by Max Keith
“How’s this?” She needed to strike the right note with these women; they were more dangerous to her, in this time and place, than any armored warrior. “I shan’t be on your contract. You struck it, not I; I shall remain a free lance, as it were. I shall negotiate my own rates and make my own arrangements, and to placate you lot?” She thought about it, then nodded. “I’ll agree to take no more than one gentleman or two followers per night. That should ensure you girls keep plenty of business.” She turned and nodded blithely off into the woods; they were passing the forlorn figure of Annalene, the expedition leaving her behind the way a ship leaves its trash. The girl waved uncertainly back, and then she was gone. Alorin grinned her least threatening grin. “Deal?”
The whores traded searching glances; Jesseney leaned over to hear from the fair one, and finally she nodded. “Deal. But you take more than one gentleman per night, bitch, and the Count’s dogs will have you.” She held out a firm, strong hand for Alorin to shake. “What’s your name, bitch?”
“I’m Lyria.”
“A pleasure,” Jesseney lied. She shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, her face softening just slightly at last. “I’m cranky because that bastard Hobb stuck it in me dry last night. He’s a right little shit.”
Alorin nodded sympathetically, then started acting the part; she’d posed as a whore enough times before to know how things should go. “Which of them is the biggest?”
“Hobb, easily.”
“Eh.” A fair woman on a small, mean-looking horse scowled. “He thinks so, but I’ve had bigger.”
“Me too,” the dark one said, heavy-lidded. “I think the Count’s got at least as much meat as Hobb. And neither is as long as Tholem, the horseshoe man.”
“Oh yes. I forgot about him.” The redhead glanced back toward the farrier’s wagon “He’s a big boy.” She clicked her tongue and then buffed her nails in a leisurely way against her skirt. She cocked an eyebrow at Jesseney. “I think this is the way of it: he fucks your ass, so you think he’s bigger than he is.”
“Could be.” The dark one again, shrugging. “You know, like a magician’s illusion. Only in your asshole.”
“Whatever.” Jesseney’s scorn was exquisite. “I stand by my judgement. And Earlen the cook? He’s the thickest, I’d say. Ladies?” Jesseney looked about for approval, and this time she found it. “For the rest, some like it one way, some another. Nickle, the apprentice boy, don’t like girls at all; which is fine, really, since all the apprentices are getting it in the ass from Hobb.”
“Hobb.” Alorin recalled what Tatlock had said about the grievance. “Likes a lot of sex, does he?”
“Girl,” the redhead shuddered, “he’s ready all the time.” She gnawed at her lower lip, then nodded to herself. “I’m Nisette,” she said, off-hand. “You’ve got gorgeous hair.”
“I thank you, Nisette.” Alorin pulled her outer robe more tightly around herself. “It’s been a fortunate feature in my trade. Men like long hair.” She paused, then lied. “It’s fake, of course.”
“No doubt.” The fair one was pulling her hair into a copper band. She’d marked Alorin’s accent. “A northerner, are you?”
“I am.” Alorin reached out a hand. “Lyria, of Norther Town.”
“Lurika. We’re all local girls.” She nodded at the other dark girl. “That’s Karalene. She’s a slave.” The wench was still scowling, so Alorin merely waved. “I’m promised to Lord Gurgen tonight, too, so hands off.”
Alorin was starting to feel easier. She’d noticed this before, while posing as Lyria: there was honor among whores. They usually came off as cold and lethal, but at the end of the night they were always more alike than different. If a newcomer played her cards right and was willing to take as much cock as everyone else, there was never really any lasting hatred. “So,” she ventured, settling into an easy riding rhythm between the others, “this Hobb, from the sound of things… he’s not an easy lay, I take it?” She chuckled.
Karalene spat. “He’s a bastard. Literally and figuratively.” She shuddered. “He likes it hard and rough, but at least he’s quick. Doesn’t like to cuddle, neither.” She glared darkly under her dark brows. “You’ll find out.”
Alorin saw what was coming. “Well, if it’ll prove my good will to you ladies,” she sighed, “I suppose I’ll take him tonight.”
“Fuck you.” Karalene spat again. “He tips. Besides,” she added venomously, “you’re fresh meat. The Count himself will want you tonight.”
