âWhat do you think youâre doing, Cro?â Erisa scolded, hands on her hips, as she looked up at the young man sitting atop a particularly thick branch in the single tree outside the house.
âDrawing,â the young man responded simply, as he continued to lightly sketch in his notebook. He did not miss a beat, nor did he so much as look down at the short woman scowling at him from below.
âDrawing, of course!â Erisa exclaimed derisively, throw her hands into the air and pacing a small circle. âWhy did I even ask? Drawing is all you ever do these days! Are you, perchance, drawing us dinner to eat tonight, Cro? A strong deer? Perhaps a plump pheasant? Maybe even a rare chicken?â Her glare was intense, but failed to faze the young man, who did not so much as spare a moment to look.
âNope,â was the calm response. His sketching continued, with soft and delicate motions of his hand, swiping the pencilâs lead sideways for precise shading.
âCro,â Erisa began sullenly. âI asked you to do one thing; just one thing.â She looked up him, trying her hardest to unfurrow her eyebrows, thinking that perhaps pleading would work better than scolding. When Cro still failed to even give her a glance, she threw up her hands in frustration and exhaled deeply.
âI swear, if I have to cut down this tree my own damned self, Iâll do it, if itâll just stop you from sitting in it all day long and doodling in that notebook of yââ
Abruptly, Cro hopped down from the branch, a fall of about six or seven feet, and landed with his feet spread and his knees buckled, letting the impact of the landing spread more evenly throughout his lower body. He straightened himself and offered the notebook to the distressed woman, saying with a wide grin, âLook, I drew you, Erisa,â as he pulled long locks of black hair out of his eyes.
Erisa, a bit taken aback at the suddenness of the motion, took the notebook in hand and looked at it.
The drawing was a close-up of a heart-faced woman with long hair flowing down past her shoulders. Her widowâs peak was high, and her hair was pulled behind her small ears. Her face bore wrinkles of varying degreesâdeep and shallow, scowl-lines and laugh-linesâand overall represented a face that had endured many great worries and hardships over the years.
The womanâs face was twisted into a deep scowl, with her thin lips turned down deeply, and her brows furrowed darkly over her sharp eyes.
The drawing was unmistakably of herself, and Erisa was, as always, impressed with the boyâs talent. She handed the notebook back, though, and said simply, âI donât scowl like that.â
Cro took the notebook in hand, and held it up in front of him. He gave it a long, hard look, before shifting his head to look at the reference character, her arms crossed and expression critical. His attention returned to the sketch once more, before settling on the woman it was of again.
The scowl was more or less indistinguishable. To her face, though, he shrugged and responded, âYeah, I think youâre right. I exaggerated it a bit.â
Erisaâs scowl turned to a smug smile as she nodded gently. âNow, about those deer and those pheasantsâ¦â she began, but Cro had already shoved his notebook into the sack leaning against the trunk of the tree. He picked it up and slung it over his back, before grabbing the small crossbow and the quiver of bolts that had lain beside the sack.
âDonât worry, Erisa. Iâm on it.â He grinned widely at her, and continued by saying, âI promised you Iâd do it, didnât I? When have I ever let you down?â
Despite her displeasure with his nonchalance about the tasks she set him to do, she couldnât help but smile at his beaming expression. She could think of more than one occurrence where he had let her down, but she couldnât bring herself to state any of them. Instead, she simply waved to the young man, who was stepping backwards towards the tree-line as he continued to grin and wave farewell to her.
As a branch snapped underfoot, he turned around and entered into the forest, pulling the bowâs string back and locking it into place. He was reaching for a bolt as he disappeared from her sight.
Erisa simply shook her head, a small smile on her face, before turning around and heading back toward the small house they shared.
âI donât scowl like that,â she repeated quietly to herself.
The field and house was completely obscured by the volume of trees that separated him from them. Cro crouched down low, and began to slowly make his way through the underbrush. His attention was directed toward his feet, watching where each delicate step lay, careful not to step on any twigs or dried leaves and make unnecessary noise.
The sunlight filtered in through the thick leaves of the trees, high up in their canopies, and was bouncing off their mostly bare white bodies. The trees were like arrows, Cro thought to himself: long and thin, without much of a twist or a turn to their form, with smooth bark that bore only the gentlest grooves to them.
The underbrush, in contrast, was thick and billowy, lying close to the ground with long spans that obfuscated stretches of the dry dirt beneath them. Navigating through it was a challenge to the inexperienced, but Cro had practically grown up in these woods. He knew how to spot the ground between the blades of fern spans, and was adept at spotting the small patches of ground that were unshielded by flora. He liked to think of himself as moving like a shadow, but shadows didnât carry bags of supplies or quivers of bolts that rustled, no matter how gently, with each motion they made. He was close to a shadow, he concluded, but to put himself amongst their ranks would be an insult to shadows everywhere.
