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A Tale of the Son of Woman [UPDATED June 6 2013]

Thu, 06 Jun 2013 07:43:15

LordAardvark

Current Page Count (Standard font MS Word 2010): 36 Right. So. I asked some time ago if people would even read my story if I posted it here. No one gave me any feedback, but Rastifan suggested I post it anyways because this subforum is dying. I decided to do that. How this is going to work is I am going to use this opening post as a sort of resource page. It will contain links to later posts in this thread for the appendix (when I decide to post it) and each chapter. The idea behind it is so that if you want to read the story, without any comments breaking continuity (one chapter a post), you can just use this post to open links directly to the chapters and read them. Of course, in reality, no one but myself will even be posting in this thread, completely defeating the purpose of this resource page, but that's beside the point. Story Summary: A high-fantasy story set in the fictional country of Lesbanon, which has by way of ancient magic been populated by only women for over a hundred generations, A Tale of the Son of Woman follows the story of a young man named Cro, son of the Princess of one of the ruling factions. Throughout his life, he faces bigotry and persecution for being born a man, and is cast into exile when nothing more than a child. But when his mother's family, the ruling house of the very kingdom that exiled him, falls under threat from an enemy faction - and a previously unknown third force working beneath the surface of this political hellfire - he feels it his duty to do all he can to save them, despite the hatred universally felt for him and his kind. Resources & Chapters: AdultFanFiction.Net Story: http://original.adultfanfiction.net/sto ... =600106289 AdultFanFiction.Net Discussion: http://www2.adultfanfiction.net/forum/i ... w-replies/ Appendix: http://www2.adultfanfiction.net/forum/i ... /?p=328251 Prologue: <!-- l --><a class="postlink-local" href="https://digitalero.org/phpbb/viewtopic.php?f=15&t=942&p=11919#p11917">viewtopic.php?f=15&t=942&p=11919#p11917</a><!-- l --> Chapter 1: <!-- l --><a class="postlink-local" href="https://digitalero.org/phpbb/viewtopic.php?f=15&t=942&p=11919#p11918">viewtopic.php?f=15&t=942&p=11919#p11918</a><!-- l --> Chapter 2: <!-- l --><a class="postlink-local" href="https://digitalero.org/phpbb/viewtopic.php?f=15&t=942&p=11919#p11919">viewtopic.php?f=15&t=942&p=11919#p11919</a><!-- l --> About the Story: Firstly, I want to point out that the story is a deconstruction. What, exactly, is it a deconstruction of, you may ask? It is a deconstruction of the tropes within both sexual media (which is to say porn novels, porn films, porn comics; anything pornographic, really) and the modern interpretation of high fantasy. More specifically, it is a deconstruction of the overt sexualization that mainstream media has bastardized the phrase "high fantasy" with, and the overall sillyness of pornographic media - especially the "porn with plot" genre. Look at any modern fantasy MMORPG - TERA Online, for example. While the men are clad to the teeth in heavy steel and spikes in every which way, the women's heaviest armor set is effectively a bikini top that can barely contain breasts that are larger than their heads. I find the entire ordeal entirely distasteful, and more than a bit objectifying. I'm not a hardcore feminist by any means, but I recognize the validity of some women's complaints about such things. Certainly there are some women out there who don't have problems with it, or possibly even find such sexualization empowering in some fashion, but all in all I find that it makes a joke out of the genre as a whole. It's hard to be taken seriously of a fan of high-fantasy, especially high-fantasy RPGs, these days. Dragon Age? "Oh, that game where all you do is have sex?" TERA Online? "Oh, that game where all the women run around half naked?" Vindictus? "Oh, that game where all the women are asian porn stars?" It's very frustrating. With all that being said, why is ATotSoW written the way it is, enforcing those very tropes I just detested? Well, that's simple: I'm a bit of a satirist! When I find something that I can't take seriously, that I find makes a joke out of itself, but others can't seem to see the joke like I do, I try to make the joke I see abundantly clear. I take what is already absurd, and stretch it to hyper-absurd means. To really drive the point home of how silly I think it all is, I put the absurdity into an otherwise realistic situation: having sex-crazed lesbians who run around in armor that exposes their breasts and lower bodies fighting to maintain a crashing economy and a society that is starting to fall apart and break into a civil war should be a pretty jarring contrast.
Thu, 06 Jun 2013 07:45:22

LordAardvark

PROLOGUE: “Mmm…” The moan was deep and throaty, and repeated as Queen Xelsys buried her fingers in the fluffy red curls of hair in between her legs, pushing the woman’s head deeper into her womanhood. “You’re so good, Mimi,” the queen moaned, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as she exhaled deeply. Her fingers released their grip on the fiery locks of hair, and traced their way up her pale, sweaty body. She gently wrapped them around the brown- and black-haired heads of the women gently licking her exposed breasts. “Aera, I hope you’ve been keeping it nice and sloppy for me,” Xelsys crooned affectionately. The black-haired woman entertaining her left breast lifted her hair, revealing a silky smooth skin the color of dark chocolate, and large almond eyes whose irises were only a few shades lighter. She stuck out her tongue, revealing a large glob of spittle conglomerated in its saddle. It began to pool over and drip down onto the queen’s small breast. “Beautiful, Aera. Simply beautiful. You never let me down. Now come here and kiss me.” The dark-skinned Aera moved up, wrapping her soft hands around her queen’s neck, slipping the fingers in between the flowing locks of shining gold hair and the silver-embroidered red-velvet pillowing on which her head lay. With a flick of her flowing raven hair, Aera descended upon her queen, planting her soft dark lips squarely against her majesty’s thin pink lips. Aera’s kisses were as sloppy as her licking seemed to be, making loud squelching noises that only excited the queen more. She wrapped her lips around the dark woman’s long, slippery tongue, and began to lovingly suck on it, moaning gently into the internal muscle. As Aera detached herself from the queen, Xelsys sublimely purred to her, “trade places with Mimi. I want to feel your tongue deep inside my pussy.” With a smile and a silent nod, Aera crawled beside the redheaded woman and gently tapped her shoulder. Mimi pulled herself up from her majesty’s majesty, revealing skin almost as pale as paper, peppered with soft freckles on her cheeks that currently burned crimson with passion. Silently, she and Aera interlaced their fingers and began to passionately kiss, before disengaging themselves. As Mimi crawled up to take Aera’s place, the dark-haired woman playfully spanked the pale woman’s rear, eliciting a soft giggle. As Aera descended upon the queen, and began to dutifully dig with her tongue as requested, Queen Xelsys gave a deep moan. Mimi silently began to flick the queen’s hard nipple with her tongue, alternating the motion with tracing soft circles about the areola. The queen traced a finger down Mimi’s pale cheek, and