desires are writ large, child. Your lust is firstly for this man, and secondly for the Goddess whom you serve. The man is here, and now is come the forms at least of One who is Three, and for whom you have lusted since but a maiden. Are you not happy? Is there anything of our shapes that is less than your dreams?'
Oania stared at the three elementals. The one who called her 'child' was shaped as Sloona the Mate. Of middle height, she had tousled brown tresses that reached down to the small of her back. Her age appeared to be that of a young matron, mature enough for motherhood, yet lusty and wise. Her breasts were formed for suckling, yet still proud and firm. Her waist was between sturdy and slender, and her hips flared dramatically, so that strength and voluptuousness were happily married in her form. Pure love radiated from her soft brown eyes, but that purity was spiced by a broad streak of carnal lickerishness. The nature of Sloona the Mate was that of the ideal spouse, or sometimes the perfect lover of women. Loyal was she, and supportive, but still playful and always ready for bawdy romps. Sloona the Mate took equal pleasure in the giving and the taking of carnal joy. She wore a robe that, if gathered and fastened, would have been modesty itself. It was instead loose, and open at the front from throat to thigh.
To her right stood Sloona the Mistress. Half a head taller than her sister, she seemed taller yet, for on her feet were glossy black leather boots, with heels so high that her naked thighs were tensed for balance, and her midnight hair was drawn up through a golden fillet, into an inky plume. There was a choker about her throat, matching her boots, but spiked with bronze prongs the size and length of sabre-tooth tusks. Apart from boots and choker, and the short whip that hung on a thong from her wrist, she was naked.
The Mistress's eyes were black, and luminous, and imperiously slanted beneath vicious brows. Her skin was white as moonlight, smooth as still water. Her form was slender, but her breasts, tipped with nipples like chips of black coal, were jutting globes, as if they had been formed for the body of a much larger female.
The third succubus, in the form of Sloona the Slave, stood a modest pace behind her Sisters. The shortest, and most slender of the three, had pale blonde hair that cascaded down behind her knees. Her head was bowed, as if in shame at her nudity, but she was unable to shield herself, for her wrists were bound behind her and her arms were tethered to her sides. The softness of her tender skin was grooved by cords that encircled her a dozen times. Each one pulled cruelly tight, so that diamonds of raised flesh bulged between their crossings. The wicked bonds furrowed the natural creases of the Slave's groin, and held back the helpless one's shoulders, so that she could neither close her thighs' forced parting, nor relax her shoulders. They too were pulled back, lifting small, childlike breasts as if to offer their delicacy to the most vicious fingers.
Oania was moved to pity, and to lust. Untied, the Slave would surely be left marked by those bonds. Such welts would call for the comforting of a tongue's caress. Oania licked her lips. Much as she craved that gentle task, there was also a part of her that lusted to pull the cords tighter yet, and cut deeper into that luscious soft innocence.
'Would you have us change our forms?' Sloona the Mate prompted.
'Why are you come to us?' Oania asked.
'For your pleasure,' the Slave whispered.
'For my pleasure,' the Mistress snapped.
'That we might all enjoy each other,' the Mate said.
Oania took one faltering step. The Mistress cracked her whip against the side of her boot. 'Here!' she ordered.
Brod scratched his head, uncertain whether or no this was some subtle magical attack, or an unwelcome interruption of his enjoyment of Oania.
But the Mate was at his side, drawing him down onto the bed of bracken. Toy with my breasts, please, Brod,' she asked, 'and we will watch the sport even as we dally together.'
Brod found himself sprawled upon his back with one arm wrapping the Mate's buxom body and one large-nippled breast nuzzling into his palm. The Mate's legs were spread; one covered his thighs with its humid warmth. A hand, capable but soft-skinned, half-encircled his cock, and stroked it gently. If this is an attack, he thought, then I am defeated. He cupped the fulsome breast, squeezed gently as his thumb found its peak, and stroked.
The sound of whip on flesh pulled his gaze to Oania and the Mistress. Oania was on her knees before the regal one, her face burrowing avidly. The Mistress had bent her knees and parted her thighs, lewdly. One hand tangled in Oania's hair, drawing her close. The other hand wielded the whip, slashing it down behind Oania, and urging her efforts with blows across her buttocks.
Oania writhed her arse backwards, welcoming the sting. She thrust her face forward the harder with each blow, as if she sought to spike her tongue to the Mistress's very core. The Mistress bucked at Oania's face, spreading her coynte's lips wide across willing cheeks. Just when it seemed to Brod that the Mistress must surely reach her straining climax, the Bitch-Goddess wrenched Oania's face away from its treat.
Oania writhed against the tugging, stretching out her tongue and mewing piteously.
'Be still!' the Mistress commanded.
Oania obeyed, yet still gazed at the puffy and drooling lips that she craved with abject longing. The Mistress released Oania, and turned partly towards Brod and the Mate, so that her sex was exposed fully to them. Brod felt his cock twitch at the sight. In his young life he had seen but five coyntes, and none of them had been formed quite like this one. The lips of the coyntes that he had pleasured, and tasted, had all been tight. The Mistress's coynte-lips, however, hung loose, like engorged curtains, bracketing a slot of such lividity that the flesh seemed almost to glow. Above that gaping wound, riding a mound as bulbous as a young girl's breast, was a ridge as thick and as long as a maiden's middle finger. The length of clit that had emerged, sucked out from beneath its hood by Oania's avid lips, was one joint of that maiden's finger, but pulsing and angry, and smooth as wet satin.
The Mistress jerked Oania's head around, so that it was sideways on to Brod.
Take this,' she ordered Oania, handing her the whip. The handle of that cruel instrument had been formed into the shape of a cock. Understanding the command, Oania took the whip, and fumbled its bulbous knob between the Mistress's gaping flesh. The Mistress jerked down. The head of the whip disappeared into soft humidity.
'Deeper!'
Oania obeyed.
'Your mouth,' the Mistress barked, 'make it small.'
Oania pursed her lips, leaving just a narrow gap between them.
The Mistress took a two-fingered grip on her own clit, and rubbed, much as a man might masturbate. Incredibly, it grew still longer. The Mistress directed the miniature cock into the gap between Oania's lips, commanded, 'Grip,' and began to fuck Oania's face.
Brod groaned. The Mate turned in his arms and put a soft palm to the back of his neck. 'Kiss me, my darling,' she said. 'Kiss me, and pluck at my nipple, if it please you.'
Brod's mouth found the Mate's, but he did not close his eyes. Beyond her he could still see the obscene exhibition of Oania having her mouth ravished while thrusting the whip upwards into the Mistress's eager slot. With a warm mouth on his, and a hot wet tongue probing and sporting; and a firm breast in his hand, while a hand stroked so very gently at his manhood ... With so lewd a lesbian coupling before his burning eyes - what greater pleasure could there have been?
And then a moist softness engulfed his great toe, and a squirmy slithery thing slotted itself between that toe and the next. Sloona the Slave, still tightly bound, was kneeling at his feet, and worshipping him with her mouth.
The Mate, feeling Brod's reaction, pulled back, and smiled down at the grovelling Slave. 'Shall we use her, for our pleasure?' she asked Brod.
'What? How?'
'If you will leave this to me, my love?'
Brod nodded, speechless. His ears were full of the intoxicating gobbling sounds that came from Oania's voracious mouth, and the sharp squeals that told him that the Mistress too, was being well pleased.
The Mate rolled Brod onto his back, and bestrode his massive chest. With a playful grin, she pinned his great forearms above his head, and said, 'You are my prisoner, my love. Let me see to your pleasure now, and later you must serve me in like fashion. Is it agreed?'
Brod nodded again.
The Mate sat up to throw off her robe, and bent forward once more, dangling one luscious breast above Brod's mouth.
'Suckle on this, my love.'
Brod obeyed, sucking one large brown nipple as deeply into his mouth as he could. His lips encircled a third part of the Mate's breast, and his tongue flickered its erotic message across the pulsating nub. The Mate writhed her body, sliding the open heat of her coynte across Brod's skin. She twisted, drawing the treat from his mouth, and lifted it on her palm to his eyes.
'You see, my love? See the marks of your passion? My teat is engorged to bursting, and grooved by the gnawing of your naughty teeth.'
'Did I hurt you?' Brod apologised.
'Such a delicious pain that the other craves its fair share,' the Mate assured him, and thrust her second breast into his eager mouth. 'Bite me, my love! Nibble and suck, sweet man. Your pleasure excites me more than you can know - see!' She took his hand, and drew it down to where her wetness was scalding his skin, and rubbed the splay of her coynte feverishly across his open palm.
Brod fumbled, and felt his fingers slip into her.
'Yesss!' she hissed. 'Make me ready for you! Open me wide.'
Bouncing on his stabbing fingers, slapping his face with the swing of her breasts, the Mate made a signal behind her, to the Slave.
Brod felt the slurping mouth leave his toe, and the sudden shock of night air on his wet skin. The Slave humped her body forward, awkward without the use of her tightly-bound arms, and wriggled until her own core was above Brod's foot. With an urgent slithering motion, she squatted lower, rotating her slender hips. Brod's toe felt new heat; it was more intimate than before. The Slave grunted as she thrust down, impaling her tender young coynte.
Brod pushed his foot up and crossed the other one over, so that while one toe fucked the girl, the other was able to rub up against her clit.
A strangled gasp made Brod turn his head. The Mistress and Oania had completed their former sport. Now Oania was kneeling on all fours with the Mistress riding her back, facing Oania's uptilted arse. Those luscious quivering globes were criss-crossed with fresh welts, but it was not the bite of the lash that had brought the cry to her lips. The Mistress was using the handle of her whip once more, in urgent buggery of a victim who sobbed with each deep stabbing - sobs of joy.
Brod's cock, already erect, reared yet higher, and slapped the rear of the loving Mate. The Mate wriggled back, and hissed over her shoulder to the Slave, 'Be of service, girl, or there'll be no whipping for you this night.'
The Slave bowed down, without disimpaling herself, and drew the tender pink points of her breasts in a subtle caress across the skin of Brod's iron thigh. Her mouth found the base of his cock, between his arse and his dangling scrotum, and kissed it wetly.
The Mate shimmied back, still kneeling, until the head of Brod's cock nudged at the gaping maw of her coynte. Then she thrust. Half of his length entered that boiling tunnel. The Mate braced, and pushed harder. Brod's foreskin was peeled back. The naked bulbous head slithered over smoothness and soft corrugations, and pushed aside fleshly barriers, until Brod's manhood was engulfed entire.
'You are big, my man,' the Mate gasped. 'I am bloated with the breadth of your weapon. You are so deep within me that my waist is thickened around your girth. Hold fast, my love, and we shall bring you to your climax.'
'Hold ...' But she covered his mouth with her own, smothering his words and thrusting them back with her probing tongue.
Brod tensed. The Slave was rocking now, stroking as much of his manhood as she could reach, with the flat of her tongue. The Mistress stabbed her tongue into his mouth in a lascivious rhythm, and squeezed her vaginal muscles in counterpoint. Her coynte was milking him. Her breasts swayed, drawing lines of fire across his chest with their turgid points. The Slave lapped, and her nipples also drew their erotic pictures on his skin. Two coyntes convulsed; one about his toe, and the other around the thickness of his cock. The squealing of Oania's delight assailed his ears. Brod felt that he had to thrust - he had to ...
But he didn't have to at all. The sucking strength of the Mate's preternatural vagina drew the seed up from out of his balls, without his moving. Boiling, the sweet sensation gushed up, and up. Brod felt the liquid explosion as his jism burst forth into the very deepest recess of the Mate's spasming and writhing vaginal passage.
The tension slumped out of his body. Relaxed, his head rolled to one side. Across the clearing, in the flickering firelight, Oania and her unnatural Mistress were still in erotic congress. Oania was resting all of her weight upon her shoulders, with her body uplifted. The Mistress bestrode her. Each woman had her legs spread in the manner of forked branches, and the forks were interlocked. The Mistress held Oania's ankles, and writhed down, grinding her coynte against that of her victim, flicking her engorged giant clitoris against the smaller, but no less engorged, clit beneath her.
Brod's cock, which had flopped against his thigh like a defeated python, stirred. The Mate lifted herself up, reversed, and squatted over Brod's face. Likewise, the Slave turned herself around, presenting the cord-bound globes of her young haunches for Brod's caress. Two mouths nuzzled at Brod's weapon. Brod knew what he must do. He pulled the Mate's rear down to his mouth, and sucked a bruised and enpur-pled coynte-lip into it. His free hand fumbled, until his fingers found the sites of both of the Slave's nether orifices. Gentle with the Mate, vicious with the Slave, Brod mumbled coynte, and stabbed two fingers each into the anus and coynte of the submissive one.
Come the dawn, while a weary Brod slowly buggered the still-bound slender arse of the Slave, the Mate conjured up a fine repast for their breakfast. Brod, Oania, the Mistress and Mate, all fell to, with an appetite. The Slave was fed at the others' whim; sometimes receiving tidbits from their fingers, or from their mouths, and sometimes being forced to delve with her tongue for grapes that had fallen between the lips of a coynte. When they were done, the Mate smeared the grease from the silver platter along the length of Brod's cock.
'What is this?' he protested. 'My ladies, I am not immortal. I doubt me I can serve again, not without some rest at least.'
'There is no time for rest, sweet Brod,' the Mate said. 'My Sisters and I have communed, in our fashion, and have a confession to make to you.'
'A confession?'
'Aye. We were sent to you, not by chance, but at the request of one who would do you harm, to delay your journey. Brod - for more millennia than you could understand, it has been the pleasure of my Sisters and I to lie with mortals, male and female, for our own amusement. In all that time, never have we coupled with one so mighty, nor so satisfying. We are overcome by pity, that so fine an instrument of lust might be destroyed, in part by our hands. This meal must be our farewell. Whatever your quest, we wish you well of it.'
'But why ...' Brod indicted the slick length of his cock.
'As part of our farewell. When we arrived, we spoiled your coupling with your slave. She has decided that she will serve us, in our Infernal home, for the rest of her days. Do not deny her this, we pray you, Brod, but give her to us willingly.'
'But she is my only guide ...'
'No need of guide, Brod. March towards the morning sun, and you will reach your goal. Trials beyond the bearing of normal men await you, Brod, but we feel that you will prevail. Perhaps - when your battle is won, you might find time to visit us once more, and tell us the tale of it?'
'Willingly, and by then my cock will be revived, mayhap.'
The Mate grinned. 'It is fitting that you and your slave exchange gifts, at this parting. Oania?'
Oania reached up to her throat, and loosened her iron collar. 'More bonds await me, Brod,' she said. 'Heavier, and more restricting. Take this, in remembrance of me, your willing slave.' So saying, she clasped the iron circle about Brod's forearm, which was as thick as her neck, and so well fitted.
