by P. W. Chance
Just as she relaxed, just as her breathing began to slow, he dropped onto her. His chest was on hers, his weight pressing her down into the earth, his mouth was on hers in a savage, primal kiss, growling as he took her. His arms were beneath her, hands on her shoulders, holding her body in place as he began to move in her, mating with her. He was pulling her down onto himself with each stroke, pulling her to him as he moved into her. Every time he moved in, he filled her almost too full to bear, and every time he pulled back, she only wanted the fullness again.
His body was warm and strong above her, pressing against her, pressing her down, as he moved in her. She was seeing things, eyes closed, seeing rushing water, pounding waves. She was glowing, she felt like she was glowing inside with heat and pleasure as he kissed her neck and pulled her onto him again and again. He was filling her, filling her, faster and faster, he was a stranger or a god and she didn’t know his name and he had just picked her up and spread her wide and was taking her, fucking her, using and blessing and mating with her. She was screaming as she came around him, her own waters rushing out around his cock as he fucked her. He was still moving in her, his lips on her neck and his hips slamming into hers, not letting her down from the peak of her wave, forcing her to ride it on and on and on until it broke over her and she lost herself.
She gasped, a long, shuddering breath. Her eyes fluttered open. She had lost some time, not much. He was crouched over her, shaft still standing hard. A little shiver ran through her, seeing the size of the thing that had been in her. She reached down, tentatively, to feel her cunt. It was warm, aching pleasantly, dripping down onto the moss.
“You can flow,” he said, watching her. His accent was strange, his voice sad. “I cannot. There is a curse upon me. You will help me.” He had something in his hand. A water weed. He was crushing it between his fingers, staining them dark green. “I mark you. You go to your village. You offer yourself to the people. You help them flow. As many as you can, as many as want to use you, you give yourself to. Do this, and I shall grant a blessing.”
His hand loomed large in her vision, reaching toward her face, shining green. She closed her eyes, thrilled, afraid, breathing fast between parted lips. She felt his touch on her forehead, three fingers, drawing waving lines, drawing flowing water. A touch on one cheek, then the other, drawing lines from her eyes downward. Then warmth on her lips. Heat, a kiss, her tongue touching his. He tasted like water and strength.
He inhaled. She let him steal her breath, eagerly offering it to him as he drew it out of her, leaving her chest empty, her head dizzy, needing air. Then he sighed his own breath into her. Air flowed into her through their joined lips, filling her with him, with his power, making her his vessel. As he drew away, she lay still, savoring it, feeling her arms and legs tingle with the power he had put in her. She felt it move in waves inside her. It washed slowly from her lips down to her tenderness and back, rippling through her stomach. The sun was warm on her skin. The breath was warm inside her. The sound of the river, of falling and flowing water, filled the air.
She opened her eyes. He was gone.
She stood, bare feet sinking into the moss. The river was beautiful, shining in the sun, the current flowing always towards its distant goal. She smiled dreamily. She felt the same: beautiful, purposeful. She was walking, she realized. Walking beside the river, walking back to the village.
As she approached, she heard men’s voices. Laughing, shouting, challenging each other, the clatter of staffs as they sparred. She walked between huts, approaching the open area in the village center, the space around the firepit where the men practiced their fighting. Beside the fire was the altar to the spirits, piled high with flowers.
Bronze-skinned, bare-chested warriors went silent as she stepped into the open. Fighting pairs broke apart, staring at her; wrestling matches broke up, opponents standing, looking at her curiously, looking at her body. She smiled, full of warmth, full of purpose, full of love for them. They were standing still, now, holding back, but she knew that soon they would rush over her like a wave, taking her.
Ten-hands, strongest of the warriors, stepped toward her.
“Four-leaf,” he said, “why are you bare before us? Why are you painted?” He was tall, sharp-eyed, five dark bands dyed on each arm. He was warm from his exercise, breathing deep. She watched a single drop of sweat roll down from his throat, over his broad chest, down the rippled muscles of his stomach.
