Fire in the Cave

by P. W. Chance

  He released her wrists and reached down. His fingers trailed down her arm, her stomach, her thigh. Her eyes were open, looking up at him, dazed from lack of air. I saw her mouth twitch up in a drunken smile, then she slowly blinked, looked almost afraid… he touched her below, and she gasped, back arching, eyes blank. His hand began to move, firm and steady, two fingers stroking between her legs. As her body relaxed into his motion, tension fading, rocking with the pressing of his hand, she let out a helpless moan. Clenching my teeth, I moaned with her.

  The men were busy watching, laughing with each other, or licking their teeth and hoping for a turn. None heard me, except for Black-dog.

  His eyes snapped toward me, shining in the firelight. He stared at me as he held the dark-skinned, whimpering girl. I tried to freeze, but he saw how my breath was coming fast, how my hips moved as I pressed my thighs together.

  “Highhawk,” he said, smiling like a knife, “come share this pleasure with me.”

  I swallowed hard. All were watching, but… I could not show weakness. I should not turn down such a generous offer. And, more than anything, I wanted it, wanted to use her like he was using her, wanted to feel what she was feeling. She was rocking her hips against his hand, now, her eyes gazing blindly up at the stars as he forced pleasure into her. I stepped forward.

  I knelt beside them in the circle of firelight, biting my lip, barely hearing the eager murmur of the men around us. Black-dog grinned and lifted the girl, easily turning her over. He set her on her knees, bent forward, her head on my chest, her bound hands in my lap. I wrapped an arm around her to steady her as she looked up at me, bewildered, blinking as if trying to wake from a dream. Her dark hair had fallen over one eye, and I gently brushed it aside. She smiled at me, dreamy and confused, thankful for that little kindness. My heart thumped. I bent close and kissed her lips.

  Her mouth opened in surprise, and my tongue slipped inside. She was sweet, sweet and fever-hot. I pulled her with me as I lay back, I opened her vest so her soft breasts moved against mine, I pushed my fingers into her hair to pull her closer as I kissed her. Sweet, dazed girl lying soft and warm on top of me, rocking against me gently as Black-dog toyed with her from behind. I was reaching down to please myself, to comfort the aching heat that was building in me, when she went rigid against me. Her whole body shuddered as Black-dog pushed his shaft inside her. Her lips opened against mine, her eyes squeezed shut, and she let out a long, whimpering moan.

  He pulled her back, away from me, her head and hair trailing down my body as she went. I half sat up to complain, but he pushed her forward again, and I groaned with pleasure instead. He had her on her knees, her rump raised in the air for his use, her head down between my legs, pretty face pressing into my cunt. I gasped, hungry for pleasure, no longer thinking. I pulled my skirt up, out of the way, weaved my fingers into her hair, and guided her lips toward my bud. She whimpered, uncertain, with her hands bound beneath her and a dozen men watching her be mounted like a dog. But as Black-dog slowly drew his shaft back out of her, her noises turned into needy whines. Then he pushed in once more, began his steady rhythm, growling with satisfaction as he used her.

  Each thrust made her shiver, each thrust pushed her lips against me, pressing on my mound, sliding over my bud. I was watching her eyes, couldn’t look away. She stared up at me helplessly, delirious with lack of breath, the motion of the shaft inside her building a heat that was burning away her thoughts. Black-dog was baring his teeth, hungry, his hands gripping her hips firmly as he rocked in and out of her, his fingers pressing cruelly into her soft skin. I felt a sweet shock as her tongue slipped out of her mouth, sliding against my bud. Her gasps and whimpers faded, her eyes half-closed, and Black-dog forced moans out of her. Low and sweet, her sounds hummed inside me. I had to grit my teeth against the pleasure.

  It only got stronger. I was on my back, legs wrapped around the poor girl’s head, one hand in her hair, the other gripping the ground beneath me as I rode closer and closer to my finish. As I squeezed my eyes closed and opened them again, I saw the girl in flashes… the curve of her hips, shaking as Black-dog slammed into her again and again; the red hand-print on her rump where he’d slapped her; the desperate, yearning look in her eyes when I relaxed my grip and let her look up at me, my juice shining on her beautiful lips. I pushed her back down. I needed to feel her more.

