Fire in the Cave

by P. W. Chance

  Fire in the Cave

  by P.W. Chance

  Text copyright © 2015 P.W. Chance

  All Rights Reserved

  For M.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Light the Fire

  Chapter 2: Tell a Story

  Chapter 3: Binding

  Chapter 4: Follow

  Chapter 5: Weakness

  Chapter 6: Mercy

  Chapter 7: I Know You

  Chapter 8: All the Way Down

  Chapter 9: Fire in the Cave

  Chapter 1

  Light the Fire

  The hunters would return soon. The witch-girl was getting ready.

  She crouched in her hut, skin pale and bare, watching the smoke curl from her fire up to the hole in the roof. The circle of sky she could see was slowly darkening. The light was orange, slanting in through the drifting smoke as the sun burned lower outside. When it was dark, they would return, and light the fire in the cave.

  Her toes dug into the dry rushes beneath her, and her fingers moved between wooden and clay dishes of soot, crushed berries, pigments, oils, perfumes. No poisons tonight. She dabbled two fingers in the soot and drew a broad, dark line over her eyes.

  “You’ll need to fix it soon,” said Grandmother.

  The witch-girl tried to ignore her. Most of the tribe wouldn’t have heard Granny Rattlebones at all. The old woman had been dead for many winters, and was now no more than a painted skull adorned with beads and set on a shelf on the wall of the hut. But the witch-girl was her favorite granddaughter. She was the clever girl who’d learned the woman-secrets. She was the cunning girl who’d taken up the task of guiding the Red Cave tribe after the old woman had gone to her rest. The witch-girl could hear her whispering still.

  “It’ll go bad if you don’t fix it,” Grandmother whispered. “Tribe can’t have two chiefs. They’re good boys, strong, brave. Smart, which can be trouble in a man, but you can turn that to good uses. But the brothers can’t both lead the men, lead the hunt. Their love for each other will sour. The hunters will pick sides. Knives in the night. Fix it soon. Fix it now.”

  The witch-girl put on a long necklace, black and red stone beads. It hung down to her stomach, cool on her pale skin, cold on her breasts. She put on another, of hanging wolf-teeth, and another of feathers, and another of bones. She thought of the brothers.

  She thought of White-stag, tall, pale-haired, laughing in the sunlight. He had been wrestling with another hunter, playfully struggling by the shore of the lake. The tribe gathered around them to watch, laughing and calling out encouragement. Golden hair and golden sand flew as they rolled. She thought of the muscles of his broad, tanned back as he lifted the other man up and tossed him into the water. The hunters had cheered, and then rushed him in a mass and carried him down into the lake.

  He would be a strong chief, well-loved.

  She thought of Black-dog, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, standing silent in the moonlight with his two hunting-dogs beside him. She had been surprised to find him there on the hilltop. She had set out to gather night-blooming plants, flowers and herbs. She had thought herself alone, her bare feet quiet on the grass, the moon and stars silent above her, until she padded around a tall stone and heard a dog growl.

  She had seen him then, just as he turned to look at her. His long hair, blacker than the night sky behind him, hung around a face that stared at her like a wolf watching prey. His chest was bare, except for a single bear-tooth hanging around his neck on a leather cord. A long spear rested in his hand, the flint tip shining in the moonlight. His hounds flanked him, large and dark, watching her.

  His eyes had run up and down her body, her moonlight-pale skin, her round hips… she had felt a shiver of fear or excitement, and thought for a moment he would try to take her. But he turned away, stared down at the forest below the hill. She had waited, still and quiet, until she saw what he saw: a single shifting shadow, a moving silent place among the trees. A man, or woman. A scout from the River-folk, trying to slip close to the tribe in the night, to steal or kidnap. Black-dog stood openly in the moonlight, staring down. The presence paused. Then it retreated, fading back into the depths of the forest.

  Black-dog would be a fierce chief, a great protector of the tribe.

  She blinked away the memory and looked up through the twisting smoke, at the skull on the far wall. “Which one, then, Grandmother? Who to raise up, who to cast down?”

  “One is the sun.”

  “And the other is the moon?”