If she spoke the words, they would take her. She felt a tremble in her stomach, a hesitation; she was a shy girl, she stayed away from the feasts and parties, she had never had so many men looking at her, staring at her nakedness, at her little breasts and the dark patch of hair between her legs. Why had the spirit chosen her? There were other girls more suited to this, she wanted to run back to her hut and hide, but she had been commanded. The command was in her, and it was somehow more embarrassing to stop than to go on. She heard her own voice speaking out.
“The river-god has marked me. I am his vessel. I must offer myself to you, to all of you, to anyone who wants me, I must help you flow to help him flow, to receive the blessing.” Her voice was shaking, but the current inside her pushed her on. Her mind was floating on a warm river. She fell to her knees, held out her hands, begging. “Please. Please let me help you flow.”
The men were drawing close around her, muttering to each other. She heard uncertainty, eagerness. Hunger and disbelief. She closed her eyes, hands still raised before her as she kneeled.
“I don’t care,” she heard. “If she’s offering, I’m taking.” She felt something press into her hands. Warm leather. He had stepped forward until her hands were on his loincloth, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin leather, feeling the shape of him, growing hard. A blush rose in her cheeks, heart hammering in her chest, but she couldn’t stop now. Her hands slid under the leather, touching hot skin, closing around his growing shaft. Hot in her hand, so hot, as she gently squeezed, stroked. Eyes still closed, she tried not to imagine the men watching, tried not to feel their gaze on her as she pleasured their friend. She slid her fingers over the soft-furred round things beneath the shaft, then pulled the leather aside. The shaft was standing now, and she stroked it with one hand, steady, up and down.
She opened her eyes, and her breath caught in her throat. The men were close around her, grinning, eager, some slipping their hands under leather to ready themselves as they watched her. She was kneeling before a man, short-bearded, chest scarred, and she was stroking his cock. It was inches from her face, and they were all watching her, staring at her, wanting her. She was blushing, panting. The bearded man put a hand on her head, tilted it back to make her look at him. She stared up at him, eyes wide, hand still stroking, afraid to stop.
“Open,” he said.
She opened her mouth wide, stuck out her tongue. His hips pushed forward and he was in her mouth, his cock was in her mouth, sweat-salty and hot, the whole circle of men was watching her suck his cock. Heat was rising in her. There was somewhere past blushing and shame, and she was reaching it. What was she afraid of, that they would grab her, fuck her? They were going to. She had been commanded to let them. She was the spirit’s instrument, she was their pleasure-toy, everything she had feared was already happening and it was good, a blessing. They would make her dirty and the river would make her clean and divine. She just had to let go, and be their whore.
The bearded man’s cock was in her mouth, her tongue playing over the tip. She had to make him flow, she had been commanded, all she had to do was make them flow. She leaned forward, taking more of the shaft in her mouth, sliding her lips down his length as her hand worked on him, desperate to drink him.
Strong hands grabbed her wrists, guided her fingers away from the shaft in front of her. She bobbed her head up and down, trying her best, feeling happy and proud as the bearded man began to groan and dig his fingers into her hair. Her hands were being pushed against things now, hot things, other shafts. Go
od, she thought, good, more can use me at once. She curled her fingers around the other men’s cocks, rolling her eyes to look up, seeing men standing close above her, gasping with pleasure as she touched them, stroked them.
She pulled back from the bearded man’s cock, her mouth open, gasping for breath, drool on her lips. He was petting her hair, looking down at her with affection as he took himself in hand and started stroking. She smiled up at him, opened her mouth to ask if he had felt good, if he had liked it, and he pushed forward between her lips and filled her mouth with hot, sticky saltiness. She gulped it down, tongue pressing along the underside of his shaft, pulling more out of him. It was warm inside her, warm in her stomach, she was the vessel, she was being blessed…
There were hands on her body, now, lifting her, turning her, bending her over the wooden altar. Good, she thought, good and right, I am an offering, display me, take me. She stretched out her arms amid the piles of flowers, arching her back, raising her hips to show herself to everyone.