“That’s so.” Jesseney took a sip of wine from a skin at her saddlebow. “It’s the way of things. Don’t worry, though,” she shrugged. “Hobb don’t care about prerogative. When he wants you, he’ll just take you.” She glanced over at Lurika. “Tell her what happened on Monday, Lur.”
The fair slut rolled her eyes. “It was so embarrassing. He didn’t even come back to get me; he sent that apprentice Parsney, the one with the crooked dick. Says Sir Hobb wants to see me, there and then like. So I go forward, and he just looks at me with those black little pig-eyes and he drags me right over to his horse. Took me right there in the saddle, straight up the ass, no oil. He made the horse trot, as he said, ‘to aid insertion.’ All while carrying on a bit of light conversation with the other gentlemen.” Nisette was laughing openly.
“You were screeching like a man getting his leg cut off.” The ginger glanced over toward Hobb’s back. “Sounded like he was really breaking you open.”
“He was,” Lurika replied grimly, “but you girls know how it is. A lot of that was acting. He gets off faster when you scream.”
“Ah.” Alorin knew the type. “So he’s one of those.” Annalene’s grievance was beginning to make more sense, and Alorin was starting to understand why the girl had been so angry.
The party had taken three stags earlier in the day, and the cook and his attendant had already gone forward with Tatlock to choose a campsite and get the fires lit. Lord Whitemar, Jesseney explained, did not like to lodge in villages. “He sees himself as a good lord, and not the sort to impose on the commoners.” She shrugged. “Really, I just think he doesn’t want them pilfering his stuff in the night.”
The large, sandy clearing that Tatlock had found was already tented by the time the hunting party arrived. “Come, ladies,” Jesseney tutted, and that’s how Alorin learned that the whores’ contract specified fetching water for washing. Not charging contract rates, she could have begged off; since she was thirsty, though, she accompanied the rest of the women to a stream nearby with all their watersacks and pails, chatting cynically and confidently about which men they’d each be expected to fuck that night.
And, for Alorin, it was time to plan.
The man in black needed to spend himself inside her: that must happen as soon as it possibly could. Pussy or mouth, it made no matter; rear entry would be fine too, technically, though Alorin disliked it and preferred to avoid that if possible. Still, to repay a Seed-Debt, she’d bend over and put the cock in her ass herself. It wasn’t supposed to be pleasant; that’s what made it a debt.
Then, it was the Count’s turn: once drained, he could be safely put to death and Alorin could show these jaded people a clean pair of heels.
Possibly, just possibly, the whole thing could be done tonight, but there was a complication: the Count would, as the other whores had suggested, insist on his rights with her. First, presumably. And she couldn't think of a way she could decently drain the man in black before dinnertime, not without drawing more notice than she wanted. The last thing needful to her would be for folks to discover their dead lord, and then have a reason to wonder about the new slut’s behavior. That same need, to avoid undue notice, dictated that she not fuck both the man in black and the golden-bearded lord this evening; she’d told Jesseney she would take just one gentleman per night.
So, she decided, it would be at least one more day and night with this dissolute rabble. They were getting on her nerves already, though Alorin was more than capable of ac
ting as though she was just happy to be there. And afterward? Flight, a fast canter over streams and hills through the early hours of the morning, making for the Princess’ Tower as quickly as she could go: south out of the Priests’ Wood along the River Allwhite, over the north and south forks of the Mudwater; she could hope to make it as far as Ockfield before Pixie gave out and needed a stable.
It would be tense after that, for the moment Lord Whitemar was discovered with his blood all over his sheets and her fluids drying on his cock, a new hunt would begin. The Count’s party had a professional huntsman with them, one Master Lucken, and he had hounds: Pixie’s trail to Ockfield would be plain to see.
So then, no. She would have to make a different plan: the pursuit would be too intense for direct flight. Deeper into the forest? They’d not expect it, but the hounds would know. Besides, she’d never traveled here; nobody came into the Priests’ Wood. Except priests. East, then, out of the forest. She’d need to cross the Allwhite, but Pixie was a good swimmer and that should throw off the scent; she could come out on the other side, turn right, and recross further south at the King’s Ford. Or, if the pursuit was hot, she’d go north, and then find a ship at Crownport. It would mean weeks living off the land, constantly looking behind, but the Princess would pay her at the full rate…
“Hey!” The smack to her neck was not at all companionable. “Quit your daydreams, cunt.” Jesseney and the others waited impatiently. “They’ll dock our pay if we're late with the water.”