  Through the shifting smoke, the skull seemed to grin. “The other is the night.”

  The witch-girl rubbed red berry-stain on her lips and gave the old skull a stare. “You’re even less helpful now than when you were alive, Grandmother.”

  She heard the old woman’s laughter, in her memory, in her mind, and in the gathering night outside. “Taste them, beloved granddaughter,” the old woman whispered. “Take them into yourself, make them pour themselves into you and feel their heat in your belly. You will know then.”

  A shiver ran down the witch-girl’s spine. For a moment she could feel them, feel herself pressed between them, one behind and one in front. She could feel the heat of their chests, her breath forced out of her as they pressed against her, the smell of their sweat, their hands on her thighs, the heat pushing into her from below...

  As quick as it had come, the feeling faded. She glared at the skull. “Horny old ghost. Keep your visions to yourself.”

  “That was just you, girl.” Grandmother’s laughter was the waves on the lakeshore and the wind in the trees. “Follow that hunger in you, it knows the way. But now, listen…” The old woman’s voice was fading. Faintly, to the north, the witch-girl heard laughter. Then happy yells, whoops of triumph, getting louder as they came. The hunters had returned.

  The witch-girl quickly slipped on her bracelets and soft fur loincloth, dabbed a bit of scent beneath her arms and between her legs, bowed to Granny Rattlebones, and hurried out of the hut and up the hill to the Red Cave.

  *********

  They danced around the fire, now, the young men of the tribe, the hunting party. They laughed, cried out, slapped each other’s shoulders. They were stripped to the waist; the firelight danced on their smooth skin and rounded muscle as their shadows danced on the roof of the cave and sparks from the fire danced out and up into the night. The women of the tribe sat in a wider circle around them, bellies full from what the men had brought: a great boar, tall as a man at the shoulder, meat enough for every mouth. They watched the men dance, and whispered to each other, smiling or nervous. They waited for the gifts to begin.

  The witch-girl sat with them. The line of soot across her eyes and red berry juice staining her lips were dark against her stark white skin and pale hair. Witches were night people; she was untouched by the sun. Her breasts, bare beneath her bead and feather necklaces, were full and soft; her hips were broad on the ground. A clever witch always ate well. She watched the dance, biting her lower lip, guessing which of the women would be chosen.

  Nim was first. Beautiful Nim, tall and curved, with sweet, full lips and long, dark hair. She and Redheart always chose each other. It was no surprise when he spun out of the dance, snatched up his little pile of new-won treasures, and offered them to his mate. He held them out: a sturdy boar rib and a handful of blue feathers. Nim rose to take them, smiling. She kissed a trail down his bronze-tanned chest as she sank back down. On hands and knees, she looked up at him, adoring, and then opened her mouth wide and showed him her tongue. Onlookers hooted and cheered, and the dogs outside barked and howled. The witch-girl grinned, watching. Redheart pulled his hide loincloth aside and laid the tip of his ready cock in his lover’s mouth. He stroked her pretty
hair and rocked his hips as her head bobbed, lips sliding up and down his shaft.

  Gifts were being given quickly now. The witch-girl watched as two men choose the same girl, brought her closer to the fire, pressed her between them as their hands squeezed her little round rump and toyed with her cunt. Highhawk, the woman who hunted and danced with the men, was holding a girl’s head between her legs, baring her teeth and gasping with pleasure as she pressed her slit against the girl’s eager lips and tongue. Strong, broad-shouldered Bors offered a stone knife to Mother Mara. She had been watching him, teasing him as she stroked her great, soft breasts and round belly, her fingers moving wetly in her slit. She turned away from him, licking her lips, then sank down like a bowing dog, with her hips in the air and her face and breasts resting on the ground. He gripped her hips, fingers sinking into softness. With a deep growl, he shoved his shaft deep into her hot, slick hole. Her sweet moan added to the rising chorus as the tribe fucked.

  The witch-girl could feel her face flushing, her breath growing quick, her cunt growing warm and slippery. She smiled as the sounds, the smells, the lust of the rutting all around washed through her like spirit-mushrooms and berry-wine, hot and drunken and joyful. But she kept watching. There were things she needed to see.