A rustle to his left. He turned his head sharply, acutely freezing the rest of his body. It was difficult to see in between the gentle rolls of the landscape and the volume of trees that spanned the distance between him and the creature, but once his eyes latched onto its motion, it was unmistakable: a doe, by her lonesome, gently eating the underbrush. She was about 150 paces from him, and the shot was impossible to make given his position.
Slowly, and very careful, he twisted his body to be more in-line with the doe, the entire time his eyes focused powerfully on her, his breath held in.
At one moment, she looked up suddenly, and his heart pounded hard against his ribcage. The deer looked in his direction, and he froze stock still. For long moments they stood like that, him transfixed midway through shifting his position, her in that elegant poise deer seemed to always possess in the wild.
She must not had recognized him, for after, tense seconds, she slowly lowered her head again and continued to munch at the plants that lined the ground about her.
Cro slowly continued to shift his body. Finally aligned, he gently took a step toward his right, to sneak slightly behind the doe. His attention was caught in a bouncing motion between his feet, watching his steps, and the doe, watching her own attention.
Her worked himself closer by about 30 paces, after a very long and tense battle of stealth. He idly glanced to make sure the bolt was loaded into his bow, and he gently bent his legs, crouching down into a firing position.
He lined his shot, and took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves, to reduce the shaking of his hands. When he reached the stability he sought, he slowly lowered his eye and began to line the shot.
His finger began to gently, oh so gently, squeeze the trigger. Gently, gentlyâ¦
The deerâs ears picked up, and in one fluid motion, she turned around and began to prance away. With a loud curse, he flinched at her suddenness and pulled the trigger, sending the bolt flying with a soft twang.
He got up and took a step to the side, looking down at where his feet had been, trying to figure what had gone wrong.
There was a small twig, snapped clean in two, where his right foot had been resting. He must had slipped his foot overtop it as he was taking aim, unconsciously shifting his feet into a better position.
With a frustrated sigh, he pulled his bangs out of his eyes and held them there, pressing his palm against his slightly sweaty forehead. After a few moments of silently swearing at himself, he began to walk over to where the deer had been, in an attempt to find the victimless bolt his flinching had released.
As he approached where the doe had stood, he looked around. There wasnât any sign of herâ or any other faunaâ for as far as his eye could see. With another deep sigh, he began to scan around looking for his bolt. No sign revealed itself to him, and so he continued to pace in the direction it had fired, keeping an alert eye on the ground, looking for any skidding in the dirt, to reveal where his bolt may had gone.
As he found the bolt lying in the dirt about 10 paces off from where the deer had been, he heard a soft sound. It was a sound he was not familiar with, but he could not place it. He froze then, halfway through bending down to pick up his bolt, waiting for the sound. After long moments, he heard it again. It was coming from far ahead and slightly to his right.
Curiosity had sunk its venomous fangs deep into his mind, now. He grabbed the bolt, wiped the dirt off the head against his trousers leg, and pulled the string back and locked the bolt into place again.
He proceeded in the direction in the sound. He would stop every other step and listen for it, occasionally finding the sound. It was arrhythmic in its sounding, and varied slightly in its pitch and volume. If it was an animal call, it wasnât like any he had heard before. All he could say for certain is that, whatever it was, it wasnât moving, and he was slowly closing in on it.
He slowly, carefully followed the sound. As he approached its source, it became more clearly audible. What he heard, though, did not convince him that he knew what it was. If he didnât know any better, it almost sounded like groaning; he couldnât help but think of his Aunt Erisa struggling with a bay of hale for the horses.
There was a second sound that interspersed with it, he quickly realized. It was the same expression, but a uniquely different inflection. Curiosity had a deathâs grip upon him now.
As he continued, he saw that the trees opened into a small clearing. A flash of motion caught his eye, and he instantly fell to standing behind a tree, trying to hide from sight. After long moments built his confidence that he was not seen, and the arrhythmic nature of the two moans continued, he slowly hazarded a peek from behind his tree, into the clearing.
A large cloth blanket, a simple cream white, was strewn across the dirt of the ground, and a weave basket was lying beside it. Atop the blanket, though, were two women, stark nakedâsave for the leather boots they woreâand their legs entwined with one anotherâs. Cro gasped gently and returned to hiding behind his tree.