'But what can I give you in exchange?' Brod asked. 'I have nothing but my staff and the cloak I wear.'
'A fitting gift for a parting slave,' the Mistress smiled. 'Bow down, Oania.'
The Mate urged Brod to his feet. Oania knelt before him, her face upturned beneath his limp cock, as if awaiting a kiss. Sloona the Slave, in her turn, knelt behind him.
'I have no strength left,' Brod protested, as he felt the Slave's hot wet tongue-tip probe at the knot of his anus.
'You will come, just this once more,' the Mistress snarled, and slapped his right buttock with her whip.
Shocked, Brod's sphincter relaxed. The Slave's tongue slithered, and entered. Despite his doubts, Brod's cock reared, half erect.
'That's it, my love,' the Mate encouraged. Kneeling beside Oania, she took Brod's cock, and rubbed its tip over her breasts. It twitched, and rose a fraction higher. The Mate lifted up one spike-tipped breast, and pulled back on Brod's foreskin. The engorged nipple and the slowly strengthening cock were brought together. With studied concentration, the Mate prodded her nipple's tip into the eye of Brod's cock.
'Kiss me!' the Mistress ordered.
Brod twisted sideways, and took the dominant Sister's lithe waist in the curve of his arm. She cupped his face in her two hands, and held it. Her mouth breathed spicy moist air into his. Her tongue lapped out. This kiss was different from any Brod had enjoyed before. Her mouth did not touch his; only her tongue stretched out, lapping. Brod parted his lips, and let his own tongue reach out. There was a perversion to this tongue-play, this deliberate teasing, that ...
'Yes,' the Mate sighed. Brod's cock was rigid and burning between her palms. She stroked with long slithery grease-slick strokes. The Slave, behind Brod, wriggled her cord-bound body so that her nipples might graze the backs of his knees. The Mistress drank from his tongue. Oania gazed up, in adoring expectation. The Mate pumped harder. Her palms were slick along the hot flesh pole/ slick and frantic.
It was impossible, after an entire night of endless coupling, but Brod felt his thighs begin to tremble. The Slave's panting breath tickled his scrotum. The Mistress was masturbating again. Brod could not see the feverish frotting of her fingers, but the liquid sounds were unmistakeable.
'Yes,' he sighed into the Mistress's mouth.
'Yes,' the Slave whimpered.
'Give it to her,' the Mate urged, smoothing two oily thumbs across his glans at the end of each upstroke.
Oania stretched her mouth open to its widest. Brod's hips jerked, pulling the Slave's tongue free, and he came!
A great gout of creamy spending flopped across Oania's face. Grinning in delight, she scooped the precious fluids from her cheeks, and lapped it up out of her cupped palms. With her lips smeared with sticky strands, she lifted her eyes up to Brod and sobbed, 'Thank you, oh my Master. A million thanks, from your most devoted slave.'
Chapter Seventeen
Brod paused on the high ridge and looked back down the slope. In the clear mountain air, and at such a high altitude, he could see for a full day's march. The distance was likely better measured in leagues, but until the dire day of the Hermit's murder, Brod had never travelled further than the horizon; he had little judgement of how far a league might be.
In a twisty valley down below, which led between Sloona's Thighs, was a column of roiling dust, half the valley long. So many horses and men - a full army, Brod judged - would have been ample force to take him captive. He resolved to someday repay the three succubi for their warning. Perhaps if he returned with a dozen lusty young men?
From the ridge, it was downhill. Brod, goatherd, raised with goats, lifelong dweller on hillsides, was speedy downhill. By dusk he was pushing through foothill-brush. In the sooty darkness of a moonless night, he curled himself in his cloak beside a purling stream, and slept.
It was a hungry wakening. The last of the bread and dried pack-food had gone while he'd been scaling. With his new growth, food that would have lasted him a day, now made but a single meal. On the way down he'd found water enough, but it was half a year from the season for fruits and berries. Being so far from home, he knew not which roots might provide nourishment. Chewing stems of new grass, Brod strode out at his best pace.
The land dipped and became a plain with a low horizon, betraying further slopes yet to come. By noon Brod was in a forest. Thinking to perhaps surprise some unwary rabbit or deer, Brod moved stealthily, and sought the thickest ways.
Sparkling blue glimmered at him from beyond a stand of hazel. Brod crouched, and crept. Broad water meant animals at drink. Closer, Brod saw something pale and tan flickering through the tree-trunks. A doe? A stag? Water splashed. A giggle. Brod knew of but one animal that made that enticing sound. Erect, he marched forward, brushing aside tree limbs.
There, in the shallows of a small lake, two young women sported, splashing each other, and romping. Brod watched for a moment, and then cupped his mouth and called, 'Halloo!'
The women turned towards him, and seeing him, giggled the more. Brod waved. One waved back, lifting and wobbling pretty breasts with the motion. Brod grinned. Life was good. Not only had he likely found the source of breakfast, but also a tasty dessert.
The two women began to wade towards Brod. They showed no modesty. As their swaying bodies rose higher from the waters, they made no attempt to shield themselves from Brod's hungry eyes. Perhaps they were twins. Each seemed to bear the same birthmark, in the same place: a small lividity of the skin on the upper slope of each left breast.
The water was about their waists. The first curves of hip emerged; a soft swell of belly; two navels, one but a dimple, the other deep enough to hold a serving of spirit of wine, and spilling lake water yet, and then ...
Brod gawked. What was this? They were women, for a certainty, and yet - and yet where Brod had expected to see sleek triangular pelts, or mayhap bushy damp curls, or even smooth-plucked mounds, there rose, dripping, a pair of hard stiff cocks! What manner of creature was this, that ...
Something very hard hit Brod on the back of his neck, slamming him to his knees. The second blow, to his head, brought blackness. He felt neither the third nor the fourth.
Brod woke on his side, with long grass tickling his nostrils. His arms were tight bound behind him, from wrist to elbow. He had a strong feeling that hands had been groping inside his loincloth.
'He's awake.'
Brod blinked. He was surrounded by sturdy female legs, and at the juncture of each and every pair, jutted a cock. Closer now, Brod could see that none were natural. The closest one to him was formed from gnarly brown wood, polished, but shaped as it had grown. Another was more elaborate, carved into the semblance of a male member, but painted bright blue. A third was ivory, scrimshawed into fantastical design, perforated and hollow.
Each phallus was affixed in its own peculiar manner. One was tied with thongs, another sat in a web of broad straps. A more interesting one seemed double-ended, so that the grip of its bearer's coynte held it, assisted by one thin line that ran up to a belt and another that passed down between its owner's thighs.
Raising his eyes higher, Brod found that what he'd taken for birthmarks were in fact self-inflicted stigmata. The Hermit had taught him that some tribes in the far South decorated their bodies with patterns of scars, or pierced their lips and noses with rings of copper, or wooden pegs.
Brod did not think he had been travelling Southwards, but these women practised the self-disfigura-tion common to that region. A slender bone transfixed the nipple of each left breast. Some of his captors had also pinched up ridges of skin above the nipple which were pierced once more, or twice, or thrice. He guessed that the first wounding was some tribal marking, and that subsequent impalements signified rank, or status.
Brod rolled to his knees. Instantly, a hand's count of javelin points pricked the skin of his shoulders and chest.
'Who? What?'
'We are the Free Women,' a brawny and mous-tached matron told him. 'You are brought to our Leader, Go wan, for her judgement.'
'Judgement?'
'The males that we find within our feminine domain must suffer one of three fates, at the whim of Gowan. Most often we slay them out of hand. If, however, we find that we are moved to pity because they are handsome, we keep them awhile. We cage a few, and those of us who so desire use them for sport. Others become our slaves, if they survive the spaying.'
Brod swallowed. 'Spaying?'
The matron barked a short laugh and showed Brod her flint knife. 'You are thickly made, man! I warrant it'll take a half day of sawing to separate you from your manhood.'
Brod felt his testes shrink. 'Is there no fourth fate? Have you no pity on an innocent wanderer?'
'Innocent?' a skinny one snorted. 'You are male. That is guilt enough. There's not a Free Woman here who hasn't suffered at the hands of your kind. You'll find no pity here, man-beast. I boiled the head of my husband-master before I fled the village, and he yet wearing it. You think to find mercy from the likes of me?'
A younger and more toothsome girl said, 'He is well-formed, sisters. Mayhap Gowan will send him to the pens? There is but one male serving there now, and he is old and juiceless.'
'Nay. This one's too brawny for trusting. I'll warrant he'll be pegged out on his back for a day or two, for the use of those who have such tastes, and then ...' She rubbed the wicked length of ebony that jutted between her thighs. 'I'll beg Gowan for first blood, as the one who smote him down. I'll teach him what rape is. Once I'm done with him he'll not even feel your puny things.'
Brod's sphincter clenched. He'd known since he'd started on his mission that there was every chance he'd die in the performing of it, but to be slain this way - not in clean battle, but raped to death, by an army of man-hating dildo-wearing viragos .. ?
The comely one hissed, 'It's Gowan!'
Brod's captors shrank back, leaving Brod with a view of an open clearing. The Free Women made a great circle. There had to be five score of them at least, and each was armed. All seemed to carry javelins. Most of them also bore some form of crude sidearm. Brod saw sickles, and hammers, butcher's knives, and even a few short bronze swords. Even unbound, and strong as he was, escape was impossible. A hundred small hunting dogs will bring down the largest bear.
At one end of the clearing stood a crude wooden throne. Seated upon it was the largest woman Brod had ever seen. She was not obese. Her massive limbs were well-formed. She was tall, and wide, with breasts like great round loaves, leavened but unbaked. They were massive enough that the bone-impalements must have numbered a hand's count or more, and yet left room for as many again.
Most of the women went bare, or wore kirtles -mere aprons that hung behind, open at the front. The chief of these female warriors was more modest in her garb. Her kirtle wrapped fully around her loins, but was slit in front to expose the largest dildo in the whole company. Hers had been formed from the horn of some enormous beast, an aurochs, perhaps. It curved up from between her thighs, above the cup of her navel, and half an arm's reach in front of her.
Brod shuddered. To be ravaged by such a ...
Another woman strode into the centre of the circle. There was an excited murmur, followed by a sudden hush.
'I challenge you, Gowan,' she shouted.
Brod craned his neck. Whatever was happening, there was a delay. Any deferment of his sentencing was welcome.
'I accept,' Gowan bellowed back.
'What's afoot? Brod demanded of his captors. They shushed him.
Gowan heaved herself up out of her throne and threw herself at her challenger.
'What .. ?' Brod started again.
The pretty one with but a single spike, leaned to his ear and whispered, 'Marl is challenging Gowan for leadership. It is a duel.'
'To the death?'
'By no means. We have learned from men that true mastery lays not in slaying, but in fucking one who resists.'
'Then .. ?'
'Each will try to rape the other. The end will be surrender, not death. We are not base males, but honourable and gentle females.'
Listening to the grunts, and watching the writhing of opposing slabs of muscle, Brod saw little that was 'gentle'.
Each daughter of the War God had wrapped the other in her arms, and was squeezing and heaving. Brod supposed that their dildos must be crushed between the bodies, digging into straining bellies. Yes - Gowan was pushing with her hips now. But surely .. ?
How could either win? Brod had learned that blind prodding rarely gained entrance into the intricacies of female flesh, even if the woman be spread and eager. How did they .. ?
And then Gowan heaved. Marl's feet were lifted from the greensward. Gowan scythed one thigh. Marl fell onto her back with enough force to shake the ground. Before her victim could gain her breath, Gowan was upon her, spreading her knees and lifting up Marl's dildo as if it were the pommel on the saddle of a mettlesome steed. A fumble with the other hand between Marl's thighs, and Gowan thrust!
Marl's scream would have moved Brod to pity, had he not detected that it was not entirely a scream of pain. Brod's suspicion was soon confirmed. Marl bucked up, spreading her legs wider than Gowan was holding them. Was this some game? Gowan reached down, and took the pinned woman's breasts in her massive fists. Marl reached up, and did the same to Gowan.
Brod frowned. The flesh of breasts is delicate. Mahia and Leiala had taught him that. A breast that was transfixed by rigid bones? It must have been agony, but neither woman gave so much as a wince.
If this was lust, it was lust unlike any he'd shared.
Both women's eyes blazed, and no one could have sworn whether the fire was lust or hate. Each caught hold of the bone that pierced the other's nipple. Marl tugged, drawing Gowan's flesh until Brod thought it must tear. Gowan, in return, rotated Marl's spike, twisting soft flesh into a tortured spiral. As if by mutual consent, both breasts were released. Hands became talons. Nails scored furrows. The air was filled with panting, and the slap of belly on belly. Gowan took Marl's left breast in her two fists and seemingly tried to twist it clean from her body. Marl bent up and bit into Gowan's right teat, gnawing ferociously at a nipple the size of Brod's thumb.
Gowan punched her opponent back to the ground, and slapped her breasts from side to side. Hip ground hip. Core buffeted core. Both women frothed at mouth and groin. Marl bucked up so vigorously that Brod thought Gowan must be thrown, but Gowan just reared back, withdrew half the length of come-coated horn, and slammed down again, driving it to the very hilt.
From the waist up, each woman was criss-crossed with a lattice of weals and scratches. Marl was slick with Gowan's slobber. Gowan's thrust came faster, and harder. Marl seemed to surrender, lying back limp, spread-eagled and whimpering, as Gowan
pounded at her, unhindered. And then Marl's legs kicked out to either side. She gave a great grunt, juddered, half-curled her body, and flopped.
'Surrender?' Gowan panted.
Marl nodded, wearily. 'Surrender.'
The surrounding circle of women cheered, and stamped their feet.
'There,' the girl whispered to Brod. 'Are we not more gentle than you men, to arbitrate thus?'
'How often does Marl challenge?' Brod asked.
'Mayhap twice in a month.'
'And always loses?'
'Of course. None can defeat Gowan. Marl challenges for the sport of it, what else?'
Gowan staggered back to her throne. The two largest of Brod's captors took him by the shoulders and tried to drag him to his feet. As soon as Brod realised what they were attempting to do, he stood.
'What have we here?' Gowan asked.
'A spy from below,' the ugliest woman spat. 'I claim first blood, as his captor.'
'There is no judgement yet,' Gowan frowned. 'Man ...'
Brod squared his shoulders and said, 'I challenge!'
A voice behind him growled, 'You are but a man. No man may ...'
Gowan interrupted, 'If he is so eager to get his virgin arse reamed, I accept.'
Brod stepped back and waited for them to loosen his bonds, but Gowan was at him already, sweeping his feet away from beneath him.
Bound, and with his loins tight-girdled, what chance did he have? Brod lashed out with his feet, but Gowan was already astride him, pulling at his shoulder to turn him over. Brod resisted, and then twisted
sharply. Gowan sprawled, but was up in an instant. Sitting on the backs of Brod's thighs, she tore at the knot that held his only garment. Brod waited until the knot was loose, and bucked. Gowan flew once again. Brod clambered to his feet, leaving his loincloth on the grass.
