Rogue's Sultry Women

by Reed James

  My heart pounded hard, my body cold with tension. I reached the base of the hill, moving towards the path the slavers followed. My body ghosted through the trees. In the darkness of the canopy, I couldn't even see myself. My sister's magic concealed me as I moved.

  Her lines of pussy juices remained hot on my cheeks.

  I approached the slaver wagons. Two of them, crammed with the victims of their raids. They slept huddled together, piled on each other in the cramped confines, those on the edges pressed against the bars. All were naked, mistreated.

  Laughter came from the fire. The sentry by the slavers' wagon turned his head to look back at his companions. He shifted in his black, boiled-leather armor. The man's head was shaved, his skin dusky-brown. His hand gripped a spear. He leaned on it for support and yawned again.

  I circled the man, coming so close to him. But he didn't see me. He didn't hear me. Every step with care, my breathing slow, controlled. The dagger gripped in my right hand. I moved behind him. A slave whimpered from the wagon.

  Anger burned. How could Prince Meinard stoop so low as to let his own people be taken by slavers? All his proclamations issued to have slavers hunted down, the patrols of soldiers sent to stop the naga from conducting their raids, were a lie. It shouldn't shock me. The bastard had destroyed my family. But it did. The man's evils had no limits.

  I sprang. My knife hissed.

  And took the sentry in the throat, stabbing in from the side, severing arteries and the windpipe. He tried to scream out, but only a wet wheeze issued from his slit throat. I caught his body, blood spilling down the front of his armor, and set him down in the brush at my feet.

  I peered through the prickling leaves at the campfire, the three men still laughing, passing a wineskin among them. No one noticed death's arrival.

  “Got my eye on that slender 'un,” grunted one. “I bet she'd wiggle nicely on my cock.”

  “And scream her head off,” his friend said. “But you like it when they scream.”

  “'Please stop,'” the third said, forcing his voice high pitched. “'You're hurting me. Please, take it out.'”

  “Squealing just makes a pussy tighter,” the first laughed.

  My face hardened. These were the degenerates with whom Meinard consorted? I glanced at my dagger. The wrong man's blood adorned it.

  Then I moved on. I had another sentry to kill.

  ~ * ~

  Kora Falk

  I trembled as I watched from the hillside. I couldn't see my step-brother at all. My heart beat so hard. I clutched my pink robes about my naked breasts. He was all I had left. The rest of our family stolen by that tyrant. Part of me wanted to tell Sven his plans of revenge would only see him dead. Prince Meinard ruled half of Zeutch. His forces would crush the rest within a year. He might be High King in a decade. The first man to even have a chance of restoring High King Peter's dominion. Two hundred years of fighting and war, and Prince Meinard could come out the strongest.

  He stood poised to dominate all.

  I wanted to run away with my brother, to find some place safe, and live together. Just the two of us. Fantasies of pretending to be his wife, not his sister, danced through my thoughts. I dreamed of founding a home, raising a family, with him. I knew it was wrong, he was my brother. But I burned for him. I knew I shouldn't expose myself to his gaze, masturbating before him under the guise of casting spells, but I couldn't help my wanton desires.

  I wished he'd show me the attention he dribbled on those whores he bedded. Or on Princess Ava.

  The second sentry suddenly collapsed, vanishing into the brush. My brother's skills, honed by the Fencing College of Az and his own rapacious appetites for new conquests, were impressive. Maybe he could kill Meinard.

  Maybe he could avenge Mama, Papa, and little Katriana.

  So I never objected to his plans. I followed him into exile, abandoning my home in Az at the temple of Rithi to wander as a fugitive with him. I believed in my brother. If any could do it, he could. And I'd help him.

  I shoved my fingers between my thighs, rubbing on my juicy snatch. Pleasure rippled through me as I drew upon my goddess's powers. “Rithi, bless my sexual juices and let them paint new beauty in the world.”

  I shuddered, my pussy clenching on my digits, my pussy juices flowing, gathering on my fingers like oil paints. I pulled them out of my pussy, concentrating upon the world, my canvas. All Radiants of Rithi, her priests and priestesses, were required to master three of the arts. I had learned all the techniques of the brush and pencil; trained to sketch, draw, and paint; evoking my imagination to life on paper, canvas, and reality.