He had a sudden flashback to his childhood, memories that had almost faded completely from his mind. Of his Aunt Erisa and another woman in a similar position in their bed; his aunt was laying on her back, her legs spread wide, as the other woman was sitting atop her, straddling one of his auntâs legs as her side was towards his auntâs face. The woman on top was energetically thrusting her hips, grinding the space between her legs against the inside of his auntâs thigh, as his aunt thrust her own hips, rubbing her own private areas against the other womanâs.
These two women were in a disturbingly similar position, and the moans they made were a fell call back to those long nights trying to sleep through the sound.
Curiosity and an odd sensation compelled him to look again. He peeked over, revealing his enough so that he could see clearly, poking no more of his body out than necessary.
The woman on top in this pairing was dark-skinned, her breasts petite like Erisaâs, though decidedly more perky, most likely due to her younger age. Her expression was locked in a moan, her eyes closed and her mouth open, as she leaned her face, framed by her black hair that flowed down to the low of her back, against the other womanâs leg, one arm wrapped around said appendage as another leaned back and held her up. She was grinding fervently, a soft slapping barely audible as she brought the lips between her legs up against the other womanâs toned thighs. Her orientation had her facing Cro almost exactly, which made him very glad that her eyes were closed.
The woman on bottom was of fairer complexion, her skin tanned like Croâs own. She was lying flat against her back, one hand holding onto one of the dark womanâs thighs as the other served as a pillow beneath her head. The lighter womanâs long face was locked in a similar expression, framed by a spattering of shoulder-length hair as golden as weaves of wheat. Her cheeks were flushed a deep crimson.
Cro found himself transfixed, though, on the rhythmic jiggling motion of the fair womanâs large breasts, which were excitedly bouncing back and forthâup and down, where she to stand upâwith her partnerâs energetic thrusts.
Cro felt the trunk of the tree he was leaning against push up against his groinâa bit shocked at the treeâs motion, he looked down to find that he had not moved, but rather, a large bulge had appeared between his legs.
Curiosity and confusion should have ruled him then, he knew, but frankly, he realized he didnât care. Instead, some force entirely beyond his understanding convinced him to return his gaze to the two women in the clearing, focusing on the large bouncing breasts.
Just then, the dark womanâs eyes fluttered open, glazed over from ecstasy. Nevertheless, Cro instantly gave a small yelp and hid behind the tree, hoping that she didnât see him.
The loud âwhat the fuck?!â suggested to him that his hopes were set too high.
Without any further hesitation, he bolted. Not caring about making sound and scaring off wildlife, his only focus was to make as much distance as he could. He couldnât help but feel some unjustifiable feeling of shame and guilt wash over him. He also found that the bulge in his trousers made running awkward, but it dissipated quickly enough.
He didnât stop to see if the women were in pursuit. He didnât stop for a long whileânot until his breath had completely given out and the adrenaline had worn out.
The rush fading from his system, leaving only the dull pounding of his racing heart in his ears, Cro crouched down and leaned forward, resting his hands on his legs as he tried to slow his breathing and his pulse.
Paranoia elicited him to cast a long look behind him. There was no sign of movement at all, let alone pursuit. He closed his eyes and hung his head down low, and forced himself to calm himself and to collect his thoughts; to think things through, in an effort to regain his composure.
The first thought that entered his mind was âwhat were those women doing there,â followed immediately by âwho were those women?â Cro had certainly never seen them before. In fact, those were the first people beside Erisa that Cro had ever seen since they relocated here. That was one of the reasons Erisa chose this houseâthe same house she had grown up in as a child, long since abandoned as the droughts had rolled through. Isolation.
So far as he knew, there wasnât a town or village for miles, in any direction. Certainly he had not traveled so far into the woods; he had trekked into those woods for as long as two days solid before, and had never once found an end to the endless span of trees.
Thusly, his mind returned to what they were doing there, and who they were.
The first question, he chided silently to himself, was fairly evident: they were having sex. He may have had grown up in isolation, but he was no stranger to the concept. Erisa was a fan of literature, having been a school-teacher for the earliest years of his life, and as a consequence she had a great many books lying around their small house. Most of them were either childrenâs books or religious scripture, but there were a few that were more fictitious in nature and more interesting to read.
Growing up, he had read through all the books in the house several times through. Erisa was more than willing to feed his knowledge of literature and of language. There was one book in particular that was particularly raunchy in nature, and it is from that one book that Cro learned more or less everything he did in regards to the finer details to sex.
It was also a book, Cro had noted some years past, that seemed to hold a special interest for Erisa as well. He didnât question why.
Silently shaking himself from this tangent his mind had wandered into, he approached the question from a more serious angle: why were those women in that clearing, of all places they could have been?