A spectator gasped as Brod's flesh swung free.
Gowan was also afoot. Crouched like a wrestler, she hooked out with one long arm. Her hand caught the stem of Brod's cock and held it tight. Retreat would bring pain at least, so Brod charged. Bulky as she was, Gowan could not stand against so massive an attack. Brod's mighty chest smacked into Gowan's breasts. She toppled onto her back, losing her grip on his cock.
A woman's touch, even in anger, had been enough to bring him to erection, but if he threw himself atop her, he'd impale himself on her horn. Brod paused. Gowan rolled over, to rise. Seeing her rump rear up towards him, Brod pushed at it with his bare foot. Gowan sprawled on her face. Brod took one stride, and dropped arse-first into the small of Gowan's back.
Reaching backwards with his bound arms, Brod found the belt to Gowan's kirtle, and ripped. The giantess tried to rise. Brod lifted himself, and slammed down once more, driving the air out from her part-filled lungs.
Before she could recover, Brod shimmied back to her thighs. Her rear was exposed now, but without the use of his hands, how might he penetrate her?
In desperation, Brod probed between the fallen woman's thighs. Where he expected (softness, the head of his cock butted painfully against some unnatural obstacle.
Gowan wriggled away from him. As her butt lifted again, Brod saw the problem. The horn that served Gowan as a cock was cupped at its base. When it had been cut from the skull it had grown on, a triangular piece of bone had been taken with it. The cup enclosed the whole of her coynte. It was fastened by neither thong nor strap, but by a network of fine chain. Had Brod's hands been free he might have ripped the obstacle aside, or broken the chains, but bound, access was impossible. Not even Brod's mighty cock could batter its way through an armour of solid bone.
Gowan was indeed undefeatable!
Brod got one foot beneath himself, and leaped at the scrambling virago. He landed arse-on-arse. Gowan was flattened once more. Astride her fallen buttocks, Brod beat down on the middle of her back with his forehead. And again. She lay panting. Brod had but a moment to solve this conundrum, or he was the one who would suffer.
He reared up, astride the cheeks of Gowan's arse, pressed the insides of his thighs against those soft globes, and angled his body forwards. His weight bore down, tugging Gowan's buttocks apart. Brod wriggled, and writhed, and finally presented his cock's head to the crease beneath him. With a grinding rotation, Brod pressed. Yes. There was a yielding, and a hotter core to the burning flesh.
'No!' Gowan screamed.
Brod was inexorable, and merciless. The tight knot loosened, and Brod bore down the harder. Gowan, in a desperate paroxysm, jerked backwards ... and opened herself to his invasion.
Slowly, against rubbery resistance, Brod bored. The massive head of his cock was engulfed. Gowan's buttocks closed about the slightly narrower girth of his stem.
Sobbing, beating the grass with her fists, Gowan subsided. Any attempt to throw Brod backwards would only impale her the deeper. Brod's knees found the ground. He braced, and rocked.
Apart from Gowan's whimpering, and the lubri-cious slither of flesh on flesh, there was silence.
Brod did not rest. Even if they tore him to shreds for it, he was determined to complete his violation of this ferocious female's buxom arse. He prodded deeper. Gowan's sobs became a panting. The panting took on a rhythm that matched Brod's thrusts. Deep within her rectum, Brod felt a pulsing squeeze. Gowan began to push back, not to throw Brod, but to aid his probing, to add still greater depth to it! Gowan's panting became gasps. She arched up, lifting her breasts from the ground, and found their turgid prongs with avid fingers.
'Yes, damn you, you man\ Do it! Do me deep! Bugger me, you male bastard!'
'Surrender?' Brod demanded. 'Surrender now, or I stop!'
'No! Don't stop. I surrender, man! I am yours. You are our leader now, I swear it!'
Brod pounded with renewed vigour while Gowan thrust back just as mightily. With a massive heave, she lifted her rear, with Brod still riding it, until she was on all fours, and Brod was crouched awkwardly behind her.
'I -1 - I'm comingV she screamed, and fell onto her face once more.
Plucked from out its fleshy sheath, Brod's cock stood high and proud. At the desperate brink of completion, Brod made one mighty effort, and burst his bonds. His hands found his cock, pumped once, and twice. He threw back his head and howled at the sky.
His jism spurted. A great creamy fountain jetted into the air and flopped across Gowan's heaving sweaty back.
The assembly of female warriors greeted their new leader with absolute silence.
Chapter Eighteen
Brod had not been a good pupil. He had never seen the reason behind Theocritus' lessons in the theories of warfare, tactics, and history. Now, too late, he wished he had studied ten times as hard.
But he remembered that a newly conquered people, if one wished to pacify them completely, and unite them with one's own forces, must be given victory, and loot, and given it soon.
Blessing the cane with which the Hermit had driven him to his reluctant lessons, Brod laid plans.
The Free Women lived as bandits. The villagers in the lower foothills rarely numbered more than fifty souls. What the Women needed, they stole. The onslaught of a hundred screaming, naked and dildoed warrior-women would cow almost any village into instant surrender. They robbed and raped at will, but rarely slew; dead villagers raise no crops.
Just as they knew the site of every village, the Free Women also knew the whereabouts of each of Queen Vixia's strongholds and the roads that were patrolled.
Fort Calamity was the nearest redoubt, guarding Three Trees Pass. A lesser fortress, it was manned by but three score guards.
On a Spring dawning, the Captain of the Guard was called to the rampants to see a strange and unexpected sight. A great wagon approached, piled high with wine-casks and sacks of grain, and draped with fresh-slain deer. But it was not the sight of such bounty that amazed the Captain; he barely noted the wagon's load. It was the nature of the beasts that drew the cart that astonished him, and made him lick his lips.
Harnessed to two long poles, heads down, and backs bowed, were twice thirty naked women. The Captain could not see the ones in the rear of the files, but those leading were young, and comely.
Some sort of force, dressed in motley and enveloping uniforms that were blood-stained and ripped from battle, prodded the lovely beasts of burden with javelins, or cracked whips over their weeping heads.
'Open the gate,' the Captain bellowed. 'Our beloved Queen has sent us somewhat to amuse us, in our distant exile. We are not forgot by her Supreme Wickedness!'
The wagon was half through the gate before a startled soldier called, 'Captain, beware ...' And he fell, a javelin between his shoulder blades.
Brod's Free Women stripped off their harnesses, drew weapons from behind their backs, and fell upon the fort. Those who had ridden the wagon, flung aside their battle-won cloaks, and stood high to shower javelins on every male that they saw.
Brod, with Gowan at his side, charged into the confused melee; Brod swinging his iron-wood staff, Gowan striking left and right with a pair of bronze-bound clubs.
Seventeen of Vixia's soldiers, and four of Brod's Free Women, died before Brod reached the fort's pennant. He wrapped the pole in his mighty arms, and heaved. The base splintered, and cracked. Spying the Captain against a wooden wall, fending off two
Free Women with a broadsword, Brod levelled the flagstaff and charged.
Their leader impaled, the rest of the force threw down their arms.
A hurdle was set up in the middle of the compound. The second in command was stripped naked, and bound face-down over it. Gowan donned her fearsome dildo, pried the poor man's buttocks apart with her thumbs, presented the horny spike to his anus, and asked, 'Will you join us, in our rebellion?'
He assented, as did his men.
The hurdle was cleared. Under the Women's direction, soldiers laid a great bonfire and spitted the carcass of a fine stag. Casks of wine were breached and jugs filled. The fort's whores, but three in number, and all overdue for retirement, were put to service as serving wenches. Brod discovered that many of the Free Women, though averse to men as masters, found them pleasant enough companions once they'd been taught their proper places.
The setting of the sun found the fort almost still. Naked and near-naked bodies littered the stockade. Only three figures still stirred: Brod, Gowan, and Marl.
Gowan had laid her dildo aside, that she might enjoy Brod's attentions without hindrance. 'Will you unstrap your weapon?' she asked Marl. 'Brod is ready for another bout before we sleep, I'll warrant.'
Marl fisted the length of carved ebony that jutted from between her thighs. 'This tool has yearned for your sweet flesh for more than a year, Gowan,' she said. 'Now that you are no longer our leader .. ?'
'By all means,' Gowan grinned. 'Many's the time I've been tempted to let you defeat me, brave Marl. You have earned the right, and it will not be unwelcome, I promise. But it is not fitting that we two should sport while our new leader goes unsated. I am woman enough for both of you, and you wish it.'
Brod asked, 'And how ...'
But Gowan tripped him, so that he fell upon his back.
'In this wise,' she said. And so saying she squatted above his hips, and lowered herself. 'Thus!' She thrust down, engulfing half of his cock into the steamy heat of her gaping coynte.
'But .. ?' Brod began, as he lunged his hips up to meet her.
'Let Marl serve me as you did,' Gowan sighed into his mouth.
Brod mauled at Gowan's bounteous breasts, and sucked her tongue into his mouth. The woman squirmed and writhed in his embrace, rubbing her sweaty flesh on his, but did not enfold him in her arms. Instead, she reached behind herself and tugged the great orbs of her buttocks apart. Marl, needing no prompt, knelt behind her former leader, and burrowed her face into the wide-spread crack, nuzzling with her mouth until her tongue found Gowan's sphincter.
'I'm slick enough from the sweat of battle,' Gowan urged. 'Fill me, Marl. Let me feel your weapon in my arse, while dear Brod fucks my coynte. I would be stuffed to splitting, my friends, my loves. Assail me north and south. Ream and fuck, and be not gentle.'
The membrane between rectum and vagina is thin, but strong. Brod soon felt Marl's invasion, pressuring the underside of his ensheathed cock. Her weapon had been carved into the semblance of a stack of orbs. Each bulbous corrugation was pressed through the welcoming knot of Gowan's sphincter like a fresh invasion. Each slid up, stretching the passage of Gowan's tightest orifice even as it caressed Brod. He had grown so large of late that even Gowan's cavernous coynte fit tight. With the added squeezing, he felt as if his cock was being swallowed by the muscular throat of some giant python.
And then, once both rigid prongs were embedded to their fullest, brave Gowan drew her legs tight together, and bore down with all her throttling force.
Brod was used to a full thrust when he fucked, but now his movement was restricted to a mere rocking. Marl likewise was entrapped by Gowan's double grip, and could piston at a single fraction of a stroke.
Brod pulled back his head from Gowan's hot wet mouth, and gasped, 'Unless I gain full movement, Gowan, it will be all night before I reach my spending.'
Gowan grinned down at him, and said, 'I know, Brod. I know.'
In her Palace, in her tower room, Queen Vixia the Insatiable threw the iron ring of seeing from her, and screamed out her rage until her throat was sore.
Chapter Nineteen
Pasnar turned his head to one side, so that the girl-slave could dab the perspiration from his brow. Overseeing the preparations for a Royal Orgy would raise sweat on a stone. He had but half a watch before the guests would begin to arrive. There would be no time to change his garb, and to be Master of Revels while sweat-stained would be unseemly.
'Is the false wall secure?' he asked the chief carpenter.
'Aye, Lord Seneschal.'
Pasnar led his troupe of giggling slaves behind the wooden screen. It was perforated with a row of peculiar holes along its entire length. Some of the gaps were complete and solid-rimmed. Others were fashioned so that panels could be bolted in place, reducing their circumferences. Behind it, on the rough-carpentered side that could not be seen, stools and benches stood ready to support the slaves' bodies.
'You are to serve as a living mural,' Pasnar told the slaves. 'Portions of your bodies will serve to decorate it, in bas-relief, for the amusement of the Lords and Ladies. Serve me well, and there will be a free day for each of you on the morrow. Fail me, and you fail the Queen.'
The slaves, male and female, stirred uncomfortably at the thought of Her Vicious Majesty's displeasure.
'You.' Pasnar beckoned to a male slave. 'You are to be seated here. Put your arm through the hole, to your shoulder. Let your arm hang limp until you feel it touched. When a guest takes your arm or hand, you must follow their guidance. If you feel a breast in your palm, then caress it gently. If the Lady requires firmer handling, she will likely urge your fingers. If your hand is drawn to a coynte, fhen shall you likewise be gentle, unless pressed to more vigour. Is that clear?'
'Yes, Master.'
'Good. I warn all of you that fatigue is not permitted. No matter how often the part of you that is exposed beyond that wall is used, it will not flag. Mayhap some of you may be neglected for the entire night, but it may also befall that indefatigable service is required. I will be watching. If any give less than all, there will be punishment, even if the Queen notes it not. The one of you who pleases the most guests will receive an extra reward, so be diligent.'
The next hole was circular. A female slave was brought to it, and her left breast pushed through. A strap was pulled around her body, beneath her arms, and buckled to the wood, that if any guest be less than gentle the girl would not be permitted to flinch or withdraw.
'A man ...' Pasnar mused. 'Yes - you.'
The hole was round, and fitted the girth of the man's cock exactly.
'My Lord,' the man asked, 'how am I to ...'
'Your duty is but to maintain an erection,' Pasnar told him. 'You will not need to move. Your cock is handsome. I am sure that many of our guests will be moved to caress it, with hand or mouth. Do not hold back. It may amuse some to bring you to your spending. If this is the case, your cock must not flag, but be ever ready for the next guest's amusement.'
'My Lord?'
'There will be assistance in maintaining your vigour. You will be strapped in place, but your hands will be free. You may caress the girls beside you, if it will help, and I have instructed girl-slaves who will be positioned on the other side to aid you if necessary.'
A Styxian odalisque took the next position, one leg slotted through the wall, to expose a gleaming half-moon of ebony buttock. After her, another cock, and then there was a bigger gap, with a full bench beside it.
'You!' Pasnar instructed. 'On your face, on the bench, with but the upper half of your body supported.'
The girl's upper torso was strapped on, and the bench was moved closer to the wall, so that her body from the waist down projected into the main hall. A panel was fitted, sealing her around her trim middle. So pinioned, her lower body was anonymous and available, lest any guest require more vigorous pleasure than mere fondling.
Another leg, another arm, a cock, and then another bench. This time the girl was supported face-up for the full length of her body. Pasnar pulled a hood over the girl's head, covering all of her face except for her mouth.
'Speak not, nor cry out,' Pasnar instructed. 'You are but a mouth. You have been trained in fellatio and cunnilingus?'
The girl licked her lips and said, 'Yes, my Lord.'
'Then through the wall with her, to her neck, and seal it.'
Two dozen slaves in all were strapped and buckled into place. Pasnar returned to the hall and checked that not a hole remained unplugged, and that every protruding portion of anatomy was comely and clean. He adjusted an arm here, a leg there, tweaked a nipple into prominence, until the display was as enticing as he could form it.