  My fingers painted, my pussy juices smearing color near the campfire, sketching the lithe and naked woman. She had pale skin, her hips curving, her breasts large and full, nipples pink and hard. Blonde hair fell in a curtain about a lush and hungry face, blue eyes sparkling. She stood up in the brush, gasping in alarm.

  Ran.

  “Naga scales!” swore one of the guards, leaping to his feet. “One of the slaves got out.”

  “She ain't no girl we captured,” the second said, gaining his feet, such hunger in his voice. “Look at that ass.”

  “Get her!”

  The two of the three at the fire raced after my illusion. Their rapacious hunger for the busty, curvy woman I created sent them pounding through the dark brush. I guided her down the trail, crouched above on the hilltop, my fingers constantly sketching her. My imagination focused on moving her, on her blonde hair streaming behind her, her breasts heaving.

  “No!” she screamed, her voice throaty and intoxicating. “Oh, Gods, no! Help! Help!”

  “No one's gonna help you, girly,” leered one of the guards, racing farther from the camp. From my brother.

  They were heedless of where she led them. I climbed the illusion up the far hill, keeping her running ahead of the guards slowed by their stiff, leather armor. They scrambled up the slope after, maddened by her beauty.

  I had no pity for them as I painted a new illusion when the woman reached the top. She ran out onto the ledge of the far hill, tripping, falling. She landed near the edge, crying out in pain. She rolled over onto her back, clutching a twisted ankle.

  The guards were too far away for me to hear their voices as they slowed, staring at the illusion. They knew she had nowhere to go. That she was helpless, at their mercy. I focused on them, little more than shadows standing on a hill.

  I kept my fingers dancing.

  They lunged forward.

  Illusions were not real. They looked it. I could manipulate sound and color, shape and texture, but I couldn't put any substance into them. There was nothing to touch. Both guards found that out when their feet stepped on what they thought was solid ground. But was really beyond the cliff's edge, my illusionary woman ten feet from the real hill.

  Their screams were faint as they fell to their deaths.

  I let my illusion fade, smiling viciously.

  Chapter Two: Canvas Darkness

  Sven Falk

  My dagger cut the second sentry's throat. He dropped behind the warleader's tent. I drew my hand crossbow and loaded a short quarrel. I studied the three guards at the fire. With a gasp, they gained their feet, spotting my sister's illusion.

  Two charged off after the woman. Kora knew how to entice men, especially slaver scum, with her creations. She'd find a way to dispose of them. Probably run them off a cliff as the idiots only thought with their cocks.

  I aimed my hand crossbow at the third. He had a big grin on his face as he adjusted himself.

  The quarrel hissed through the air, catching him in the throat. He grasped at it then ripped it free. Blood flowed down his throat. He staggered for a moment before collapsing, gurgling on the ground. Grinning, I stowed my hand crossbow and focused on the gray tent.

  I stalked to the back of the tent. The warleader was the true danger. The naga trained them brutally, teaching them how to fight, how to give pain, and how to endure it. Some even
learned dread arts, magics that manipulated shadows. My heart beat faster as I pressed my knife against the tent's canvas while listening.

  Snoring. Deep and rumbling. The warleader slept.

  Perfect.

  The dagger's sharp tip pierced the canvas with a rasping whisper. With patience, I cut down, working through the thick cloth. My knife whisked. I paused after each sawing stroke, listening to the snoring. It stayed the same. Inch-by-inch, my blade sliced downward, making my entrance into the tent.

  Finished, the cloth swayed, loose.

  I crept through the hole and crouched just inside. Movement froze me. In the corner, a form uncurled, painted in the light from a small lantern hanging from the tent's frame at its apex. A pale-skinned female body sat up, bushy hair spilling about narrow shoulders. A pair of triangular ears, tawny like her hair, thrust up at the top of her head and twitched like a cat's. A face stared at me, golden eyes slitted. A lamia. Her slitted eyes fixed on me, keen vision noticing me.

  Then they flicked to the sleeping, snoring man.

  The warleader slept naked atop his blankets, his body a dusky brown and so muscled his veins stood out against his skin. A shaved head gleamed in the lantern light. A black mustache, the ends long and drooping down to his chin, adorned a squat and chiseled face.

