Why had he done it? Because he could. Isn't that why most men do what they do? And, they expect certain things, for certain people to act in certain ways. And the slave did not.
A good slave knows how to tease and to tempt. This one did not. A good slave knows that their very existence was in the balance with each movement and each word. This one did not. A good slave would know the proper response to his question. This one did not. A good slave would know how to entice a man. This one did not. Even when his hand snaked out, fingers wrapping around her throat, a good slave would have known then, that she had made an error. This one did not. A good slave would have begged forgiveness. This one did not.
Was it because his brother sat there, and she expected him to intercede? Well, he didn't. Even when he lifted up and took her to his wagon, his brother did not stop him. His only words, were to not break his toy. He had no plan to break her, exactly.
When he questioned her in his wagon, he will admit that she was honest. To a point. But the point is, she just does not get it. She has an attitude that she has only one Master. He was going to endeavor to teach her differently.
Even when he stripped her, took her lips in a rape of a kiss, the reaction he got from her was unsatisfying. Did she think he would simply take his pleasure with her, then return her to his brother and it be over? Wrong. When he saw the binding of rope around her body and the knots, he had almost laughed. He can remember when old Nosam had taught them the knots as young boys. If he had wanted, he could have simply untied the knot, then bound and tied her back in the same fashion, with the same not, when he want. But, she needed to learn a lesson, so the rope was cut from her body. The rope that perhaps she thinks binds her to only one man.
He did not take her. Instead, she was chained to the slave ring in his wagon, and he left and returned to the fires.
When he had returned to the fire that night, he had tossed the severed rope to his brother and simply said that the slave needed time to think. And think she would, until he felt the need to release her from the slave ring in his wagon.
The next morning, he had his girl to take her food, and told her to make sure the brazier was fed and the wagon was kept warm, but to not talk to the enslaved creature. He had no doubts that his wishes would be fulfilled by the one he had taken as his.
There was simply an arrogance to the woman chained in his wagon that was unbecoming, and unattractive. Yes, she served, but it was with a manner that made her seem that she only did it out of duty to his brother. This was wrong. Every free man and woman in the camp was her better, and it was time for her to learn this. Some lessons are learned easily, and some in a much more difficult manner. He would see what her way of learning was.
Did he desire her? No. In fact, he did not have his brothers penchant for blue eyes, nor did he have visions of her lying in some supine position on his furs. He actually found her to be unattractive in a way. What he wanted for her to do, was learn what she was. A slave. Not some over-valued creature, but a simple slave to the Tuchuk. How quickly she learned this, would be up to her.
He would see that she was fed, kept warm and unharmed. For now. But, she would find plenty of time to think and reflect. Reflection is good for the soul. Even the soul of a beast.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
A Ride In the Night
There were some at the fires that would think his brother cruel for his decision about the young Kassar boy, but he understood it. The reasoning behind it was two-fold. One, the boy was Kassar and being Kassar he needed to be with his own people. Ba'atar's feelings on this were firmly rooted. It was just like his demanding that when they got to the northern grounds, for Jai to go and bring the young boy that was in Ina's care back to the plains, back to his people. He was not sure that Ina understood this, but the boy belonged with his people, not in some tainted city.
Secondly. The Kassar woman would probably more than likely die. Feelings of hatred of the Kassar ran deep and were not going to change for one woman. And if she did manage to live, it would mostly likely be in a collar. The boy did not need to see that either. What had happened tonight, would more than likely stay in the boys' memory, and the day would come when he was man, and would come to take his revenge on the people that separated him from his mother. If so, that is how the Sky wanted it.
He did not just ride off into the night with the little brat. He made preparations, took provisions, and an Or of his men with him. He also took one of the kaiila that he had ended up from the other woman that showed up and sat the boy in it with his hands still bound. It was then that they took off into the frigid night. The boy did well, once he stopped crying. He had tried to talk to him quietly, telling him that this was the night that he started to become a man. Somehow this seemed to sink into the child. Eventually he slept, slumped in the saddle.
Macik and V'Dao had rode ahead into the night, scouting the last known locations where they knew the Blood People to be. It was migration time, and they were on the move, just like the Tuchuk, but they rarely strayed from known routes. The night was quiet, actually too quiet. No wind, no animal noises, only the steady crunch of clawed feet as they transverse the snow.
The duo returned far too soon. He dismounted to talk to them in a quiet tone. They had found a small encampment that bore the standard of the Kassar not far away. Leaving the boy with the rest of his men, he rode with the two to have a look at this camp. They came close enough to approach the herds, and he was surprised that the outriders were stretched so thinly. In fact, they were able to dismount and sneak into the bosk to check the brands, which were indeed Kassar. Leaving the two men with the kaiila he had moved through the darkness to get a better look at the wagons.
It was cold, it was night, and he saw very few moving about, but one thing struck him as strange. What he mostly saw were women and older men. Men too aged to be riding patrol. Where were the men? He hid right there in their own herd, crouched and hidden within the bodies of the bosk until the camp began to stir. At one point, he had held his breath as an out rider rode by on his patrol, but did not find him. He finally wound his way back out and up to the men with the kaiila, and sent V'Dao to go get the boy, as he and Macik continued to watch.
When the alarm was raised, they would have to ride like the winds and hope that the Kassar did not over take them. But he was pledged to leave the boy. He had given his word. He woke the boy and pointed to the herd and the wagons, and spoke quietly into his ear, telling him those were his people, and they would be the ones to help him someday exact his revenge on the Tuchuk. Nothing like planting a seed in a boy's mind. The reason he did it, was to make the boy angry enough that when he slapped the kaiila on the flank, he would ride straight to the herd, and maybe cause enough chaos to give them a chance to escape.
And he did just that, he gave the kaiila a hard slap on the rump and it took off across the field to where the dark shadows of the bosk herd melted into the dawn. He watched as the kaiila with his small rider approached, and met no resistance, but for a few out riders who looked in their direction.