Slaves bearing tapers were lighting the candles and lamps. The wax for the candles had been flesh-tinted and moulded into the semblance of cocks and wick-nippled breasts. Every lamp was a coynte, with a burning clit. The ice-sculptors were smoothing their work: a life-sized depiction of nymphs and satyrs, linked in full circle; cock to arse; mouth to coynte; hands outstretched; fondling; tongues lapping; each in erotic sport with both the one behind and the one before.
Along a third wall stood the living statues. Each slave had been picked for comeliness of form, and the ability to stand immobile for as long as required. Their living bodies had been painted in semblances of marble or metal, or in the likeness of painted toys. Their faces were masked, to conceal any blink, and to render the tableau more lewdly fantastical.
Pasnar clapped his hands. 'Positions!'
A slender girl, masked as a vixen, sprawled her body on the dais, and spread her legs wide. A muscular male, likewise fox-faced, crouched between her legs, introduced the head of his cock to the very mouth of her coynte, and froze in place.
'Painter!' Pasnar summoned. 'A fine brush, and quickly. I see pink.'
Where the male's fox's member had spread the vixen's coynte-lips, a glisten of natural flesh showed.
Another male, bull-headed, made himself into a wrestler's bridge. One of his partners, cat-faced, spread her legs above an imitation bovine tongue. The other partner crouched between his sturdy thighs, and lifted up his cock to the grinning maw of a bitch-wolf. Clever artisans had moulded wax upon her body before painting it, so that she showed not one pair, but three pairs of pert teats.
A tiger-man was still, crouched with his cock caught between the raised buttocks of a golden-feathered bird-girl. Two snake-women, each one's legs disguised by wrapped cloth into one sinuous whole, lay entwined, their serpent-tongues in mid-lap at the nipple of their partners' mottled breasts.
An elephant-headed man sat between the spread thighs of two standing female jaguars, his human fingers slotted into each shaven coynte. A black panther meanwhile was caught with the tip of the elephant's trunk snuffling her feline slit.
The bowls of incense were smouldering now. Each one was heaped with precious aromatic herbs, spiced one part to twenty with aphrodisiac bee-pollen.
Pasnar worried as he mentally checked his list. Seventeen wines; eight varieties of spirit-of-wine; sherbets flavoured with twelve combinations of fruit juices; a hundred great pies, and four hundred tarts; fresh fruits; breads; pastes of exotic meats; ten platters of fishes; four wheels of cheese; larks' tongues, pickled in a spiced vinegar; a tureen of termite soup; a heap of cream-stuffed pastries that had taken four strong men to bear to the table ... Was that all? The ox? The fat one, stuffed with a goat that was stuffed with a goose, and the bird enclosing a boar's bladder that was full of golden coins? Ah yes. There it stood, steaming still.
All was as ready as he could make it, but would that be enough? Pasnar had proposed the feast and revel in the hope of distracting Her Insatiable Majesty from whatever troubles plagued her. Vixia, the most vicious and depraved Queen in the known world, had turned bitter of late. Vixia was trial enough to her subjects, even when pleased. In a sour mood she was even more terrifying.
A secret part of Pasnar had wept for the hundreds of slaves, and even for a score of the nobility, who had felt the Queen's wrath that month. When he had deemed it safe, he had shortened their suffering, with blade or potion. It could not continue thus; no one would be safe, not even he, the Queen's Seneschal.
Perhaps especially not he, for his conscience weighed heavily. What if Vixia were to discover who had sprited golden-throated Raven from her clutches?
Pasnar shivered. It must not be. Perhaps a revel such as this might turn the Insatiable's mood. He clapped thrice. Those slaves and servants whose presence was not required scurried away. None wished to linger and perhaps draw the attention of Queen Vixia. Those she found amusing too soon became mindless lust-slaves. Those who displeased her, well, she had become most inventive.
The first of the guests, the less exalted, began to arrive. Pasnar hovered, eager to see which of his decorations found the most favour.
A Lady in a brocade gown that was scooped below her breasts and slit from its hem to above her coynte, took a goblet of lotus wine, and leaned back against the wall of Pasnar's living mural. Sipping, and gossiping with a Lord who was naked from his waist up and wearing a codpiece in the shape of a golden unicorn's horn, she took a protruding cock in her free hand and stroked it idly. When it jerked a response against her palm, she abandoned it, and moved further along the wall, to inspect an isolated and bountiful breast. Her fingers toyed, until the nipple stood engorged and proud, and then she moved again, to stroke a naked thigh.
A Lord and Lady, perhaps married, or siblings, or mayhap both, for each wore the same head-dress of peacock's feathers, each plucked a feather from the other's head, and competed in tickling the bull-headed man's scrotum.
Pasnar gritted his teeth, but the bull seemed impervious to the touch. Pasnar made a mental note. The man deserved a reward.
A Lord dressed in golden chains was cramming grapes into the coynte of one of the slaves whose upturned lower torso projected from the wall. When the girl's thighs ran purple, he ordered a passing servant wench to lap the grapeskins out, so that he might resume his sport once his victim's coynte was un-stuffed.
Pasnar was pleased. His decorations were drawing attention, and thus far none of it was so cruel as to spoil the tableaux. Later, when the company had drunk more, their play would be less gentle, but provided the full effect was not spoiled before Her Majesty had inspected his efforts ...
A trumpet sounded.
Pasnar straightened his voluminous robe. It was full enough that the prod of his iron cock was not obvious. He preferred that Vixia not be reminded of his condition, for if she was, she might well demand an exhibition of him. Seneschal and Master of Revels he might be, but he would not choose to be buffoon as well.
Vixia swept in, booted and cloaked, and with a spiked choker about her slender throat. Her jasmine-tinted body gleamed with oils. Perhaps it was a good sign. Had she been garbed, it would signify that she did not intend to partake in the riotous coupling that would soon ensue. With her body naked, Pasnar thought she might be more lickerish than usual, and anticipating the orgy with some degree of pleasure.
A heavy golden belt encircled her narrow waist, cinching it viciously. Another good sign? Pasnar had studied the Queen well, for his safety's sake. He had noted that the higher her lust ran, the more cruelly she treated her own flesh. If Vixia was of a mind to debauch the night away, there was a slender chance that she might sleep through the morrow. Even that short respite could mean a dozen lives saved, a dozen comely bodies left uncrippled.
He made a sign behind his back. At that signal, a slave-master brought out the offering that Pasnar had prepared especially for his Queen. There were ten of them, five stripling boys, and an equal number of beautiful young girls. They were all chained, and naked. Their heads had been shaved and their body-hair plucked before they had been painted, the males gold, the females silver.
Pasnar led them to his Queen, and bowed low. 'Your Majesty,' he said, 'a small token from your devoted slave. Each and every one certified virgin, Your Highness. None has ever known carnal congress with another, not in any form. One of each, Your Majesty, is even unkissed. Nowhere in your Realm, dear Majesty, has there ever been such a gathering of innocence. What is your will, Insatiable One? Would you debauch them yourself, or shall I call forth a body of Styxian slaves, selected for the mightiness of their members, and have them all deflowered at once, for your amusement? Or would it please Your Majesty to set them at each other, in their ignorance? Such fumbling attempts at fornication might prove amusing, no?'
Queen Vixia crooked her finger for Pasnar to rise. Upon that finger gleamed a stone, a giant emerald. Pasnar froze as still as any of his living statues. Did she know already? Was she toying with him? It mattered not. When she wore that baleful green stone none could tell her any untruth, even by omission. One such as he, who had been suppressing the inexorable pressure of a guilty secret deep within his breast for so long, had no choice. There is a power to secrets; they have a will of their own, a perverse desire for revelation.
Pasnar threw himself at Queen Vixia's booted feet, and beat his forehead upon the stones. 'Your Majesty,' he sobbed. 'I have a confession to make.'
Chapter Twenty
Brod squirmed and flexed his buttocks. Sitting on a bench that was made for normal-sized people, working at a table with a top that rubbed his knees, his muscles were cramping already, and he was but half done.
The rest will wait till the morrow,' Gowan sympathised.
6No, many have travelled far. They have earned their audience.'
Four more peasants shuffled forward.
'Names?' Brod asked.
They were Than and Elg, grandparents to the stripling lad and thumb-sucking little girl, Harl and Bet. Than told a tale much like the one Brod had already heard four-score times in three days. Queen Vixia had taxed their family farm until there was nothing left to tax. In default, the son had been taken for a slave and his wife to serve in Vixia's Court. Half the land had been forfeit, for it lay where Vixia would have a road built. Starving and desperate, the grandparents had fled before their sturdy grandson could reach a size to catch Vixia's slave-masters' eyes, or their fair-haired granddaughter an age to draw the notice of the Queen's Procurers.
'You will serve the Rebellion faithfully? Even unto death?' Brod asked.
They swore.
Then you are enlisted. Go to the kitchens. You will be fed and appointed sleeping spaces.'
After they had sobbed their thanks and been led away, Gowan asked Brod,6And what use will they be, apart from being four more hungry mouths to feed?'
'Would you turn them away, to perish?'
'Brod, the Free Women never thought to make rebellion against Vixia, just against men.'
Brod brushed back a falling lock of hair. 'Have I not explained it to you, Gowan? Vixia would spread her domain, and the evil rule of Havoc, until the world is theirs. In the foothills you have been safe enough, with the mountains behind you in which to retreat, and with the border close across which to flee. But, Gowan, if Vixia has her way, soon there will be no border. Her forces grow. Within the year she will take Eligia, and crush it. The Free Women's puny domain lies in her path. When she moves, you will be crushed. The only safety is in fighting back, and defeating Vixia before her power grows too great.'
'Defeat Vixia? You dream, Brod. Even if we had an army of warriors a thousand strong, and each were as mighty as you, what chance, against foul magic?'
'Our force grows, Gowan. Give me five hundred fighting women, brave and fierce as yours, and I will bring Vixia to her knees. And we are not alone, as you know. Is there any news of the other rebels? Word from across The Pass Of Gath?'
'None as yet, Brod. I still doubt that they exist, or if they do, they're likely as sorry a straggle of fleeing peasants as we are gathering here. And if they are mighty? There is still Vixia's magic.'
'You forget The White Lodge. There is magic for good, as well as for evil.'
The Lodge is scattered, and likely slain.'
Brod took Gowan's broad shoulders in his hands and looked into her eyes. 'Believe me, Gowan, the Lodge yet lives. I know it does. There is magic that will bring Vixia down - is it not foretold upon the White Pillar?'
Gowan shrugged Brod's hands off. 'White Pillar? A tale for children. None have seen it. Have you seen this wonder, Brod?'
Brod scratched beneath the jet-set iron bracelet that encircled his forearm. 'Mayhap I have, mayhap not, but this I know - one who I loved, and who Vixia slew - he saw it.'
'Be that as it may, Brod, but what of the morrow? With all the elders and children that you have taken in, our supplies are nearly gone. My huntswomen bring in less game each day. There are no deer left, nor boars. We sup on scrawny birds and sinewy rabbit. What will we do for food?'
'How many are we now, that may bear arms?'
'Two hundred and twelve, but fifty of those are untrained.'
'And Vixia's force in the next stronghold? At Fort Disaster?'
'Perhaps two hundred. Two hundred armed and seasoned soldiers.'
'Then we are their equal. With surprise on our side we will take them, even as we took this place. Tell your warrior-women, Gowan. We march at dawn.'
Vixia put aside her ring of seeing, and gathered a sable robe about her naked shoulders. Her step was light as she descended from the Black Tower. Three score attendants awaited her whim in her Audience Chamber.
hYour Majesty desires .. ?' Neld, her new Seneschal, asked.
'I will break my fast on a compote of peacocks' tongues. I shall bathe in the whites of doves' eggs. The three new dwarves will attend me in my bedchamber at noon. Oh, and send word to General Zarl: Fort Disaster will be attacked on the morrow by a force of rebels. He will bring me the leaders in chains within four days, or he should consider suicide. Advise him that the fools will use a ruse, and it will be in this wise ...'
Brod's iron-wood staff splintered across the shoulder of a lunging defender. Brod fed the stump to the next one, and snatched up his broadsword before it could hit the stones. He did not mourn his weapon's destruction. It had served him well, but had grown short of late - or he had grown tall.
This assault had not gone as well as the previous one. Word must have reached Fort Disaster. The gate had opened for the wagon, and a strong portcullis had risen. Whereas at Fort Calamity the lines of nubile and naked women had been straight-way surrounded by gawking, sex-starved soldiers, at Fort Disaster they had been met by emptiness. Confused, and contrary to Brod's orders, the two lines had drawn the wagon deeper in, until it was inside the walls. Only then had the defenders appeared, armed and charging. At that very moment the portcullis had fallen. A third of Brod's force had been shut within, and two thirds without.
Gowan batted a probing spear aside with one club and splashed the other into a sweaty face. 'To the left,' she panted.
'Left?'
'A stairway to the ramparts.' She kicked the feet of an axeman from under him and stamped his skull to pulp. 'The wheel that raises the portcullis. If we can lift it once more . ..'
Wielding the two-handed sword one-handed, Brod smashed a leathern helmet. His free fist punched a face with a blow that was equally deadly.
'Left, then.'
Brod at the vanguard, Gowan and Marl flanking, they pushed, smashed, and carved a bloody path. Once Brod reached the flagstone steps, he took his sword in a double grip, and waved it before him as he climbed, clearing the stairway ahead. The three rebel leaders were now separated from their force, Vixia's soldiers surged to the foot of the staircase, but Gowan and Marl turned to them, defending Brod's back.
Stumbling over hacked-off limbs and feet slithering in running blood, Brod ascended one step at a time; each step bought with a handful of lives.
Above, a sergeant-at-arms, loyal to his own men even if he loved Vixia little, saw that Brod was unstoppable. He took up a hammer and a spike, and assailed the mighty chain-wrapped wheel that controlled the portcullis.
Brod swung his sword in a wide arc, clearing the topmost step. A defender dropped his axe, and leaped from Brod's path into the melee below. The sergeant-at-arms threw his spike at Brod's head, and raised his hammer. Brod brushed the wicked missile aside, sending it clanging off his iron bracelet, and lunged.
The hammer fell backwards, from dying fingers. Brod toed the dead sergeant over the edge, and turned to the machine.
'No use,' Gowan said from behind him. 'It is wrecked. There is no way to raise the portcullis and let our companions in. We are lost.'
Brod threw his sword into the press of enemies below, spat on his palms, and said, 'Defend me, Gowan.'
The portcullis rose and fell between two stone walkways that bridged the entrance. Brod strode out to the centre, and stooped.
'What is he doing?' Marl demanded.
'Shut up and fight,' Gowan told her.
Brod's mighty thews bulged. There was a grating, and a groaning. A hurled javelin struck sparks between Brod's feet, but he heeded it not. Each hand wrapping an iron bar, back and legs bent, the sinews in his neck standing like wires, Brod heaved. His legs shook. Muscles in his back jumped, and trembled, but ...