“Of course.” By the time they returned to the clearing, it looked almost like a new village; a larger and more prosperous one, come to that, than Annalene’s collection of hovels. The horses were all picketed neatly, the grooms and the farrier already at work; Cook was screaming at his assistants, the huntsmen were relaxing in their tents. Alorin hesitated; she had no idea what she should do, and she’d never liked that feeling. “What’s next?”
“Next?” The other whores were making for the supply wagons, and Jesseney made a curt gesture with her head. “The men will want themselves washed. It’s why we got the water. Follow me, idiot girl.” Cakes of soap lay in a wrapped bundle at the back corner of the steward’s wagon, and the sluts were all taking pieces. “You take a pail, get some soap, and go around to the tents washing balls before dinner.”
Alorin was amused. “Is this in the contract, too?”
Jesseney looked at her, furious. “You’re a proud bitch, aren’t you? No, this is for tips. Get yourself together and act like you know what you’re doing, Lyria, or I’ll put my knife in you in your bed.”
Alorin had had enough, she decided. “Kindly fuck off,” she snapped, shouldering the older woman harshly out of the way. Ignoring the snarl she got in response, she swept a chunk of the harsh soap into her pail and headed for the nearest tent.
Nisette glared up at her as she slipped her head through the tent flap, blinking in the sudden light. She knelt on the floor, bent over a naked man with his arms behind his head and an expression of boredom in his green eyes. Her eyes narrowed. “Care to join in?” She sounded like she was bantering, but it was clear the ginger whore wanted no part of Alorin’s help. The man, grand and golden with his curling yellow beard, propped himself on his elbows and looked at her with interest. A hairy belly, clogged with high living, cast an incongruous shadow across his cock; Alorin saw only the root of his pale shaft bursting out of his bushy hair.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of disturbing your lordship,” she squeaked, hoping she sounded appropriately frantic as she backed away. The bright silks of Jesseney’s sweetly rounded backside were already disappearing into the next tent, so Alorin struck out for the third one and plunged blindly inside.
“Ah.” The voice was deep and sibilant. “The new bitch.” Alorin moved gracefully as she straightened in the tall tent, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the candle the man had lit, and her breath caught in her throat. For the man before her was all in black. “Hurry and clean me now. I’ve got work to do before supper.”
“M’lord.” Alorin tried hard to conceal her excitement. This was ideal; she’d be able to fuck him after all! And before dinner, too! She stilled her body, forcing herself to be calm; she felt as she did before battle, looking the man up and down. “Would m’lord like to relax, perhaps?” She was already reaching for the brooch at her throat, shrugging her silk wrap into a bright fluttering mess on the floor. She tossed her head toward the camp bed in the corner.
“I told you, whore, we’ve no time.” He did not seem even slightly interested in Alorin. “Five minutes. If I’m still stinking of horse in five minutes, I’ll tell Sir Hobb you like it hard in the ass.” He examined her, his blue eyes cold. “I’m sure the other wenches have told you of him.”
“And of you, sir,” she purred smoothly. No worries. “I’m looking forward to meeting you, perhaps this very night…” She stepped close, letting him feel her body as she pressed it lightly against him. Her hands left her own neck and went to his, the sweat-stiffened laces coming apart easily. His breath smelled of wine. “I think you’ll be glad to have found me, lost and so, so lonely in the woods.” She was nibbling at his ear already, her voice soft and breathy while her hands crept lower to open his shirt.
“No doubt.” His voice was tight and dry, but she felt his cock stiffen against her thigh; how easy all this was! Drinn often whined about the injustice of this kind of thing, of how simple it was for a woman to make money in the Realm. You just need to open your legs and pull gold from your cunt, he’d complain, and he was not wrong. “I’m sure you’re very capable.” He worked his shoulders as she pushed the shirt off his body, trailing gentle fingernails across his solid flesh, smelling him.
