She slid her palm over his ribcage, looking down . . . and noticed something that she hadn’t before: a mound between the man’s legs, the thick outline running down his thigh, pressed tightly against his pants.
“Oh my, Calas, you never told me you were packing such a powerful weapon.”
The man simply frowned. He was trying everything in his power to ignore Nemya now, but was coming up short. Eventually, he slowly turned his head—his neck cracked from the movement, as it was the first time he’d turned it all night. He stared down at the woman, whose head only came up to his shoulders.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his voice going gruff.
Nemya shrugged nonchalantly. “As you’ve seen, no one comes out here—guards or otherwise. This posting is abandoned, Calas, and our luck of the draw brought us here. There isn’t a soul watching us.”
“The gods are watching us.”
Nemya snorted. “Nonsense. In this darkness? We’d be lucky if the gods even caught a glimpse of us doing . . .” she trailed off.
His curiosity piqued, Calas said, “Doing . . . what?”
With a quick smirk hidden from view, Nemya pivoted in front of the man, both of her hands on him now. “Why, doing what the gods intended us to do, of course. Had I known you were carrying two hefty spears, I might have made my move sooner.”
“Unhand me, harlot.”
He said the words, but made no move to fight her off, even as Nemya crouched down to her knees in front of the man. She sniggered, saying, “Come now, I’m sure it’ll be quick. Don’t big strong men like you have needs, just like everyone else?”
“Not while I’m stationed.”
Nemya stared up at the man, the whites of her eyes glittering in the darkness. She could see the folds of his chin as he stared down at her, and noticed that a storm brewed in his head.
Something was winning out, though . . . a desire . . . a feeling.
With deft fingers, Nemya plucked open the man’s trousers, her eyes moving to the bulge protruding between his legs.
Calas grunted. It seemed to be his go-to sound.
His grip tightened on the shaft of the spear, until his fingernails were digging into the polished wood.
“You don’t even have to do a thing, soldier. Just stand there and . . . watch . . . continue to observe the unmoving city, if you must. You can still do your job . . .”
She hooked her fingers around the waistband of his pants, then slowly pulled them down, first to his bulky pale thighs, then to his knees.
A large slab of meat unfurled in front of her eyes, pushing out from his legs. It was thick and musty, the strong smell making Nemya’s eyes water. The big penis draped over a fat, bulbous pouch. His body seemed to stiffen as the cool night air wafted over his member, then he began to stiffen.
Nemya ran a finger down the topside of the man’s shaft, tracing a line over the blue vein that ran lengthwise from root to tip. The simple, airy touch caused Calas’ cock to thicken, filling with blood as it grew and protruded outward.
Nemya ducked her head underneath Calas’ heaving package and slipped the appendage into her mouth. Her cheeks hollowed out as she slurped on it, running her tongue beneath his foreskin. He tasted salty and sweaty. His testicles were potent, Nemya’s chin connecting with the damp orbs as she tongued his penis.
Calas groaned, but it was a different sound now. It was one of exasperation turned to relief. He could have never expected to have a beautiful woman mouthing his big cock on the first day on the job.
His re-recruitment into the Royal Army seemed to be going well, thus far.
As his cock grew in Nemya’s mouth, it curved upward, the glans touching the roof of her mouth. Before long, the broad appendage filled her out completely, plugging her lips. She slid her face back and forth on Calas’ erect manhood, until his cockhead touched the back of her throat and she could feel a droplet of semen dripping down her esophagus, the opened pisshole kissing the soft tissue at the back of her maw.
Calas finally put his spear down, leaning it up against the wall.
He grunted angrily, then lifted her helmet off her head. Her golden hair came streaming out in unkempt waves. He grabbed the back of Nemya’s head. “Fine, whore, you want to play the mindless fool? I’ll make you into the thing you want most. Then you’ll be sorry you ever toyed with me.”