She felt hands on her legs, fingers trailing upward from her calves to her thighs. She was on tiptoes, bent over among the flowers, biting her lip as fingertips brushed up and down over her slit. No, no, she thought, don’t tease me, don’t just touch me, I’m already wet, use me, use me to come, use me as hard as you want to. She could feel herself almost aching inside, ready, needing. The hands gripped her cheeks, squeezing hard, adding to the tingling torture of her readiness. Then, finally, there was a touch at her entrance, a shaft pushing in, deep, satisfying, reaching down into the well of warmth at the center of her and stirring it into motion. She was moaning, she was babbling something, begging, and he was pounding in and out of her, slamming into her like she wasn’t even a person, just a tool to be used for this. She was dizzy with the pleasure and the thrill and the scent of flowers. He was coming in her, she could feel him pouring in, something hot flowing into her, and then he was pulling out but another was coming in right after. The men were crowding around her, praising her and using her, taking turns. She whimpered as the next shaft pushed into her, thicker than the ones before, but as it moved the pleasure kept building. She was panting like a dog. Their flow was dripping down her thighs, hot and slow, and another was using her, she didn’t know how many now. She was almost sobbing as the pleasure built inside her and broke, she came as he fucked her, not knowing who he was, which one he was, and as he finished on her back, painting her dark skin white, another man was pressing close to use her, not letting her rest. And as he used her the rhythm was building heat inside her again, and she was coming again, harder, like floodwaters washing down the valley, washing away everything, washing away her mind, carrying her down toward a dark, dark ocean.
The witch-girl came back to herself slowly. She was in her hut, in the dark, in her sleeping pile. She felt a warmth between her legs, embarrassing. She took a slow, deep breath, and gathered her thoughts.
Black-dog was still bound. He couldn’t flow, couldn’t come with anyone but her. That much, at least, was good. But he was playing with witchcraft, playing with the River-folk, pretending to be a spirit. What was he trying to do? Where had he learned it? And would it work?
The hut flooded with moonlight as a man stepped into the doorway, pushing aside the hanging fur. A black silhouette, dark hair that drank the light, breathing slow and deep. Black-dog.
He stepped toward her, letting the curtain fall, and plunging them both into perfect darkness.
Chapter 5
Weakness
The witch-girl crouched in the darkness, alert. Her night-eyes were good, as good as any hunter’s, but there was no light at all, now. She closed her eyes, then opened them. No difference. Blind black.
She knew where she was. She knew her hut like she knew her own body, knew that the door was there, the shelf with grandmother’s skull was up there, the herbs in their pots and dishes were there and there… but where was Black-dog? She could feel his presence, and hear the low, slow sound of his breathing. She could smell him, faintly, sweat and maleness. But she couldn’t tell where. He seemed to be all around her, the sense of him coming from every direction. Not knowing where he was threw doubt on everything else. If she reached forward, would she touch her doorway, or the hot skin of his chest? If she backed up, would she be backing away from him, or would she feel his hands close around her throat from behind? Or would it be his lips, brushing her neck, his breath warm against her?
“I’m not angry.”
His voice was to her left. But she couldn’t trust that. A tiny movement of air touched her skin; he had moved, he was somewhere else now.
“I’ll have the binding broken soon.” His voice was calm, thoughtful. He was near the shelves. “It will not break clean. There will be costs. But that’s more your problem than it is mine. Foolish, to try something like that on me.” She heard the clink and tap of clay jars being moved, and the change in his breathing as he sniffed at the herbs inside them. “So. Why did you do it?”
The witch-girl tried to focus on her breathing. It was too fast; she needed to slow it. This close, she could feel the connection too strongly. The bond between her and Black-dog was humming, was waking every part of her body. Her skin was warm, and she thought about his skin. The hair on the back of her neck was standing, and she thought about his neck, about sliding her fingers up and into the dark tangle of his hair. Was he feeling this? How could he be so calm?
She steadied her voice. “If I answer your questions, will you answer mine?”