lifted her chin so that the woman would look at her with soft hazel eyes. “You’re so beautiful, Mimi. Has anyone ever told you that?” The woman smiled awkwardly, before stammering, “Only my mum, my Queen.” The queen smiled softly. “Your mother was an observant woman, Mimi.” She began to gently stroke the pale woman’s cheek, before raising her hand to brush through her thick curls. The queen’s other hand snaked its way down her body, gripping Aera’s head softly and pushing it down as Xelsys softly rocked her hips into the dark woman’s mouth. “Finger yourself for me,” the Queen demanded simply. With a small gasp of shock, and a slight hitch in understanding, Mimi crawled up a few spans along the bedding, before sitting up and spreading her legs for her queen’s viewing pleasure. She began to gently rub between her legs, teasing the hole with gentle prodding of her finger’s tips. Xelsys licked her lips as she watched intently. “Kloe, my breast is bare,” the Queen stated simply, still watching Mimi. With a soft apology, a thin woman with hair so blonde it was almost white crawled onto the bed, positioning herself overtop the offending breast, and began to dutifully suckle. “Yefe, is the new girl here?” the queen asked the half-clothed—ergo the most-clothed—woman standing guard beside the gold-lined doorway into the chamber. Her heavy steel plate chest piece, etched with twin sapphire dragons curling about the metal, was cut skillfully beneath her full breasts, embracing and emphasizing her womanly curves. Some would argue the sultry illusion was ruined by the faintly blood-stained double-headed poleaxe the woman leaned against, but Xelsys would disagree on that point. “Yes, your majesty. She is currently in the warding room, being instructed on her duties.” “Bring her—” a sharp gasp broke her train of thought. She tilted her head up, to look over the women entertaining her breasts, and down at Aera. “Aera, you naughty girl. I like it. Keep prodding my asshole with your tongue, you beautifully nasty woman.” The queen returned her attention to her guard-maiden. “Bring the new girl to me. I want to break her in.” The guard-maiden snapped to attention, slamming a gauntleted fist to rest gently between her gently bouncing breasts, nodding with a punctual, “My queen.” She turned and exited the room. The queen licked her lips as she watched Yefe’s bare bottom—a single thin strip of oiled leather down the cheeks’ cleavage—jiggle gently with each measured step. The garter bands that ran down from the chest piece and connected with the heavy steel leggings that began halfway down her thighs only enunciated the guard-maiden’s tight curves. A soft, panting cry caught the queen’s attention. She turned to see Mimi, now on her hands and knees, rocking her hips gently as she fervently rubbed her fingers into her snatch, snaking her arm up against her belly. She was biting into the corner of one of the elegant pillows on the wide bed, trying to contain her squeals of pleasure. She was failing. “For the sake of the goddess, will someone come climax the poor girl already?” the queen exasperatedly sighed. “She’s drooling all over the bed.” Within moments, a golden-skinned and large-breasted woman crawled onto the bed and laid down on her back, before snaking herself underneath Mimi. She wrapped her hands gently about the pale woman’s waist, and leaned up and began to gently suck on her clitoris. Mimi gave a soft squeal, releasing the pillow corner from her mouth. A few moments later, another fair-skinned woman bent herself over Mimi’s back, spreading the cheeks of the pale woman’s bottom, and began to rhythmically lick her anus. A third woman—another dark-skinned woman, though with noticeably smaller breasts than Aera’s—sat down on her knees in front of Mimi. She picked the woman’s chin up with a soft touch, and leaned forward and began to gently kiss her. Mimi wrapped one arm around the mocha-skinned woman, leaning all her weight onto the other arm, and began to moan into her mouth as she quickly approached climax. Yefe returned then, carrying the end of a gold-plated chain in her gauntleted hand. The links were small, and at the other end of it was a similarly plated collar, snapped around the long neck of a pale, young woman who looked like she was about to be sick. “Here she is, my queen. And she has a mighty fine ass on her, too,” Yefe stated, punctuating her point with a playful smack across the rump. The woman gave out a demure cry, and began to blush a deep red. “Don’t antagonize her, Yefe. You know you get the new girls for the rest of the night that I break them in; don’t rush things,” Xelsys scolded Yefe seriously. Turning her attention to the petrified young woman, she smiled warmly—as she gently stroked the heads of the two women suckling on her breasts—and asked, “what’s your name, little thing? And how old are you?” “E-E-Erisa, your majesty,” the young woman stammered, looking down at her feet as she fidgeted with the thin golden threading that strapped her mesh panties to her thighs. “And I celebrated my eighteenth year-season not a week past, if it please you.” The queen smiled slyly, her eyelids growing heavy with lust, as she purred, “Oh that pleases me very much. Erisa, you have such a pretty name. And I bet you have an even prettier pussy…” “Maybe not, your majesty. This one here’s a virgin. Claims she never had a need nor a care to clean nor trim. You should have heard the keeper’s swearing as she cleaned between the girl’s legs.” The queen licked her lips, crooning, “ooh, it’s not often I get a virgin girl. What cherry tastes sweeter than the cherry never popped, Yefe?” “The one sprinkled with sugar,” the guard-woman replied dryly, scratching her nose with one finger idly. “Pah,” the queen scoffed softly. She idly traced a hand down to push Aera’s hand in between her legs again. “Pay no mind to her, Erisa. She’s old and jealous and bitter that she never married her childhood crush. She doesn’t like virgin girls because it makes her think of that old shop merchant taking her crush’s virginity before she could herself. Come here, now. Don’t be shy.” Yefe glared at Xelsys, but it was the kind of glare that only the deepest of friends share. The queen flashed a wolfish grin back at her, before beckoning for Erisa to come closer. Yefe released the chain, and used a small key she held in hand to unlock the collar, taking it and hanging it off her belt. “Go on, girl. Best not to make the queen have to ask twice,” Yefe muttered, gently nudging the woman’s skinny back. Erisa took one fragile step toward the queen, the another. Within another four, she was within the queen’s decidedly hampered reach. She beckoned for Erisa to kneel down. Erisa went to one knee, bending over so that her face was only within inches of the queen’s—a feat made easier by the fact that the queen’s upper body was propped up by a wide sleuth of pillows, but made more difficult by the woman’s body curled up against the queen’s own, gently licking her right nipple. The queen ran her hand through Erisa’s short, dirt-brown hair, and frowned. “Did the keeper cut your hair, Erisa? She knows I prefer my girls with long hair.” Erisa bit her lip and nodded subtly. “She said it was a lost cause, with all the knots and dirt in it. ‘Easier to start from a clean slate,’ she said. Truth be told, my queen, I liked my hair the way it was.” The queen tsked under her breath, before saying, “I am sure I would have as well. No matter. Slip those off now, lovely,” she waved her hands toward the young