Nemya’s eyes widened as she felt the rough fingers dig into her hair, pressing against her scalp. Her body was moved as Calas abruptly twisted. Her knees scraped the gravelly ground and she groaned, but the sound was little more than a squeak coming from deep within her throat.
As the two connected bodies disappeared into the dark shadow of the overhanging archway, Nemya’s body was pushed against the furthermost wall.
Calas thrust his hips.
Nemya gagged, the large cock shoving its way down her gullet, her throat muscles constricting around the girth of his shaft. Her airways became tight, and it quickly became hard to breathe.
Trying to breathe through her nose, snot dripped from her nostrils to clear the way. His cock punched her throat painfully and her eyes watered from the big obstruction.
Calas pushed down on her head as he thrust forward with his hulking cock. He fucked her face, relishing in the gagging, choking sounds coming from her. Her tongue was wet and slimy over his shaft, and her mouth presented a beautifully warm pocket with which to pleasure himself.
Clearly, the harlot didn’t know what she was getting herself into.
He manhandled the back of her head and continued to pump his hips, until her gack sounds were becoming dire and sloppy. Frothy saliva and precum drooled out the sides of her clogged mouth.
Calas pulled her hair roughly, snapping her head back. As she lurched, the back of her head smacked into the wall. She groaned, her vision momentarily going black and blurry.
I h-have to stay awake! Oh gods, but he’s big! So brutal in the way he fucks my face, with no concern for my wellbeing or safety!
I’ve underestimated this man—he is a brute in truth. Are all soldiers as passionate in their domination? Subjugated to the Royal Army, they pass down their anger to women like me . . . ?
His cock was big enough to bulge her throat, and she could feel the unnaturalness of her neck bloating as the burly man’s penis dominated her airways and made her look like a ribbiting toad.
The sloppy wet sounds were loud, reverberating. They were no longer being discreet, as she couldn’t stop her throat from burping and belching painful gags from deep within her lungs.
It was like he was trying to fuck down into her stomach, and Nemya knew her face was turning red . . . and probably purple.
It wouldn’t be long now before she passed out and then she’d be useless—
Grunting, Calas held the back of her head hard in his grip. He hilted his cock completely down her throat, smashing Nemya’s nose against his hairy pubis. His trembling ballsack pelted into her chin, then rested on her ballooned neck as he exploded.
Nemya felt the man’s urethra open wide, then a surge of semen flooded down, swirling against her esophagus and emptying into her belly. Tears streamed from her face, onto the stranger’s hard cock.
The back of her head hurt from the way he’d throatfucked her so viciously, smacking her skull into the uneven stone. Her hands had been holding on against his hips, but now they hung uselessly at her sides, her fingertips poking the cold ground.
Her eyes went inward, her cross-eyed appearance making her look used and foolish.
Calas’ body jerked one more time, as another spurt of cum drenched her system. Then all the fight seemed to go out of his body, at once, and he slowly let go of her head.
Had he been clutching her any harder, and for any longer, Nemya feared that her skull might have popped like a watermelon from his big hairy paws.
The brutal soldier slowly stepped back, extricating his slick cock from her throat and mouth hole with a grotesque squelch.
; She leaned back against the wall and heaved, closing her eyes to try to gather her breath and composure. Thick, lumpy cum dripped down her chin, spattering the ground like heavy droplets of water.
Her eyes opened, though her vision was blurry from the tears. Within seconds, however, her vision swam back and became normal once more. She didn’t bother to stand yet, as she was afraid she’d just fall on wobbly legs and topple over.
Calas coughed, then spat phlegm onto the wall above Nemya’s head.
The woman pursed her lips. W-Well, it’s better than him flinging that spittle on me, right?
There’s a silver lining in everything, I suppose . . .
She slowly started to stand, pushing her hand down on her helmet, which was on the graveled ground, for balance.
Calas’ head was bent as he shoved his package back into his trousers, then buttoned them. He reorganized himself, grabbing at his crotch.
“Your gullet makes a good cocksleeve, woman. I think if we’re stationed together here again, I’ll make use of it again.”