Seeing the boy was safe, he and his men turned around and rode as if their lives depended upon it. And there was this niggling fear that ate at him. Did the Kassar have no drummers? Even if he had not been able to read the beats of their drummers, there should have been drum. But there were none. Except for the sound of his men, there was nothing. After a great distance, he motioned his men on, and turned to back track to see if they were being pursued.
Nothing. Not a rider in sight. It sent a chill to his very core. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Secondly. The Kassar woman would probably more than likely die. Feelings of hatred of the Kassar ran deep and were not going to change for one woman. And if she did manage to live, it would mostly likely be in a collar. The boy did not need to see that either. What had happened tonight, would more than likely stay in the boys' memory, and the day would come when he was man, and would come to take his revenge on the people that separated him from his mother. If so, that is how the Sky wanted it.
He did not just ride off into the night with the little brat. He made preparations, took provisions, and an Or of his men with him. He also took one of the kaiila that he had ended up from the other woman that showed up and sat the boy in it with his hands still bound. It was then that they took off into the frigid night. The boy did well, once he stopped crying. He had tried to talk to him quietly, telling him that this was the night that he started to become a man. Somehow this seemed to sink into the child. Eventually he slept, slumped in the saddle.
Macik and V'Dao had rode ahead into the night, scouting the last known locations where they knew the Blood People to be. It was migration time, and they were on the move, just like the Tuchuk, but they rarely strayed from known routes. The night was quiet, actually too quiet. No wind, no animal noises, only the steady crunch of clawed feet as they transverse the snow.
The duo returned far too soon. He dismounted to talk to them in a quiet tone. They had found a small encampment that bore the standard of the Kassar not far away. Leaving the boy with the rest of his men, he rode with the two to have a look at this camp. They came close enough to approach the herds, and he was surprised that the outriders were stretched so thinly. In fact, they were able to dismount and sneak into the bosk to check the brands, which were indeed Kassar. Leaving the two men with the kaiila he had moved through the darkness to get a better look at the wagons.
It was cold, it was night, and he saw very few moving about, but one thing struck him as strange. What he mostly saw were women and older men. Men too aged to be riding patrol. Where were the men? He hid right there in their own herd, crouched and hidden within the bodies of the bosk until the camp began to stir. At one point, he had held his breath as an out rider rode by on his patrol, but did not find him. He finally wound his way back out and up to the men with the kaiila, and sent V'Dao to go get the boy, as he and Macik continued to watch.
When the alarm was raised, they would have to ride like the winds and hope that the Kassar did not over take them. But he was pledged to leave the boy. He had given his word. He woke the boy and pointed to the herd and the wagons, and spoke quietly into his ear, telling him those were his people, and they would be the ones to help him someday exact his revenge on the Tuchuk. Nothing like planting a seed in a boy's mind. The reason he did it, was to make the boy angry enough that when he slapped the kaiila on the flank, he would ride straight to the herd, and maybe cause enough chaos to give them a chance to escape.
And he did just that, he gave the kaiila a hard slap on the rump and it took off across the field to where the dark shadows of the bosk herd melted into the dawn. He watched as the kaiila with his small rider approached, and met no resistance, but for a few out riders who looked in their direction.
Seeing the boy was safe, he and his men turned around and rode as if their lives depended upon it. And there was this niggling fear that ate at him. Did the Kassar have no drummers? Even if he had not been able to read the beats of their drummers, there should have been drum. But there were none. Except for the sound of his men, there was nothing. After a great distance, he motioned his men on, and turned to back track to see if they were being pursued.
Nothing. Not a rider in sight. It sent a chill to his very core. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
The Taking
He had been on patrol all night and was cold, tired and mentally drained, and had just stretched out onto his furs and closed his eyes when he heard a noise on the platform of his wagon. Reaching for the quiva that always lay beside his head and sat up. Shaking his head to clear it he got up and went to untie the flaps and saw something unexpected.
Knelt there in the icy platform was that girl that belonged to Cana with a covered bowl in her hands and a bota over her shoulder. He was not happy and growled at her to ask what in the name of bosk she was doing knelt there. The wince could not be missed but she drew a breath and told him that the mate of her Mistress had told her to bring him a meal when he got in from patrol. She offered up the bowl and the bota. Rubbing his hand over his scarred face he motioned for her to come in, and tied the flaps closed behind her.
She knelt again with the bowl and bota and for a brief instant looked up at him then quickly lowered her eyes as she held the bowl out to him. Sitting down on the platform of furs he motioned her closer and you would have thought he threatened her very life. She did scoot closer holding the bowl up which he took and uncovered. Inside were strips of tarsk, fluffy eggs and two rolled up pieces of still warm flatbread. Hunger overtook him and he began to eat like a man that was starving, which he was.
She quietly asked if he had a mug and he pointed to one on a shelf. Standing she went to fetch it and returned to fill it with hot blackwine from the bota and held it up for him to take when he wished. Taking the mug he chew and watched her and finally asked what her name was. She whispered kasra, if it pleased him. Please him? He could care one way or another but he needed something to call her by.
He asked why she was trembling and she could not answer. Leaning closer he lifted her chin so that he could see her face which wasn't bad to look at. Again he asked if she trembled from the cold or from fear. She swallowed and that faint whisper told him both. His thumb ran over her lips as she spoke and he watched her closely and asked why? She had no real answer for him, which irked him a little but he kept asking. It took time but he was able to get her to put into words that all men scared her.
Sitting back he studied her as he drank his blackwine. Now this was an odd girl. He knew she had been in her collar for a long time because Cana said she had owned the girl since before the oldest boy was born, so it wasn't a matter of the newness being a part of her fear. He was blunt and asked her if she had ever served the needs of a man and that was when the tears began to drip from the corners of her eyes as she shook her head. When he asked why she told him that the Mistress had bought her not too soon after a man had collared her in her small village and that none of the men that the woman had been mated too seemed to have interest in her.
This fascinated him a little. He told her to take off the coat and boots so he could get a better look at her. For a ihn, he thought she was going to bolt but she did as she was told and removed the heavy coat and the boots and went back to kneel and that was when he stopped her. He motioned with his hand for her to turn around, which she did slowly. She had some training somewhere because when she turned she reached up to hold the mass of brow curls up and away from her body.
