by Nicole René
It hurt, but it was the sweetest of hurt.
“Oh, no,” she groaned in desperation. “Please, I’m going to—” she keened helplessly. But just when she was about to go over the edge, he moved lower, the shock of it breaking through her conscious.
“No,” she shook her head, jerking on her wrists at the same time she tried to move her lower half away from him. “No!”
His only answer was to grip her cheeks with enough strength that she was sure would leave fingerprints and spreading them wide.
“Tyronian!” she half sobbed, half moaned.
Something wet pressed against her puckered hole, the sensation for foreign, it shouldn’t have felt good, but it did. Her body jackknifed.
“This isn’t right,” she gasped, tears pricking the corner of her eyes. “This isn’t right!”
But it felt right, because she hated that it was making her feel good. He was licking her like he licked her cunt, and thought the sensation felt odd, she could feel her womb contract, the familiar tightness and almost violent pull in her stomach warning her that she was close to coming.
He moved his lips away only long enough for him to murmur, “I’m going to make you come like this. With my tongue shoved into this tight, untouched hole, just so that I can watch as your essence pours out of you and slides down between these cheeks. Then, I’m going to lick it all up, and make you do it again.”
She let out a little shriek when he kept true to what he merited, when his tongue brushed against her other opening, and pushed against the puckered skin. His tongue probed, and licked, and sucked, and it shameful, because though odd, it still felt good. But then that changed when he inserted a finger inside of channel, while he continued to work his tongue against her untouched entrance.
It went from merely feeling good, to exceptional and before Namoriee could breathe, to think, to feel ashamed at how pleasurable this was for her, she splintered in tiny pieces with the power of her orgasm.
She blinked, still dazed from the effect of her release, when she realized how Tyronian had used his grip on her ass to push her butt a higher, spreading her wide. With a start, she realized what he was looking at because she could feel it.
Her release was sliding down her inner thighs to exactly where he wants it to go.
She stopped trying to stifle her cries, but she wasn’t screaming with pleasure the way he wanted her to. She was sweaty, wisps of hair pressed against her brow, and her chest glittered like misty grass. He had made her come again after he licked her clean from her prior orgasm. He watched as she started to become aware, her glazed eyes slowly coming into focus until they landed on him. He was standing at the foot of the bed, having left her to take off his pants. He hissed when he gripped his engorged cock, fisting it once. Her eyes followed his hand, and her breathing becoming uneven again. It was jutting straight out, the broad head flared red, as it wept its need to be inside of her.
“If I didn’t love having you helpless and at my mercy, I would rid you of your bonds, as I can think of a few things I your hands could do,” he told her, in a voice that he could hardly recognize, it was so raspy.
He didn’t bother with ripping her dress off her all the way when he came back to her and coming to settle between the apex of her thighs. Her hips shifted, either to move away or get closer—he didn’t know but he didn’t give her a chance to pull away.
He rubbed his shaft up and down her slit to make it wet, before he gripped her underneath her bottom, tilting her to reach his thrust. He slid inside of her tight heath, and she shrieked at the sudden intrusion. He kept still, knowing that her body still wasn’t used to the act of their joining, but not for long.
He was too ramped up.
He positioned into her with sure thrusts, keeping her body angled in the way that he knew touched the most sensitive part inside of her. He knew he wasn’t going to last long this first round, but he wanted to get her to scream before he came for the first time.
“Let go, my sweet,” he panted into her ear. The sound of their flesh joining echoed around him, the sound just turning him on as much as her whimpers and moans. Her hands were still held above her head, the way her back arched made her breast bounce with the rapid pace of his hips, drawing his attention there. He could already see the kiss bruised darkening her tanned skin.
He could feel her womb start to clench his member, and he groaned at the feeling.
“I can feel myself stretching you,” he growled in her ear. “It makes me want to roar with triumph because I’m the only one who’s been inside of you.” He faltered for just the amount of time it took him to change his angle, pressing into her harder.
She cried out, her legs wrapped tight around his waist squeezing.
“Does it hurt?” he groaned, knowing that it had to of, but he wanted to hear her say it. “Does it, my sweet?”
“Yes!” she wailed and whimpered, her eyes squeezed shut in discomfort while her mouth parted in pleasure.
“And why is that?”
“Because,” she arched her neck, shuddering.
“Because why?” he whispered, nipping her earlobe. He needed to hear her say it. “Namoriee, why does it hurt?”
“Because you’re stretching me,” she finally relented on a whimper. He grinned, something darkly sensuous overcoming him. He reached up, gripping her bound wrists with one hand, while the other reached down between them until he could feel her wetness.
“Time to start screaming,” he told her, before he pressed down on the ball of nerves at the same time he sped up the tempo of his hips, pushing inside of her with quick efficiency.
He became unaware of his surroundings, his sole focus on his wife’s face as it changed with the extend of her pleasure, and pinches of pain. Her brows drew forward, she bit her lip, she dug her nails into the thick leather holding her captive. It could have been minutes, it could have been days, it could have been months, but he didn’t stop. Even when he spent himself inside of her, and she came around him, he kept going until his arms were shaking, threatening to give out on him. Their bodies were slick with sweat, beads of it pooling on each inch of their skin, making the sheets grow damp beneath them.