Nemya was nearly off her knees now, still in front of the sneering soldier.
His eyes glittered, a cruel smile forming on his face. “Or perhaps I’ll use that wet pussy of yours next time—see how tight that thing is.”
Nemya rolled her eyes, chuckling inside that now that this man had relieved himself, he couldn’t seem to shut up. Where he’d been stoic before, now he was tumbling words like vomit.
Calas turned his side to Nemya, then reached out for his spear against the wall. “Hey, it’s for the good of the Royal Army, righ—”
As Calas exposed his side, Nemya launched to her feet with surprising speed, her hand clutched around the inside of her steel helmet. She swung the heavy metal object upward against Calas’ profile—
Calas was turning from the sudden whooshing sound just as the metal helm collided with the side of his face, just underneath his helmet rim.
A vibrating clang broke the silence of the night, and the next sound was the thud of his body crumpling to the stony ground.
Nemya sniffed and stared down at the unmoving body. The fingers that had been holding his spear twitched, so she knew he was still alive, though his cheek was split open and bleeding and his jaw was most likely broken.
She cleared her throat, then spat a wad of semen-filled phlegm down at the man, blotching the side of his face with her well-aimed shot.
“You stupid men are all the same,” she said to no one, frowning. “Once you get your way, you just can’t be fucking quiet.”
She reached down, tore the Royal Army badge off his leather shoulder pad, then took the man’s helmet off his head and the hood that was clasped round his neck.
Looking over her shoulders, she disappeared into the gloom of the night, back toward the castle.
Chapter Five
From a distance, Stecker and his companions watched as Nemya squatted in front of the stocky silhouette of the other soldier. Her head began bobbing, and then a loud choking sound echoed from the gate.
Eyes wide, Stecker blushed. He looked over at the other shadows under the awning and saw that they all gazed upon the gate with similar expressions, save Sala, who grinned and ground her jaw together. Like a carriage bumbling down a mountainside, its destruction imminent, they could not look away.
“I . . . suppose that gag was the signal?” Stecker whispered.
Sala’s lascivious grin stayed on her flat face. “That lustful minx . . . all play and no work.” She reached into her black leather tunic, and Stecker thought she was fondling her breasts, but then her hand reappeared with a flask sloshing about. She pulled from the flask and put it back in its safe, warm compartment.
Filtray rubbed his warm cheeks. “Perhaps she feels she’s just . . . doing her duty?”
“You can take the woman out of the whorehouse, but you can’t take the whore . . . house . . . out of the woman,” Dered said with a sage nod, after seemingly confusing himself. “That’s what I always say.”
“You’ve never said that before, you stumbling oaf,” Sala muttered.
“A whore is a whore is a whore,” Dered added.
“Say ‘whore’ one more time, Dered, and you’ll feel my boot up your whorish ass,” Sala growled.
“Enough,” Stecker snapped in a harsh whisper, shaking his head. “I see why Alb always grows so weary of your antics. You’re like grown, drunk children. Besides, Nemya’s . . . actions . . . are proving a sufficient distraction. Come on, let’s go.”
With that, the quartet sped off into the night, slinking between shadows and patches of darkness. They hopped onto a hill, drawing closer to the fence near the gate.
As they moved, crouched and skulking, Stecker shot a glance to the gate and saw that the two silhouettes had submerged underneath the archway, disappearing except for the sounds of their oral congress.
They approached a section of the fence—more of a stone wall—about twenty paces to the right of the archway. Before reaching it, Stecker drew out a curved grappling hook tied to a rope, complete with a hook built of composite materials rather than steel, to advocate quietness.
He lassoed the grappling hook to the side of his body in wide circles, then flung it over the wall as they neared. It connected and stuck at the top with little more than a dull thud.
Stecker jumped to the wall, tugging on the rope and landing feet first, sideways. He commenced climbing, scaling the wall with nary a sound, and within seconds he was over the lip of the wall. He went prone on top of the wall, turned, then reached down and caught Sala’s outstretched hand. The big woman only needed to jump to nearly reach the edge of the fence.