  The hunt-leaders, the two brothers, had not yet chosen. They paced around the fire, circling, watching as their people rutted. They were young, and strong, and clever, greatest warriors of the tribe; they had led the men in bringing down the beast, this feast was theirs.

  White-stag stood tall, laughed loud, grinning as girls called out to him. He smiled widely as he turned, the fire shining in his pale hair.

  Black-dog was shorter, but with wider shoulders, dark hair falling down his back. He cast his gaze left and right as he walked, face stern, eyes hunting and hungry.

  The witch-girl blinked as White-stag stopped before her. He held out his offering: a dozen porcupine quills. Useful, valuable. He was smiling down at her, lit from behind by the fire, muscles of his arms like smooth river stones, muscles of his stomach like sand rippled by water.

  The witch-girl hesitated for a moment. Then she reached out, took the quills, set them carefully aside. She settled onto her knees and looked up at him with a sly smile. Her eyes were half-closed, her bright red lips slightly parted.

  The heat of his shaft was shocking. He laid it on her face, along her cheek, long and thick and hot. She groaned at the touch of it; she’d been watching, watching for so long. She moved her head back and forth, stroking her cheek against his length, her mouth opening wider with need. Her tongue slipped out, gliding along his warm rod, tasting sweat and maleness. She pushed forward, pressing her face down to the base of his cock, licking and kissing. Her right hand was between her legs, cupping and squeezing her mound, one finger slipping inside. Her left was stroking him, the shaft huge in her hand. She wanted to swallow him, she wanted to take it all in her mouth, she could feel her mouth watering for it, but it was impossible, it was too big, she wouldn’t be able to! She drew back, nervous and eager, dragging her tongue along the underside of his huge cock, opened her mouth wide, and took in the head.

  Salt and sweetness on her tongue, the wetness from his tip, her tongue pressed flat beneath him, her mouth was completely full. He groaned, happy, the sound vibrating through his shaft and into her, his pleasure intoxicating as she moved her fingers faster, teasing and rubbing her own slit and bud, stroking his length more firmly. She bobbed her head, red lips sliding over the smooth, wide head of his penis, winning a few more sweet drops from his tip. She could take more, she knew she could. She felt his hands on the back of her head as her lips slipped down, as his cock-head pushed deeper into her yearning mouth, pressing against her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, her body screaming at her that her throat was full, that she couldn’t breathe. She rode the wave of panic and pleasure, feeling it tingle down to her fingertips, as she eased into the rhythm of swallowing his cock. Her head was spinning with lust; the sounds of fucking all around had faded to a faraway buzz. The only thing in her universe was his dick sliding back and forth in her mouth.

  She had to do something, she was going to choke, she was going to come. She stroked the base of his shaft frantically as his fists curled in her hair, and then he was pulling back and pouring his come onto her, a thick, sticky mouthful, hotness splattering her face. She moaned, happy and half-delirious, swallowed and gasped. There was too much; half of it slipped out between her lips and down in thick drops to her chin.

  He was watching her, standing above her, chest rising and falling as he panted. His eyes were sleepy, cat-satisfied... but as she ran her tongue over her sticky lips, she saw hunger rise in him again. She raised her arms high, stretching, yawning with her tongue hanging out, and then lay back on the soft earth, watching him with amusement. His shaft, half-sunken, was rising again. Slowly, languidly, no faster than his shaft was growing hard, she opened her legs. She bit her lip coyly, showing him her thatch of hair and the wetness her fingers were still stirring. His eyes devoured her pale breasts, the curve of her stomach, the softness of her open thighs. He grinned.

  “I am no fool, witch-girl. I know to bring strength when strength is needed.” He called back over his shoulder. Two warriors answered. Fox and Heartwood came close, dropped pretty gifts beside her, looking at her with naked desire. She smiled, purring with pleasure as they closed in, their ready shafts in their hands. She raised her hips for them, inviting, biting her tongue as she quickly rubbed her bud.