Now, it is hard to assess a slave when they are wearing leathers and a tunic due to the weather, but he could tell that the form beneath the clothes could be appealing. When she faced him again her eyes cast to his bare feet he told her to come closer. With a tremble she stepped within his reach.
Now he has trained kaiila foals before. Some you have to do it with a firm hand and brute strength and others you have to be more gentle with. This girl would take the latter. He never gave a thought that she was owned by someone else. There was no such thing as reserving a slave among them. That was a dweller notion.
Reaching out his large fingers wrapped around her wrist completely encircling it then some. He could feel the delicacy of it and how small the bones were, how fragile they were. With only the smallest pressure he could destroy that wrist and for some reason this sent a thrill through him. But, he simply pulled her closer motioning for her to sit on his thigh. There was just something delicious in how her body trembled when she sat, and how the curve of her buttocks seemed to fit where it lay.
He lifted a piece of the flatbread and put it to her lips and told her to eat. He noticed that the brown eyes that looked to him had flecks of gold in them and were pretty in away, and the lips that parted for the bread seemed to beg kissing, but she was not aware of it. His arm wrapped around her a large hand coming to rest on her hip pulling her closer to his chest. He continued to feed her along with eating himself, watching how her jaw moved when she chewed, finding it fascinating.
There was just something that appealed to him about the terror that she held in her soul. Setting the empty bowl down his hand lifted to her face again, calloused fingers caressing her cheek then rubbing across her lips. Now, was that shiver that just ran through her body different? He would test and see. Turning her face towards him he leaned in and took her lips in a kiss. Not a rape of kiss like he would one of the normal sluts that he took his pleasure with, but a firm exploration of those soft, full lips. And there it was, that tremble again. It almost made him smile. Almost. Again he caressed her face and looked into her eyes. There was a light there, it was hidden deeply but there was something there. His voice was low and firm when he told her to stand and undress. And there it was, in those eyes, a flash of terror. And that terror affected him more than she could ever know.
When she stood she undressed with trembling fingers, dropping the clothing to the floor. How had his brother missed this? Her body was one that men should be paying more attention to. The breast were firm, round and tipped with pinked nipples that were already in tight little buds. There was no excess fat on her, the entire body taut, toned and supple. Her skin was almost golden where it had been kissed by the Central Fire. Right now it was covered by those small bumps of fear and cold but still exquisite. He told her to nadu and slowly she lowered to her knees with them only a few horts apart as she would around a woman. His bare foot snaked out to press the knees farther apart until he could fully appreciate what he had before him.
He motioned for her to stand and told her to display for him. She rose with a grace that surprised him and slid her feet apart, her slender arms moving to again pull her hair up and hold it. He twirls his finger and tells her to turn around which she does. Her back was as lovely as her front. The delicate shelf of shoulders, the straight line of bones of her spine that ran down her back, her rib cage lifting and falling with her breath. The waist was tiny, a man could encircle it with his hands and her hips flared just right and there was enough there to grasp. He could almost envision how that flesh would look with the reddened print of his palm on them.
Standing he moved in close to her running his hand down her side and around her stomach to embrace her, pull her closer to him, his fingers playing lightly in that soft down of hair at the juncture of her legs. Lowering his head he inhaled deeply of her and savored the way she trembled, and was that a moan coming from her? He would see. Dipping a calloused finger between her legs it searched out her moistness and he felt her knees buckle and his other hand went around her to support her. He saw the tears that flowed from her eyes and leaned to taste them with his tongue. There was just something about the taste of fear that aroused him.
With not a word said he lifts her up and moves to the sleeping furs with her, laying her down and using his hands to spread her legs so that he could see all of her. When she tried to turn her head away from him, he leaned over and took her chin firmly in his grasp and looked into her eyes. "Never, and I mean never, hide your face from me, do you understand?" There was terror in the tear filled eyes but she gives a trembling nod of her head. Much better, much, much better. He longed to see the fear there. In some small way, it was his. The body, the fear and the passion that he could see in her eyes, were his.
Standing he stripped out of his leathers and loin cloth and moved to kneel over her, his hand reaching out to cup one firm breast, his thumb moving over the nipple, feeling it harden more. And all the while, he watched her eyes. If they varied or tried to look to the side his other hand would move to grasp her face and again he would tell her to look into his eyes. Moving to lay beside her he began to explore this treasure that had been sent to him. Fingers bury themselves in the mass of hair, feeling the texture of it, noting how there were strands that had been kissed by the Central Fire that had a red cast to them. Lowering his head he inhaled it. There was no flowery scent, nothing extraordinary, just the aroma of soap, water and cleanliness. He would have expected nothing less of a girl that belonged to that particular woman.
Pushing the hair back his fingers began to explore more. One trails along the shell of her ear and he studies the delicacy of it, how parts seemed almost translucent. Leaning in he kisses the pulse that was throbbing just below the surface of the skin on her neck, noting how quickly it pulsed. It was like the wings of a small bird beating a trembling tattoo beneath the skin, and when his lips touched it, it trembled faster. A small nip of his teeth tested it and he was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath from the girl and a noise from her throat. He was pleased.
Fingers stroke slowly across her collar bone and again he is amazed at the fragility of it, of how easily it could be snapped. Turning his head he could see that her eyes were closed, which would not do and he commanded her to open them. His hand moved to between her breast, to lay there above her pounding heart. If if beat much faster it would simply beat itself to death and that pleased him. Watching her parted lips tremble he was intrigued and leaned to suckle the lower one between his own, pulling and tugging on it, then biting down until he tasted the coppery taste of blood and drew a shuddering moan from the delicate little beast. Yes, it was good.
Lifting his head he stared down into those frightened eyes as his hand explored her breasts, cupping them, testing their firmness, their weight. He would tweak a nipple and watch the shock in her eyes and feel the tremble of her body and how the nub of nipple hardened more. At one point he lay his hand flat on the breast, massaging it and watched how she reacted how her throat constricted to suppress a moan.