There was a cheer from below. Free Women, convert soldiers lately in Vixia's service, green recruits, they bent their backs and crouched through the gap that Brod had made. Three - two women and a man, paused beneath the drop-gate's iron teeth, and lent their strength in Brod's aid. Two more clambered into the back of the wagon, released casks, and rolled them back to serve as wedges.
'You can rest now, Brod,' Gowan yelled.
The gate sank a little, and stopped. The rebel force poured through the gateway. Brod straightened his back. 'Then let us to the slaying, my ... Oh.'
'Oh?' Gowan echoed. She turned and followed Brod's eyes. And she also said 'Oh!'
The ramparts were broad, mayhap three men wide. There were staircases cut, two to each stretch of wall, and the stairwells led to stone rooms below and within the fortifications.
Men were marching up out of those stairwells. Rank after ordered rank of well-armed men: swordsmen, bowmen, spearmen, pikemen. They marched as if on parade, and took up their positions. Even as Brod and his brave companions watched, the ramparts filled.
Brod knuckled his back. 'How many, would you say, Gowan?'
'We were expected, it seems,' she said. 'Two hundred are become mayhap five times that.'
'And our forces were equal, were they not? It seems that now the odds have changed. Five to one?'
The soldiers were still ascending.
'Six to one?' Marl guessed.
'Seven .. ?'
'How many might we slay, before we fall?' Brod mused.
'A half at least,' Gowan grinned.
'Shall we bid those of our number as may, to flee? We could guard their rear?' Marl asked.
Brod shielded his eyes under a massive palm and turned in the direction of those fleeing.
'It seems that it is too late for retreat.'
'Too late?' Marl and Gowan turned to peer down the valley.
'She must fear us, or you, Brod,' Marl remarked. 'I've never known so large a hammer to be taken to so small a nut.'
Half the width of the valley was filled. Gowan, who had some knowledge of numbers, reckoned the count at perhaps thrice a thousand. A hundred men ahorse led the advance, followed by marching square after marching square. Each square's perimeter was armed with pikes, and a motley crew of swordsmen and bowmen marched within.
'More meat for our blades,' Brod grinned.
'But why advance in squares?' Marl asked, her voice lifting in excitement. 'Squares are for defence. And what flag is that, carried by the leader?'
'Flag?' Gowan asked. 'Why - it is green, with a white tower embroidered on the field. It is the pennant of the White Lodge!'
Brod turned to the melee below and bellowed to his struggling force, 'Defend! Guard the gate, but attack not! Help is coming!'
His roar was heard by the defenders. Perhaps fifteen hundred eyes turned, and saw. Queen Vixia's officers had been selected with care. The prisons had furnished a half, and the pirate fleet the rest. The Insatiable had not, however, found a sufficiency of depraved and vicious criminals to make up her whole force. Some were therefore veterans who had once served during the reign of The Four Monarchs; others were mercenaries, brought from Stygia and Nort; still others were pressed men, torn from the bosoms of their families and forced into arms-bearing service. Vixia bought loyalty, or enforced it through fear. Such fealty serves well enough in a victorious army, but when defeat looms ...
A pikeman let his weapon fall, and folded his arms to signal neutrality. A swordsman sheathed his blade in the back of his Captain, before letting it clatter. One by one arms drooped, or were put away. General Zarl looked about him. He had been but a corporal in the old days, raised in rank for his skill, his courage, and because he cared nothing for loyalty. Zarl fought for loot, and for the joy of bloodshed. Vixia had promised him both, and delivered. This time she had promised that he would triumph, or die.
His choices were few. He could fight on, and likely be slain from behind by his own men; he could draw his sword, and fall upon it; or ...
Zarl drew his sword. Those around him shrank back, unsure. The General took a grip, both hands wrapping the blade, reversed. He lifted the pommel above his head, and cried out, The Rebellion! Death to Vixia, the Vile!'
Chapter Twenty-one
'Our baggage and camp-followers await us but one valley north,' Dendri told Brod. 'We will camp overnight there, and tend to our wounded.'
'Overnight?' Brod queried the rebel leader. 'Should we not press on? Vixia will not be pleased at so great a rout of her forces. Will she not send a yet larger force, to venge the insult?'
'Likely, but it will take a full day at least for word to reach her, and perhaps two more before she can dispatch her troops. It would be wiser not to be over-hasty.'
'And why not?'
'With my force, and yours, and the Vixian soldiers who have defected with General Zarl, we now number four thousand, at the least. Many of Zarl's men were forced recruits and most of the rest are but bandits in uniform. Neither breed can be trusted to loyalty. I won't lead them into our secret base, to defect and return to Vixia with knowledge of where we bide. I'll warrant that half will abscond this very night. On the morrow we'll press on, by a devious route. A few days of hard marching through unfriendly mountains will skim off the rest of the scum. We have a way of detecting traitors, when we get to our camp, but I take no joy in executions. It'd be a butcher's day, would it not, Brod, to have our homecoming feast stained by the spilling of so much blood?'
'Aye,' Brod agreed. 'And there'd be the feeding of them on the way. I trust you are right and the main of them decamp this very night.'
'What of your women, Brod? Will they fight?'
'I'll match them to twice their number of men.'
'Indeed? I'd heard as much. And how are they at couch, Brod?' Dendri grinned. 'I've heard tales of their prowess abed, as well. Is it true that they leave a trail of broken lances and desiccated balls behind them?'
Brod chuckled. 'Abed? I've seen no bed since I joined them, Dendri, but couched in long grass or humped over a hillock, there are those among them I'd match against lusty men at odds of three to one.'
'Odds? You'd put gold on it?'
Brod hefted his pouch, replenished to bursting by his share of two forts' plunder. 'Name your contest, Dendri, and mayhap we'll have some sport.'
'I've a wench that's with us, Brod, as I'll back against any two of your Free Women. We met up with her but two days since. She claims to be on a mission of mercy, into Eligia. I believe her, but we must put her to the testing before we release her, in case she's a spy from Vixia. The girl says she's been afoot for ten days, all the way from the Bitch-Witch's Palace. Until we cleaned her up and fed her, she surely looked it. The point is, Brod, that what she craved most, fatigued almost to death as she was, and before meat and drink, was cocks. She laid four of my finest low before she slept the first night, and has been fucking all comers ever since.
'The wager, friend Brod, would be to pit her against a number of stalwart fellows, and any two of your Free Women against a like number. If my wench drains her men's balls dry before your two do theirs, mine's the winner. What say you, Brod?'
'And if the men prevail?'
Dendri chuckled. 'Very well, Brod! If there's a man can stand and walk a dozen paces, once my wench cries "enough", then I'll cede. Is it a wager, Brod?'
Brod had seen Marl and Gowan each rape a dozen men, seduce a brace or two of wenches, have at each other for half a night, and then stagger to him, demanding he put aside his nightmate and tend their unslaked needs.
'It's a wager,' he said. 'When?'
'Why, this very night, of course. We must linger, so as to give every opportunity for desertion. We shall keep ourselves occupied, within my tent, so that those as would abscond feel unhindered.'
Brod expected the rebel camp to comprise a camp-fire and a tent or two. What he found was half a hundred well-set tents, a dozen fires, and a command tent fit for a general.
The wounded were carried away to an area where hedge-witches waited, their herbs already abrew and silver knives ready sharpened. Two oxen and four deer were already roast and waiting; crude ovens had been built, and there was fresh bread for all.
Dendri's command tent was made of oiled silk. The ground within was covered by lush carpets, and strewn with satin pillows. Once they had completed their ablutions, Dendri led Brod to a pile of cushions. Naked slave-girls, unchained, but wearing ornamental collars, brought bowls of sweetmeats and goblets of wine. Two of the girls led a third in, also naked, but uncollared, with her hands loosely bound before her with silken cords.
'She calls herself Rena,' Dendri said.
Before he could continue, Rena threw herself at Brod's feet, and gazed up at him beseechingly. 'Fuck me, my Lord?'
Brod was sore tempted. The girl was comely. Her body was slim, but pert-breasted, and her skin was pale. Against that snowy field, h$r lips and nipples stood in stark, almost obscene, contrast; they were too deep a crimson to have been painted by Nature's brush, but yet seemed untouched by artifice. Even the ridge of her clit glowed with a deeper hue than that of the mound it graced.
'What is your tale, girl?' Brod asked.
Rena lifted up her bound hands to her bosom. Her fingers busied themselves with the peak of first one breast, then the other. 'I am sworn to secrecy, my Lord,' Rena said. 'I swear that I am no spy of Vixia's. The foul Witch Queen sentenced me to die, but I 'scaped. Those who aided me in my peril charged me with a sacred mission. I cannot rest till my duty is discharged. Once it is done, my Lord, I would join the Rebellion, for Vixia is a curse on our fair land.'
'A secret mission?' Brod mused. 'I am but lately come from Eligia. If you would confide in me, I might be moved to assist you.'
'It is but to carry a message, my Lord.'
'A message? Into Eligia? To whom?'
'A hermit, my Lord. Pray press me no further, for I am sworn.'
'A hermit, you say? And would that hermit have a name? And might that name be Theocritus?'
Rena recoiled. 'But how .. ? Indeed, my Lord, you have the right of it. Know you where I might find this holy man?'
'In the after-life, I'm afraid. Vixia found him, and slew him after inflicting great agonies upon him.' There was a tear in Brod's eye.
'You knew him, my Lord?'
'He was my guardian. Theocritus was as a father to me.'
'Then must I deliver my message to you, my Lord, as his heir. It is from the Rune Writers, at Vixia's Palace. They but feign allegiance to the Witch. In covert, they aid those whom she would destroy. This I know, for I was one. Had they not succoured me, I would have perished. The message, my Lord, I understand not. It is this: that Air lives. She knows not who she is, but she lives, and is coming into her power. You may know her by her name, which is that of a bird: Raven, and by the mark on her throat, also the sign of a Raven.'
'A raven, by Sloona! But I did meet her, and knew not what she was. She is in Vixia's foul service.'
'What means this?' Dendri demanded.
'This "Raven" is one of the Four,' Brod explained. 'You tell me that an ancient of the White Order, is with you, Dendri. Has he not told you of the prophecy?'
'The four babes? The ones who, when united, can throw Vixia down into the pit whence she came? Indeed he has. I thought the quest to be in vain, for surely they must all be slain ere now.'
'One lives, at least,' Rena said.
Brod choked down the urge to reveal his true identity. 'And if one, mayhap two, or more,' he said.
Dendri sprang to his feet, and paced. 'The Rebellion grows,' he said. 'In a year or two we'll have a force to be reckoned with. If we but had the magic of the Four ...'
'Dendri,' Brod interrupted, 'we had this girl here for our lewd sport. Would it not be unseemly, as she is the bearer of such glad tidings ...'
'What sport?' Rena asked eagerly. 'If it was for fucking, spare me not. I'll gladly serve either of you, my Lords, or both. Bend me to your will, for I am supple as an eel. I've been denied man-flesh since noon, and burn with desire.'
'That was not the way of it,' Brod said. He explained to Rena the nature of his wager with Dendri.
Rena leapt to her feet, and jiggled with joy. 'My Lords, a brave wager indeed! I would be lacking in my duty if I aided you not. Free my hands, if it please you. Give me liberty to use all that Sloona has blessed me with. Bring on your mightiest warriors. I am starved for cock. I thirst for man-milk. I am a void, aching to be filled. My skin itches for the touch of male fingers. Bring on the caressers of breasts, the nipple-sucking, coynte-ploughing, arse-reaming, the horniest, the biggest, the strongest, the ...'
She was still babbling lust as Dendri clapped his hands, summoning Gowan and Marl.
Rena rubbed thigh against thigh in eager anticipation. 'Are they for me, as well?' she asked as Brod untied her wrists.
'They are your competitors,' Brod told her.
'A shame. Perhaps ...'
Two files of naked men padded in. Had Brod not restrained her, Rena would have been at them straightway.
'Twelve for your Free Women,' Dendri said, 'and another dozen for my Rena. Will you choose, Brod?'
'They are fairly matched, I'm sure,' Brod said. 'For Sloona's sake, let the contest commence. Poor Rena here is avid to be at them.'
Dendri took a chalk, and marked a line down the middle of the tent. Then this side is the arena for Rena, and the other for your doughty pair, Brod. Let the games begin!'
Both Marl and Gowan strolled the length of the line on their side, hips rolling, selecting with care. Rena simply ran to the nearest of her men, and stooped. 'Someone fuck me from behind,' she mumbled around a stiffening cock.
Gowan and Marl, seeing that they were being left at the post, each threw a man to the floor, and bestrode him. In unison, the two Amazons thrust down and reaching out to both sides, caught cocks in their fists, and began to pump.
Dendri joined Brod on the pile of cushions. 'A sight such as few have seen, I'll warrant,' he said. 'Win or lose, this night will be worth the gold.'
Brod took a grape from the bowl held by a kneeling slave. Rena was still on her feet. Her legs were spread wide. A tall thin rebel soldier bent his legs, directed the sinewy length of his cock, and thrust. A grunt escaped Rena's busy lips. She clawed the thighs of the man she was fellating, urging him deeper. The man stepped closer. Brod was sure that Rena would gag, for the soldier was long, but it seemed that she swallowed his cock's head, and worked her throat on it as easily and as eagerly as a chick takes a fine fat worm.
With her face nuzzling the man's belly, Rena reached out right and left, groping. Two soldiers moved closer, and guided her blind hands to their stiffening cocks.
Brod growled. Gowan and Marl were each servicing three men, but Rena was working four, on her own.
'A moving sight, is it not?' Dendri asked.
The soldiers on Marl and Gowan's side, the ones not being serviced, gathered around the two writhing women. Hands reached across jouncing bodies and found bouncing breasts. Palms smoothed the skin of plunging buttocks. One soldier, his need great, crouched behind Gowan, and prised her buttocks apart. Once lodged in her rectum, he had no need to move the more. Gowan fucked down on the man beneath her, and bucked back at her buggerer on the upstroke. Dragging the two cocks in her hands closer, she frotted their oozy heads against her engorged nipples, leaving glistening trails upon her own skin. A soldier took the initiative, and stepped across his supine comrade. Gowan didn't wait for him to find her mouth. She swooped at his cock, and gulped it.
Brod turned his attention to Rena, and frowned.
Her coynte plugged from behind, Rena's mouth was still gobbling, and both hands pumped furiously, although her arms were clamped to her sides, trapping two more cocks in her armpits. She had no means to service another, but one soldier had reached beneath her with one hand, and had found a pendant breast. The feckless fool was masturbating with his free hand.
