by Angel Black
And sometimes losing meant waiting too long.
She knew it was all wrong, in the faint light the beast’s body was turned away from her, writhing and snapping as it spent the last few moments seeking out where she went. She knew her dodge purchased a slight moment of time to reposition, but her position was now all wrong. She had rolled so far it gave the beast room to coil and snap, exactly what she didn’t want to give it. The monster had fortune on its side as it turned to face her, as it realized where she was, it would coil up and snap like a mammoth snake, and this would be the end.
A woman’s scream echoed in the cavern.
She was still alive.
Brenna noticed the oddest play of the light in the dim smoke of the cavern air. A reflection, a tiny shift in the light as an eye reflected the dying embers of light hanging in the smoke-filled air. The beast had foolishly looked back. Distracted. A moment, a pause, and a blessed chance to move to get the upper hand.
Brenna felt strange, like something else was happening. A truth? The fleeting moments before death? A cold realization hung in the air as the point in time staled before her in solemn and blessed silence. It was as if the world had stopped, as if everything before had been preparing her for this moment, her prior life a simple prologue to her world changing forever. What will be to come will be much greater than this.
Now.
This is when the rest of my life begins.
At this very moment.
Where I shall be is where I was. I shall strike the moment I get there. This was a bet, a wager of my very life on several uncertain things.
The beast must think I had rolled away to his other side, and still be there.
The beast must not see me moving back.
The beast must be readying to strike.
In battle against a stronger foe one can play a losing battle carefully, or go for it all when the time feels right. This is what separates great warriors from the rest, the sense of that perfect moment. It can never be taught, and it can only be honed through placing your life on the line innumerable times.
The dance of death. Perfected only through the taking of lives, in dance after dance.
So we begin again.
Run, duck, dodge - all while swinging my sword. I need to be in a specific place at a specific time heartbeats from this moment. I can feel the beast moving above me in the darkness, while embers and the feeling of death itself hang in the air around me.
In moments this shall be over for one of us.
My feet must plant true, my body must react perfectly, my swing must be pure and powerful. Every movement must be fluid, and perfect without hesitation. The angle, the angle must be right. Every step must be strong, brave without fear. My sword’s path must be clear, and I must push the weapon through space is if it was free from obstruction.
My body is ready, my swing so fast my muscles ache from the strain, and my body is a whirling dervish of spinning death.
This is the moment.
Will I find truth or death?
The instant feel of the blade slicing through the beast’s neck gives me the pleasure of victory, but I must not cease. A wounded opponent is worse than a dead one. I scream to lend my soul to the blow as the blade continues, every fiber of my body knowing a pain I have never felt as I force the blade through the creature’s neck. I push as I would forcing the blow through the trunk of a stalwart tree. This feels like the same challenge, slicing a tree down with a single blow.
It hurts, and my blade meets resistance as I pour myself into the strike, focusing all my rage and life force downward, my arms burning with agony, my back on fire with pain.
Tor god of storms guide my blade and give me thunder.
This is it, as sudden and painful landing the blow was, the end is anticlimactic and hollow as my blade strikes the ground underneath the beast, sparks flying as blade meets stone. The jar compares nothing to slicing the beast’s head off, and I cry in agony as I hear the massive head of the drakewurm roll off into the darkness.
I find truth in death.
I suck air like I had come up from deep under a lake, my lungs burning, my body shaking in protest. Every joint burns, every muscle spent, I kneel next to the decapitated beast in a pool of warm blood soaked in foul magic.
I wonder if dragon slayers absorb the souls of the drakewurms they slay, or if the blood somehow seeps into their bodies. I’m covered in it as I feel the hot and vile syrup drain from the corrupted beast, covered in sticky and black blood, in equal parts anguish and relief.
I stand weakly, my legs shaking under the weight of my rune-covered metal armor, my arm too weak to hold my broadsword. I seek out the source of sobs behind the beast’s body, faint whimpers and cries that draw me towards her.