  I had been riding so close to the edge it was painful, nearly finishing and then pulling back, the girl’s dark-curled hair tickling my thighs, when I realized the motion had stopped. Her cheek was pressed against me, between my legs. She was gasping for breath, her panting hot on my skin. A shiver ran through her from below, then through me. Black-dog had pulled away, he was standing, facing the men around us.

  “Friends,” he said, a smile on his face, “brave companions. Share this feast with me.”

  The men cheered like howling wolves, pressing toward us on all sides. The girl’s eyes went wide as rough hands seized her from behind, reaching in to touch her skin, her rump, her thighs, her breasts. I shook my head to clear it, opened my mouth to protest, but then someone was pressing her head down against my mound and big Bors was rocking her from behind, and all I could do was groan. I’d been so close, my finish rushed up on me like a wave as he used her, stealing my breath, leaving me limp and warm and shaking. I lay there, no thoughts in my mind, as they took their turns with her. I smiled as they pulled her upright, filled her open mouth with one cock, then another. And then she wasn’t even touching the ground as they surrounded her, lifting and filling her, hands on her everywhere. I saw her tense and shake as they pushed her over the edge, heard her muffled cry as she wailed against the lips of the man forcing a kiss on her. Then again, with another. And again. She drowned in them, and then they raised her up, her head and shoulders rising above the crowd like a swimmer rising from a lake. She threw her head back, dark hair flying in the night air, and silhouetted against the moon she screamed.

  Afterward, I went to check on her. They had left her lying on her side by the fire. Her eyes were half-open, staring at nothing. Wetness trailed from her where they had used her, dripping and running down to the earth. Her beautiful lips were curled in a helpless, empty smile.

  *********

  The witch-girl pulled closer to Highhawk in the darkness. The fire had burned low, orange coals giving warmth, but no light.

  “That is Black-dog,” Highhawk said. “So what will you do?”

  “Give myself to him,” the witch-girl whispered, “and take himself from him. Tomorrow night.”

  Chapter 3

  Binding

  “How strong is this collar?” the witch-girl asked. “How hard would it be to get out of? For a person, I mean.”

  Howl frowned. She was young, with freckles below her eyes and her hair in a long brown braid. She wore a simple deerhide vest and skirt, with none of the bracelets and charms that the witch-girl carried. She had cords, though, leashes and collars hanging from her braided leather belt. Howl trained the dogs. She ate with them, she played with them, she slept with them in their big furry pile outside the cave. Most of the dogs had a favorite hunter, a man they ran with, but they all loved Howl.

  A big, shaggy hound with a black coat and a white chest shoved his muzzle under Howl’s hand. She scratched his ears as she thought.

  The sky was red with sunset. They were sitting by Howl’s fire, on the hillside near the cave. As dogs padded around them, snuffling and yawning, the witch-girl examined the straps, cords, and bindings that Howl pulled out of her bag.

  “The collar is strong,” Howl said, “but the knot is weaker. The stronger the one who ties it, the stronger the knot. Sometimes you want a weaker knot, though, so the dog gets loose instead of pulling you along. You are going to collar a person, make a slave? One of the River-folk?”

  “No,” said the witch-girl. She pulled a cord over her open hand, feeling the braided leather slide over her palm. Just a little oil would do, she thought. A li
ttle oil would make it soft, let it glide smoothly over skin. Though it would still hurt to be struck with it, or choked… she realized she was holding her breath. Embarrassing.

  Howl leaned closer, voice low, eyes wide. “Then who?”

  The witch-girl looked up at her, pale eyes shining in the last light of sunset. She showed her teeth in a grin. “If you do not know, you cannot be blamed.” She gathered up the collar, and the long leather leash. “I need these. May I have them?”

  “I owe you for helping with the two difficult litters last spring, and the sickness this summer.” Howl smiled. “And even if I didn’t, you are the witch-girl. If you need something, it is to help us all, yes?”

  The witch-girl stood, looking down the hillside to the women’s huts, and the lake beyond. “Yes,” she said. “For all the tribe.” There was a warmth in her stomach, though, a fluttering, that made her feel like a liar. It would help the tribe, yes, but she wanted to do it. Wanted to… punish him, she told herself. That great strength, those burning eyes and dark hair… the need in him, that he had used those women to satisfy… she needed to control that. She wanted him bound. She wanted to look down and see him kneeling before her, his pride turned to devotion, his breath hot on her thighs...