woman, bidding for haste. Erisa stared at her blankly, before she hesitantly fingered the frill holding her panties up. “Y-y-you mean these?” she asked softly. The queen nodded, a gentle smile on her face. Her hands returned to idly holding the heads of the two women entertaining her small breasts. As Erisa, biting her lip, slowly began to slip the thin-mesh panties off, she confessed to the queen, “is what you said true? That the guard lady gets to have me after you? I don’t want to be with her—she’s mean, her face is like masonry, and she has a big nose. Can I not stay with you, instead? Or maybe with one of the other girls?” The queen chortled softly. “Yefe isn’t so bad, lovely. You’ll grow to love her, and she to you—especially when she’s atop you grinding herself silly!” Erisa grimaced and turned a visible shade greener with sick-inducing dread. “But no, it is tradition for the queen’s First Guardswoman to personally partake in each new entertainer. There is nothing to be done about it. Besides, between you and me, you’ll learn to realize that nose is a huge boon—when she’s licking your asshole, it has a tendency to tickle your pussy, too; it’s really an exhilarating experience.” Erisa stepped out of her panties, and swallowed a lump in her throat. “She wasn’t jesting, you know, my queen. I truly am a virgin. I have never lain with a woman before. The keeper tried to instruct me, but she kept confusing me. I’m afraid I’m not a smart one; mum always said I got the beauty while my little sister got the brains.” The queen tsked again. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, lovely. Besides, I’ll be real gentle, I swear. Trust me. Now come here, and squat over my face—like that, there you go. Now hold yourself up, yeah, there you go… Lean forward if you have to; hold yourself up… beautiful…” The willowy woman was crouched overtop the queen, her knees in line with Xalsys’ ears, her womanhood only an inch or so away from her majesty’s face. The queen leaned her neck forward, and gently ran her tongue up the length of Erisa’s slit. Erisa shuddered, and let out a soft gasp. “Oh, by the Goddess… It’s been too long since I’ve had an actual virgin…” She pressed her lips up against Erisa’s honeypot, and dug her tongue in deep, flicking it gently. The young woman gave a squawk, and instinctively pulled away. Xalsys’ hands shot up and wrapped themselves around the woman’s waist, holding her firmly in place as she began to slop away between Erisa’s legs. The queen let out a long, quivering moan as she loudly sucked on the young woman’s cunt. “My queen, your majesty!” the Priestess burst into the chamber without warning, shouting frantically. Yefe braced herself for combat, brandishing her poleaxe. When she saw it was only the Priestess Iomy, she reluctantly released her guard. “My queen!” the Priestess continued, running as quickly as her flowing robes would allow her without tangling themselves in her legs, her large breasts bouncing freely through the single diamond hole cut in her one-piece dress. Queen Xalsys, wearing only her black knee-high socks with the same sapphire dragon as on Yefe’s armor, and her red silk elbow-length gloves, stirred from a peaceful rest. Her flowing golden hair was frazzled and caked with sweat. Her stirring disturbed two of the nine completely naked women sleeping around her, but they quickly rolled over and returned to sleep. “Yes, Priestess, what is it?” the Queen asked, still half-asleep, rubbing an eye with one fist. “Your daughter, Princess Myrmi! Her child is coming!” The Queen shot up almost instantly, tossing one of the woman who had curled herself about the queen’s feet off to the side with a squawk. She raced to the clothing hanger by the door, and draped herself in the soft pink robe hanging off one of the pegs. She tightened the purple band about her waist, settling the cloth over her small breasts. “Take me to her, Priestess,” she commanded. She was halfway through the door before she stopped to turn toward Yefe. “Take care of the girls for me, Yefe. Inform them of my reason for departure should any awake and inquire as to my absence.” Yefe nodded tightly. The Queen had not taken four more steps through the door before she turned around again. “And Yefe, please don’t fuck the girls this time? You’ll get your turn. You know that.” Yefe, bent over slightly with her thin thong already halfway down her legs, grudgingly slid the piece back on. She muttered under her breath before bringing her eyes up to the Queen’s. With a pout and crossing her arms across her breasts like an indignant, fully-grown and fully-armored child, she whined, “Fine.” The queen smiled warmly. “Thank you, friend,” she said softly, before turning to follow the priestess out. In the chapel room, four clergywomen—mere disciplines, as dictated by their silk black dresses with a single diamond cut through which their breasts laid exposed—bustled about a young woman lying flat atop the table, her bare body beaded with sweat and her belly engorged with child. The queen rushed to her side, taking her daughter’s hand in her own and kissing her forehead. Her daughter’s grip felt like it could break her own. “You’re doing amazing, Mymri, honey. Your daughter is going to be more beautiful than any woman in all the kingdom; she’ll be a shining beauty with the genes of you and your wife to thank.” “Mom, not right now!” Myrmi shouted in between deep breaths. The disciples busied about, assuring the young woman that she was doing well, and coaching her without pause. It was an agonizing experience for everyone, but it was eventually over. The child was wrapped in cloth immediately, and was carried by the Priestess herself to her mother. Myrmi held her daughter and cradled her, smiling warmly at her. “Hey there, Meyll. Hey. I’m your mommy. Yeah, I’m your mommy,” she began to coo. “Your other mommy’s working right now, but you’ll meet her soon enough. Yes you will,” she giggled as she began to cuddle her nose against her child’s. The Priestess came by and gently took the swathed child, explaining that she needed to be cleaned. A disciple and the queen herself went with the Priestess into the back room. The discipline went to fetch a pale of water and a washing cloth. The Priestess began to gently unfold the newborn’s swath. The Queen and Priestess gave a gasp as the discipline returned. “Is that… is that a penis?” the discipline screamed, before her eyes rolled into her head and she fainted. The Priestess rushed to catch her before she hit the floor, picking the disciple up and laying her down atop the wooden table. The queen rushed to swath the child again. “You know what must be done with the abomination,” the Priestess said darkly. “It is blaspheming, spitting in the name of the Sorceress, to allow that child to live.” The queen lowered her head, fought back a sob. It had been a long time since the queen had been so washed in emotion. Not since her own first child had she felt quite like this. “I know.” She said simply, her voice thick with the emotions that roiled within her. She was determined to not let what befell her own firstborn befall her daughter’s firstborn, though. She would do something to spare the child that fate. Something. And so, on that day, Cro was born. Cro, son of woman, born of the princess Mymri, daughter to Queen Xelsys of the Rodhin empire. A man born in the country of Lesbanon—a country populated by only women for over one hundred generations. A man persecuted his entire life for being just that: a man. This is his story.
