by P. W. Chance
She slipped gently out of the tangle of her lovers’ arms, and rose to her feet. The earth was cool beneath her bare feet. Quiet amid the gentle noises of the cave, she padded between moving and sleeping bodies and out into the night.
Canine heads rose to watch her. The tribe’s pack of dogs rested at the mouth of the cave, shaggy forms lying atop one another, much like the humans inside. Ears flicked as she was recognized, the big half-wolf beasts drifting back to sleep. She counted them silently. Fika and Rika, the two hounds that always followed Black-dog on his hunts, were missing.
The night was cool. A half-moon was shining on the lake. Her eyes swept over the village, the blue and black shadows of the women’s grass-roofed huts beside the shore. They were deserted, now; the whole tribe was up in the cave with the men.
She closed her eyes and listened.
Faint and far-off, she heard a woman moan.
She turned, and padded silently into the woods.
The sounds grew louder. Gasping. A long, ragged moan. She dropped to all fours, crept into a bush, her eyes open wide in their stripe of black soot, her lips open to breathe more softly. She crept behind a large, smooth stone, raised her head, and looked, and saw.
They were in a clearing. Black-dog and Sparrow, silver moonlight falling on them, soft dry leaves below them, rustling as they moved. They were sitting, Sparrow in Black-dog’s lap. He was holding Sparrow from behind, his arms pinning hers to her sides. One of his hands cupped a breast; the other was between her legs. She looked small in his grasp, weak, vulnerable. His mouth was on the back of her neck.
The witch-girl leaned closer, peering through the leaves. Sparrow’s legs were spread wide. His hand was stroking her, running one finger up and down her slit. His shaft was beneath her, but not in her; she was sitting on it, straddling it. Sparrow’s wetness was shining in the moonlight, on his fingers, on her slit, and dripping onto the shaft below. The witch-girl bit her lip; Black-dog’s cock was at least as big as his brother’s. Sparrow’s hips moved weakly, trying to escape his hand but only succeeding in sliding back and forth along the length of his shaft.
Had he still not entered her? A shining drop was dripping from his tip as Sparrow panted, trying to catch her breath. He was whispering to her.
“What is your name?”
Her head was hanging forward, shoulders shaking as she breathed. Her dark hair hid her face. “S-Sparrow,” she said. Her voice was weak. “You… you know I am Sparrow.”
“Hmmmmm.” The witch-girl bit her lip; he sounded displeased. His mouth opened, closed on the back of her neck again, holding her like prey. His hand began to move faster between her legs, two fingers slipping between the lips of her slit, finding her tender place, rubbing firmly. She threw her head back, moaning, baring her throat to the night, body trying to twist away, helpless in his muscle-banded arms.
She panted as he worked on her, his hand never slowing. Her body jerked, then jerked again. Her back arched, pressing her little tits into his grip; her feet kicked up leaves, her toes curled in the dirt as she moaned and sobbed. Her chin was wet; she was drooling. “Can’t…” she gasped, wetness dripping from her cunt, her slit sliding back and forth along the top of his shaft as she struggled. “Can’t… again… can’t come again… c… can’t… ah… ahhhhnnnnn!” As his right hand mercilessly pressed and rubbed her, his left released her breast, slid down, and pushed two strong fingers into her tight, wet hole, curling them inside her, stroking something soft and deep. She screamed, a cry that choked off as her body was seized by a wave of forced sensation, jerking in her captor’s arms, heels drumming on the ground, teeth clenched, grunting and half-sobbing as he coaxed another wave of pleasure out of her. A spurt of wetness gushed out around his fingers, wetting his shaft. She went limp in his arms again, breathing ragged.
The witch-girl’s eyes glittered in the shadows as she watched, leaning forward, one hand on the ground, the other softly rubbing her tender, sensitive bud, slipping down to her hole to gather moisture, sliding along her lips. She saw movement in the shadows at the edge of the clearing, and gleaming eyes. Black-dog’s hounds were here. Watching her.
He was whispering again, his voice low. He held his prey gently. His hands had stopped moving, save for a single finger tracing up and down her slit. “What is your name?”
“Uh?” Her head had fallen to one side, hair hanging. Little shivers ran through her from time to time, aftershocks. Her mouth was hanging open, her small breasts rising and falling as she panted. She slumped there for a while, barely conscious in his arms, eyes open but not seeing. In a dreamy, sweet little voice, she mumbled, “Name? Nnn...name. Sparrow. Ah ah ahhhhhhhnnnnn…” His fingers were moving again, his arms tight, his teeth on her neck as tears rolled down her cheeks and her eyes rolled back, her mouth and sweet lips open as if to drink the moonlight, her body shaking as she passed over some final threshold and lost herself, moaning, deep animal groans shuddering out of her small body. She was thrusting her hips, now, pushing harder against his hand, unable to escape the pleasure and now desperately seeking it, pressing her bottom against him, arching her back to grind her slit along his shaft. She was drooling, eyes empty, mindlessly humping his hand, until he hooked his fingers inside again and stroked another choking, full-body jerk out of her.
She panted. He raised his hand, soaked and dripping with her juice, and gently stroked her cheek.
“What is your name?” he whispered, almost tenderly.
“Uhhh.” Her eyes were half-closed as she slumped back against him. He pinched a nipple, and she stirred.
“What is your name?” he asked again.
“Unnnn. Nnn.”
A broad smile crept across his face. His eyes were hard, hungry, the shadows around them darker than the surrounding forest. The witch-girl swallowed nervously in her hiding place.
He lifted the mindless girl, his shaft rising as her weight came off it, until her wet, abused hole was just above his tip. Her face betrayed no understanding, no awareness of what was happening. Her eyes stared blankly.