There were no feasible solutions his mind could conjure.
A single, loud craw caught his attention. His eyes shot up to the trees above him, and fell upon a single crow sitting atop a high tree branch. It stared down at him with its cold, black eyes. He returned the stare.
Their gazes locked for an undeterminable time. The crow shifted its head from side to side, as if to either question the import of itself to his curiosity, or to challenge him to look away. If the motion was a challenge, it was one that he did not back away from.
Finally, the crow gave another loud craw, and fluffed its wings at him, taking a step up the branch it roosted upon. Cro accepted the dare, and raised his crossbow and released the bolt in a single motion.
The bolt missed as the crow took flight, disappearing into the spattering of trees in the distance, crawing all the whileâeither in anger at his hostilities, or in laughter at his incompetence; he was unable to determine which.
The humor of the resemblance between the birdâs name and his own was not lost on him. He had asked Erisa, more than once, why he was named after such a pest of a bird. She had never given him a straight answer, making up some nonsense about a crow sitting on the sill at the time of his birth, or the crow having some religious significanceâa significance he had never once stumbled upon in his examination of the healthy amount of scripture that resided in the houseâor some other such fantastical nonsense. Eventually, he had stopped asking; it was evident she was never going to give him a straight and true answer, for whatever reason.
He didnât even bother to consider searching for that bolt. With the angle he shot it at, it could have landed anywhere, assuming it even stayed in one piece; the probability of it slamming itself against a tree branch at a skew angle and snapping the simple wood that it was composed of was fairly high. He pulled a bolt from his quiverâonly three remained nowâand slammed it into place, cocking the bow back for a quick release, should the need arise.
With a deep sigh, he sat himself down, leaning his back against a tree. He lay the bow down across his knees, and slung his bag off his shoulder. He reached into it and retrieved his notebook and his pencil. He flipped to a fresh pageâthere were very few of those left, and this was one of the last notebooks that existed in the house; something told him that Erisa wouldnât be overly thrilled at the suggestion of her going into the nearest town to get him some more notebooksâand began to sketch.
He wasnât sure what he would draw, yet. He simply started to draw lines.
That was how he tended to draw, whenever he was deep in thought. Simply let his hand become part of the pencil, and let the pencil lead; allow it to drift across the paper however it desired. He found such an action to be very soothing, and it helped to calm an otherwise overactive mind. It allowed him to think about other matters, while the more creative parts of his brain were happily occupied in their own little sphere of interest.
The question of why those women were in that clearing had nothing more to yield to him; he simply didnât have enough information to come to any sort of conclusion. Likewise, the only conclusion he could come to in regards to who they were is that they seemed to be lovers to one another; the depictions in the previously described novel were very detailed, and while passionate, the scenes depicted also had a calm of casualness to them, of sex being more an event than a bonding.
The look on those womenâs face was very much so a representation of bonding, of a deep emotional attachment to one another, Cro was certain, unless his perceptions of such things were horribly mistaken. He liked to think that, despite his sheltered upbringing, he was proficient at reading emotionâit was a necessary skill in drawing faces like he did, and Erisa was a deep well of emotion to mine and learn from. That woman could not hide emotion if she were given a rug to throw it under, and that kind of unconstrained expression was practically gushing from those two young womenâs faces.
Passion. Affection. Caring.
Lust. Desire. Craving.
Need. Want. Respect.
A whirlwind of torrid emotions had danced on their faces, flushed and sweaty, eyes squeezed shut as they moaned in ecstasy, their bodies moving as if they were alive, alive and on fire, a fire burning deep inside their very veins, their very hearts, their very groins, a primal drum whose beat to which they thrust their hips, rubbing their private parts against one anotherâs, the tepid air between their bodies growing damp and humid, their breasts dancing to its rhythm, their beautiful breasts, oh, such beautiful breastsâ¦
Cro shook himself from the snarl that the fantasy had wrapped about his mind, to find that his hand, his mind, and his groin, had all seemed to have formed consensus. He lifted his pencil from paper to find a softly shaded depiction of the very scene he had witnessed, the dark-skinned woman shaded a soft lead gray as she wrapped her legs about her partnerâs leg, face caught in a snapshot of euphoria, the other womanâs face similarly contorted as her large breasts were caught mid-jiggle, the fluidity of their motion causing a slight apparent deformation that, for some reason, only quickened his breath more.
A flood of new questions entered his mind, then. What was this sensation he was feeling? This stiffening of his groin? The increased heart rate? The burning in his cheeks and ears? This sudden attention to the female body?