  “Is it Black-dog?”

  The witch-girl snapped out of her reverie, eyes on Howl once more. Keeping her face blank, she said, “Why do you ask that?”

  Howl shook her head. “I think Granny Rattlebones named him wrong. He’s got too much wolf in him. It happens, sometimes, with the dogs. Some won’t take a collar, won’t take training, won’t be part of a human tribe. They stay up into the night, staring off into the forest. Sometimes I have to let one loose, let them run off into the woods to be what they are. If I didn’t… they’d kill or die, never break.”

  The witch-girl narrowed her eyes. “Do you think Black-dog should leave? Run into the woods?”

  “No!” Howl was flustered, not meeting the witch-girl’s gaze. “I just think… I think it might be best to let him be what he is. Not try to control him or say no to him.”

  The witch-girl hid a smile. Witches were night people, she could see well in little light. She could see Howl was blushing. “So you wouldn’t say no to Black-dog, then? Wouldn’t refuse anything he demanded?”

  Howl looked down at her knees. “I think that’s… safer,” she said.

  “What if he wanted to hurt the dogs?” the witch-girl whispered.

  Howl’s head snapped up. “He wouldn’t!” she said.

  “He hurts people,” the witch-girl whispered. “He does wicked things.”

  “He hurts people,” Howl replied, voice firm. “Not the dogs. They love him.”

  And which are you, the witch-girl wondered. Are you a person, Howl, or a dog? Would he hurt you, use you, or pet your head? Would you beg for him, with your tongue hanging out, eager to taste him, to work hard to please him? Eager for him to stroke your hair and call you a good girl? The witch-girl’s hand tightened around the leather straps.

  She looked down toward the lake once more, toward her own hut. It was larger than the others, and stood apart from them, half-hidden in the forest so she could work undisturbed. She had work to do tonight.

  “Thank you for the cord, Howl,” she said. Dogs surrounded her, sniffing and licking her hands, as she stepped away from the fire and headed down the hillside.

  “Remember about the knot,” Howl called out. “If you make it too strong, you get pulled along!”

  *********

  The oil felt good on her hands, softening and smoothing them as she worked it into the leather. It smelled of nuts, of growth and life and earth. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving the leather cord she had taken apart back together. Three strands of leather in the braid, strong and supple and smooth, and two near-invisible strands of hair. Hers, and Black-dog’s. She’d taken his hair months before. She had a little bit from each member of the tribe. If River-folk raiders ever dared to attack the witch-girl’s lodge, her first task would be to throw all the hairs in the fire, so they couldn’t be stolen and used by an enemy witch.

  She was thinking, as she worked. She was walking through a vision, step by step, telling the spirits what she wanted, what work she was doing here.

  She thought of Black-dog. How he looked at her, when she saw him around the camp. Eyes locked on her, tracking her, staring through her… and then looking away, as if she meant nothing to him. She thought of the shape of him, when she met him alone on the hilltop. A black silhouette against the night sky, broad shoulders, long, dark hair, his head turning toward her in the darkness. She remembered the thump in her chest, wondering whether he was going to take her. What had he been thinking, then? Had he wanted her? Wanted to make love to her, or to hurt her, or both? She remembered the smell of him, forest and sweat. The feeling of his skin…

  She had tended him once, a year before, when he had been wounded on a hunt. The hunters had found a stag, a great broad-antlered forest king, and chased it, herded it, forced it into a narrow ravine. The two brothers, Black-dog and White-stag, jumped down in front of it to block its escape. They stood, side by side, long spears in hand, as the stag lowered its crown of horns and charged towards them. At the last moment, it swung towards Black-dog. He took its life, at the cost of a long gash on his thigh. The hunters brought him to the witch’s hut.

  She laid him on a bed of skins and moss, his dark hair spread behind his head like spilling water, his chest rising and falling, his wound slowly dripping blood. His eyes were closed. He lay calmly, waiting for her to do her work. She removed his footwraps, his leather skirt, his bone bracelets and bear-tooth necklace, until he lay bare before her, nothing but a man. She felt her skin warm. Other men always looked vulnerable like this. Childlike, reduced. But Black-dog seemed more dangerous lying wounded and naked than most men looked fully clothed, standing, and carrying a knife. His hands lay motionless beside him, but she could easily imagine them flashing toward her, grabbing her, pulling her down.