Hands closing around wrists, Stecker’s heart nearly stopped as he thought Sala would accidentally pull him back over the fence with her weight. But she latched her feet onto the wall and was up and over before he could go down.
Moments later, Filtray and Dered joined the duo at the top. They looked out to the black courtyard beyond, filled with grass colored purple from the moon, a few outhouses and small buildings that must’ve acted as watchtowers. All the structures seemed dark—this truly was the forgotten place of Sefyr Castle.
Or perhaps Alberus had more pull inside the castle than he let on . . . it is eerily quiet over here . . . with the exception of that constant gagging and slurping coming from our left.
Beyond the short distance between the gate and the courtyard, the castle loomed like a black-stoned monolith, its northernmost spire rising high into the night sky.
Just before jumping down from the wall, Stecker lifted his right hand into a fist, calling everyone to pause.
A guard rounded the corner of the spire, coming into view as he marched alone with a spear in his hand. He gazed forward like a blind man, not bothering to turn his head to see the depraved act taking place at the gate. This was clearly routine for the guardsman, and in that, he had become lazy and complacent.
“Fil,” Stecker whispered. “Can you?”
The small man shimmied over to Stecker on his stomach. He said, “Oh, I can get him from this distance . . . but do we want him dead? That’ll surely see us hanged.”
Sala scoffed. “If we’re caught doing what we’re doing, we’ll be hanged anyway, you dandy.”
Filtray seemed to think that over. He shrugged. “True.”
Without a sound, he pulled an oil-slick dagger from his hip-sheath. Lifting himself to a crouch, he held the dagger by the blade, point down. The wind caressed his face, fluttering his black cloak.
The oblivious guard walked the breadth of the courtyard in front of them, then began to turn around the next spire of the castle. He was less than twenty paces away, and soon he’d be gone from view.
Grunting, Filtray nocked his arm back then punched forward, sending the dagger flying through the air, end over end.
It struck the guard in the back of the neck, just below the rim of his steel helmet. Severing his spine, he went down mere feet before reaching the base of th
e spire, letting out little more than a short gurgle before falling.
Stecker’s eyebrows raised. For being such a strange little man, Filtray never ceased to amaze him with his skills with a dagger. He was more at home playing a lute and singing drunken ballads to starry-eyed young men and women, but he could turn that ruthless violence on with a simple grunt and nod.
The gang flew over the wall and landed in the courtyard, their steps as muffled as they could manage. Still crouched, they ran over to the dead body and Sala dragged him by his feet into a shadow. She started rummaging around his pockets and armor as the others stood guard over her.
Stecker frowned as she saw the big woman pulling his breeches off his legs, then his helmet.
“W-What are you—”
“Disguise, you fool. We need ‘em,” Sala growled.
“Oh.” Stecker scratched his scalp. He thought she was doing something lewd with the poor dead man. It hadn’t been out of the question, given that it was Sala and she typically did questionable things with men.
Sala grunted as she tried on the helmet over her long, stringy black hair. “Ugh, stuffy. Too tight. Dered, you take it.”
A thunderous crack split the quiet, followed by a dull thump. Startled eyes turned from the darkness to the gate.
Moments later, a figure leaped out from beneath the gate, dressed in a soldier’s helmet and garb, heading right for them.
Gloved hands found their way to the hilts of weapons. Then Stecker lifted his fist again, staying their hands.
The guard heading toward them had a decidedly female gait, with her rear-end sashaying left and right as she ran, a bundle of something cradled in her arms.
Nemya approached and said, “I thought you’d be inside the castle already. Or did you all want to wait and gawk like titillated squirrels?”
“Had to take care of a guard,” Stecker said, pointing down at the ground at the pants-less man’s pale legs. Dered had successfully adorned the man’s Royal Army garb, and was shrugging into the armor, trying to get comfortable.
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