Thu, 06 Jun 2013 07:46:26

LordAardvark

CHAPTER 1: “ ‘In the heart of man beats the seed of evil, and through his loin does evil spread,’” Erisa quoted, citing one of the core teachings of the Sorceress. “But why?” a young Cro whined, his mop of dark red hair falling into his eyes, only for him to push it away. Erisa bent over the table, lifting the young boy’s chin for him to look at her, and gave a small, sad smile. “That’s just the way it is, angel. You know how sometimes a plant gets sick, and spots appear on its leaves, and slowly kill it?” The seven-year-old boy nodded slowly. A mixed look of confusion and dread of what words were coming crossed his round face. “Well, men are like those spots, on the plant of all the people in the world. And we’re like the plant put in a different pot, all by itself, away from all the other plants. And we’re perfectly fine. By removing men, we removed those sick spots, and we are strong and healthy!” She flashed a soft smile at the child. The door to the small chamber opened then, and an exhausted-looking Yefe trudged into the room. With a deep sigh that told of a long day’s story yet to be told, she took the gilded helmet off and slapped it down on the table beside where Erisa was teaching the young boy. Erisa directed her smile to the guard-maiden, still wearing her ceremonial armor. “Hey, you,” she said softly. Yefe turned her attention to the young woman then. She stared dumbly for a few minutes, her brain refusing to work, before she remembered where she was and returned the smile. “Hey, you,” she replied. Yefe wrapped an arm around Erisa’s waist, leaned in and gently kissed her. Her large, bare breasts brushed up against the silver-lace mesh of Erisa’s dress. Yefe turned her attention to the boy then, and leaned forward to ruffle his hair with a gauntleted hand. “And how is the little devil-spawn doing today?” she asked teasingly, the wear of her day seemingly melting away at the boy’s beaming grin and soft giggle. “Good, Auntie Yefe,” the boy responded simply. “And how about you, dear? How are you today? You look absolutely exhausted,” Erisa asked quietly, slipping a hand around Yefe’s waist. Despite the years, the cold touch of the steel armor still caught her by surprise. “Looks don’t deceive today,” Yefe answered, the weight of the day returning to her voice. She gave Erisa another soft kiss, before walking into the small niche in the room that served as the closet, and she began to undo the straps holding her armor together. “There was another riot. A few people got hurt—nothing serious, just some kicking and screaming, mostly.” As she grabbed a cream white silk robe off one of the pegs and draped herself, otherwise bare beneath, she returned to wrap both her hands about Erisa’s thin waist. She leaned her chin against the shorter woman’s shoulder and gently nibbled her ear before continuing. “I swear, it gets worse by the month. The people are growing uneasy; the lies that the Predhins are spreading throughout the villages pick up more and more steam as this drought grows longer.” “What are you going to do? What is the Queen going to do?” Erisa asked worriedly, her hands instinctively curling underneath her chin, a habit from her insecure days as a young entertainer for the Queen’s Court. “What we’ve been doing: patrolling the streets, making the rounds. Assuring people that the Court is doing all it can to see to their needs. Try our damnedest to keep the peace.” “And when that fails?” The skepticism was spoken softly, barely more than a whisper. The silence that trailed it stayed heavy in the air for quite some time. Cro, who had quickly grown bored of the political speech of the two women and had gone to doodling in his diary, looked up at the sudden silence. His attention shifted from Erisa to Yefe, bouncing back and forth until the silence was finally broken by the latter. “When the peace fails, we do our best to contain the riots. When the riots turn lethal, we push back with twice the force. And when that finally fails—when those not cut down spread their horror stories about the ‘tyranny of the Crown’. Well, then we’ll have an insurrection. And then things only get worse from there. I don’t want to think about those days. I fear they’ll be a realization far too soon as it is.” Erisa’s hands fell from beneath her chin, wrapped themselves about the strong, calloused hands about her waist. Gripped them tightly. Comfortingly. They gripped back. “Will they target the keep, do you think?” Erisa asked quietly, her gaze focused on the little boy who had since returned to his doodling, and who was unaware of the fear in her eyes. “Undoubtedly,” Yefe responded simply. She rested her head on Erisa’s shoulder, gently snuggled against her neck, and let out a deep sigh. “Will they spare him, do you think? Will his being the child of the Princess, grandchild to the Queen, spare him what fate would elsewise befall him?” “No,” Yefe responded simply. She gently kissed Erisa’s neck, tracing her hands back and up the thin woman’s back, down her wiry arms, and latched themselves onto the other woman’s hands, weaving their fingers, deeply entwining them. “I fear that his fate would be better had he been born from a farmer’s wife. His heritage will only serve as further fuel of our government’s ineptitude—‘the royal bloodline itself gave life to an abomination, how could they ever possibly think themselves apt to rule us?’ they’ll cry, as they light the pyres, binding his arms and legs, and—” “Enough,” Erisa stated crisply. Her voice cracked with emotion. She blinked away the tears that were on the verge of forming at the very thought of the horrible things the guard-maiden was describing. “Auntie Erisa?” Cro asked suddenly, shocking her back into the present, real world. “Why was I born?” Erisa couldn’t take it. With a choked cry, the tears began to flow. Yefe squeezed her hands tighter into the other woman’s, but the waterworks did not show signs of stopping. Erisa untangled herself, and turned to embrace the taller, strongly built woman, burying her face into a shoulder as she began to cry. Yefe wrapped her arms about the young woman, gently stroking her long, light brown hair as she softly shushed her, gently rocking them both back and forth. Cro simply sat there, his notebook open to a poorly but lovingly drawn doodle of his aunties Yefe and Erisa—so discernible by the crudely scrawled names beneath each smiling stick figure—holding one hand each of a littler stick figure labeled after himself, and watched, feeling his own eyes water. He was too young to understand the enormity of the question he asked, of course; all he knew is that something he said made his aunt start to cry. The teachings that he had learned all his life, that he was somehow infested with the seed of evil, never felt truer as they did then. The tears and sniffles slowed, and eventually Erisa was about to pull herself away from Yefe’s embrace. The guard-maiden smiled at her warmly, and reached up to wipe the tears from her face. “It’s late, dear. Why don’t you go to bed. I’ll be with you shortly.” “Will you put Cro to bed, please?” Erisa asked, a stray sniffle working its way into the sentence. “Of course, dear. Go on, now. And leave the lantern on; I won’t be long, I promise.” As the young woman nodded and silently padded toward their bedroom, Yefe gave a soft slap across her rump. The soft squawk that she had hoped to invoke did not come. Yefe’s expression was one of visible crushing. It was not often that Erisa was so downtrodden; such times had only seemed to increase, as the months went by. “Come on, Cro,” Yefe said quietly, reaching her hand out to the young boy. “Let’s go to bed.” Without a word, Cro stood up from his cushioned wood seat, and took his auntie’s hand. As she lead them to his bedroom, down the hall from Erisa’s and Yefe’s own, he did not say one word nor look up beyond his own two feet. Yefe glanced into their own bedroom as they passed, to see Erisa laying beneath the thick fur blankets, staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought. As the child crawled into his own bed, Yefe smiled softly as she pulled the blankets up over him. She leaned down to kiss him softly on the forehead, before she wished him a good night. She blew out the kerosene lantern that burned beside his bed, and began to walk away. She was about to close the door, when a soft voice called from the dark. “Auntie Yefe?” She paused then, before turning to face him; her silhouette against the soft candle light in the hallway described as much. “Yes, Little Hawk?” she responded, using her nickname for the boy. “Why did Auntie Erisa start crying?” There was a long pause. It was too dark to see, but Cro could only imagine the expression on the woman’s face. Her brows furrowed in concern, her thin lips drawn taught, the thin dimples and creases about the corners of her mouth folding in on themselves. “When