These were all things he had certainly never experienced before. When reading about such details, they had his rapt attention, with the amount of detail that went into describing the sensations, but they had never afflicted him in such a way. Perhaps it was because the women described in the book were nothing more than abstract ideas to him, contortions of his caretaker stretched by the mind to try and match the characteristics defined to them and failing miserably. Certainly they had no effect on him like this scene did.
But this scene was real. He could see it clearly, in every minute detail, every bead of sweat that covered their beautifully smooth skin. He could hear it, every soft moan and silent slap of flesh against flesh, the rustles of the leaves beneath their hot bodies. He could smell it, the vapors of sweat that washed from their bodies, the soft scents of the woods drifting through the air, the heavy, tanged stench of their sex.
This scene was real. And it excited him in ways he had never been excited before. Ways that confused him. Confused and scared him.
And unlike all the other problems he had come across, problems that had confused and scared him, something told him that this was not something he could discuss with Erisa.
He had read about such things beforeâthe physical manifestations, anywaysâin a great many of the religious books. And in each one, they were always immediately followed by some acts of defilement and beastliness, some desolation of innocence, some desecration of virginity, some scouring of womanhood.
These swellings were the swellings of the evil that beat within manâs heart, he knew. The swellings that lead to the spreading of manâs wicked seed. Erisa was a very religious woman, a fact he kindly disagreed on but respected nevertheless. He could only imagine what bringing up such subject matters would result in, bringing up the central evil that her entire creed was centered about opposing.
And he could only ask himself why. Why, if it were so evil, and so wicked; why did it feel so good?
He cleared his mind then, closed the notebook and put it away. He forced himself to take deep breaths, to think to himself cleaner, more pure thoughts. He discussed to himself the fact that he had been out for some time now, and he hadnât caught a single animal. He needed to rectify that.
He acutely noted the swelling began to lessen, but forced his mind away from that again. He would try to find some pheasants. He was certain he had heard some earlier, whilst he was stalking the doe; he would find them. Pheasants were easy catches.
Cured of his temporary ailment, and his mind set on what he would set out to accomplish, he lifted himself from the ground. Slinging the bag back around his shoulder, he lifted his crossbow and began to set out on the hunt for the pheasants he had disregarded earlier.
As he turned about to begin his journey, he idly noted a crow sitting atop a tree branch, silently looking down at him. He was unsure if it was the same crow that had challenged him earlier, but his intuition gave him a strong inclination that it was. Perhaps its silence served as good omen: where before it had mocked his incompetence and proven it true, perhaps its lack of mockery was a prediction that competence had returned to him.
He held little faith in such superstition, but wasnât about to turn it away on a matter of principle.
He would take whatever was given him.
When Cro had finally returned, the sun was just dipping beneath the tree-line. He could have hoped for a better catch, but given the events that had passed in the time since he had left, he was content enough with the three pheasants he returned with.
He noted that the simple windows of the small house were dark. Erisa must had gone to bed early, something that she had been doing more and more often these past few months. The strain of age had begun to take its toll on her early, it seemed.
He took care to open the door slowly, to minimize the gentle squeak the iron hinges had a tendency to make, and shut it gently behind him. He considered just leaving the pheasants on the table, to be dealt with in the morning, but he knew better than to do so; the meat would most probably go bad in that time. With a sigh, he flicked the knob of the kerosene lantern on the butchering table, in the back area of the den, coaxing flame to life. He gently placed the birds atop the table.
He didnât like preparing or curing meat, but it was one of the chores you grew up to, if not like, then at least tolerate. He noted, as he started to rub in the salt, that he had to scrape the bottom of the sack. Perhaps, Cro thought to himself, heâd be able to convince Erisa to pick up more notebooks when she went into town to get more salt.
Preparing the pheasants took longer than he would have had liked, and when he finally glanced out the window, the ebony shroud of night had draped itself overtop the world. A sudden exhaustion overtook him, and his original plans of sketching a bit more were quickly usurped by the far more primal drive for sleep.
He blew out the lantern, and found himself regretting it almost immediatelyâhis light-adjusted eyes, suddenly plunged into blackness, were unable to see a thing. Not willing to stand about and wait for his eyes to adjust, he reached out and began to feel his way toward where his bedroom was. In the process, he accidentally kicked an iron frying pan that was hanging on a low peg of the butchering table. It fell to the wood floor with a loud clang, causing him to reflexively grit his teeth and wince.
He stood there, then, for long moments, waiting for Erisa to awake and scold him for making such a ruckus. The nagging never came, however, and by the time he decided he had waited a fair duration, his eyes had adjusted sufficiently to the darkness.