  Fox was younger, slender, eager. He fell upon her and pushed himself into her tightness, moving quickly, like a mating dog. She closed her eyes and threw back her head, a broad smile on her face, as his rapid thrusts churned her cunt. It felt like it was glowing, her cunt warm as a red-hot coal as he fucked her, a slippery, slapping sound where they met, a look of agony on his pretty young face. She could feel herself riding closer to her finish as his fingers sunk into her soft hips, as the other two men leaned in, watching, stroking themselves as she took the boy’s cock. So close, so sweetly close, but he was already crying out and pouring his heat into her, the new feeling delicious inside her. His head was thrown back as he moaned, his cock was stirring her deeper in as he thrust his hips hard against hers, pouring his seed into her as deeply as he could.

  She sighed as he pulled out, her cunt tingling. But the second warrior shouldered him out of the way in an instant. Heartwood was older, dark-bearded, with scars on his chest. His fingers quickly went to work. They glided under her breasts, lifting, massaging, gently pinching her nipples. She let out a slow breath, relaxing into the sensation, accepting his skill. As she felt the first boy’s come sliding slowly out of her, the first white drops of it seeping from her hot, sticky cunt, the older man’s smooth cock-head touched her, plugged her, pushed into her. He slid in quickly, easily, as she stretched around him. She felt dazed, happily drunk; she lay flat on her back with her hair tangled and spread behind her, watching the look of confident satisfaction on his bearded face. He was teasing her, three shallow strokes followed by a deep thrust, over and over, and she felt the heat rising in her again. Now thumb was on her bud, now mouth was on her breast, she bit her lip in agony as he gave her almost what she needed, almost, he was moving faster, stronger, she was almost there, her slippery cunt almost buzzing with sensation, like a knot about to come undone, but he was already coming, shooting into her thick and hot, she was almost there as he pulled away, so close…

  White-stag’s cock thrust into her, and she screamed through clenched teeth and came. He was huge inside her as he moved in and out, twice as big as the other two, more, his hands were on her wrists, she was stretched tight around him, feeling every motion, gasping with mixed relief and longing as he pulled out, her whole body shaking as he thrust back in, deeper than her fingers could reach, deeper than the cocks before, filling her completely, forcing wave after wave of aching pleasure up from her belly to the top of her head, drawing out her moment so that w
hite heat washed away her thoughts. He was coming, pouring his hotness into the warm, hidden center of her, making her overflow. Distantly, she felt her body go limp. His lips were on hers. She closed her eyes.

  For a while, she rested, her mind empty. She lay there, warm and sleepy, between the handsome, sleeping warriors who had used her so well. A smile was on her face; a pleasant ache was between her legs. Her head rested on White-stag’s chest, his heartbeat in her ear. The cave was darker, now. The fire burned low. There were sounds of more gentle lovemaking, sounds of sleep, lovers whispering to one another.

  Slowly, thought returned. There was something she should do. She was the witch-girl. She must be clever, wise, she must fix the problems others could not see. What was it… The hunt-leaders. The brothers. Who they chose, who they mated with, if they were satisfied, if they fought, these things were important. They could bring joy or trouble to the whole Red Cave tribe.

  White-stag had chosen her. She smiled, a shiver running through her as her tender cunt remembered him moving inside her. But who had Black-dog chosen? Had she seen? She tried to remember, tried to recall the scene around her as she had been fucked by one man after another.

  Black-dog’s treasure had been great. He had two of the boar’s tusks, strong and sharp, good for knives or spearheads. Trade them for food, and a woman could eat well all winter. She remembered them shining white in his hand as he stalked around the fire. He could have chosen three women, if he had wanted them. Perhaps four, with his fame and his broad shoulders, his dark eyes.

  He had stopped in front of Sparrow. Thin, short, small-breasted. Often hungry. Rarely chosen. Shy little Sparrow. The witch-girl had gotten a glimpse of him leaning down, offering, and another of him leading Sparrow out of the cave.

  The witch-girl took a deep breath, frowning. One of the two greatest warriors in the tribe had offered small, hungry Sparrow a gift worth far more than she could have hoped for. She could not refuse such an offer. She could not refuse anything he demanded of her in return. Anything he chose to do to her, in the darkness outside, away from the tribe.