you’re older, Little Hawk. I’ll tell you when you’re older.” She gently closed the door behind her. Cro stirred from his fitful sleep to the soft grunts coming from farther down the hall. They were muffled through the walls, but he knew it was his Aunties Yefe and Erisa. This was not the first time he had been awaken by their love-making. It did not surprise him, either. It seemed that, almost without fail, whenever Erisa was upset by something, they wound up marking the deep passage of night by making love. Cro had once asked why, when he was younger yet and walked into their bedroom out of curiosity as to what they were doing to make such noise, and Yefe explained that it helped make them feel better. Cro had difficulty understanding how—judging from the sounds they made, it seemed painful, and it was hardly a surprise by the way they wrestled with one another, their naked bodies covered in sweat as Yefe had her legs wrapped about one of Erisa’s, the skinny woman on her hip’s side while twisted awkwardly to lay her shoulders flat against the soft feather-down bed—but he didn’t ask questions. Indeed, Cro was certain that his Aunties were in that same wrestling position, with Yefe having her legs wrapped about one of Erisa’s, grinding her hips energetically while softly moaning and occasionally swearing. He had sneaked a few peeks the times they had made lover after that first encounter, only to come to the conclusion that was the only way they knew how to wrestle. Unable to return to sleep, he reached to turn the brass knob on the kerosene lantern beside his bed, sparking a flame to life, softly illuminating the small room which he called his own. He slid out from beneath his blanket, and stepped bare-foot to the small desk opposite the bed. He opened the drawer and withdrew his notebook—a collection of loose-leaf paper bound together with a thin leather string spiraled across the height of one long edge. He dipped a writing quill in the ink pot sitting atop his desk, and flipped open to the last page of his notebook. He had several questions scrawled into the page there, questions which he had asked and received answers he felt were inadequate—why his aunties made love whenever Erisa was sad was one such question scrawled onto the paper. He leaned in and, unconsciously biting the tip of his tongue in concentration, slowly and determinedly formed his letters, to etch a new question onto the page. ‘Why was I born?’ He blew on the ink to dry it, and with a sigh, he put the quill and book away. He returned to his bed, and blew out the lantern again. He flipped around, burying his face in the down pillow, and wrapped the pillow up about his ears with his arms, trying to cancel out the loud moans of his aunties in the room a few doors down. Eventually, he fell asleep. The sun beat down fiercely upon the inner courtyard of the keep, making the smooth white marble of the walls containing the cylindrical opening almost unbearable to look at with their brilliance. The luscious green plants growing in two rings that alternated with black granite flooring basked in the light, generating a paradoxically uplifting and light feel against the oppressive tone of the stone that lay all about them. In each cardinal direction, heavy steel-bar grates about ten feet above the ground allowed crystalline water to pour in a powerful, soothing roar, falling into the troughs that separated those marble walls from the outermost granite ring. Crowning the inner courtyard was a massive glass done, the lengthwise supporting beams thick rods of curving steel, with thinner lines running in concentric circles all the down their length, all plated in a gold that shone fiercely with the rays of the sun beating down upon them. The focal point where the supporting beams all met, at the apex of the dome, was a single diamond-shaped pane of beautiful blue glass, that seemed to positively glow in the warm summer’s air. The Queen Xelsys stood atop a balcony, three floors above the courtyard, and positioned between the northern and western waterfalls, and glowered down into the courtyard below. “Why must I have this audience, Yefe?” she asked, sourly, of the guard-maiden that stood behind and to her right, poleaxe at the ready as she held her position beside the door leading out. “Because of the terms of our peace, my Queen. You know the Predhin Empire is dubious of our word, even moreso given the state of the kingdom,” Yefe responded simply, professionally. She was careful not to let her own emotions, her own opinions of the matter, slip into her voice. “Yes, but why must I have this audience with her?” The Queen bemoaned. She turned to face Yefe, then, her flowing golden hair framing a face that was not young, but certainly not old, and entirely too filled with worry and weariness. “Because she is their President, my Queen,” Yefe answered. Nothing more was to be said. The Queen silently turned to lean over the balcony once more, looking at the hanging gardens that distinctly marked the end of each of the half-dozen levels that climbed up to the top of the courtyard. In the silence that followed, a serving woman cracked the door open, and whispered to Yefe, before silently closing the door and departing again. The Queen didn’t even notice the transaction, so transfixed on staring down into the courtyard and lamenting over the events to come was she. “It’s time, your majesty,” Yefe said curtly. A moan of protest as the Queen turned about once more, before motioning toward her own body and asking, “Do I look presentable, Yefe? Be honest.” The queen’s flowing, golden-threaded dress shimmered with hundreds of small silver sequins stitched into the fabric, lusciously cut away to reveal her small breasts, before reforming beneath them, only to split once more to reveal her flat, toned tummy. The material joined again just below the navel, with the subtlest hint of the shaved hair between her legs poking through, to flow in roiling waves down her legs, spilling into a small pool beneath her feet. The eccentric gloves she wore, each finger’s tip covered in a soft golden fabric only up to the nearest knuckle, before coalescing into three thin cuts each, tracing the curvature of her fingers, one strip going over each knuckle and the other two along both sides, before reforming into a more traditional glove cut across the backs of her hands and flowing up in the same gold material up to her elbows. From there, two alternating spirals of thin fabric wound their way up her arms, before merging into the shoulders of the dress. Resting atop her head lay an embellished crown, a circlet of soft metal that curved graciously into a single diamond-studded point, otherwise encrusted in valuable jewels. Tendrils of colored glass beads ran down all around its circumference, working their way into her hair and spilling onto her shoulders. And through it all, a single winding, complexly detailed sapphire Dragon of Rodhin wound its way up her dress, its tail starting in the space between her toes, its long serpentine form circling her body in tight curls clockwise, before terminating in its gaping maw, symbolized by the cut exposing her breasts. The dragon’s single visible eye was a large, carefully cut ruby that caught the sunlight and glowed like an eye of the Beast himself. It was a beautiful outfit; dangerous, exotic, beautiful, and full of tense sexual energy. A perfect analogue for the Queen herself, Yefe couldn’t help but think. Aloud, though, she simply said, “You look stunning, as always, my Queen.” The Queen crossed her arms across her breasts and pouted, scolding the guard-maiden, “You are always so bland with your vocabulary, Yefe. You know, that Erisa is a school-teacher now. You should see her sometime; maybe she can teach you a few things.” “Oh, don’t worry, she’s taught me plenty,” Yefe said smugly under her breath. When the Queen asked for her to repeat her words, she quickly caught herself and assured the Queen that she had said nothing of significance. She felt her cheeks burn with the faintest of blushes. It had been a long while since she had felt embarrassed like that. What was that woman Erisa doing to her? She couldn’t help but wonder. “Very well then. Let’s get this over with,” the Queen heaved a deep sigh. Shaking herself from her thoughts, Yefe snapped a salute out of formality, before picking up her poleaxe and opening the door, waving the Queen through and following behind her. Descending the last steps of the stairwell, which was poorly lit compared to the bright courtyard, Yefe had to blink her eyes a few times as they adjusted to the sunlight bouncing off the courtyard walls. The Queen seemed unaffected by the blinding contrast in lighting. During their own descent, it had appeared that the Predhinian President and her entourage of four guardswomen had made their entrance. They were standing in the centermost granite circle of the