Taking care to not disturb anything else, he slowly navigated his way to his bedroom. He unslung his bag and quiver, placing them and his bow against the frame of the bed, before sitting on the edge of the simple straw mattress.
The summer air was stagnant and humid, too warm for him to crawl beneath the single heavy blanket he possessed, but still too chill for him to strip down comfortably. He did, however, unlace his simple leather boots before crawling himself atop the mattress and laying the back of his head down on the pillow.
He closed his eyes and channeled his breathing into slow, shallow motions, willing his body to sleep.
Sleep refused to meet him halfway, however. He would feel himself drift to the edges of consciousness, feel his limbs become heavy and unresponsive, but then a sudden thought would demand his attention and jar him to wakefulness.
He tried several times, but every time he was shook from his semi-sleep state by a rudely demanding mind. And every time, those jarring thoughts fell back to those two women he had seen in the woods. At first, the thoughts were innocent enough, reflecting upon those questions he had discussed with himself earlier.
Very quickly, though, the innocence of the thoughts was lost, and he could feel the evil stir again. His hand wandered to his groin, hesitantly tracing the outline of the bulge in his trousers. He forcefully pulled his hand away, down and to his sides, willing himself to purge the thoughts and drift to blissful sleep.
But the thoughts would not cease, burning themselves into his consciousness like the flames he felt slowly flicker to life throughout his body. Finally, this mysterious new force took hold, and he flicked the kerosene lantern beside his bed to life. He reached down into his bag, and pulled out his notebook. He flipped to the sketch he had made in the woods, and stared at it intensely.
The confused stirrings between his legs became resolute, and he felt all reason leave him as he slowly traced a finger across the drawing of the pale woman, focusing intensely on her large breasts. He no longer questioned why such ordinary structures of a womanâs body suddenly became so alluring to him; he simply accepted that the thought of their softness bouncing in passion pulsed fire through his body.
Curiosity was knockingânay, pounding and kicking and screaming furiouslyâat his door, and he could ignore his eager guest no longer. He put the notebook aside, and slowly undid the lacing that held his trousers tight. He gently pulled them down, noting the odd sensation as the material pulled the stiffness between his legs down with them. He reached with his other hand to try and redirect it away from the downward motion.
The trousers beneath his buttocks and about his thighs, he stared at the reddened erect rod that marked his birth and his sin. It seemed significantly larger than it usually was, and altogether a different beast than the usually limp organ that resided between his legs. It pointed toward his belly and away, the skin that usually wrapped itself protectively about the head pulled back to reveal the fleshy pink that tipped the otherwise peach shaft.
He hesitantly wrapped a hand about it. His hand fit about a third of its total length, and its width fit snugly into his fist. The cool sensation of his fingers against the hot and bothered flesh was euphoric, and he couldnât help but gasp at it.
He pulled the notebook up with his other hand, settled it on his chest, and stared at the picture once again. He licked his lips as his mind wandered to that scene, putting to motion the still image he had captured.
His hand began to unconsciously stroke the shaft about which it was wrapped. The sensation was both mysterious and wonderful. How such an evil thing could feel so good, he again wondered about. He leaned his head back deeply into the straw pillow. His motions began to quicken, his breathing became more intense, and he began to gently rock his whole body with the motion.
He began to softly moan, imagining himself burying his face in those beautifully large pale breasts, gently kissing the soft flesh, wrapping his hands about them and jiggling them against his cheeks playfully. He could feel a build-up, his whole body becoming tense like a thousand springs at once, as he imagined gently kissing down her fit tummy, kissing the insides of her thighs, before softly kissing between her legs, like the one novel so adamantly described in so many scenes. He felt the sweat began to stick his shirt to his back as he gently teased the folds of glory with his tongue, before discovering that the dark-skinned woman had beaten him to it, and was already lustily lapping her tongue deep into the womanâs slick pussy. She turned to face him, then, and gently kissed his lips; he could almost taste the sweet taste of the blondeâs pussy on his lips, though it was a taste he couldnât identify due to not knowing its flavor. But he knew it was sweet. The blonde strokes his hair then, and crooned, âPlease me, Cro,â to which he happily obliged, burying his tongue deep in between her legs and gently suckling on her clit. Her moans became powerful, and she began to repeatedly chant his name: âCroâ¦ Croâ¦ Croâ¦â
âCro?â Erisa practically cried. Cro startled into consciousness at the tenseness in her voice, a shout that modulated into a slurred moan as the springs in his body suddenly released in a sharp gust of white liquid that shot itself against the back of the hand holding his notebook. He exclaimed at the sudden warmth, dropping the notebook onto his chest, as more gushes poured forth from his sin, spilling into and overtop the long wiry hairs that contained his evil, thickly pooling onto his sweat-sheened belly.