“Perhaps.” She heard rustling as he took herbs from jars.
The witch-girl settled onto her pile of furs, kneeling, hands on her knees. She had to stay calm. He would touch her soon, hurt her or pleasure her or use her. Her mind spun, for a moment, with thoughts of hands, heat, hurting, kissing, dark eyes looking down at her. He would do as he liked with her, but she could take it. She was strong and clever. She tried to silence the little voice inside her that was looking forward to it, wanting it. She would defeat him. She would make him hers.
“I bound you for the good of the tribe,” she said.
His laugh was low and hard, like heavy stones falling on clay. “It is good that you’re lying, witch-girl. If that was the truth, you would be even more foolish than I thought. I ask again: why?”
“Because of what you do to women.” You take them, she thought, you break them, make them cry out in pleasure-pain, you make them forget their names and shame and fuck like animals until their minds are gone.
“You saw me with Sparrow.”
“Yes.” You took her in the moonlight, in the woods, she begged you to stop until she couldn’t speak any more, and then finally she begged with her body for you to go on.
“And you wanted that to happen to you.”
“No.” A shiver ran down her spine. He was close, somewhere close in the darkness, inches away, she could feel it, why didn’t he just reach out and touch her?
“You wanted me to hunger for you.” So close, she could feel the heat from his body on her skin. “You wanted me to hold you down. You wanted to struggle, you wanted to be forced. You wanted me to break you. Wanted to be my animal. My pet. My toy. Wanted to blush and beg underneath me as I used you.”
“No.” Her heart was pounding like a war-drum. “Wanted to bind you. Tame you. Punish you.” He was behind her, she thought. If he grabbed her now, wrapped his arms around her, she wasn’t sure whether she would fight him, or sigh and melt back against him.
“You’re the clever witch-girl. You know many ways to punish a man. Curses and poisons and rumors. But you did none of that. Instead, you made me want you.” His breathing was ragged, now. His voice was harsh, hungry. “You set it so I couldn’t be satisfied with another. You put yourself in my mind. Always. I think of you when I run. When I try to sleep, I dream of you and wake. You know who I am, my strength, my hunger. You knew what would happen. You made me want you, because you want to belong to me.”
“No!” Her heart was hammering
, it was hard to breathe. He was going to hurt her, she knew that; the only question was whether he’d make her enjoy it.
“Then release me. If you don’t want this, break the binding!” He was in front of her, now, he was so close, if she leaned forward he would be right there, his lips, his teeth, his hunger and anger.
“I will not break it.” Her voice was shaking.
For a moment, there was silence and stillness. She couldn’t tell where he was. She couldn’t tell if he was still there at all. Blind, on her knees in the darkness, panting through parted lips, she waited.
“I will make you want to,” he said.
And then he was on her, finally touching her. He was pushing her down, his heat and weight pressing her down into the furs. Her hands were on his chest but she couldn’t push him back, he was too heavy, too strong. She curled her fingers to scratch him, but his lips found hers and she was clawing at him with desire, instead of hate. She opened her mouth to kiss him, to bite him, and his hand was on her chin, holding her mouth open as something bittersweet passed from his mouth into hers. The herbs, he’d taken some from the jars, he must have been chewing them, the juice was trickling down her throat and she didn’t know which ones, didn’t know what they would do to her. She writhed underneath him, forced to swallow or choke. None of her struggling moved him at all. He held her down, as unmoving as if he was carved out of stone.
She swallowed. Sweet and bitter… she tried to count the tastes. There was dead-man’s-words in the mixture, she would be feeling drunk soon. And meadow-milk, and… she couldn’t tell. She realized her tongue was peeking out, running over his lips, gathering the taste of the herbs, the taste of him. He was so close, finally touching her. His body warm on top of her, his arms strong around her. It was only now that they were together that she realized how much the binding hurt when they were apart, how it stretched between them, tight and straining, like a strap around her chest making it hard to breathe. Finally touching each other, finally kissing, was such a relief that she felt her chest clenching in a sob.