  She washed the wound, then closed it with a fishbone needle and thin, strong boiled gut-thread. He held his breath for a moment as the needle first went in, then sighed and resumed breathing steadily. Once the wound was closed, she reached for a dish of water that had been warming by the fire. She gathered water in her cupped hands and poured it over his chest. She had to wash him, cleanse him, to be sure no spirits or foulness could infect his injury… She bit her lip as she laid her hands on his skin. He was hot, warmer than the water, and she had to pause for a moment with her fingertips resting on the smooth curve of his chest muscles, rising and falling with his breath. It felt like his heat was soaking into her, rushing up through her hands and arms, then pouring into her chest and down, filling her with hot water.

  She had work to do. She had to wash him. She closed her eyes, so that she wouldn’t be distracted by the firelight on his skin and the dark waterfall of his hair. It didn’t help. It just made her more aware of his skin under her hands as she poured more water, brushed it off him with strokes of her fingers, poured again. She felt his heartbeat, slow and powerful. She felt the curve of his muscles, his shoulders, arms, stomach, the heat and life in him. He held his breath for a moment as her fingers touched his throat, then relaxed as she worked upward. She opened her eyes as she washed his face, and found him looking up at her, his dark eyes like a deep cave, a darkness she could fall into.

  She swallowed, hard. She stroked water over his cheeks, his forehead, his beard-shadowed chin, then worked downward once more. Only his eyes moved as he watched her, eyes tracking her like a wolf watching a deer. She poured more water and stroked downward. She felt hot inside, felt like she was taking all the fever-ghosts into herself, but she could not stop. She had a duty, she reminded herself. Had to do it properly. She washed his thighs, his long, strong running-muscles hard under her hands, and then reached between them, to wash his cock.

  He sighed in appreciation as she poured warm water over his shaft. It wa
s still soft as she trailed her fingertips over it. Half-full, already larger than a normal man’s. She felt feverish, molten inside. She wrapped her hand around it. She felt his heartbeat, thumping in his shaft. She felt him getting bigger. Filling her hand, expanding in her grip, heat and hardness against her palm…

  He growled. Something inside her shook with the sound.

  In the past, she had jerked back her hand, looked away. She had finished washing him quickly, told his brother he would heal well, and spent the night purifying herself of the fever-ghosts by drinking hot herb teas and stroking herself. She had maintained her control, not given in to his power.

  In the vision, she changed it. She showed the spirits what needed to happen. She showed them Black-dog lying on the furs, injured and at her mercy. She showed herself stroking his shaft, making him gasp with her skill, making him stand tall and strong and hot in her hands. She took him in her mouth as she stroked, the smoothness of his cock-head on her tongue, the taste of salt… then she tied the collar around his throat, took the leash in her hand, and mounted him.

  She could see the look of rage on his face. His hands reached up to tear away the collar. They paused, then slowly curled into fists, the collar forgotten, as she lowered herself onto his shaft.

  She imagined the stretching she would feel, the aching pleasure. She saw herself tug on the leash, heard him snarl like a beast. She closed her eyes and bared her teeth and took more and more of him inside her, deeper and deeper, until she felt the heat of his skin touch her inner thighs and knew she had taken all of him. He would reach down, then, the pleasure of being inside her making him forget the collar, forget everything, his hands would grip her hips and start rocking her, stirring inside her. He would rise beneath her, arching his back, pushing deeper into her, until they were both gasping with the motion. She would fall forward, onto him, her breasts on his broad, tanned chest, her lips finding his, and they would kiss each other savagely, hungrily, selfishly taking what they wanted from each other. His shaft would move sweet and painful within her, while his arms closed around her to hold her close, hold her still as he moved more violently, hauling his length in and out of her faster and faster as he growled and she gasped, the pleasure a flood washing away both of their minds. Until, finally, he would rise up underneath her, push his full length into her eager cunt, and kiss and bite her neck as he came, came, came inside her, and she would groan as it poured into her, her toes curling as his heat filled her. She would gasp and flex within the prison of his arms, held tight against the fire-heat of his chest, her skin almost burning with him, her hand clenching tight around the leash, taken, triumphant.