Slowly he worked his hand over her belly, feeling the firmness of it, and how the muscles beneath the skin seemed to search for his touch. Lower and lower he went massaging, testing, teasing and the entire time, never taking his eyes from hers. The fear was there but there was something more beginning to smolder there. He would lean in, kiss the swollen lips, taking from them what he wanted and when he felt her begin to respond to his kiss he would draw back making her wait.
When his fingers brushed over the thatch of hair, just testing the softness of it, he felt her body tense and her back arch slightly off the furs and her eyes changed. The fear was there, but the desire was edging it out. Parting those sweet nether lips his finger slid along the moistness there and he got the response he desired. It is instinct in a woman to search for that touch, to crave and need it. It was just that no one had ever taken the time to train this girl in the touch of a man. She was like the fresh snow that lay outside on the ground, untouched, virgin. And wanting.
Those sweet, tender, bruised lips parted and the breath that passed from there was more ragged and the desire in her eyes divine. There is nothing more beautiful than the eyes of a woman when she is first awakening to desire and passion. His finger slipped slowly inside of her and he found that he was right. She was tight, unopened and primed. He did not go too deep, he would save that for later, but his thumb moves to that quivering little nub of nerves and flesh, dragging around it slowly, torturing her, and she responded in kind, arching to his touch. He teased and tormented her, watching her face, watching her body, seeing the heated flush flow along that soft skin. When her breathing grew more ragged and the muscles along her belly began to tighten, signaling she was about to release into the passion, he stopped.
Fresh tears sprang to her eyes and through parted lips, she begged. This was the moment he waited for, her begging for his touch, her need responding only to him. Parting her legs he crawled between those silky thighs and took his member in hand, dragging it along that silky wetness, still watching her eyes and feeling the response of her body.
His other hand moved up her body, beneath her shoulder to come around to her neck. Carefully he encircled that slender column with his fingers, and the fear came back into her eyes. The fear that she was to die at this very moment. That aroused him even further. Slowly her breeched the fortress between her legs, feeling the resistance that the virgin territory presented. Slipping a hand under her ass, he held her firm and there was not gentleness to it, there was not waiting, he simply entered her fully with one shove of his hips.
The scream that came from her caused his eyes to close as he savored it. He did have the kindness to allow her to adjust to the assault on her being, then drew back and began a steady pace of taking all of her. Removing his hand from around her neck, both hands were placed to either side of her head and his head was right over hers, watching her eyes as he plumbed the depths of her at his own pace. She became lost in what he was doing to her, her body writhing and thrashing beneath him, making the entire experience that much more sublime. When he withdrew from her abruptly, there was a moan that came from her that most would not imagine she was capable of.
He stared into her eyes, then reached beneath her and flipped her over, his hand beneath her belly lifting her to her knees. Kneeling between her spread thighs, he grasped her hips and entered her again and began an unrelenting barrage of her depths. As his passion rose, he drew back a hand and applied a firm slap to the cheek of her ass and gained much satisfaction from the redness that appeared almost immediately, and even more from the scream that sprang from her throat and the stiffening of her body.
Time and time again he applied his hand to her ass and each time he was rewarded by a renewed response to what he was doing. Her moans echoed off the walls of his wagon, and each time she rode over the brink and tightened around him, his own groans were mixed with them. Grasping her hips, he was unrelenting in his assault and when he felt his own passion build to the point of no return he reached to grab her hair, pulling her head up and released into her, filling her, feeling her throb around him.
When he was finished, he dropped her back to the furs and took deep, cleansing breaths as he watched the trembling of her body, and reached to run his hand over the heated palm prints of her flesh. She did not seem to know what to do now, and he pondered a moment as to whether to show her the kindness that could come from this moment, or to toss her out into the cold, to teach her just how abruptly it could all change.
Finally, he lay down beside her and pulled her into his arms, urging her head to lay on his chest, the hot tears cleansing his skin. Pulling the furs up, he said little. Little needed to be said.
"Now we sleep."
Knelt there in the icy platform was that girl that belonged to Cana with a covered bowl in her hands and a bota over her shoulder. He was not happy and growled at her to ask what in the name of bosk she was doing knelt there. The wince could not be missed but she drew a breath and told him that the mate of her Mistress had told her to bring him a meal when he got in from patrol. She offered up the bowl and the bota. Rubbing his hand over his scarred face he motioned for her to come in, and tied the flaps closed behind her.
She knelt again with the bowl and bota and for a brief instant looked up at him then quickly lowered her eyes as she held the bowl out to him. Sitting down on the platform of furs he motioned her closer and you would have thought he threatened her very life. She did scoot closer holding the bowl up which he took and uncovered. Inside were strips of tarsk, fluffy eggs and two rolled up pieces of still warm flatbread. Hunger overtook him and he began to eat like a man that was starving, which he was.
She quietly asked if he had a mug and he pointed to one on a shelf. Standing she went to fetch it and returned to fill it with hot blackwine from the bota and held it up for him to take when he wished. Taking the mug he chew and watched her and finally asked what her name was. She whispered kasra, if it pleased him. Please him? He could care one way or another but he needed something to call her by.
He asked why she was trembling and she could not answer. Leaning closer he lifted her chin so that he could see her face which wasn't bad to look at. Again he asked if she trembled from the cold or from fear. She swallowed and that faint whisper told him both. His thumb ran over her lips as she spoke and he watched her closely and asked why? She had no real answer for him, which irked him a little but he kept asking. It took time but he was able to get her to put into words that all men scared her.
Sitting back he studied her as he drank his blackwine. Now this was an odd girl. He knew she had been in her collar for a long time because Cana said she had owned the girl since before the oldest boy was born, so it wasn't a matter of the newness being a part of her fear. He was blunt and asked her if she had ever served the needs of a man and that was when the tears began to drip from the corners of her eyes as she shook her head. When he asked why she told him that the Mistress had bought her not too soon after a man had collared her in her small village and that none of the men that the woman had been mated too seemed to have interest in her.
This fascinated him a little. He told her to take off the coat and boots so he could get a better look at her. For a ihn, he thought she was going to bolt but she did as she was told and removed the heavy coat and the boots and went back to kneel and that was when he stopped her. He motioned with his hand for her to turn around, which she did slowly. She had some training somewhere because when she turned she reached up to hold the mass of brow curls up and away from her body.