  The lamia shook her head in warning, an iron slave collar tight about her throat. She mouthed, “Run.”

  I winked at her.

  I crept closer to the sleeping warleader. A glint to my right drew my attention. In an open chest, sitting upon rumpled clothing, lay a necklace of braided gold with a ruby, the size of a chicken's egg and reflecting light across its cut facets, attached at the end.

  My heart almost stopped beating. I'd never seen a ruby so big before. Without thought, I snatched it up, holding it before my eyes. A deep crimson bled out of the depth of the stone, growing lighter on the edges as the light shone on it.

  Kora would look so beautiful wearing it.

  The lamia moved, crouching low. Her tawny tail flicked to and fro. She looked like a human woman, small and petite, with a cat's ears, eyes, and a tail. Cum stained her thighs, used by her owner before he had fallen asleep.

  “He'll kill you,” she mouthed again.

  I grinned at her while pocketing the amulet, hefted my dagger, and winked again.

  Her head cocked to the side. Her brows furrowed. She stuck a tongue out between her lips. Nipples hardened atop her small breasts. Her fingers bit into the bedding she lay on as I advanced on her owner.

  His broad chest lay stretched out before me, rising and falling with his snores. I knelt, raised my dagger, and aimed at his heart.

  Stabbed.

  The man's dark eyes snapped opened. His hand seized my wrist in a crushing grip.

  “Pater's cock,” I swore, pain flaring up my wrist. My hand spasmed open, the dagger falling down, stabbing into the warleader's bedding beside him.

  “Thief,” growled the man, a brutal smile spreading across his lips.

  My booted foot lashed out, slamming into his side.

  He didn't even grunt.

  I cried out as he twisted my arm. My knees buckled, my wrist twisting in ways Slata didn't intend when the Goddess created humans in her womb. Tears burned in my eyes. I snarled, drawing another dagger in my left hand, stabbing.

  Blood spurted.

  His his arm bleeding, he released me. Crimson flowed down his wrist as I stumbled back. The lamia yowled as I stepped on her. I tripped on her and fell over her, crashing onto the ground. The catgirl hissed, struggling to get out from beneath my legs as the warleader rose.

  “Did I take your sister, thief?” the warleader asked, a sword hissing from a scabbard by his bed. Long and silver, the edges gleaming in the lantern light. “No, not with magic like that wreathing you. You are no farmer with pig shit beneath his fingernails. Who are you?”

  “I was just out for a stroll and thought I'd poke around in your tent,” I grinned, rising and shifting the dagger from my left to my right hand. “See what I could find.”

  “With shadows bent around you to conceal you?” Rage burned across the man's face.

  My concealment didn't matter in such tight confines. Up close, he could see the outline of my body. He knew where I was. It was enough for him to swing at me. To kill me.

  His sword hissed at me. I cursed, raising my dagger to parry. Sparks flared as I deflected it. The blow jolted down my arm. I grunted, diving to the side. I rolled, the lamia yowling and hissing in fear, scampering across the floor away from us.

  Air whooshed at me. I kept rolling. The sword struck ground behind me. I came up, whirling, my left hand drawing a throwing dagger. It sped through the air, burying into the warleader's muscular stomach. Blood trickled out around the blade.

  He ripped it out and threw it back.

  I ducked. Canvas ripped behind me.

  “Who sent you?” the man bellowed. “Which enemy of my mistress interferes in her business? Is the Paragon betraying her?”

  “What do you think?” I asked, my heart racing as I crossed his bedding. He had the advantage. His sword had far greater reach than my dagger. He was taller than me, his arms longer. So I had to be smarter. Quicker. I feinted for the right.

  His blade followed me, exposing himself.

  I darted left to close the distance and—

  “Las's putrid cum,” I snarled, throwing myself backward as he recovered. His blade sliced over my chest, almost cutting me in twain, as I crashed onto my ass. I rolled backward over my head and landed in a crouch.

  “You're a nimble one. But the Paragon didn't send you. No, no, you're human. Zeutchian. Was it Shuzizzra, then?”