courtyard, awaiting the Queen and her single guardswoman. The Rodhinian Queen took her stance before her rival leader, just shy of an arm-span’s distance between them. “Xelsys,” the President stated simply, her tenor voice tight with formality. She extended a hand, covered in a silk glove that was a soft blue that was almost white, the threading shimmering dully in the sunlight that fell upon them all. “Nyssamald,” the Queen countered, her low voice syrupy with a mixture of self-confidence and dread. She took the offered hand dutifully, gave it a firm squeeze, before releasing it. The President Nyssamald stood there for long moments, idly looking about the courtyard, a tranquil look of disinterest chiseled onto her marble-smooth features. Her long chin and high cheek bones gave her a decided triangularly shaped face, and her eyes were long as well, with the corners of her eyes markedly tilting up. Her thin, pale lips were pursed, seemingly perpetually, and Yefe mutedly noted how the tall woman kept her nose tilted up at all times. For their two nations being so close together, cramped on this small island of a country, their cultures were so radically different. The President’s attire and that of her guards were enough evidence of that: Nyssamald’s dress was a single flowing piece of that same soft blue material, not a single cut to reveal even a hint of her ample cleavage, her thin stomach, or her soft shoulders. It flowed as a single piece from neck to feet. Her gloves were equally simple, reaching up to her elbows. Indeed, her face and her upper arms were the only parts of skin exposed in her whole attire, even the neck being covered with material—a sharp contrast to the Queen, whose small breasts were bared for the world to see, and whose tummy was brandished in pride. Were the Queen to turn around, the President and her guardswomen would see nearly half her gold-threaded dress was cut away to reveal her smooth, creamy back, before coming together in luscious curves conforming to her firm buttocks, revealing just a hint of the cleavage between the two cheeks. The guardswomen between the two empires was even more striking: Yefe, and all the other guardswomen, were that any others were present in this audience, wore steel plates that were cut to uniquely hug their bared breasts, the lower ends of the breastplates cut just below the navel, connected to the thigh pieces by garter belts that ran seductively about her curvaceous hips, the area between her legs covered by dark, steeply-cut panties that terminated into a thin thong that ran between her cheeks. The Predhinian guardswomen, on the other hand, were covered nearly head to toe in thick leather beneath heavy links of chain. Not a piece of skin beneath the neck was exposed; Yefe could only wonder how the women’s poor breasts could breathe in such a uniform; surely they must get horribly sweaty and uncomfortable beneath all that heavy material, she thought to herself. The thought of her own breasts, heavy and sweaty, being consigned to suffer in a tightly-weaved casket of leather and metal, did not sit well with Yefe. Why would a woman ever consign herself to trapping her breasts like that? Where Yefe’s helmet was at least embellished with steel studs and complex curvature, theirs were simple steel caps put over their heads. Most jarringly of all, where Yefe’s shoulder-length curls of dark hair were allowed to flow beneath the cap, these women had no hair evident at all. For all she knew, they could have been completely shaved! Before Yefe could continue her comparing and contrasting of their peoples farther, President Nyssamald spoke flatly, “I see you’re just as sexually rambunctious as usual, Xelsys,” her eyes flashing pointedly toward the Queen’s small bared breasts, before shifting over to Yefe’s larger, fuller breasts, equally bared. Xelsys crossed her arms and glared at the tall, gaunt-faced woman. “And I see you’re just as prude as always, Nyssamald. Have you managed to get that stick out of your ass yet, so you can finally remember what it’s like to fuck someone, by chance?” The words snapped Yefe’s attention away from her own thoughts, and she was acutely aware of the shock on her face. The Queen smiled smugly. Nyssamald’s stoic expression did not so much as flutter, and her four guardswomen, formed in a triangle behind her, with her as their point, did not move even one muscle of their perpetual scowls. “Clever,” Nyssamald said dully, her flat voice carrying the enormity of her impression. “Did you think of that all by yourself, or did one of your countryside whores write it for you?” The Queen scowled darkly, but didn’t say a word. The slightest quiver of a smirk crawled across the President’s face as she continued, “Or have you not allowed them being taught to read, yet? I couldn’t blame you, Xelsys, for wanting to keep them dumb and ignorant—what a killjoy would it be to have an actual, intelligent woman between your thighs? Surely it must be more enjoyable to fuck a thoughtless bimbo, whose intellect only carries her so far as to remember how to breathe and squeal for her slut of a queen.” Yefe tightened her grip on her poleaxe, but kept her ground. She flicked constant glances at her Queen, waiting for the subtlest of cues for her to act and end this audience. Never before had Nyssamald been so bold as to insult the Queen to her face; their dislike of each other ran deep, and was known by all within either’s political circle, but it had always remained behind at least a thin veil of professionalism and political sparring. This was just plain childish jeering and name-calling. “Have you ever wondered,” Nyssamald asserted further, beginning to pace about the edges of the granite circle on which they stood, idling stroking her chin as an unmistakable smirk worked its way onto her face, “why your common people think you incompetent, Xelsys? Certainly it’s not because you continue to pluck their daughters off their lands to use as your own personal fuck-dolls? Or maybe it’s the fact that the day they turn twenty summers, you throw them aside like refuse to fuck their younger sisters instead?” She turned around then, and took a brisk step toward Xelsys. Yefe braced herself and took a step forward to intervene, but the Queen shot out a hand down low, brushing against Yefe’s stomach, bidding her step back. Nyssamald, her face now only mere inches from Xelsys, looked down at the Queen with a smug grin on her face. “Let’s face it, Xelsys, you’re not a young woman any longer. You have a child, who herself has had a child. How do you think that makes her feel, then, that her own mommy could be fucking the very friends she went to school with? That if, goddess forbid, this pattern upholds, and one day mommy would be fucking the very friends her own daughter would have gone to school with?” She stared intensely into the Queen’s eyes then, her pale blue eyes drilling holes into the Queen’s soft brown. Those drills of ice could not touch the soul within, though, for the smoldering fire that burned in those brown eyes was far too intense to let those prying icicles even get close. The Queen remained silent, arms crossed stoically across her chest, scowl emblazoned permanently onto her face. She refused to give even so much an inch to this woman; this woman who had decided to come to her own home, as a guest, and insult her. “How old is the oldest in your little harem, anyways, Xelsys?” the President pondered aloud. She stroked her long chin in mock concentration, before concluding for herself, “Do they even reach twenty summers before you throw them out? And what do you do with them after, I wonder? Do you throw them to your dogs?” Nyssamald took a dangerous step toward Yefe, reaching forward and gently brushing a crooked finger against the guardswoman’s square jaw. “Throw an old dog a fresh bone, maybe? Of course, they’re never fresh when you throw them away, are they, Xelsys?” She turned back around to face the Queen again, who had turned her upper body in place to keep her eyes locked upon the taller woman. “No, you make sure to take the cream off the top. When you’re done with them, they’re used tools; dried fruits; damaged goods; aren’t they?” The President paced a slow circle about Yefe, tracing a finger across the woman’s bare shoulders. Yefe bared her teeth but held her ground, watching the smug woman with every step she took. “Their pussies are probably so dried out and worn from your exhaustive use of them that they don’t feel a damned thing when you fuck them. Is that your metric for throwing them out, I wonder? When they start asking ‘are they in yet’ when you push your fingers inside their pussies? Or do you wait until they start repeating that question for their assholes? “Or maybe you take a consensus vote, among all your senators and magistrates. Pass the girls around the circle a few times in one long gangbang that never ends, let everyone have their turns—seconds are welcome! Even thirds! And fourths!