Her whimpers became moans, her moans became cries, and her cries became pleas. She was almost incoherent with what she was saying, and damn if it didn’t turn him on.
But, finally, she gave him what he wanted. She screamed. She screamed his name, she screamed with her pleasure, she screamed with her begs, and she screamed with her release.
She screamed until she had nothing else to scream, and when he finally took mercy on her when he pulled out of her liquid heat so that he could come all over her stomach and parts of her breasts, he could only think one thing: he wasn’t just obsessed with Namoriee.
He was in love with her, too.
“You’re disgusting,” A twenty-three-year-old Tyronian grumbled. Tristan laughed, and the sound almost made him grin. Tristan and he use to laugh all the time in their youth, but things changed when Xavier became chief. His cousin and best friend grew more withdrawn; his laugher was a rare sound to behold nowadays.
“What?” Tristan said, still chortling. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done it.”
“There’s a difference between ramming your cock into a whore’s ass and pleasing it.”
Tristan scoffed. “I’m not interested in pleasing them. I take what I want, when I want it, how I want it. What are whores for if not to use them as I see fit?”
No matter how many times Tristan denies it, there are times where he is scarily similar to his brother. While neither ever had any trouble getting women, Tristan was by far the one who frequented the pleasure found between the thighs of a woman the most. There were even times where Tyronian and Tristan had shared the same woman between them, a system that worked. Tristan was rough, almost brutal, using them as he saw fit, while Tyronian was there, giving them the attention, they lacked, enticing them to endure until they were both done with her. Trist
an was pain, while he was pleasure. It was enough for him, until it wasn’t.
“You’re a God, Tristan,” Tyronian mumbled, his tone bitter even to his ears. “All shall bow before you and your cock-of-pain.”
Tristan scowled. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “Have you not had your dick sucked, or what? You’re a right bastard these days.”
He’d like to deny it, but he had a strong feeling it was true. He didn’t know why he was so irritable these days. Even Xavier had given him an odd look when he snapped at Samanthia for dropping his cup when she went to refill it a few nights ago. It was an accident, one that usually wouldn’t even give him the slightest pause, but it did that night.
“Not all of us consider that a priority, cousin.”
Though, it probably wasn’t a bad idea. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he bed a woman. Maybe that did explain why he was so high-strung.
“Or is your mood perhaps pertaining to the young mute girl who Hunt’yr has set his eyes to claim?”
It was a bastard move, and Tristan knew it because with just that one sentence, Tyronian became high-alert with the unwitting anger that coursed through him. His cousin’s expression was smug when Tyronian grabbed his forearm and slung him in front of him.
“What are you going on about?” Tyronian demanded, his tone flinty.
Tristan’s eyes danced with humor. “Hunt’yr is claiming Namoriee. He’s been scoping her out for weeks, helping her doing her chores and escorting her to and fro. He’s become her little guard dog.”
Tristan’s humor seemed to grow with the same speed of Tyronian’s anger with each thing he told him, until he was practically vibrating with glee when he told him, “he plans to kiss her tonight, at sun down. Which is will be about, oh, I don’t know,” Tristan pretended to ponder it, a grin stretching across his face. “Now.”
He wasn’t even aware that he let Tristan go, or of his cousin’s laughter from behind him, or that his feet were stomping in the direction to the path that he knew well. All he knew was anger, hot, teeth-grinding, anger. It was a reaction that he had no right to, in fact, it was wrong to be feeling this way over a girl who wasn’t nearly close to being a woman yet. Or at the fact that a puny sixteen wintered boy had the audacity to think that Namoriee could be his. That he had the right to kiss her.
But he was. He was furious, a feeling that doubled when he saw Hunty’r a few paces ahead of him, traveling the same destination that he was heading.
With a savage growl, Tyronian spun him around by the shoulder. He had his hand wrapped around Hunt’ry’s throat before he could even blink.
“Tyroni—” Hunt’yr choked on his words when Tyronian squeezed.
“I’ve been hearing things as of late,” he bit out through gritted teeth. “Things that I don’t like to hear. Not. One. Bit”
Hunty’r’s was valiantly trying to struggle against his hold, the tops of his toes scraping the dirt to try and find purchase. It Tyronian wasn’t so enraged, he might have felt sorry for him for how pathetic he looked.
But it was just another reminder on how unworthy he was.
“I’m going to make myself real clear here,” Tyronian said, his expression unrelenting. “You don’t look at her, you don’t talk to her, and you most certainly don’t kiss her.”
“I…I... don’t—”
“Listen to me you little maggot,” Tyronian snarled, cutting his pathetic attempt at innocence. “From now on, she doesn’t even exist for you.”
Hunty’r’s face paled, and Tyronian knew his smile was all teeth when he pulled him in closer, so that he could see the white of Hunt’yr’s eyes when he delivered the severity of his demands.
“If I ever find out you even thought about her, or catch you snooping around Namoriee again, I’ll slit your throat. You got me?”
He was surprised Hunt’yr’s neck didn’t snap with how fast he nodded.