Brod considered crying 'foul', but then, if Rena inspired the man's lust, then perhaps it was fair. There had been nights back at the inn, with Mahia and Leiala, when the women had taken their pleasure in their own hands. They had urged him to do likewise, so that none touched flesh that was not their own, excepting with a lusty gaze. There had been joy in that, as he recalled. The glazing of a woman's eyes, and the sharp yelps of climax; they were caresses to his eyes and ears.
In any case, it was too late to object to the man's self-love. His own caresses had brought him to a speedy climax. He jerked, crimson-faced. His cock spat, once, twice, thrice. A comely slave-girl ran forwards with a steamy perfumed cloth, and wiped splatters of jism from Rena's back.
The spent man was perhaps not quite drained dry, for he dropped to his knees beneath Rena's bowed body, and took a nipple into his mouth, while his hand milked at her other breast. Teats must have been his main delight, for within moments he was toying with his cock again, and it was rising.
A man staggered back from Marl. A slave hurried to wipe her lips, but too late. The lusty wench had already licked them clean, and was drawing another man's rigid cock into the soft wetness of her mouth with gentle little teasing sucks, a fraction at a time.
Dendri moaned. Brod turned. The rebel leader had shed his kilt. A slave-girl was kneeling between his legs. She was holding his cock up in her hand, and licking beneath his balls.
'There are girls aplenty,' Dendri told Brod. 'Take whichever you wish, but gently, I pray you. We are not cruel to our slaves in the Rebellion.'
Before Brod could make a sign to bring a girl, two were beside him. One knelt at his head, and cuddled his face to the naked globes of her breasts. The second found the knot of his loincloth with eagerly fumbling fingers.
Brod sucked a nipple, and raised his hips, but his eyes were on the contest. Perhaps this was a taste of the after-life, if Sloona's realm was his destiny. To have cool fingers enwrap your burning shaft, a pulsing nipple to suckle, and such a lewd display before one ...
The man fucking Rena fell back, his cock drooling.
Rena tumbled to the floor, one hand still tending the cock above her, and dragged the breast-lover up to sit astride her midriff. The man she had been sucking screwed up his eyes and wrapped his two hands around Rena's one, to aid her in pumping him to completion.
Rena gasped, 'Like this?' as she squeezed her teats together around a thrusting cock. The man nodded. His hands replaced Rena's. Her cleavage was compressed into a tight fleshy slot. The breast-lover slid his rampant pole into that sweat-slick crease, slowly at first, but faster with each stroke.
Rena lapped the head of the man's cock as it emerged for the first few times, but then another man knelt beside her head, and tapped her cheek with the crimson helmet of his neglected weapon. The lust-crazed slut twisted her neck, and gobbled him into her mouth. Even from across the tent, Brod could see the mobile bulge in Rena's soft cheek.
The slave-girl whose nipple Brod had been nibbling drew it away from him. Before Brod could protest, she dipped her breast into a goblet of wine, and presented a dripping and purple-stained polyp of flesh for his tongue's pleasure.
The girl at Brod's loins had freed his flesh from its restriction. A sudden shock of coolness made Brod sit up. The minx had a bowl of butter and was using both hands to scoop out great yellow gobs, slathering the shaft of his cock.
Brod grinned in understanding. No doubt the massive length and girth of his weapon had afrighted the lass. A true woman, if yet but young, she was not going to allow her own timidity to deny her Master his pleasure. Should he decide to mount her, the greasing would ease his entry into the tightness of her slit.
And now it was his cock's helmet that she was palming. Mayhap she thought to assuage his lust with manual caresses.
'Be not afraid, little one,' Brod told her. 'I'll not harm you. There'll be no abuse of your tender little coynte from me. Do with my cock as pleases you, and no more, I pray you.'
In reply, the diminutive harlot grinned at him over the flesh she was polishing, slid one hand down his shaft, and found the knot of his sphincter with one greasy finger. As she slid the single digit into him, she said, 'You mistake me, my Lord. You are a hero of the Rebellion. It will honour me to take your mighty flesh into me, no matter how. Though I be young, my flesh is supple. Your cock is such as fills my night-dreams. I do but seek to rouse you to the point of madness, that when I spit myself upon you, you will be at your greatest girth.'
Brod felt himself thicken at her lewd words. He sank back onto the cushions and surrendered himself to the slut's ministrations.
The wine-bearing, round-breasted one leaned away and tilted her goblet to her lips. Bending forwards again, over Brod, she put her mouth to his. Strong red wine trickled from her lips into his mouth.
'More?' Brod asked, when she was done.
But she lifted herself up, took Brod's hand, and guided it to her coynte. 'If you will caress me as I serve you, my Lord,' she husked, 'I will empty a flagon.'
Brod's finger found wet heat, and slid into her. His thumb fumbled till its ball felt a slippery nub to gloss.
Drinking from the slave's mouth, Brod could not see how the contest proceeded. Feminine sighs and masculine grunts told him, though, that the three competing women were working their female magic, with a will.
The wanton at his loins was slobbering now. Her mouth was too small to engulf his cock, but her gobbling lips and laving tongue travelled his greasy shaft from root to crown and back again. Small white teeth nibbled at his sac. Her probing finger was two knuckles deep in his twitching rectum, its tip massaging a nutty lump of harder flesh that Brod had not known he possessed.
His thirst quenched, Brod's lips found a nipple to suck on.
'Bite me, I pray you, my Lord,' the slave-girl sobbed. 'With your finger within me, and your mouth at my breast, I swear I will come, if you but use your teeth.'
Brod nuzzled.
'Harder,' she demanded.
Brod gnawed.
'Yesss!' She pulled back, not to remove her breast, but to stretch out its flesh in obscene self-torture. Her hips rotated, and ground down onto Brod's cupping hand.
'Yesss!' Once again, but with urgency. She stiffened.
Brod felt a sudden scalding wetness flood his palm. A strangled scream forced its way from between the girl's rictus-grinning lips. She flopped, tumbling across Brod's broad chest.
'A moment, my Lord,' the girl mumbled. 'Give me but a moment, and I will return to my duties.'
Brod licked the girl's spending from his fingers.
Beside him, Dendri was kneeling up. His soldier hands gripped a pair of plump buttocks. Another slave held his cock in her hands, steering its head to the tight rosebud of a buxom kneeling little wench. Dendri pushed, and entered.
Paused, with but the head of his cock impaled, Dendri grinned down at Brod. 'A close contest, is it not?' he asked. 'Your Free Women are free indeed! Already two of their twelve are beat. My Rena has conquered but one. Nevertheless, she is still strong. I'll still back her prowess.' And he pulled back on his slave's hips, sliding his cock into her arse until his sac slapped between the gaping lips of her coynte.
'Are you ready?' Brod demanded hoarsely of the slave who was licking his shaft. 'I grow no larger, I promise. If you don't mount me now, I will surely spill my seed into your hands.'
The girl stood. 'I would drown in your spending, my Lord, and die happy, but first...' She spread her thighs. 'Be gentle, my Lord, I pray. If you will hold still?'
Brod nodded. The girl took another scoop of butter. She held her own coynte open with her free hand. Her fingers found her slot. Two fingers pushed yellow gobs into her depths. Bestriding Brod's thighs, she squatted. He was so large that the head of his cock butted the soft and oily cup before she was half-sunk. The girl manipulated her own coynte-lips, stretching them cruelly, so as to cover the full dome of his burning flesh.
'Keep,' she grunted, 'still, I pray you.' With each gritted word, she pushed down. Her lips stretched yet wider. Brod's thighs tensed. The urge to push upwards was great, but he lay still. Steaming heat engulfed him. Brod stared. All of his helmet was enclosed. The lips of the girl's coynte crept past his ridge. They closed a fraction narrower, about his shaft. The girl twisted, gyrating her hips as she bore down.
'You don't have to ...' Brod started.
'I must. I will,' the girl gasped. She pushed. Brod's shaft sank slowly into her. Her coynte lips, pursed tightly around Brod's shaft, began to invert. The skin of her groin stretched and the hood of her clit was pulled down.
She jerked. A length as great as most men's cocks was forced into her flesh. Brod sat half up. It was incredible. All external signs of coynte had disappeared. The girl was turning herself outside in, to accommodate his bulk.
The slave who had been sprawled across Brod's chest, and had tumbled to his belly when he sat, licked her lips. She reached out to finger the length of his shaft that was still exposed. 'I am ready,' she said. 'What would you, Lord?'
'More butter first,' the impaled one begged.
The wine-bearer scooped up fresh butter, and smoothed it. When she was done, Brod sank back onto the cushions once more. Reaching down, he took the second girl by her hips, and lifted her body into the air. Her legs scissored and spread. Brod lowered the succulent wet pinkness of her core onto his face.
'Yes, my Lord! Thank you!'
Brod's tongue probed. She was sweet, this girl. Her dew was as the juice of oysters, but spiced and sugared. He nibbled for her clit, found it, and gripped it between fierce lips. His tongue flickered. Staring up between the spread of her thighs, Brod watched the ecstasy on her face as he lapped. She took hold of her own nipples, and twisted them viciously.
Brod felt the clamping humidity jerk yet further along his straining shaft. He lapped the harder. These delicious girls were giving him so much pleasure, he was moved to repay it in any wise he might.
Satin thighs closed, and pressed his cheeks. The girl humped her clit between his lips, fucking his face. Despite his iron grip on her hips, the girl was writhing like one insane. A pair of cushiony buttocks nestled onto the hardness of Brod's thighs. The impaled one had completed her self-set task; she had him sheathed entire! And she was not content. Slowly at first, she gyrated on that rigid spindle. She bumped, first gently, and then with mounting frenzy. Spiked, distended, bloated with Brod's flesh, she should have been immobilised, as a rabbit on a spit, but somehow she was finding the strength and the will.
The girl on Brod's face threw back her head, arched her body, plucked her nipples out into incredibly long points, and screamed. Her spending flooded Brod's mouth. He gulped, and lapped, until her coynte was licked dry.
Brod lifted her limp body, and brought her lips to his.
'Thank you, my Lord,' she sighed into his sticky mouth.
Setting her aside, Brod reached down to the hanging breasts of the girl riding his cock. His knuckles flicked across the points of her nipples. The other girl crawled on shaky knees, to her sister-slave. Laying herself limp-bodied, she rested her face on Brod's thigh, so that she might watch the prodigious fucking that her friend was happily enduring.
Dendri too, was relaxing. His cock was half limp, but likely not for long. Two girls were tending it -and each other. Their mouths were wide; their wet pink tongues were extended. They licked at Dendri's glans, one at each side. Each long lap ended with a lascivious kiss deep into each other's mouth. Strands of jism clung, and stretched from cock-head to lip, and from mouth to mouth. The plump girl that Dendri had so vigorously buggered was lying belly-down beside him, squirming lazily as his fingers toyed between her pliant thighs.
Brod supposed that being sodomised was her main joy, for Dendri's thumb was embedded in her anus even as he fingered her coynte. Brod was pleased. It seemed that Dendri was of the same mind as he. What he enjoyed doing to a woman the most, was that which gave her the greatest pleasure. In the few months that Brod had been lying with women, he had learned that not all men considered the pleasure of their partners, nor all women either. Perhaps it was a good measure of a man, that he took his best pleasure in the giving of it.
And if joy was in the giving of joy, then the three contesting women were well blessed. Beyond the frenetic writhing of the girl who was fucking him, Brod could see that half of the soldiers had been exhausted.
Rena was crouched above a man who was fucking her from below. A second had his cock in hand, desperately trying to pierce the target of her wildly bucking anus. She had a cock in each fist and was frigging both. Somehow, the avid slut had stretched her lips so wide that both glistening helmets were crammed into her mouth. The man behind her lunged, successful at last. The one below gave out a great sobbing cry, and slumped back. His cock flopped onto his thigh, leaving a trail no thicker than that of a small snail. He rolled out from under Rena, groaning. That made seven who were completely spent.
Gowan and Marl were still in battle. Brod could barely see what was being done to them, for their six remaining men were sprawled across their bodies. The men were surely flagging, though, for their movements were weak.
Cool fingers brushed the hairs on Brod's sac. The wine-bearer was reviving. A hand cupped his balls. The wetness of a tongue found the spot between his scrotum and his anus. Its tip tantalised. The fingers of the girl's other hand pried his buttocks apart. The tongue wandered lower. The girl knelt up. Her head was still dipped. Her tongue still savoured the buttery crease of Brod's arse, but her free hand fumbled across the breasts of her jouncing friend. Fingers found a nipple, and plucked, and rolled.
The cock-rider set her feet flat upon the carpet. Her legs strained. She lifted herself up until just the head of Brod's cock was still lodged in place, and then she plunged.
Shock juddered through Brod's body. No longer human, careless of the bruises that his battering might inflict, he jerked, lifting her up and slamming her down again. The girl threw back her head and yodelled a great gargling song of total completion. Brod felt the boiling of his sac. Even as the girl's spending soaked his rigid shaft, he let his cream jet. It was agony. It was ecstasy. The pressure of her vagina was too great to allow his jism ... But she lifted herself with a mighty squelch, and tumbled aside. Like one teat on the udder of a giant cow, Brod's cock jetted forth its milky blessing. Like twin calves, thirsty from the labour of birthing, both girl-slaves thrust their mouths into the sticky fountain, and drank.
Still it poured, overflowing their lips. Jism cascaded down their bodies. Streams of it trickled between their breasts. When he was done, and had sunk back onto the cushions, the girls fell into each other's arms and kissed, writhing their bodies together, spreading precious ooze over each other's breasts and bellies.
Dendri had revived. He had laid a second wench supine upon the prone body of his plump little sodomite. Crouched between two pairs of satiny thighs, he fed half the length of his cock into the coynte of the one above, withdrew, and trailed it down to the uptilted arse of the one below. Slowly, he alternated. Half a stroke into a pussy, half a stabbing of an arse. A third wench, giggling and fondling herself, joined the game uninvited. Stooping, she laid her cheek on the belly of the uppermost girl. Her tongue lapped the engorged head of the girl's throbbing clit. When Dendri lifted his cock, she opened her mouth wide, in mute invitation.
His cock slid between her lips, and out again. Into the open coynte, and out. Down, pressed into an anus, and once again retreated. The three orifices that a man craves, all were there for his use. There was but one thing he lacked.
And a fourth girl joined the sport. She lay upon her back, and shimmied beneath Dendri's hairy thighs until her mouth was below his dangling balls. As he dipped to bugger the lowest girl, his balls drooped into an open mouth. This time he stroked twice, savouring the wet heat that engulfed his scrotum even as a drier and more fevered channel squeezed the head of his cock. And up, withdrawing from both, into a welcoming coynte; up again, into avid suction; and down.
Dendri's thighs were trembling. Brod had to admire the man: how he controlled himself, resisting an urge that must have been overpowering. How did he hold himself back from thrusting again and again, in manic frenzy?