Now, it is hard to assess a slave when they are wearing leathers and a tunic due to the weather, but he could tell that the form beneath the clothes could be appealing. When she faced him again her eyes cast to his bare feet he told her to come closer. With a tremble she stepped within his reach.
Now he has trained kaiila foals before. Some you have to do it with a firm hand and brute strength and others you have to be more gentle with. This girl would take the latter. He never gave a thought that she was owned by someone else. There was no such thing as reserving a slave among them. That was a dweller notion.
Reaching out his large fingers wrapped around her wrist completely encircling it then some. He could feel the delicacy of it and how small the bones were, how fragile they were. With only the smallest pressure he could destroy that wrist and for some reason this sent a thrill through him. But, he simply pulled her closer motioning for her to sit on his thigh. There was just something delicious in how her body trembled when she sat, and how the curve of her buttocks seemed to fit where it lay.
He lifted a piece of the flatbread and put it to her lips and told her to eat. He noticed that the brown eyes that looked to him had flecks of gold in them and were pretty in away, and the lips that parted for the bread seemed to beg kissing, but she was not aware of it. His arm wrapped around her a large hand coming to rest on her hip pulling her closer to his chest. He continued to feed her along with eating himself, watching how her jaw moved when she chewed, finding it fascinating.
There was just something that appealed to him about the terror that she held in her soul. Setting the empty bowl down his hand lifted to her face again, calloused fingers caressing her cheek then rubbing across her lips. Now, was that shiver that just ran through her body different? He would test and see. Turning her face towards him he leaned in and took her lips in a kiss. Not a rape of kiss like he would one of the normal sluts that he took his pleasure with, but a firm exploration of those soft, full lips. And there it was, that tremble again. It almost made him smile. Almost. Again he caressed her face and looked into her eyes. There was a light there, it was hidden deeply but there was something there. His voice was low and firm when he told her to stand and undress. And there it was, in those eyes, a flash of terror. And that terror affected him more than she could ever know.
When she stood she undressed with trembling fingers, dropping the clothing to the floor. How had his brother missed this? Her body was one that men should be paying more attention to. The breast were firm, round and tipped with pinked nipples that were already in tight little buds. There was no excess fat on her, the entire body taut, toned and supple. Her skin was almost golden where it had been kissed by the Central Fire. Right now it was covered by those small bumps of fear and cold but still exquisite. He told her to nadu and slowly she lowered to her knees with them only a few horts apart as she would around a woman. His bare foot snaked out to press the knees farther apart until he could fully appreciate what he had before him.
He motioned for her to stand and told her to display for him. She rose with a grace that surprised him and slid her feet apart, her slender arms moving to again pull her hair up and hold it. He twirls his finger and tells her to turn around which she does. Her back was as lovely as her front. The delicate shelf of shoulders, the straight line of bones of her spine that ran down her back, her rib cage lifting and falling with her breath. The waist was tiny, a man could encircle it with his hands and her hips flared just right and there was enough there to grasp. He could almost envision how that flesh would look with the reddened print of his palm on them.
Standing he moved in close to her running his hand down her side and around her stomach to embrace her, pull her closer to him, his fingers playing lightly in that soft down of hair at the juncture of her legs. Lowering his head he inhaled deeply of her and savored the way she trembled, and was that a moan coming from her? He would see. Dipping a calloused finger between her legs it searched out her moistness and he felt her knees buckle and his other hand went around her to support her. He saw the tears that flowed from her eyes and leaned to taste them with his tongue. There was just something about the taste of fear that aroused him.
With not a word said he lifts her up and moves to the sleeping furs with her, laying her down and using his hands to spread her legs so that he could see all of her. When she tried to turn her head away from him, he leaned over and took her chin firmly in his grasp and looked into her eyes. "Never, and I mean never, hide your face from me, do you understand?" There was terror in the tear filled eyes but she gives a trembling nod of her head. Much better, much, much better. He longed to see the fear there. In some small way, it was his. The body, the fear and the passion that he could see in her eyes, were his.
Standing he stripped out of his leathers and loin cloth and moved to kneel over her, his hand reaching out to cup one firm breast, his thumb moving over the nipple, feeling it harden more. And all the while, he watched her eyes. If they varied or tried to look to the side his other hand would move to grasp her face and again he would tell her to look into his eyes. Moving to lay beside her he began to explore this treasure that had been sent to him. Fingers bury themselves in the mass of hair, feeling the texture of it, noting how there were strands that had been kissed by the Central Fire that had a red cast to them. Lowering his head he inhaled it. There was no flowery scent, nothing extraordinary, just the aroma of soap, water and cleanliness. He would have expected nothing less of a girl that belonged to that particular woman.
Pushing the hair back his fingers began to explore more. One trails along the shell of her ear and he studies the delicacy of it, how parts seemed almost translucent. Leaning in he kisses the pulse that was throbbing just below the surface of the skin on her neck, noting how quickly it pulsed. It was like the wings of a small bird beating a trembling tattoo beneath the skin, and when his lips touched it, it trembled faster. A small nip of his teeth tested it and he was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath from the girl and a noise from her throat. He was pleased.
Fingers stroke slowly across her collar bone and again he is amazed at the fragility of it, of how easily it could be snapped. Turning his head he could see that her eyes were closed, which would not do and he commanded her to open them. His hand moved to between her breast, to lay there above her pounding heart. If if beat much faster it would simply beat itself to death and that pleased him. Watching her parted lips tremble he was intrigued and leaned to suckle the lower one between his own, pulling and tugging on it, then biting down until he tasted the coppery taste of blood and drew a shuddering moan from the delicate little beast. Yes, it was good.
Lifting his head he stared down into those frightened eyes as his hand explored her breasts, cupping them, testing their firmness, their weight. He would tweak a nipple and watch the shock in her eyes and feel the tremble of her body and how the nub of nipple hardened more. At one point he lay his hand flat on the breast, massaging it and watched how she reacted how her throat constricted to suppress a moan.