I hold out my bloody hand when I feel myself come close to her.
“I am here to rescue you, Chloe.”
Chapter 4:
Secrets
I shouldn’t be surprised that the blood does not wash off so easily.
I scrub the intricate runes of my armor, but they never seem to come clean. My breastplate, pauldrons, arm plates, shin guards, and everything else sits in a river as I wash each piece, dry it by the fire, and then cover each one with armorer’s oil when they dry. The metal smells of iron and bitter lubricant, the scent of war and death’s debts taken.
I wear a simple body shirt with no arms, my midriff bare and large breasts firm enough to tent the fabric between them. I like panties, but these too often get sweat-soaked under my armor, so I keep a lucky silk pair on when I fight, covered by a ratty and string hanging pair of tan shorts to cover my round and firm ass.
My hair is wet, slick, black and tied back, as I had just washed it in the river and was letting it dry. I hate getting blood in my hair. I hate it.
The rest of me is as how you would imagine, toned, sleek and powerful muscles under a feminine form many would find attractive. I am not the fat housewife type, but more of a toned and trimmed warrioress built for battle.
“You worship the Goddess Gundir?” Chloe says from behind me.
She must have noticed the long bulge in my shorts.
I nod as I finish washing the last of the blood from my glove. “Aye. I choose to deceive you not, fair maiden. I am a Sister of Gundir, cock-woman, warrior, crossbred chosen of the hermaphrodite god-goddess.” I look into the water at my bloody-curdled expression. “I shall not force myself on you if that is what you worry about. I can control myself around someone so fair.”
And I slip, cursing myself. Chloe was a beautiful young lady, of age and full of curves and a trim, perfect figure. Her hair was brown, done up in a double-braid. Her face expressed classic innocence, with large eyes, an upturned nose, and a pouty pair of lips perfect for slipping-
Stop. I must not get myself any more aroused around her. My cock will stand out a full two hands from my hips and beg for satiation. For I am born of the blood of my Goddess, Gundir, my grandfather the father of gods, Othin, and my grandmother the mother of all elves, Albia. Gundir was born mostly woman, with the exception of a man-sized cock upon her loins, a she-male oddity born of mixed human-elven blood.
The gods loved mother Gundir like a daughter, but her male side showed a passion for war and sport like other boys. Gundir was allowed to take a bride and prosper, being friend to elf and human alike, though it is said a birth like hers among the generations of diluted blood is very rare. Mostly descendants of the goddess were normal of birth, being all man or all woman, but occasionally a child was born just like the goddess herself, with a perfect female form and sporting the large member of a man.
These were the Sisters of Gundir, of which I am one. We are legends in battle, and our blood runs closer to the gods than most mortals. Our numbers are few, but our legends many across the Northlands. Our kind tends to live longer than mortals, but one would never know since we crave battle and danger. We are legends among some, hated and feared among others, and misunderstood by many.
I onl
y wished to lead a normal life.
But my blood wished otherwise.
My cock only wishes for pleasure, so I must keep that beast in check.
I turn to her and give her a smile as I dry my gauntlet and oil the rune-covered metal. I sit across the fire from her and place my armored glove next to the others, and stare into her deep green eyes.
She is perfect in every way, with curves, a trim figure, breasts made for cupping, and a face one could never forget. Her yellow dress and blue shawl do little to conceal her supple body, teasing me with the under-pull of the fabric below her breasts, and a bare leg below the knee I could worship with a tender caress as my hand slid towards her possibly trimmed, or even better yet totally shaved sex.
Stop.
If you sheath your desire you can stop now.
My cock is beating, filling with lust, and tingling as it awakens and begins to grow from inside me. I want her. I lust for her. I wish to take her and make her come and scream my name as I fuck her perky, almost royal body into submission and she grips my back tightly and I-
Stop.