Two long slow strokes into each, became three, and deeper. His cock bulged a cheek, skewered a coynte, drilled an arse. The tongue beneath him followed his balls, licking.
Brod sat up, and signalled to his own playmates to join in the game. Just how much could Dendri stand?
The wine-bearer crouched. Her tongue joined that of the ball-sucking girl. They kissed deeply while Dendri's hairy scrotum was raised. When it sank, the mouths parted. One opened in anticipation, the other lapped higher, into Dendri's arse. Now he had three sweet orifices to delve, a hot living cup into which to dip his scrotum, and a tongue squirming into his anus. The butter-girl took her place beside Dendri, and pulled his face to her bosom. Squeezing her ample breasts together, she turned nipple to nipple. With both prickling nubs so close, Dendri was able to lick and suck the two at once.
Six girls were tending him. Brod had never dreamed that a man could accommodate so many. But Dendri's strokes were becoming harder, and deeper. Four to each now. Four probings into the sucking mouth and against the polishing pad of a flattened tongue. Four thrusts into a dripping coynte. Four slow grindings, stretching a willing rectum. And five. And six. Girl-fingers trailed loving patterns over Dendri's sweating skin. The butter-girl tweaked his masculine nipples, and slow strokes became an urgent pounding. Even so, Dendri still found the control to switch from arse to mouth to coynte.
Grunting with effort, Dendri let one breast swing away from his mumbling mouth. His face burrowed at the other, sucking half a breast into his mouth. His head twisted, worrying at butter-girl's breast. Inspired to fresh lust by the man's passion, she found his hand, folded his fingers into a spear-head, and crammed them up into her coynte.
Hunched and humping, dragging on his wrist, she pounded, driving his hand deeper. Still slack from the stretching that Brod had given it, her coynte opened up to Dendri's hand. She spread her thighs, and wriggled. Dendri's fingers were enveloped. His palm sank in. Her coynte lips closed, gripping his wrist, and still she tried to feed more of him into her.
The muscles on Dendri's arm bunched. He thrust.
It was enough. With a gurgling cry, the slave-girl came. Her spending gushed down Dendri's arm. She staggered back, unplugging his hand. As if the sweet smell of female nectar was the signal, or the final straw, Dendri gave a great gasp. His cock, fresh from a mouth and not yet slotted into the waiting coynte, spurted. White froth splattered. Lips were splashed, and licked clean. The twitching head of a clit was bathed. The seeking tongue followed, and lapped that as well. The last dribble dripped between the cheeks of a saucy arse. Scrambling, burrowing her face between the bodies, the oral slave followed every last drop.
Brod remembered the contest. The carpet was littered with male bodies. Gowan and Marl were crouching on all fours. Gowan pumped the last man's half-limp cock, while Marl fondled her massive and pendulous breasts. Rena was astride a prone man's foot, grinding her coynte down on the hardness of his heel.
Brod was just about to suggest to Dendri that the game had ended in an honourable draw, when Gowan let the limp cock fall, and turned to watch Rena. Marl and Gowan exchanged glances. Both nodded. They crawled across the carpet, over the chalk line, and pulled Rena from her victim. Rena scowled, and then smiled.
Gowan stretched out on her side, and raised a fleshy thigh. Rena laid her soft cheek on the proffered pillow, and likewise raised a leg. Marl completed the triangle. Three mouths kissed three puffy-lipped coyntes. Tongues lapped. Arms reached out. Groping hands found breasts.
Yes, Brod thought. It will be a tie, if ever they finish. With a sigh, he reached for a grape, and for a coynte into which to press it.
Chapter Twenty-two
Rena planted a goodbye kiss just below the slave-girl's navel. Rising from a bed of bracken, she wrapped her naked body in the cloak they had given her, and left the tent. It was almost dawn. She had time to bathe herself in an icy mountain stream before she took the slave-girl's place, serving his morning meal to Brod.
Sitting waist-deep in icy water, she splashed her breasts until her flinty nipples felt as if bitten to their cores by the frozen fangs of a snow-beast. It had been a hard night, and a good one. The slave had demanded a bribe, to let Rena take her place at table. Rena had no gold, but she had a tongue that she could roll like a carpet, or curl into a tube of hard flesh. Its tip could vibrate faster than a hummingbird's wing. One small sample of what that tongue could do to a clit, had been enough to seal the bargain. Rena had ensured agreement by bringing the girl to the peak of desire, and then withdrawing her caresses. In the madness of her lust, the girl would have given her soul to Rena for just a few moments more of the ecstasy.
But the bargain had been for a night of sapphic loving, and Rena kept her bargains, especially when the paying of the debt was so enjoyable.
Dawn's loving fingers stroked Rena's stark white skin into the semblance of a rosy blush. She rose up from the stream and wrapped herself once more. It was to be a cold meal. They were but half a day from the secret camp. Dendri did not wish to delay his force's homecoming.
Rena piled a platter with thick summer sausages. It was to be her honour to serve Brod. A man of his size would eat a hearty breakfast.
Bending at his shoulder to put the platter before him, Rena whispered hotly into his ear, 'Oh Mighty One, would that I might serve you in another wise than this.'
Brod turned to grin at her. 'Rena? A serving maid? And how would you serve me, if you could?'
'I would have you feed me the meat that I crave, my Hero. I would lay my body across this table, and let my head hang from its edge. My mouth would ope wide, and you would feed me such a sausage as no woman but I could stomach. In that position, Great One, my mouth would be straight with my throat. None but I would dare it, Brod, but I would...' and she licked his ear before hissing, '... have you fuck my throat.'
Brod laughed. 'Are you a python, Rena? There is no human throat but would choke on such as me.'
'You doubt me, my Lord? With your permission .. ?' She reached for the largest of the sausages.
'Granted,' he grinned. It was indeed a mighty piece of meat. Black-skinned and glossy, it was as long, and as thick even, as ...
Brod stared. Rena had thrown back her head, and was dangling the end of the sausage to her lips. They found the tip, and stretched around it. No woman's lips were so elastic, by nature, but the Gravings of the Rune Writers, though half-erased, still gave Rena a capacity beyond the human in all sexual endeavours.
Her mouth bulging, Rena's lips worked. The sausage slipped, deeper. Her cheeks were full of it, but yet she mumbled more. Before Brod's amazed eyes, her slender throat thickened. Slowly, but surely, the sausage disappeared. When all that she could hold was the string that closed the skin, Rena paused.
'Incredible!' Brod gasped.
And she drew it up. And thrust it back down. And up once more. In deliriously obscene parody of some gargantuan act of oral loving, Rena pumped.
'Enough!' Brod cried. 'Stop before you choke yourself.'
She stopped, with a half of the sausage yet protruding from her mouth. But the sausage was not still. As if alive, it worked up and down yet again, propelled by the rune-strong muscles deep in her throat. At last she gave a great gulp, and swallowed the thing entire.
Brod sat, stunned. Rena slipped onto his lap and smiled into his eyes.
'You believe me now? Trust me, dear Brod, I am skilled in the art of love, beyond any woman you have ever known. Try me, please? No man I have seen is as mighty as you. If there is a man who can sate my lust, it is you, dear Brod.'
Brod wiped sweat from his brow, though it was chill. 'Rena,' he said, 'I am honoured, but I confess, there is another in my heart. Can you forgive me?'
'Forgive you, Brod? Forgive what? I do not seek to own your soul, but simply to enjoy your body. I am moved by clean lust, not her evil little sister, love. Fuck me if you will, Brod, and I'll ask nothing but the pleasure of it.'
'Gladly,' Brod laughed. 'I see we have an understanding. Unfortunately, this is not the time, nor the place. I must to horse, and you to your assigned wagon. Perhaps when next we meet?'
Rena stood. The wagon discomforts me, Brod. My legs are tired of walking.' She drew her cloak back from her thighs, as if fatigue was like a stain on her skin, that he could see. 'Your mount is the mightiest in the company, Brod. We have but half a day's march before us. May I not ride with you?'
'There is no saddle. I ride bareback.'
'My thighs are strong, as I pray you soon put to the testing. I'll grip that stallion's sides till he wheezes.'
'Then let us to horse!'
Dendri took the van, as the rebel leader and the one who knew the secret ways. It was Brod's duty to bring up the rear. They would soon reach the rebel encampment, and wanted no more deserters.
Brod sat on a rock above the trail and Rena snuggled to his side, until the last wagon and the final foot-soldier were a bowshot ahead.
Brod whistled. Blackbird, his massive ebony charger, trotted up and stood ready below the overhanging rock. Brod took Rena by her wrists, and lowered her onto his mount's rump. No sooner had he released her than she shimmied forward, and straddled the horse close behind his shoulders.
'You'll be safer behind me,' Brod said. 'I'll be something that you can hang on to.'
Rena lifted the crude rope reins over her head. 'You'll hold me safe, won't you Brod? I'll feel better with your strong arms around me.'
Brod dropped down behind her, and took the reins. Rena slid herself back between Brod's thighs, lifted her arse, pulled her cloak from under her, and half-sat in Brod's lap.
'Are you sure that you're comfortable?' Brod laughed.
Rena wriggled. Brod's cock was not yet hard, but it was bulky enough when limp for her to feel it press between her buttocks. She reached back and took Brod's arm. Tucking his hand through the front of her cloak, up high, where her breast could snuggle into his palm, she said, 'I'm comfortable now, Brod, and getting more so with the passing of every moment.'
Then let us away.' He kneed his mount to a walk. Brod had ridden for the first time only four days before, but in those four days he had dismounted only to eat or sleep. The rocking motion of a horseman had become natural to him. Now, with Rena's rear pressed close, the movement took on a new significance.
Leaning back onto Brod's chest, Rena whispered, 'Squeeze my breast, please Brod? It has known no touch but my own since before the dawn.'
Brod glanced at the sky. The sun was barely a third of the way towards noon. Nevertheless, he squeezed, and rubbed a thumb's pad across a thorn-hard nipple. Rena sighed, and stretched up her head to nibble the side of Brod's neck.
Blackbird, impatient, broke into a trot, unbid. Brod did not rein him. The faster motion rocked Rena back against him the harder.
'May I, Brod?' Rena asked.
'May you .. ?' And then he felt her hands. She had reached both of them behind her, under her cloak. Now her fingers were at the knot of his loincloth, loosening it.
'I'll help you,' he began, but cool air warned him that Rena had accomplished her design.
'Put this in the saddle bags,' she giggled. 'You'll likely need it later.'
Brod took the linen and stuffed it behind him. Rena's fingers were still busy. She tickled, and stroked, and then made her two hands into a collar around his cock, just beneath the bulge of its head.
'Hold me tight, Brod,' Rena sang out. 'Hold me tight, for my hands are too content to find another grip.'
Brod rocked his hips. His cock slid backwards and forwards in Rena's loving double-grip. At the furthest extent of his thrust, he felt his cock nudge soft buttocks, and sometimes the secret crease between them.
Rena lifted her hips. 'Have you ever fucked while riding, Brod?' she asked.
'Never.'
'Nor me. For Sloona's sake, we must. Hold my hips, lover.'
Brod lifted her cloak and took the satiny smoothness of her hips in his palms.
'Hold me tight,' Rena called over her shoulder. She leaned forwards, like the rider of a race horse, lifting up her rear and clutching the horse's neck.
'Come closer,' Rena demanded, biting her lip in avid anticipation.
Brod moved closer.
'Hold still, Brod!'
The horny wench rotated her hips, caught the head of Brod's cock in the crease of her arse, and bore down.
'No!' Brod cried. 'I missed your coynte, Rena. Lift up again.'
'It was no error, Brod,' Rena said. 'A man treasures most that woman who does for him what no other can or will do. You are grown so mighty, Brod, that a normal woman is hard pressed to take you in her coynte. I have shown you what I will do for you with my mouth. Now I am going to prove to you that I can take you where no other woman can, in my arse.'
'It's impossible Rena. Don't even try. I'll surely injure you, even unto death.'
'Fear not, Brod. Just keep us a-horse.'
Rena pushed back. Brod tried to retreat, but as she was half atop him, he simply carried her with him. She bore down. Brod felt ... There was that special heat. A coynte is humid, and may steam with passion. An anus - a rectum - that burning is different. If a coynte is a jungle, then as arse is a desert. It was a parched heat that scorched the eye of Brod's cock. A rubbery ring pressed across its head, and stretched, and stretched.
'By Sloona, it's a miracle,' Brod gasped.
'The miracle is scarce begun,' Rena told him. 'See yonder bush? Are you horseman enough to jump it?'
Too young to refuse a challenge, Brod turned Blackbird's head and urged him faster. The jerky pace intruded his cock a fraction deeper.
'Yes,' Rena encouraged. 'Spike me, my lover!'
And Blackbird reached the bush, and soared. For a moment Brod's stomach rose. For a heartbeat both riders were weightless. And Blackbird thudded to earth. Rena hammered down into Brod's lap. Her anus expanded, and engulfed. Brod felt his flesh slide into Rena, impaling her.
'Yes!' Rena exalted. 'So big! I am but a glove on the fist of your cock, Brod. A sleeve on your muscular arm! Hold fast, my love. I have skills that you have never dreamed of.'
Brod felt the tight ring of Rena's sphincter contract, squeezing the base of his cock. The constriction moved. It travelled the length of his column, until it pressed his glans in a throbbing grip. Brod had seen Theocritus pressure out the ground meat from a sausage, gripping it tightly and running it through his clenched fingers. Just so was this clenching of living flesh by living flesh, for no sooner had the pulse reached the tip of his cock, than Rena's ring clamped again, and again the pressure moved.
Each travelling contraction came faster than the one before, and harder. Brod threw back his head and yodelled a pean of joy. Rena's rectum was milking him!
'You feel that?' Rena asked.
'Feel it? Of course I feel it. What a glorious arse you have, Rena. I'll live and die with my cock in your arse, I swear!'
'Be careful, Brod. Before you swear fealty to my arse, know this - both my throat and my coynte share this magic. What say you now?'
'Say? To speak I must think, and thought is beyond me. Hold tight, sweet Rena - I spy another bush!'
Chapter Twenty-three
Brod led Blackbird, and carried Rena. The tunnel that pierced the cliff-face was too low to enter mounted. Rena, Rune-aided though she was, was beyond walking. Half a day of riding, arse-spitted and facing forward for the moiety of it, coynte-crammed and her face burrowed into the bulk of Brod's chest for the rest, had left her legs lifeless. Even when they regained their strength, she doubted her thighs would ever meet again.
Brod had been entrusted with the key to the maze of passages. As he walked, he recited, 'Right, and right again. Three lefts, a right, and left.'
Ten leagues away, and far below the mountain fastness, Vixia the Insatiable peered into jet-black stone lenses, and wrote on a parchment, tanned from human skin '... and a right, and a left.'