Slowly he worked his hand over her belly, feeling the firmness of it, and how the muscles beneath the skin seemed to search for his touch. Lower and lower he went massaging, testing, teasing and the entire time, never taking his eyes from hers. The fear was there but there was something more beginning to smolder there. He would lean in, kiss the swollen lips, taking from them what he wanted and when he felt her begin to respond to his kiss he would draw back making her wait.
When his fingers brushed over the thatch of hair, just testing the softness of it, he felt her body tense and her back arch slightly off the furs and her eyes changed. The fear was there, but the desire was edging it out. Parting those sweet nether lips his finger slid along the moistness there and he got the response he desired. It is instinct in a woman to search for that touch, to crave and need it. It was just that no one had ever taken the time to train this girl in the touch of a man. She was like the fresh snow that lay outside on the ground, untouched, virgin. And wanting.
Those sweet, tender, bruised lips parted and the breath that passed from there was more ragged and the desire in her eyes divine. There is nothing more beautiful than the eyes of a woman when she is first awakening to desire and passion. His finger slipped slowly inside of her and he found that he was right. She was tight, unopened and primed. He did not go too deep, he would save that for later, but his thumb moves to that quivering little nub of nerves and flesh, dragging around it slowly, torturing her, and she responded in kind, arching to his touch. He teased and tormented her, watching her face, watching her body, seeing the heated flush flow along that soft skin. When her breathing grew more ragged and the muscles along her belly began to tighten, signaling she was about to release into the passion, he stopped.
Fresh tears sprang to her eyes and through parted lips, she begged. This was the moment he waited for, her begging for his touch, her need responding only to him. Parting her legs he crawled between those silky thighs and took his member in hand, dragging it along that silky wetness, still watching her eyes and feeling the response of her body.
His other hand moved up her body, beneath her shoulder to come around to her neck. Carefully he encircled that slender column with his fingers, and the fear came back into her eyes. The fear that she was to die at this very moment. That aroused him even further. Slowly her breeched the fortress between her legs, feeling the resistance that the virgin territory presented. Slipping a hand under her ass, he held her firm and there was not gentleness to it, there was not waiting, he simply entered her fully with one shove of his hips.
The scream that came from her caused his eyes to close as he savored it. He did have the kindness to allow her to adjust to the assault on her being, then drew back and began a steady pace of taking all of her. Removing his hand from around her neck, both hands were placed to either side of her head and his head was right over hers, watching her eyes as he plumbed the depths of her at his own pace. She became lost in what he was doing to her, her body writhing and thrashing beneath him, making the entire experience that much more sublime. When he withdrew from her abruptly, there was a moan that came from her that most would not imagine she was capable of.
He stared into her eyes, then reached beneath her and flipped her over, his hand beneath her belly lifting her to her knees. Kneeling between her spread thighs, he grasped her hips and entered her again and began an unrelenting barrage of her depths. As his passion rose, he drew back a hand and applied a firm slap to the cheek of her ass and gained much satisfaction from the redness that appeared almost immediately, and even more from the scream that sprang from her throat and the stiffening of her body.
Time and time again he applied his hand to her ass and each time he was rewarded by a renewed response to what he was doing. Her moans echoed off the walls of his wagon, and each time she rode over the brink and tightened around him, his own groans were mixed with them. Grasping her hips, he was unrelenting in his assault and when he felt his own passion build to the point of no return he reached to grab her hair, pulling her head up and released into her, filling her, feeling her throb around him.
When he was finished, he dropped her back to the furs and took deep, cleansing breaths as he watched the trembling of her body, and reached to run his hand over the heated palm prints of her flesh. She did not seem to know what to do now, and he pondered a moment as to whether to show her the kindness that could come from this moment, or to toss her out into the cold, to teach her just how abruptly it could all change.
Finally, he lay down beside her and pulled her into his arms, urging her head to lay on his chest, the hot tears cleansing his skin. Pulling the furs up, he said little. Little needed to be said.
"Now we sleep."
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Tracks
When he had reluctantly drug himself out of his furs it was still dark. Squatting by the brazier he absorbed what warmth it gave and watched the water boil for his blackwine. He ate a Spartan meal of blackwine, flat bread with butter on it and a couple of sticks of jerky. Over time, he had learned what it took to keep his body fit, and rarely indulged in excess of what was needed. His main vice was the blackwine.
The meal eaten he stands to dress for the bitter cold outside. Before he pulls the long sleeved, verr wool tunic over his head, he stops for a minute to run his fingers over the scars on his chest and shoulders his memory flashing back to where, when and how he had gotten them. For just the briefest moment a small shiver of fear raises in him only to be beaten back by the stronger part of him that is in control most of the time.
Fully dressed he steps out onto the platform and scans the area around the Ubar's wagons. Everything was quiet and dark. He knew they had returned late to their wagon because he heard the laughter and whispers as they passed by his wagon. Scanning the area again, he puts on his helm and drops the chains into place. Not because he was going into battle, but because the mail offered a some protection from the ice crystals that hung in the air. The black was still tethered to the wagon wheel and he goes to take the thick furs off its' back, adds two extra blankets then saddles the animal. Squatting in the snow, he checks all four clawed feet, working some ice out between talons with his fingers. Standing he pats the kaiila on the shoulder and hand feeds him some jerky. He has hopes that they might spot some small game today so the kaiila can have a proper meal. Pulling up into the saddle they walk slowly through the rows of wagons until they break free of them and he is able to urge the beast towards the outer perimeter of the bosk herd.
He sees a figure breaking from the edge of the herd of bosk. A mounted man, riding slowly, leaning in his saddle to look at the ground. Approaching him he rides alongside of him and looks down. Blood and the tracks of where a body has been drug through the ice and snow. He tells the outrider to go back to his patrol and to not say anything about what he has seen, or he would suffer the ire of the Ubar. Backtracking, he rode his kaiila through the tracks to obscure them. There was no need in starting a panic until he knew more.