“Best you’ll find in these woods,” she promised, trailing her tongue through the salty sweat of his face. Half a minute gone, at least; the pail waited at her feet. “Shall I take your pants down, m’lord?”
“Difficult for you to wash me until you do,” he muttered shortly, and then it happened: she felt his hands on her body, resting on her hips. This would be so, so easy.
She giggled as she started on the pantlaces, working fast, feeling his penis grow behind the leather as her hand brushed across it. “My lord!” she flirted. “Are you so sure your work is so important?” She dragged slowly at the laces of his pants, opening him, his chest now exposed from neck to belly. He was smooth and sleek; apparently, he believed in shaving himself.
No, of course not; he’d have a whore do it. She felt a moment’s misgiving; she wasn’t trained for such things. Although she’d shaved herself often enough; she supposed she could handle a man, though putting a blade so close to a man’s balls might trigger her training.
He reached down and locked his fingers around her wrist when she turned her hand to cup his balls through the leather. “Very important.” He kept his other hand on her hip, though, and his voice had gone raspy. “That little wench you brought with you delivered a grievance, and the lot of us will be busy dealing with that before dinner.” He released her arm. “Or would you see the King’s Justice delayed?” Taking a gamble, Alorin did not move her hand from between his legs.
“Oh, we can’t have that.” The man had spoken sarcastically of the grievance; she assumed he must be one of Whitemar’s counselors, but her debt cried out for payment. “If you’re sure?” Her other hand burrowed past his loosened drawstrings, feeling warm damp flesh solid and pulsing, his girth impressive. She giggled again as she tugged on his cock. “I can’t possibly leave you in this state. I’ve got my professional pride, m’lord.” It was, indeed, a tempting prick; a good enough match, she reminded herself, for that third thief.
He stood there, his eyes stabbing into her, and parted his legs just slightly. The two of them breathed together, their bodies touching from foot to chest now. “I still smell of horse, bitch.” He did not sound angry, though. “Wash me. Now.” He sighed though, staring down at her chest. “You can take care of my dick later tonight, if you still want
to.”
“Why, m’lord…” She needed to be careful here. “How do you know I’m not promised to another man tonight?” She was thinking about Nisette’s lord, the magnificent leader of the hunt, the man she’d been sent to kill. Greatly daring, she rose on her tiptoes to offer him her mouth. “I wouldn’t wish to leave you like this…” His lips were chapped and winy, but they parted like any other lips on any other man, accepting her wiggling tongue as she drove it past his teeth. His fingers tightened on her body, both her hands inside his pants now, his body swaying slightly as he pushed toward her. “Mmm,” she hummed into his mouth, and for a moment she knew, just knew, that he’d throw her onto the floor right now and fuck her like a dog in heat.
“Enough!” He shoved her away instead, then pushed his clothes contemptuously from his body. His voice was steely and harsh now. “Business is business, whore. It must come before I can.” He stood naked, his body rugged and cobbled with muscle in the candlelight. She recovered quickly, turning to face him with a thin smile, his cock still hard and straight in front of his hairless body. “Clean me.”
Alorin shrugged. She was thinking quickly, but she forced her body to a languid pace as she sank to her knees before him. “Very well,” she sighed, feigning resignation. “I am yours to command.” She bent forward, viper-quick, and gave his sweaty dick a hard, darting kiss. He was right: the smell was awful. “But we’ll change that around later.” The pail was right there, a rag floating in the river water, and she pushed the dripping rag quickly up his leg and into his crotch. He twitched at the cold, of course, and then sighed at the sheer pleasure of having a day’s grime scraped away. “You let me know, m’lord, if I’m not doing it right.”
“You know better than that.” She glanced up at him, up the cliff of his chest at his eyes, staring down hard and urgent, but her entire view was dominated by the penis jutting long and veiny before her face. The smell was still overpowering now, but not just horse anymore; she caught the whiff now, odd and enthralling, that a man gives off when he wants a woman. She ran the cloth methodically along his flesh, creeping across the floor on her knees until she was facing his strong, cleanly-formed ass. “Hurry, woman.” He was murmuring now.