A slave fed her skinned grapes, soaked in spiced spirit of wine. Another anointed her breasts with precious oils. A third crouched between the Witch Queen's sprawled thighs, and squirmed a practised tongue into her regal coynte, but still Vixia wrote.
Brod found Gowan and Marl.
'Know you a sure balm,' he asked, 'for the healing of tender flesh?' He laid Rena limp on a cot.
Gowan uncovered Rena, and smiled. 'She is but bruised, and stretched some, perhaps. She will heal.' Turning to Marl, she said, 'Find a hedge-witch, and fetch the makings of a poultice, and perhaps some ointment. If they have a bladder, we'll prepare a douche. Worry not, Brod, I know this girl. By nightfall mayhap, or at the latest by dawn, she'll be ready to ride again, even on a stallion such as you.'
'You'll tend her?' Brod asked.
'Tend her? Marl and I will bathe her, and better. There's no medicine like a loving kiss, eh Rena?'
Rena smiled. 'I can yet repay your kind ministrations, dear Gowan. Brod has sated the insatiable, twice-fold, yet a third part of me still yearns. I thirst, Gowan. Bring me something to suck, I beg you.'
'About your duties, Brod,' Gowan told him. 'There's women's work to be done here, aye, and women's play.'
'Be gentle,' Brod asked.
'More gentle than you, for a surety. Now off with you!'
Brod was fed in a great cave, carved from the living rock that ringed a grassy crater.
'There is no way in here but through the mountain,' Dendri told him. 'We came from the south, by a twisted path. Between here and Vixia, the foul Usurper, to the north lies a deadly vale. A fierce tribe dwells there, worshippers of magical giant bees. We know that Vixia sends thieves to steal pollen and honey, but even her dire magic cannot protect her soldiers from the insects' sting. Only the tribesmen may raid the hives unscathed.'
"Then Nature protects us,' Brod mused. 'Her mountains, and her tiny warriors bar Vixia from our fastness.'
'For the next four years,' Dendri said.
'Four years? Why for just so long?'
'Note you not the shape of our home? This mountain is a volcano. This pleasant circle, ringed by rocky fangs, is its crater. Our Mage and spiritual leader, Hypocrate, is wise in the ways of Geos, God of all that lies beneath us. He led us here, for our refuge. It is he who has told us that the mountain sleeps, but will awaken. We have four years of sanctuary, but must bring Vixia down before that time is passed.'
'Why?'
'Havoc is an Aspect of Chaos, is he not? His journey from the outer reaches weakened him. When mountains move, and volcanos spew, that wild energy will be meat and drink to his evil soul. He lies now, deep in the bowels of the earth, a prisoner of his lethargy. Once reborn, no power known - not even the full magic of the White Lodge channelled through Nature's incarnations, the Four, will rein him.'
'You have a plan?' Brod asked. 'A plan to defeat Vixia, before that dire date?'
'A plan? We harass the Bitch-Queen. We rescue those from her clutches that we may. Attack her? Would that we could. In ones and twos, or sometimes in scores, we slay her agents, we creep and steal. My Father led the last attempt to o'erthrow her. He led a force of two thousand. Vixia met him alone. The ground on which his force marched turned to mire. A plague of flying fleas descended upon their heads. Rats and vipers and scorpions burrowed up from beneath their feet. The rebel force was eaten alive, barring only he, their leader, my Father. She took him into the Palace, and down into the dungeons. I have word from my spies that there he yet bides, slain again and again by unspeakable tortures, and revived each time to face the agonies.'
'You have essayed a rescue?'
'A score of times. Five score of our finest have perished thus. Grieve though I do, I will not sacrifice brave men in vain.'
'Then what? Have you no hope?'
'The Mage, Hypocrate, has hope. He still dreams that the Four may be found, and reunited. I had thought it but a dream, until Rena brought word of this "Raven". I tell you, Brod, had we her with us, and mayhap another of the Four, I could raise such a force as would make Vixia tremble. Our neighbour, Eligia, would aid us then. It would be a slim chance, even with all that remains of good magic in this world rallied to our cause, but at the least we could make a battle of it.'
'And if you had the Four?'
Dendri slapped the table. 'With the Four, and my rebels, we would march through Hell if need be to drag that Bitch from out the Palace she has usurped. My force would equal hers, and with the White Magic to combat Havoc and Vixia, why - we might even prevail.'
Brod put a hand on Dendri's forearm. 'Dendri -where is this Mage of yours? This Hypocrate?'
'If you are done eating, I will take you to him. He awaits us. The Good One has been resting. Today he used his magic to ferret out the traitorous ones among the recruits we brought back. Knowing that we execute those he unveils saddens him, like a sickness. By now he should be recovered. Will you come?'
Dendri led Brod to a staircase cut into the rock. They climbed to the very rim of the crater. There, overlooking the outward slope of the slumbering volcano, a hut had been built. Seated on a bench outside it sat a white-haired old man, fat as a pumpkin, and robed in purest white.
'Mage,' Dendri said. 'Here is the Hero, Brod, of whom I spoke.'
The ancient lifted his head. Brod looked into the blank milky eyes of a blindman.
'Brod?' the Mage mused. 'I thought so. Your name means "good earth", does it not? In some barbarous tongue?'
'Indeed it does, Good Mage.'
'And the "Good Earth" was entrusted to Theocritus, and I not misremember. How goes it with him?'
'You know Brod?' Dendri interrupted.
'Know him? Not since he was but a babe, and I in my prime. But what of Theocritus?'
'The Hermit is dead,' Brod said. 'Vixia found him, and her minions slew him.'
'But you 'scaped? Then he did his duty, as I knew he would, young though he was when charged with it. Grieve not, Brod. He is gone to his reward, I swear it.'
'Who is this hermit Theocritus?' Dendri demanded. 'And who is Brod?'
'Theocritus was a novitiate in the White Lodge,' Hypocrate explained patiently. 'When Vixia and her pirates swept the Four from their thrones and it was sure all was lost, the last survivors of the Families, each but a babe of one year, were spirited away by secret ways. Only three full members of the Lodge lived. I took Air; Fire and Water were each taken by one of my Brothers; and Earth here, before he was renamed Brod, was entrusted to Theocritus, even though the lad had little magic. Perhaps his youth and vigour were of more use, for he succeeded where I failed. The girl babe I carried was lost, by my carelessness. In my flight, I had no time to find provisions. Coming upon a field of wheat, I laid the babe down and went gleaning. I swear I was no more than a score of paces from where she lay sleeping, when I stumbled into the hands of a band of Vixia's brigands. My good fortune was that they took me for a peasant, and so contented themselves with idle sport, instead of slaying me or carrying me to Vixia. It was at their hands that I lost my eyes. When they were done, I sought the babe, blind though I was. I never found her.'
'But she lives,' Brod said.
'She lives? How can this be?'
'I know not, but I have seen her, and touched her, not knowing who she was.'
The old man fell to his knees, weeping blind tears. 'The White Stone be praised! And where is she? Where is Air?'
'I know not, Mage. She is known as Raven now. I have word that she yet lives, and is coming into her power.'
'And a puissant power it is, Brod. And you? Is your power growing?'
Brod shrugged. 'My power? I have no power, Mage.'
Dendri barked a short laugh. 'No power, Brod? If I recall my lessons, Earth has the powers of strength and fertility. I've seen you at swiving, Brod, and can attest to the power of your maleness. And in battle, Brod? Have you ever fallen, or failed? And your size? I am reckoned a tall man, Brod. You top me by a head and a half.'
'He is large?' the Mage asked.
'Large as any I've seen, or larger.'
'And he will grow yet stronger. It is the nature of Earth that his strength is drawn from women. Have you had congress with women, Brod?'
Brod coughed. 'Some,' he admitted.
'Then have more. There is a magic in the climax of females. That magic feeds you, Brod. Can you provide the boy with lemans, Dendri?'
'He provides himself, good Mage, with no help from me.'
Brod asked, 'And Air, who I know as Raven, how might her power be fed?'
The Mage said, 'Air's is the magic of sound. Her throat is a mighty weapon. If she sings, it will grow stronger.'
'I've heard her voice, Mage. She sang me a song that left me as one dead.'
'Then her power is indeed beginning. I wonder how Fire and Water fare?'
'You feel that they live, though lost?' Dendri asked.
'Live? Of course they live. I am ashamed of my former doubts. There is a Force protecting them. Brod here was put into the hands of a youth. Air was protected by a fool. They both survive. If them, then also the other two. Dendri, put aside your petty thievery. Cut no more of Vixia's brigands' throats. How strong are you? What is now the number of your force?'
'More than four thousand, Mage, since Brod here swelled our ranks.'
'So many? How far can Air, and Fire and Water have wandered? And with their powers burgeoning, they will not be hard to find. Word of magic spreads fast. It will be a race, my sons. We must find the Four, before Vixia does. Have your men, and your women, spread across the lands. With four thousand pairs of eyes searching, and four thousand pairs of ears listening, we shall find them, and bring them here. Then shall Vixia tremble, and Havoc quake in his rocky lair.
'There are signs, my sons, by which you shall know the heirs to the Four Thrones. You must tell your people. The babes were graved with Runes on their first birthdays. Air is marked with a bird, upon the side of her throat. On the sole of Water's right foot is marked ..
Vixia put aside her ring of seeing. Four thousand pairs of eyes and ears, all alert for her rightful prey? Four thousand gatherers, gleaning the world for what she sought? Now that she knew the location of the rebel encampment, it would be but a day's task to swoop, and crush them forever, but ... But perhaps not. Now she had eyes in their camp. She could wait. No doubt the Mage was wise. In a month, or a year, or two, the Four would be gathered together, atop the smouldering fires of a volcano. Dear Havoc had a way with underground fire; molten rock was his plaything. What better fate for the only beings in the Universe that she and Havoc feared, than to build for them the greatest funeral pyre that the Universe has ever known?
Content, The Insatiable turned to idle amusement. A man, pot-bellied and with a penis the size of an acorn, stood to one side of her couch. A second fellow, a freak of nature, blessed or cursed with two cocks one above the other, might prove interesting, or ...
A woman, her body bound by two hundred and seventeen silk cords in the style known as 'Quilted Flesh', lay patiently upon a bench, awaiting Vixia's attention. She deserved something for her skills. Few devotees, no matter how dedicated to their art, could tie up their own bodies into so complex a pattern.
Yes, the loops that encircled her breasts were of one piece, in the classical style. And the end would hang - yes - this was it. Vixia tugged. The loops constricted. Cord bit viciously. The woman's breasts, already glossy and purple from the restraints, inflated yet riper, and tighter. Veins stood out upon those swollen globes like fine blue cords.
Vixia smiled. And the cord known as The Bisector? The one that cut between coynte lips, into arse crease? The one with the triple knots? Ah! There was the end.
Vixia jerked it. The woman arched, and screamed, and climaxed.
Queen Vixia, Evil, Insatiable, leaned closer. This dangling tail of cord? Where did it run? It was such a tangle, such a delightful tangle. Vixia fingered the end, and tugged ...
The Mage dismissed Brod with, 'Fail me not, Earth. We depend on your strength. Build it greater, and greater. Waste no time, my son. Go find a woman, or two even, and futter them with all your might. Each womanly spending feeds your power.'
Brod, more obedient to Hypocrate's word than he'd ever been to that of Theocritus, bounded down the crater ahead of Dendri. At least half a watch had passed since he'd delivered Rena to Marl and Gowan's care. Likely she was healed by now, and if not, the Free Women were mighty enough to serve his needs. And there was that trick Rena had done with the giant sausage. What would it feel like, to lie quite still, and have rippling contractions draw your cock deeper and deeper into the wet and spasming heat of a slender throat?
Brod ran faster, leaping a dozen steps at a time. Never before, not in history nor in fable, had a Hero been set so welcome an agenda of labours, as he.
The Handmaidens by Aran Ashe March 1995 Price: �Ł4.99 ISBN: 0 352 32985 8 Aran Ashe, creator of the legendary Lidir books, is back with a brilliant new series of erotic fantasy novels: the Chronicles of Tormunil. In this, the first book, we meet Sianon and Iroise, young and beautiful serving wenches who seem condemned to a future of absolute obedience and self-denial in the sinister Abbey. Help may be at hand in the form of a handsome young traveller - but it's help at a price.
The Governess at St Agatha's by Yolanda Celbridge March 1995 Price: �Ł4.99 ISBN: 0 352 32986 6 A welcome return for Miss Constance de Comynge, former Cornish governess. Now she's headmistress of St Agatha's, a young ladies' academy where discipline is foremost on the syllabus. Competition is tough for places in the 'Swish Club', a select group whose beautiful members revel in punishing each other - and prominent members of the local gentry.
Lingering Lessons by Sarah Veitch April 1995 Price: �Ł4.99 ISBN: 0 352 32990 4 Leanne has just inherited an old boarding school, but she has to share it with the mysterious Adam Howard. Only one thing is certain about her new partner: he is a true devotee of corporal punishment. The last thing Leanne expects is to be drawn into his sordid yet exciting world, but the temptation proves irresistible.
The Awakening of Lydia by Philippa Masters April 1995 Price: �Ł4.99 ISBN: 0 352 33002 3 As the daughter of a district commissioner during the Boer War, Lydia has plenty of opportunity for excitement - and plenty of sex-starve4 men to pleasure her. But their skills are nothing compared to the voracious sexual appetites of the local tribesmen, who waste no time in taking the stunning six-teen-year-old captive.
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Unfinished Business by Sarah Hope-Walker March 1995 Price: �Ł4.99 ISBN: 0 352 32983 1 Joanne's job as financial analyst for a leading London bank requires a lot of responsibility and control. Her true, submissive self has little opportunity to blossom until the suave, gifted and dominant Nikolai walks into her life. But her happiness is soon threatened by the return of an equally masterful old flame.
Nicole's Revenge by Lisette Allen March 1995 Price: �Ł4.99 ISBN: 0 352 32984 X It's taken Nicole Chabrier four years' hard work at the Paris Opera to make something of herself. But when France erupts into revolution, she has to rely on a dashing stranger to save her from an angry mob. She is only too happy to use her considerable charms to repay the favour and to help Jacques gain revenge on those who wronged him.
Crimson Buccaneer by Cleo Cordell April 1995 Price: �Ł4.99 ISBN: 0 352 32987 4 Cheated out of her inheritance, Carlotta Mendoza wants revenge; and with her exquisite looks and feminine wiles, there is no shortage of men willing to offer her help. She takes to the seas with a rugged buccaneer and begins systematically boarding, robbing and sexually humiliating her enemies.
La Basquaise by Angel Strand April 1995 Price: �Ł4.99 ISBN: 0 352 32988 2 Oruela is a modern young woman of 1920s Biarritz who seeks to join the bohemian set. Her lover, Jean, is helping her to achieve her social aspirations. But an unfortunate accident involving her father brings her under suspicion, and a sinister game of sexual blackmail throws her life into turmoil ...
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