Erisaâs cheeks reddened intensely and she squeaked softly while quickly turning about and walking out of the doorway, not a single word being said.
Cro could feel is own cheeks and ears catch on fire, and he shook the sticky fluid off the back of his hand in disgust. He tore a page out of his notebookâan earlier page, of what he wasnât quite certainâand wiped the back of his hand with it. He turned the notebook over, to find a noticeably wet glob had begun to slide down the brown leather cover. Making a noise in his throat, he wiped that off with the paper as well.
He looked at the wad of paper, thick with the slop, and gingerly put it on the table, not wanting to get his fingers in the mess any more than he already had. He tore another piece off, and began to wipe clean his belly, before pinching a piece of the rough parchment between thumb and forefinger to coax the goop out of the hair between his legs.
A third piece of paper was requisitioned to wipe the slick sides of his shaft, which had quickly gone to its more natural, flaccid stateâwhy couldnât it just stay that way? He found himself chiding bitterlyâdespite it being covered in its own filth. He wiped down the head then, being careful not to cut himself as he hunted down the last stubborn drips that were hiding in the hole of the head.
His cheeks still ablaze, he pulled his trousers up, tossed the notebook haphazardly against the far wall, and blew out the lamp. He flipped himself about and buried his face into the pillowâno longer imagining burying his face in beautiful breasts, but now burying his face in the burning sands of shame.
Sleep did not come soon enough, then. Every moment of wakefulness was pure torture.
Morning reared its head, the beams of cool light funneling through the window and beating against him. It came too soon, in Croâs opinion; the shame of the night before still burned deep in his mind.
Eventually, a gently rank smell came to his attention. At first, he could not place it, but then he identified it as spoilage. He was confident the pheasant shouldnât be spoiling so soon, but quickly traced down the rankness to the soiled pieces of paper on the small table that held his lantern.
With a grimace, he picked up the stinking pieces of paper, and tip-toed into the den. He intended to start the cooking fire, and toss the paper into it, burning away the evidence, before Erisa noticed. His plans were spoiled by the fact that she was already up, prodding the fire into wakefulness.
She turned to him with a small smile that quickly died when she saw what he had carried. He grimaced unconsciously as she quickly turned away.
âPardon me, Erisa,â he mumbled as he walked by. She moved away without a word, and pointedly looked away as he threw the wads of paper into the fire. He glanced over at Erisa, who was still looking away from him, and sighed deeply. He walked over to the small table near the door, and sat in one of the two chairs. Erisa silently returned to preparing the meal, working the pheasant he had brought home to be fried.
âErisa, about last nightâ¦â Cro began, but she interjected sharply without making any obvious motion; not so much as a budging of the head or a flick of the hand.
âDonât, Cro. I knew this day would come. I justâ¦ Iâm not ready. Give me some time.â
Cro wanted to argue the point, but knew better than to do so. Instead, he simply sat there, silently watching his aging aunt work to prepare their food. All he could think of was the shameful thing he had done last night, and the humiliation of her walking in on him doing so.
As she set the frying pan down on the metal sheet overtop the fire, she silently made her way to sit in the other chair. She put her elbows on the tableâs top, and rested her hands in her palms. She took a deep breath, before rubbing her hands down the length of her face. She looked up at him, then, and said simply,
âCro, we need to talk.â
Just outside the window, a large black crow sat on the sill. It watched in silence as the two humans discussed the ramifications of the young manâs apparent discovery. Its eyes were unfocused, constantly shifting from target to target, but its ears were keen.
It didnât stay long, before taking flight. It carried itself above the tree-line, making its way due east. But this was no random direction that the crow flew, no arbitrary purpose that it strove toward.
No, there was a very direct location this crow had in mind.
The journey was not a short one, but eventually the crow found its home: a long-forgotten keep falling into a state of being reclaimed by nature, the towers collapsing or already having collapsed, the huge stone bricks that had forged its shape covered in thick moss and crawling vine. It flew into the window of the one remaining tower, and flew its way down the unlit stairwell into the main keep, and then farther still down into the dungeon.
The crow flew farther yet, through a hole in one of the far dungeon walls, leading into a natural cavern. Down, down, down the crow flew, far deeper beneath the ground than any natural bird would ever do.
For indeed, this bird was far from natural.
As the crow found itself entering the yellowed spheres of candlelight, its body began to shift unnaturally, the feathers melting away into a darkly tanned skin, as the eyes went from a beady black to a far more sultry brown, the beak making way into a pair of puckered lips, the shining breast changing instead into two, large and fully formed, and dangerously exposed under a complexly thin linkage of gold plating.