“I do not fear you,” Chloe says, blinking and offering empty hands and a comforting smile as her explanation, “I thank you for saving me. That you are different means no measure for me. I am thankful, and my father will be so as well.”
I nod.
“How many died trying to save me?” She looks down, and then up at me with innocent guilt upon her eyes.
“Too many,” I say, “including a dozen peasants and twice as many Imperial Legionaries. For your father to call upon a Sister is how dire the matter became. I was in the mountains, alone in my cabin when the word came.”
“Secluded?” She says, scooting around the fire to be closer to me. “Do Sisters live in seclusion-”
“We do,” I say, cutting her short, “the blood of gods means trouble for most, and we are not trusted by the Empire for our divine heritage nor by the people of the North because of our reputation for sullying their daughters. The Sisters live alone away from this untrusting world, yet are still a part of it.”
She reaches for my hand and I pull it away.
“I should warn you,” I say, staring in her eyes and wishing I was lost in them, “while I may pride myself on a measure of self-control, I cannot guarantee you will return to your father a virgin should you press yourself onto me.”
My cock aches and grows under my shorts, trying to free itself, growing like a giant writhing snake under the silk of my panties. Just the thought of taking her excites me, and that she may be willing and wanting of my gift makes my pulse race and my heart flutter like a spring lover.
Her eyes are locked upon the bulge in my shorts.
“I am no virgin,” she says as she slides closer yet again and my senses fill with her perfume and sweat, confirming my worst fears, “Father does not know of the young men I see, nor should he care. I know my way around a man’s cock. Or a woman’s cock, if need be.”
Hearing such an innocent face say such a nasty word drives me wild with lust, but I pinch myself and maintain my steely composure. I must not give in to my baser desires, I cannot fill this sweet thing full of flagons of warm seed and send her back to her father pregnant with another Sister of Gundir. Our kind has done this enough, and I cannot succumb to the stereotype of our people. I must not do this.
I close my eyes and sigh, her eyes clearly upon my growing tool of sex.
“Chloe,” I say, and just saying her name hurts my cock, “please. Still your passions and know they are fanned by the blood of my kind, for the blood of both the Elf-Mother and the Father of All Gods flows through my veins, though weakly so through generations - it still does. A mortal cannot resist this-”
Her lips are so close to my ear it sends shivers down my spine as she whispers. “I cannot resist this.”
Her supple hand slides across the growing bulge in my confining shorts, and I heave breath, my breasts rising and falling under my loose shirt as I try to weakly maintain control. She gives my cock a firm squeeze and I moan weakly.
I tilt my head to the side, whispering her name in protest. “Chloe, no.” My lips are so close to hers I feel her passioned breath upon them. I feel her silken breast press into my arm as she ignites a fire within me by softly touching her lips to the nape of my neck.
Mother Gundir, please help me in my time of weakness.
The trail of her wet tongue up the side of my neck drives me insane with lust, my cock extending all the way underneath me as it pains to free itself in a long bulge, and her lips softly kissing my ear.
Her hand trembles as she realizes how big I really am, and then she grabs the throbbing bulge, She digs her fingernails against the pounding flesh, massaging the massive length of my turgid cock through the fabric of my shorts.
I am certainly too big for you, my dear.
Do not do this.
I cannot control my hand as it runs down the bumps of her braid, feeling her silky hair with every twist, my hand finding the fallow-yellow cloth covering her shoulder. I push her shawl to the side and slip my hand underneath, my palm sliding across her bare skin, plunging down towards her pert and perfect breast. I stop before I can go no further, my fingertips teasing the soft top of her goose-bump covered mound. Her ice-hard nipple remains painfully out of the reach of my fingers, yet I feel it warm and harden. Her heart beats so hard through her flesh I want to calm her, yet I know the only way I know how is by fucking this poor maiden.
“I want you,” she says, kissing my cheek.