—and it’s not until you all agree that the woman’s pussy is so dried out that they’re no longer fun to fuck? Maybe you bring in the guardswomen, too? And then the serving girls? Maybe you don’t reach a consensus vote until even the horses and the dogs—” The percussive sound echoed throughout the courtyard, overpowering even the consistent rumble of the four waterfalls that continued to happily flow without a care in the world. The Predhinian guardswomen tensed, their scowls turning into outright snarls. The Predhinian President stared wide-eyed at Xelsys, bent over with both hands to her cheek, before shifting her stare to the guard-maiden that had so unceremoniously slapped her. She didn’t say a word, but merely stared in silent shock as she gently massaged her quickly-reddening cheek. Yefe looked at her Queen, her face burning brightly, as she stammered an apology. “I didn’t like the way she was insulting your entertainers, your majesty,” she said simply, as she thought to herself “I didn’t like the way she was insulting my wife.” She markedly left that detail out of her apology. Xelsys gave her a small smile and a nod. “Think nothing of it, Yefe. You were within every right.” The President took a step back then, seemingly recovering from the shock of what had just occurred. “You insufferable whore!” She screamed loudly, though at who, precisely, it was hard to tell. “Did I strike a nerve, you witless wench? Did I bring back sore memories of the day that all the Queen’s dogs and all the Queen’s horses lined up to fuck your dried-up little asshole before it was decided you were no longer fun enough to keep in the silver-lined chambers of plush, and instead thrown into the cold miserable existence of being a babysitter for all the unrest your Queen’s incompetence generates among the common people?” Nyssamald snarled, spitting every third word at Yefe, as she continued to rub her smarting cheek. “Did I—” Another percussive clap filled the air, this time accompanied with a loud squawk of shock. Xelsys shook her hand, blowing on her smarting palm. She wasn’t used to slapping people; that was Yefe’s job. The President of the Predhin Empire stared up at Xelsys then, each hand working a smarting cheek. Tears had begun to well up beneath her eyes. “You have my permission to leave, Nyssamald. Leave, and never return. Your presence will no longer be tolerated within my borders. If you have not done so yet, I recommend you select an ambassador to make the future journeys to this court to discuss further matters of diplomacy.” “Diplomacy?!” the President screeched. “Whatever diplomacy we may have had was torn to shreds the moment your slut of a guard slapped me across—” Xelsys took a swooping step forward then, and grabbed Nyssamald roughly under the chin. She pulled the tall woman down to face her, eye to eye. The guardswomen drew their swords and approached nervously, tensely waiting for either a command to strike or a clear opportunity where they wouldn’t hurt their President. “Just remember that I fucked you once or twice, too, Nyssamald,” Xelsys hissed dangerously. The tall woman looked up at her then, those crystal blue eyes now filled with genuine terror. “If my ‘countryside whores’ are nothing but halfwits and bimbos, then what, I wonder, does that make you?” Xelsys held the President there for long moments. She only released her when she finally closed her tearing eyes and mewed a pathetic “please,” at which point the Queen practically threw her back. Nyssamald stumbled, but managed to keep her feet. Her guardswomen rushed to surround her, to make sure she was well, while throwing glares of ice and venom toward Xelsys and Yefe. “Now get the fuck out of my keep and out of my land, you pucker-assed bitch!” Xelsys shouted after them, as the President’s posse shuffled her out through the far entrance. Without a word of pretense, the Queen turned away and began to stalk toward the entrance from which they themselves had entered by. “Send for the keeper. Tell her I want the girls primed and waiting for me in my bedroom. All the girls, Yefe. I have some frustrations I need to work out.” “Of course, my Queen,” Yefe called after her majesty, but she was already ascending the enclosed marble stairs. She wasn’t sure if her words carried through the thick walls that now separated them. “What have I done?” Yefe couldn’t help but ask herself, burying her face in her palm. “I think I may have just started a war.” Erisa was standing behind a seated Cro, gently guiding his hand as she softly spoke words of encouragement, helping him to form his letters, when a panting and frayed Yefe burst into the door abruptly. “Oh! Yefe, what’s the matter?” Erisa asked, after a squawk of startle. She didn’t notice the drawn sword that was in Yefe’s off hand, nor the crimson trail of blood that ran down it and slowly dripped onto the floor. Cro did, though, and couldn’t keep his eyes off that sanguine fluid. “You have to go! Now, love! They’re storming the keep!” “The rebels?” Erisa shouted worriedly, wrapping her arms about the young boy. “The Predhinians!” Yefe responded, as she grabbed a large burlap sack from their small closet and shoved it into Erisa’s arms. “Pack only essentials. Bread, cured meat, water. Clothes for two or three days at a time. We don’t have much time,” she instructed hurriedly. A soft din of commotion echoed through the halls down to their door, and the unmistakable sound of steel clashing against steel could be heard. Erisa got to work, emptying out the small store-room they kept in the kitchen area, keeping a young and scared Cro in tow, gripping his little hand tightly. A loud shout from Yefe, followed quickly by a fleshy impact, startled Erisa. She turned his in time to see the woman pushing another woman off of her sword with a steel-booted foot. She quickly leaned down to swipe the fresh blood onto the fallen warrior’s leather armor. “Hurry!” she shouted. Erisa tightened the pullcord about the burlap sack, and hurried toward the door, pulling Cro with her. Cro tried to fight as they passed the table, but Erisa resisted him. He reached and grabbed his notebook, but just barely, before being snatched away. He almost dropped it, but he kept his grip and held onto it tightly against his thin frame. Yefe wrapped her free arm about the both of them, and began to ferry them off toward the far end of the hall, her other hand gripped tensely about her sword, her head frantically looking behind them for any signs of pursuit. “Where are we going?” Erisa shouted frantically. “There’s no exit this way, Yefe!” “There’s a mainline into the sewer this way. It exits out into the Lesbian, just outside the main city. Follow the river as far as you can, until you’re deep in the woods. Don’t stop walking until night has fallen; get as far away from here as possible.” “The sewer?” Erisa cried loudly. Yefe hushed her loudly. As they reached the end of the hallway, where a pile of crates and bags of potatoes and grains rested, Yefe worked to shove a crate aside, revealing a grate that looked barely large enough for Erisa to fit through. Yefe lifted the grate, and motioned for them to get through. Erisa ushered Cro through first. The child behaved admirably, without a word of protest, and silently set about crawling through. As Erisa prepared to go through, she cried “but what about you?” as she turned to Yefe, who quickly jabbed her sword’s tip into the belly of a woman who had charged haphazardly at them. With a gasp, the woman curled up on herself, before crumbling to the floor. She began to gasp and cough up blood as she choked on her own bile. In one fluid motion, Yefe turned and swept the thin woman into her arms, kissing her passionately on the lips, their tongues briefly dancing inside the vacuum their mouths formed. Just as quickly, Yefe pushed her away, toward the grate. “Go!” she shouted. “I’ll be right behind you!” Erisa swallowed her tears, and began to lower herself into the grate. Hanging by her arms—the fall was just a bit longer than she tall—she gave one last glimpse up. She gasped as she saw a large, steel-clad woman give a powerful kick into Yefe’s stomach, knocking the woman down onto her back and out of her sight. The gasp shocked Erisa into letting go. As her feet hit the stone ground, she lost her balance and fell. A curdling scream echoed from above. Erisa scrambled to her feet, and without daring to put a thought into who that scream belonged to, she picked young Cro up and mounted him on her shoulders, holding his legs as she began to briskly walk through the dimly-lit sewers, toward the distant circle of overcast sky that marked the sewer’s opening into the River Lesbian. That was the last time either Cro or Erisa stepped foot within a Rodhinian city, or heard a word of Yefe or any of the others they left behind, for at least the next twelve years to pass.