Turning around he moves back along the tracks, walking his kaiila through them to try and destroy the evidence. He followed them over a small rise, and was not surprised in what he found. Sliding down off of Lestat, he was a more cautious of the signs and the tracks. There were few remains to investigate. It looked to probably have been a yearling calf. All that was left was a portion of the head, bits of fur and gnawed bones.
Squatting he took his helm and gloves off and was immediately regretting it. The frigid air attacked him with no mercy. Looking at the tracks, his hand dropped, fingers running around the ridges of the. There was no doubt, they were larl tracks. Had it been the tracks of one larl, it might not have chilled him so much, but there was evidence of more than one. He could make out three distinct sets of tracks, and there were possibly more. The snow had managed to obscure some of them. He was not a man that frightened easily, but larls that were hunting in a pack were more dangerous than the single animal hunting alone. A single larl could take down a man or a calf. A pack could bring down a full grown bosk or kaiila. Or more.
Almost by instinct his hand lifted to rub through the layers of cloth to the scars on his chest. His head lifted and he searched the lands looking for any other signs. Standing, he scoured the white landscape, but saw nothing. He did get an eerie feeling that he was being watched, then his ears picked it up in the distance. There was no doubting that it was the grown of a larl, once you have heard that sound, as he had, you never forget it. But it was the answering growl that sent the real chill through him. Quickly, he bent to pick up what was left of the head and carried it back to lash to his saddle to take to his brother.
When he turned Lestat back towards camp another sound came to him, an even deeper growl and grumble. The terrifying thing about it, was that it was near and the icy ground began to shake.
When he had reluctantly drug himself out of his furs it was still dark. Squatting by the brazier he absorbed what warmth it gave and watched the water boil for his blackwine. He ate a Spartan meal of blackwine, flat bread with butter on it and a couple of sticks of jerky. Over time, he had learned what it took to keep his body fit, and rarely indulged in excess of what was needed. His main vice was the blackwine.
The meal eaten he stands to dress for the bitter cold outside. Before he pulls the long sleeved, verr wool tunic over his head, he stops for a minute to run his fingers over the scars on his chest and shoulders his memory flashing back to where, when and how he had gotten them. For just the briefest moment a small shiver of fear raises in him only to be beaten back by the stronger part of him that is in control most of the time.
Fully dressed he steps out onto the platform and scans the area around the Ubar's wagons. Everything was quiet and dark. He knew they had returned late to their wagon because he heard the laughter and whispers as they passed by his wagon. Scanning the area again, he puts on his helm and drops the chains into place. Not because he was going into battle, but because the mail offered a some protection from the ice crystals that hung in the air. The black was still tethered to the wagon wheel and he goes to take the thick furs off its' back, adds two extra blankets then saddles the animal. Squatting in the snow, he checks all four clawed feet, working some ice out between talons with his fingers. Standing he pats the kaiila on the shoulder and hand feeds him some jerky. He has hopes that they might spot some small game today so the kaiila can have a proper meal. Pulling up into the saddle they walk slowly through the rows of wagons until they break free of them and he is able to urge the beast towards the outer perimeter of the bosk herd.
He sees a figure breaking from the edge of the herd of bosk. A mounted man, riding slowly, leaning in his saddle to look at the ground. Approaching him he rides alongside of him and looks down. Blood and the tracks of where a body has been drug through the ice and snow. He tells the outrider to go back to his patrol and to not say anything about what he has seen, or he would suffer the ire of the Ubar. Backtracking, he rode his kaiila through the tracks to obscure them. There was no need in starting a panic until he knew more.
Turning around he moves back along the tracks, walking his kaiila through them to try and destroy the evidence. He followed them over a small rise, and was not surprised in what he found. Sliding down off of Lestat, he was a more cautious of the signs and the tracks. There were few remains to investigate. It looked to probably have been a yearling calf. All that was left was a portion of the head, bits of fur and gnawed bones.
Squatting he took his helm and gloves off and was immediately regretting it. The frigid air attacked him with no mercy. Looking at the tracks, his hand dropped, fingers running around the ridges of the. There was no doubt, they were larl tracks. Had it been the tracks of one larl, it might not have chilled him so much, but there was evidence of more than one. He could make out three distinct sets of tracks, and there were possibly more. The snow had managed to obscure some of them. He was not a man that frightened easily, but larls that were hunting in a pack were more dangerous than the single animal hunting alone. A single larl could take down a man or a calf. A pack could bring down a full grown bosk or kaiila. Or more.
Almost by instinct his hand lifted to rub through the layers of cloth to the scars on his chest. His head lifted and he searched the lands looking for any other signs. Standing, he scoured the white landscape, but saw nothing. He did get an eerie feeling that he was being watched, then his ears picked it up in the distance. There was no doubting that it was the grown of a larl, once you have heard that sound, as he had, you never forget it. But it was the answering growl that sent the real chill through him. Quickly, he bent to pick up what was left of the head and carried it back to lash to his saddle to take to his brother.
When he turned Lestat back towards camp another sound came to him, an even deeper growl and grumble. The terrifying thing about it, was that it was near and the icy ground began to shake.
The Call
He is not what most would call a companionable man. Not one that you would walk out of your way to spend time at his meager fires. Long ago he had moved his wagons away from the family wagons, craving his solitude. At first, his mother came to visit often, bringing food, advice and even a young woman by at times. After awhile she had realized that he was interested in none of these things. It was not that he did not love his family, in fact, he loved them deeply, and that was part of the reason that he kept his distance. He did not want is morose temperament to dampen the normally convivial mood that swirled there. His mother still visited, as did his father, and from time to time, loneliness would send tendril around his heart and he would visit them.
But, for the most part, his existence was monistic, simple and severe. He did hunt, and the bounty of his hunts were shared with others. People would awake to find a brace of prairie fowl or a tabuk carcass on the platform of their wagons. If they knew who it was from, they never said. Actually, had they known, there may have been those that, no matter how hungry, that would have shunned the gift of meat. He knew this, and it was the reason that he usually left them during the dark of night.
He asked nothing of no one. When he hunted, he dried and preserved his own meat, he tanned the hides, and in a very rough fashion, he made most of his own clothing. From time to time, he would trade tanned hides with the leather workers of the back wagons, but it was rare. He would venture to do his own trading with the caravans that came near, and even the regular merchants had grown to respect, and to hold a bit of fear of the man, simply because of his restrained manner.