I strain, biting my lip so hard as I resist that I taste blood. My eyes are squeezing shut so tightly I see spots. “Are you sure? Is this you speaking or the fire within your loins? Do not be seduced by me, I do not wish this for either of us.”
“I want you,” she says, so softly and almost like the whisper of a gentle south wind. Her hand greedily strokes my length, pushing deep under me as it seeks my tip, stroking back upwards as she finds my root. She kisses the skin beside my lips as I feel her hair brush across my shoulder. “I want you so bad, Brenna.”
“Fuck me.”
I smell the musk of her sex even from here as she sucks the skin of my neck, her hand probing, her breasts firm and pounding hard to each side of my bare arm. She is as wet as a fresh-cut peach baked in the oven and liquid to the touch, and my mind imagines the slick, pink folds of her forbidden yet irresistible sex. Has she soaked herself? Is her cunt as wet as I dream it is? Will sliding inside her be like pushing my finger into a warm, sticky cobbler with her gripping cunt muscles snapping and pulling at me in surrendered desire?
“You wish me to fuck you, milady?” I whisper into her ear, and she moans in approval. I feel her go weak against me at the thought, and then she jolts and stiffens, grabbing my cock hard and kissing my cheek, working her way to my mouth as she pulls my face towards hers, our eyes closed and-
A shrill horn rings out across the desolate plans and we stop, shocked.
“What was that?” Chloe blinks, surprised.
My hand goes directly for my sword as I pull Chloe to her feet. “Abandon the camp and the supplies. On the horse. Now!”
“What? Why-”
I push her, oh Goddess it is so glorious to have my hand almost up ender her as I shove her on the horse. I feel the moistness through her skirt, and the pound of her engorged sex as I pull my hand away and almost cry I shall not be able to fuck such a delicacy.
Yet.
I shall fuck you yet, my dear. I don’t want to, I know in my heart of hearts it is wrong, but I cannot resist you. Right now I need to keep us and my cock alive long enough to get that chance.
Incentive?
Yes, forgive me but most certainly.
If there is anything I have inherited from the bodies of men, it is the desire to kill and murder to protect the soft, gentle, wet places we push our cocks into.
And this means you, my dear.
I look back across the plains and grab the things most impor
tant to our survival in the moments ahead. My sword. The leather tarp with my armor. The tent and bedrolls are gone, so I forget about those. I have one final choice as I hear the thunder of horses draw near.
The pack containing food and water.
Or my crossbow and bolts.
The second side of my horse can only fit one extra pack, and I don’t have time to pack up the other with my armor loose and stowed in a leather tarp. I don’t even have time to dress. We must move.
We shall live longer if I can kill.
I take the crossbow, leap on the horse behind her, and we ride like a sudden storm sweeping in from the North Sea. I take my horse into a low gully, knowing my pursuers will be close behind, but at least it gives me cover and I can concentrate on life-giving speed instead of worrying about arrows in my back.
Besides, if I am to get paid by her father, I will need to take every arrow meant for her.
I hear them. They shout and holler as the horde of plains bandits of the Red Scarf thugs descend on my camp yards behind.
The Red Scarf, led my the murderous thug One-Eye Jack. His men must have followed me. They must have found the drakewurm. They know about the bounty.
I hear them mount up a hundred yards behind us, and they shout when they must have seen us riding away. I point my horse towards a distant, stony windswept tree-line and meandering stream where we will make our stand.
And they certainly would kill me to get paid.
Chapter 5:
Last Stand
Goddess, Chloe smells good. We are riding hard, cutting across hill and dale as we charge towards the trees. She bounces against me, and my cock stiffens and shoves against her skirt, riding up against the crack of her ass. She bouncers and strokes me, and yes I know men behind us are trying to kill me, but this moment is heaven enough considering.
I resist the urge to bury my face in her amber-colored braid and get lost in her. I do hold her tight with my other hand, and I do manage to sneak a couple feels of her full, glorious breast with my hand.
Oh Goddess Gundir.