“Glad we came to an agreement,” Tyronian beamed, releasing his grip on his throat and stepping back, watching with contempt when Hunt’yr fell, not even able to catch himself in time and land on his feet.
He had turned to leave, taking a step, before he paused, whirling around back to face Hunt’yr.
“Oh, I almost forgot!”
With quick efficiently, he grabbed Hunt’rys wrist and jerked it to the side at the same time his foot came up and stomped down on his arm.
The satisfying crack of Hunt’yr’s bone and the shrill scream he let out when his arm broke met Tyronian’s ears and left him in high spirits for the rest of the day.
It might have been barbaric, but it got his point across. Hunt’yr left Namoriee alone from that day out. He should feel guilty that Hunt’yr’s cold shoulder made Namoriee’s face fall whenever he would practically run the other way at the sight of her, or wet with her tears that she cried each night, but he didn’t.
Because deep down inside of him, he knew that the only lips she would kiss were his.
He’ll make sure of it.
During the next few months, Namoriee and Tyronian followed a routine. Each morning, Namoriee would go to Leawyn’s hut and help her get herself and Xillik ready for the day. Tyronian would likewise spend his days either in the training grounds with the boys who were victorious during the Warrior Choosing—a tournament which happened every five years to see who would be the next generation of warriors—or performing the duties that Xavier was unable to attend himself. They had spent weeks away from the village, and upon returning she was sworn to secrecy, as Xavier wanted to surprise Leawyn once her tribe was fully rebuilt. She had scowled when he joked how she wasn’t very good at keeping her sworn vows of silence, but he believed in her. Namoriee likewise had stuck to her word and made a conscious effort to give their marriage a chance. Though she still found herself uncomfortable, even she could admit that marriage to Tyronian hasn’t been as bad as she feared.
But…there was always a dark cloud of doubt over her head, that one day the rain will drop, and he’ll realize that she was right. But most of all, she felt as if she never should have kept her promise to Tyronian and kept the one to herself.
It was a blaring hot day. The sun was high, the rays dangerous in its strength as it scorched the skin on the Izayges inhabitants. It was the kind of heat that was still, and heavy, not a breeze to be had to give even a little bit of respite. Namoriee wiped the sweat that beaded across her brow, waving a hand in front of her face to try and cool the damp skin.
“It’s so hot! Are you sure you’re okay?” Namoriee asked, shooting a worried look to Leawyn who was sitting under the only tree that offered shade. They were in the practice fields, watching their husbands train their respective troops—Xavier with the men, Tyronian with the boys— since Tyronian had asked Leawyn to come down if she was feeling well enough to help with the bow and arrow weapon training. By now, Leawyn’s skill with the bow was renowned after the war, with her marksmen equal, if not better, then her husband’s skill.
“Yes, I’m fine. It shouldn’t be long now. Tyronian is already dividing the group up. I can’t imagine he’ll have them train for that much longer.”
Namoriee followed her gaze, and sure enough, Tyronian send over a group of fifteen boys all varying in age their way. Since they weren’t official warriors yet, they did not get the honor of wearing the Izayges armor, and were instead dressed in plain, tough leather chest plates and breeches. Most had their training swords strapped to their hip, while others who were more confident in their skill had them strapped over their back. Each held their bow and quiver.
“They look so serious,” Namoriee quipped.
“It’s easy to forget that they’re not just children anymore.”
Leawyn was right. Although there were boys who were only at the tender age of ten winters, they weren’t children. Their childhood died the moment they were chosen as recruits. They were warriors training to be the best there is in Samaria, and by the time they reach their sixteenth winter, they will h
ave slain their first man. Namoriee looked at Castic, who was one of the trainees and someone she knew Leawyn held a soft spot for. He was thirteen, and from what Tyronian told her, was one of their better recruits. He showed great promise as a warrior, and he may be one of the few who will take Jahir Turk early.
The Jahir Turk is the last test to pass for them become full-fledged warriors of the tribe. Sent into the wild for days, they are to hunt the prisoner that the Izayges have let loose and bring them back as their own prisoner. Upon returning, it is there that they will have to then decapitate their burden in front of the entire tribe. Equipped with only a rope, they are responsible of creating their own weapons and catching their own food. It is the hardest of tests, only the strongest survive and the shame of returning as a failure is great, for if they do, they will never be allowed to be a warrior.
If he is chosen, will he survive? It was a sobering thought. Namoriee looked back to Leawyn, taking her in as she started to divide the boys into two groups. Namoriee knew well enough on how to shoot that she would be assisting the beginners, while Leawyn focused more on the advanced group. And judging by the first arrow shot in her group, it was going to be a long day for her.
“Good!” Namoriee beamed, when Kono, a boy of twelve winters with a face-full of freckles hit the middle ring of the target. It was the closest he’s gotten to the bullseye. “Very good, Kono!”
Kono smile was full of pride before he seemed to remember that he was surrounded by his friends. His expression shifted from prideful to serious. Namoriee smothered her laugh when he settled on giving her a nod and began practicing again.
She continued down the line until a shout caught her attention.
“Fight! Fight!”
Namoriee rushed over to where the chant originated as they circled around something.