But, being solitary did not mean he did not love his family or his people. He would lay down his life for any of them at any time, but until he was needed, he kept his life unto himself.
He had heard of his brothers' challenge for the gray furs, and had actually laughed out loud, something that was rare to hear. He was not making light of the fact, he was simply wondering what had taken the son of a sleen so long? And knowing this, he was not surprised to see his brother materialize at his fires late one night.
They talked late into the night of many things. Of family, the Tribe, Ba'atar's views on what was best and what he wanted to see happen for his people. The man was wise enough to know that some of the changes he wanted to talk place would take time, and that some of them would not be popular, but he was steadfast in his views. This was nothing new, Ba'atar had always been one to stand up for what he thought, even when they were scrawny boys, fighting the scraps that boys have a tendency to get into. And Ba'atar had always known that his brothers would stand behind him against everyone else, especially Ayguili.
Perhaps that knowledge is what brought him to his younger brothers' fires that night. If a man is going to assume a position, where his very life was in jeopardy daily, who better to have at his back, that the brother that had been there all of his life? To say no, had never entered his mind. He was not all that fond of people, but the love that he felt for his older brother ran deep within him. And in that reserved, quiet way that he has, he agreed.
And that is why, again during the darkest hours of the night, he moved his wagons into the circle that belonged to his brother, the Ubar. The first rays of the Central Fire, found him sitting on his platform, lance close at hand waiting for his brother to finally rouse himself from between the thighs of whatever wench he had chosen that night, to begin their journey to the outer wagons.
For many days he had walked and ridden with Ba'atar as the man made himself known to those that rarely saw the Ubar. As he soothed away fears that were a natural effect of a change in the upper echelons. Ayguili had to admit, his brother had a certain way of dealing with people, of letting them know that he was concerned for the well-being of each and everyone of them. Ba'atar had always been able to do that, even when they were young boys. He had watched many times as his older brother had charmed their mother, and he still did it. Was it wrong? No. Did it cause jealousy among all of the brothers, sometimes, but it was short-lived. They all loved their mother, just some more than others.
Again, they had squatted around a fire late in the evening to discuss what was going on, and to talk of some of the messages that they had received from the inner circle, some that had made Ba'atar frown, not only in anger, but in worry. It was finally decided that Ayguili would return to the inner circle, and watch over his interests there until he returned. He seemed to have some concerns about his pregnant woman and his sons.
So, this day found him winding his way along the rows of wagons, working his way back to what are known as the first wagons. He had met the woman before, and would know her on sight. He was just not confident that she would exactly accept him. She was a woman, after all, and he truly had little use or trust for them.
But, for the most part, his existence was monistic, simple and severe. He did hunt, and the bounty of his hunts were shared with others. People would awake to find a brace of prairie fowl or a tabuk carcass on the platform of their wagons. If they knew who it was from, they never said. Actually, had they known, there may have been those that, no matter how hungry, that would have shunned the gift of meat. He knew this, and it was the reason that he usually left them during the dark of night.
He asked nothing of no one. When he hunted, he dried and preserved his own meat, he tanned the hides, and in a very rough fashion, he made most of his own clothing. From time to time, he would trade tanned hides with the leather workers of the back wagons, but it was rare. He would venture to do his own trading with the caravans that came near, and even the regular merchants had grown to respect, and to hold a bit of fear of the man, simply because of his restrained manner.
But, being solitary did not mean he did not love his family or his people. He would lay down his life for any of them at any time, but until he was needed, he kept his life unto himself.
He had heard of his brothers' challenge for the gray furs, and had actually laughed out loud, something that was rare to hear. He was not making light of the fact, he was simply wondering what had taken the son of a sleen so long? And knowing this, he was not surprised to see his brother materialize at his fires late one night.
They talked late into the night of many things. Of family, the Tribe, Ba'atar's views on what was best and what he wanted to see happen for his people. The man was wise enough to know that some of the changes he wanted to talk place would take time, and that some of them would not be popular, but he was steadfast in his views. This was nothing new, Ba'atar had always been one to stand up for what he thought, even when they were scrawny boys, fighting the scraps that boys have a tendency to get into. And Ba'atar had always known that his brothers would stand behind him against everyone else, especially Ayguili.
Perhaps that knowledge is what brought him to his younger brothers' fires that night. If a man is going to assume a position, where his very life was in jeopardy daily, who better to have at his back, that the brother that had been there all of his life? To say no, had never entered his mind. He was not all that fond of people, but the love that he felt for his older brother ran deep within him. And in that reserved, quiet way that he has, he agreed.
And that is why, again during the darkest hours of the night, he moved his wagons into the circle that belonged to his brother, the Ubar. The first rays of the Central Fire, found him sitting on his platform, lance close at hand waiting for his brother to finally rouse himself from between the thighs of whatever wench he had chosen that night, to begin their journey to the outer wagons.
For many days he had walked and ridden with Ba'atar as the man made himself known to those that rarely saw the Ubar. As he soothed away fears that were a natural effect of a change in the upper echelons. Ayguili had to admit, his brother had a certain way of dealing with people, of letting them know that he was concerned for the well-being of each and everyone of them. Ba'atar had always been able to do that, even when they were young boys. He had watched many times as his older brother had charmed their mother, and he still did it. Was it wrong? No. Did it cause jealousy among all of the brothers, sometimes, but it was short-lived. They all loved their mother, just some more than others.
Again, they had squatted around a fire late in the evening to discuss what was going on, and to talk of some of the messages that they had received from the inner circle, some that had made Ba'atar frown, not only in anger, but in worry. It was finally decided that Ayguili would return to the inner circle, and watch over his interests there until he returned. He seemed to have some concerns about his pregnant woman and his sons.
So, this day found him winding his way along the rows of wagons, working his way back to what are known as the first wagons. He had met the woman before, and would know her on sight. He was just not confident that she would exactly accept him. She was a woman, after all, and he truly had little use or trust for them.
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