  “I'm not going to tell you,” I grinned, my heart racing, eyes flicking around, looking for options. I couldn't keep dodging him. He had skill, and the tent kept us confined. I had to make that work for me.

  “We'll see.” His smile promised pain.

  My left hand blurred. The throwing dagger hissed at his face. He recoiled back as I turned, an idea striking me. It was a dumb one. Metal clanged behind me. My shoulders blades writhed. He deflected my knife with his sword.

  I grasped the support post of the tent. Footsteps thudded behind me.

  “Watch out!” the lamia shouted.

  I yanked on the post, turning around.

  The sword stabbed at my chest.

  I fell to the ground, pulling on the post. It groaned in my hand, twisting, the tent shaking. The sword stabbed over me and slammed into the post. Wood snapped. Canvas rustled. The tent collapsed on us.

  The lantern fell to the ground, sputtering out. Cloth engulfed me, hugging me with more passion than a lover. The warleader bellowed in rage, thrashing. The lamia hissed. I scrambled, pulling at the canvas, crawling beneath it. Cloth tore, sliced by a sword.

  “Naga scales,” the warleader snarled. “Where are you, boy? Think you can steal into my tent?” He roared.

  Through the darkness, I saw his shape thrashing, fighting to get free of the tent. I scrambled toward him as the canvas rippled around me. My dagger stabbed. Found flesh. Blood welled around my hand. He bellowed. His fists slammed down, striking me through the tent on the back.

  I grunted.

  “Think you can stick me like a pig, boy?” he growled.

  “Yes!” I grunted and stabbed again and again and again.

  My sharp blade pierced his flesh over and over as he thrashed and bellowed like a pig in the abattoir. His sword struggled to swing at me, but the canvas tangled around it. The lamia purred nearby as her master gurgled and convulsed. He collapsed, tangled by the tent.

  Died.

  “You killed him,” the lamia said after a minute.

  “So I did,” I said, my back throbbing from his blow. Worth it.

  Chapter Three: Catgirl's Hot Pussy

  Zanyia

  I purred louder as I crawled out of the collapsed tent, my nose twitching. Blood scented the air. I breathed it in, savoring it.
Therek's blood. I never thought I'd smell so much of it. My throat rumbled with my joy. My tail swished back and forth, my whiskers trembling on my cheeks.

  I burst out into the night, crouching low, my back arching. My ears twitched, hearing the murmurs from the slave cart and the roar of fire. Kovet lay dead by the fire, covered in blood, the other guards missing.

  “You killed them all,” I said in awe.

  “Aye,” the Zeutchian thief said, crawling out of the wreckage after me. He was hard to see, shadow magic blending him into the background, making him a blurry outline that faded when he stopped moving. I only knew he was Zeutchian by his accent. He lacked the harshness of the speech of Shizhuthian humans like Therek.

  And he was dead! I purred in utter delight.

  The Zeutchian then did something that shocked me. He seized my collar and fumbled at the bolt that held it shut. He pried it off. I gaped as it came free and fell to the ground, lying at his feet. I'd been born a slave, collared as a kitten suckling at my mother's teat by her owner, then raised to be a pleasure slave for those who pleased my naga mistress.

  Why would he free me? Surly his naga mistress would reward him with me.

  Tears burned in my eyes. I stared up at him, not sure what to say.

  He crouched down to look directly at me and wiped at my tears with hazy fingers. “It's okay. You're safe now. You're free.”

  “Free?” The word croaked out of me, scaring me. Free... Me?

  He nodded his head and then kissed me on the forehead.

  “I see you've gravitated to the naked girl, brother mine,” a woman said.

  My head whipped around. A Zeutchian beauty stepped up to the slave cart. She wore pink robes that left her arms bare and her cleavage exposed. Twin braids of golden hair fell down her back. A tattoo of a vine, covered in pink flowers, wrapped around her right arm. More vines adorned her left breast, peeking out of her robe.

  “Well, she is a cutie,” the man who freed me said as he stood. He wiped at his cheeks and suddenly he stood solid and real, dressed in black leather pants and a jerkin, daggers hanging from a bandoleer slung across his chest, others sheathed at his side. He had a short sword on his right hip, a hand crossbow on the left. “What's your name, little catgirl?”