Thu, 06 Jun 2013 07:47:27

LordAardvark

CHAPTER 2: “What do you think you’re doing, Cro?” 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. “Drawing,” 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. “Drawing, of course!” Erisa exclaimed derisively, throw her hands into the air and pacing a small circle. “Why 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?” Her glare was intense, but failed to faze the young man, who did not so much as spare a moment to look. “Nope,” was the calm response. His sketching continued, with soft and delicate motions of his hand, swiping the pencil’s lead sideways for precise shading. “Cro,” Erisa began sullenly. “I asked you to do one thing; just one thing.” 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. “I swear, if I have to cut down this tree my own damned self, I’ll do it, if it’ll just stop you from sitting in it all day long and doodling in that notebook of y—” 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, “Look, I drew you, Erisa,” 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 widow’s peak was high, and her hair was pulled behind her small ears. Her face bore wrinkles of varying degrees—deep and shallow, scowl-lines and laugh-lines—and overall represented a face that had endured many great worries and hardships over the years. The woman’s 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 boy’s talent. She handed the notebook back, though, and said simply, “I don’t scowl like that.” 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, “Yeah, I think you’re right. I exaggerated it a bit.” Erisa’s scowl turned to a smug smile as she nodded gently. “Now, about those deer and those pheasants…” 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. “Don’t worry, Erisa. I’m on it.” He grinned widely at her, and continued by saying, “I promised you I’d do it, didn’t I? When have I ever let you down?” Despite her displeasure with his nonchalance about the tasks she set him to do, she couldn’t help but smile at his beaming expression. She could think of more than one occurrence where he had let her down, but she couldn’t 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 bow’s 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. “I don’t scowl like that,” 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 didn’t 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, gently… Snap. The deer’s 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 wasn’t any sign of her— or any other fauna— 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 wasn’t like any he had heard before. All he could say for certain is that, whatever it was, it wasn’t 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 didn’t know any better, it almost sounded like groaning; he couldn’t 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 death’s 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 naked—save for the leather boots they wore—and their legs entwined with one another’s. 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 aunt’s legs as her side was towards his aunt’s face. The woman on top was energetically thrusting her hips, grinding the space between her legs against the inside of his aunt’s thigh, as his aunt thrust her own hips, rubbing her own private areas against the other woman’s. 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 Erisa’s, 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 woman’s 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 woman’s 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 Cro’s own. She was lying flat against her back, one hand holding onto one of the dark woman’s thighs as the other served as a pillow beneath her head. The lighter woman’s 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 woman’s large breasts, which were excitedly bouncing back and forth—up and down, where she to stand up—with her partner’s energetic thrusts. Cro felt the trunk of the tree he was leaning against push up against his groin—a bit shocked at the tree’s 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 didn’t 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 woman’s eyes fluttered open, glazed over from ecstasy. Nevertheless, Cro instantly gave a small yelp and hid behind the tree, hoping that she didn’t see him. The loud “what the fuck?!” 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t stop to see if the women were in pursuit. He didn’t stop for a long while—not 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 ‘what were those women doing there,’ followed immediately by ‘who were those women?’ 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 house—the 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 wasn’t 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 children’s 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 didn’t 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 while—either in anger at his hostilities, or in laughter at his incompetence; he was unable to determine which. The humor of the resemblance between the bird’s 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 significance—a significance he had never once stumbled upon in his examination of the healthy amount of scripture that resided in the house—or 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 didn’t 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 quiver—only three remained now—and 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 page—there were very few of those left, and this was one of the last notebooks that existed in the house; something told him that Erisa wouldn’t be overly thrilled at the suggestion of her going into the nearest town to get him some more notebooks—and began to sketch. He wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 women’s 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 emotion—it 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 women’s faces. Passion. Affection. Caring. Lust. Desire. Craving. Need. Want. Respect. Love. 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 another’s, the tepid air between their bodies growing damp and humid, their breasts dancing to its rhythm, their beautiful breasts, oh, such beautiful breasts… 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 partner’s leg, face caught in a snapshot of euphoria, the other woman’s 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 before—the physical manifestations, anyways—in 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 man’s heart, he knew. The swellings that lead to the spreading of man’s 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 hadn’t 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 wasn’t 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 didn’t 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, he’d 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 immediately—his 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 woman’s 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 knocking—nay, pounding and kicking and screaming furiously—at 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 couldn’t 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 woman’s slick pussy. She turned to face him, then, and gently kissed his lips; he could almost taste the sweet taste of the blonde’s pussy on his lips, though it was a taste he couldn’t identify due to not knowing its flavor. But he knew it was sweet. The blonde strokes his hair then, and crooned, “Please me, Cro,” 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: “Cro… Cro… Cro…” “Cro?” 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. Erisa’s 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 notebook—an earlier page, of what he wasn’t quite certain—and 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 state—why couldn’t it just stay that way? He found himself chiding bitterly—despite 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 pillow—no 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 Cro’s 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 shouldn’t 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. “Pardon me, Erisa,” 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. “Erisa, about last night…” 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. “Don’t, Cro. I knew this day would come. I just… I’m not ready. Give me some time.” 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 table’s 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, “Cro, we need to talk.” 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 man’s apparent discovery. Its eyes were unfocused, constantly shifting from target to target, but its ears were keen. It didn’t 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. “Gresil, you return. What news have you of the Princess’s child?” The voice was thin and weak. “I found him, mistress,” Gresil responded, her voice deep and powerful, fitting the woman’s long height and dark, faintly red skin, while at the same time juxtaposing her thin, muscled waist and her disproportionately large breasts. “Him? Excellent…” the voice crooned. The owner of its voice stepped into Gresil’s 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 table’s 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. “It appears you had lied, after all, my dear,” she said idly to the air. “You had a son after all. And what’s more, he did not die after birth, as you were lead to believe.” “Can I play with her yet, mistress?” 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 woman’s 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 woman’s excitement, as a result of the object’s incessant motion. “Not yet, my dear Gresil. You’re get your playtime soon enough. We still need the Princess, however. Nothing like a little drama to rattle the boy’s cage, and what is more fitting than him coming to the heroic rescue of his own kidnapped mother?” Gresil snaked a thin hand beneath one of the chains holding the pelvic contraption in play, and began to teasingly rub the blonde woman’s clitoris. The bound woman flinched at the motion; Gresil grinned mischievously, and began to quicker her teasing. “Cum for me, you little whore,” she crooned seductively. She snaked her other hand behind the rear-most chain, and gently inserted her middle finger into the blonde woman’s 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. “Your asshole is so eager for my finger, Myrmi. I can’t wait until mistress gives me permission to let you down and give it a proper exercise again…” Gresil began to seductively lick Myrmi’s bare belly. The woman’s moans intensified, and he constrained motion became more frantic. Gresil’s 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 woman’s 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. “Now that turns me on,” 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. “You make me so fucking horny, Princess…” she continued. She leaned forward and licked from belly-button to the base of Myrmi’s breasts, before she whispered mischievously: “I could just eat you up…”
Tue, 18 Jun 2013 23:40:53

Goron_Ozzy

Seven hells, you've been busy :D Time to pop me some corn and have a read :)