âGresil, you return. What news have you of the Princessâs child?â The voice was thin and weak.
âI found him, mistress,â Gresil responded, her voice deep and powerful, fitting the womanâs long height and dark, faintly red skin, while at the same time juxtaposing her thin, muscled waist and her disproportionately large breasts.
âHim? Excellentâ¦â the voice crooned. The owner of its voice stepped into Gresilâs view then. She was a short woman, her long hair withered and grayed. The face it framed was not young by any means, but not outwardly aged, either, and would have been fitting to find on a woman entering her fiftieth summer.
The hair of the witch was not grayed with age, though, nor even stress; but instead, the cost of the darkest order of magic. The cost of blood magic, of selling away her own life force in exchange for unnatural gains.
The short, older woman made her way to the large stone table in the center of the small ring of slabs she had positioned herself in. Atop the tableâs surface, complex lines glowed emerald green, forming many-sided shapes without symmetry or order to their appearance. She held her hands overtop one such symbol, and closed her eyes.
âIt appears you had lied, after all, my dear,â she said idly to the air. âYou had a son after all. And whatâs more, he did not die after birth, as you were lead to believe.â
âCan I play with her yet, mistress?â Gresil purred seductively, then. She leaned her head of flowing hair, black as the crow she had stepped from, against the exposed belly of the woman who was being held above the ground by a series of chains, shackled to each wrist and ankle.
The belly was covered with thin scratches, and the legs were spread wide as the arms were pulled high above the terrified womanâs head. She looked down at the woman beneath her, a steel ball held in place within her mouth by a small chain that wrapped about her head and tied tightly in her muddied hair, her eyes wide with horror.
The blonde woman was stark naked, and the scratches that covered her body extended throughout the rest of her body, many of them red with minor infection. Some of the scratches her thin lines, while others were more strangely semi-circular and interconnected in strange patterns. Her face bore a great many of them, and her eyes themselves were slightly red with scratches in their very lenses; not an inch of her body was spared, save the area between her legs, which had been lovingly shaved and kept clean of any filth or injury.
A simple metal rod was held in place between her legs, penetrating into her, with three small chains that wrapped about her thighs and between the cleavage of her buttocks; the device held a very gentle green glimmer to it, as magical forces caused it to vibrate without cease. The chains holding it in place were moist with the womanâs excitement, as a result of the objectâs incessant motion.
âNot yet, my dear Gresil. Youâre get your playtime soon enough. We still need the Princess, however. Nothing like a little drama to rattle the boyâs cage, and what is more fitting than him coming to the heroic rescue of his own kidnapped mother?â
Gresil snaked a thin hand beneath one of the chains holding the pelvic contraption in play, and began to teasingly rub the blonde womanâs clitoris. The bound woman flinched at the motion; Gresil grinned mischievously, and began to quicker her teasing.
âCum for me, you little whore,â she crooned seductively. She snaked her other hand behind the rear-most chain, and gently inserted her middle finger into the blonde womanâs anus, as she continued to rub. She started to work the finger into the hole, curling her finger to rub against the sensitive inner walls.
The woman began to moan against the gag in her mouth, and Gresil chuckled to herself. âYour asshole is so eager for my finger, Myrmi. I canât wait until mistress gives me permission to let you down and give it a proper exercise againâ¦â
Gresil began to seductively lick Myrmiâs bare belly. The womanâs moans intensified, and he constrained motion became more frantic. Gresilâs teasing with both hands intensified in motion; all the while, the magical toy continued to vibrate deep inside the woman.
Gresil kissed the pale flesh gently, before she pressed her lips against it and began to suck on it. Her lips gave way to teeth, as she began to gently sink her teeth into the flesh.
As the blonde womanâs body tensed, and Gresil felt a fresh wetness cover her hand, a delicious coppery flavor trickled onto her tongue. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she moaned lustily, drinking the sanguine liquid deep.
She pulled her hands and mouth away from the woman, and grinned wickedly at the woman, her eyes closed and head lulling in semi-consciousness. âNow that turns me on,â she purred.
She wiped the thin trickle of blood that formed about the fresh teeth marks with one finger, and slowly licked the tip clean with her tongue. Her other hand slipped to the exposed area between her legs, her middle two fingers slipping into her snatch and beginning to softly work it.
âYou make me so fucking horny, Princessâ¦â she continued. She leaned forward and licked from belly-button to the base of Myrmiâs breasts, before she whispered mischievously:
âI could just eat you upâ¦â