He lowered her, her own weight pressing her down, forcing her little cunt to open around his thick, hard cock. Her eyes opened wide with shock, her mouth open in something almost like a grin as she sank down onto him, his length pushing into her, her little hole painfully full.
He tilted her forward, pushed her face down towards the leaves, holding her hips tight against him, his shaft still fully inside her. She was making little noises, animal things, whines and yips like a dog in heat. He leaned close over her, grabbed a handful of her hair. With a look of blissful relief on his face, he began fucking her into the ground.
She looked tiny below him, too small to possibly take him, but she whined and panted and rocked her little hips back against him, taking his full length on every stroke, drops of her wetness spattering out onto the leaves as his size forced them out of her. From her hiding place, the witch-girl could see where they came together, see his thickness pull out of her and push back in in a steady rhythm, her lips stretched tight around him. The witch-girl’s fingers were moving faster, moving inside, as she half-lay against the stone, biting her red lip as she watched them fuck. He was growling, getting close. She was groaning in pain and pleasure, lost in mindless animal bliss as he churned her. His fingers cruelly squeezed her little bottom, leaving marks on her skin. He was tugging on her hair, hard, pulling her head up as she panted open-mouthed, tongue hanging. She was whining, now, the pitch rising, her fingers curling in the leaves and dirt, until she was screaming out loud and he was slamming his shaft into her, once, twice, three times. She groaned as he pumped his seed deep into her cunt. Her body shook, helpless in his grip. Then her eyes rolled back and she collapsed, limp, on the ground.
The witch-girl bit back her own moan, held herself still against the little shiver that rocked through her as she watched. The nameless girl who had been Sparrow was unconscious, lying on her side on the fallen leaves. Black-dog was pulling out of h
er, drawing his shaft out slowly. The unconscious girl whimpered as his cock-head pulled out, her cruelly used little cunt finally able to relax. There was a faint pattering sound as his seed leaked out of her, falling to the leaves below, a trail of silver in the moonlight. Black-dog stalked around her and kneeled by her head. He stroked her hair softly, tenderly. Then he reached down to her chin and gently opened her mouth. The witch-girl watched her lips part, saw the tip of her tongue peek out. Black-dog held her head firmly in his hands, shifted his hips closer, and rested his hard, wet shaft against her lips. Slowly, he began to move, drawing his length back and forth over her lips and tongue, carefully pushing his head into her mouth. Her eyelids flickered, but she did not move, did not make a sound, as he used her mouth to clean himself.
The witch-girl held her breath as she watched, trying to understand, trying to read Black-dog’s intentions. At first she could see nothing; he was looking down at the woman he’d turned into a dog, his face hidden by shadows and he long, dark hair. But then he raised his head, turned his face up toward the moon. She watched his expression in the pale light. Satisfaction… no. Relief. Relief from a great pain. Temporary, and incomplete. He looked like a man with a thorn through his heart, and the thorn had pulled back, just a little, for a little while.
The witch-girl sank to all fours, the earth cool against her hands as she crept backward out of the bush. The dogs watched her go, eyes shining in the dark, but they made no sound as she slipped away.
The night air was cool as she padded through the forest, but her pale skin felt hot and flushed. Her toes gripped at the leaves and earth beneath her bare feet.
She shook her head, trying to clear it. It was a wicked thing she had seen. Black-dog had taken a girl, a woman, taken away her name, made her into a mindless animal, used her, hurt her. Had it hurt? She thought of Black-dog’s broad, hard shaft pressing into Sparrow’s tight little cunt, and a shiver ran through her. It must have hurt, surely.
It was nearly black magic, what he had done. Taking and giving names, that was a witch thing. When a child became a woman or a man, it was the witch’s duty to dream a true dream and give them a true name. Taking the name away, shaping a human mind into an animal one… those were dangerous secrets, not for men to know of.
The witch-girl leaned against a tree, remembering the hunger in his dark eyes. Hungry, strong, clever. He was dangerous. He would do such things again, take another girl, force her mind out of her, use her to satisfy himself.
He was her responsibility. The hunters, the warriors, protected the tribe from outside threats. But spirits, cruelty, bad blood and madness, those were for the witch to deal with.
She stepped out of the forest onto the sandy shore of the lake, thinking. The moon danced on the water.
Poison. She could send him to the ancestors, let them deal with him. One kind of mushroom would make him waste away, sap his strength over many days until he died of sickness. Another would take him quickly, torture him with wracking pains and visions, as if a hundred angry ghosts were tearing his body and mind apart. He would be dead within hours.
She thought of him dead, his body still and cold upon the sand, his dark eyes empty. She felt a cold knot in her stomach. No. She did not want that. He was strong and clever, the tribe could use him. His death would be a tragedy, a waste. She would find a better way.
She would bind him.
She sank her toes in the cool sand, feeling her control return. She breathed cool night air and bared her teeth in the moonlight, smiling at the darkness and deep water. She was a witch, and she knew the ways. She would wrap his hunger around him like a leash. She would lock his eyes onto the curves of her own body, so that he could not look away. She would feed him sweet and bitter potions, and ride him in his dreams at night. She would make him groan and howl with need for her, and only her. She would punish him for making women into beasts. She would make him beg.
Unless he was stronger. Unless he turned the dreams back against her, unless he kissed and touched and broke her, unless she shivered and went limp and blissfully surrendered to being his.
The moon above the lake was exactly half-full. Half light, half night. Within a month, the witch-girl knew, one of them would be the other’s slave.
Chapter 2
Tell a Story
“The spirits are simple-minded,” said the witch-girl. She scattered another handful of herbs over the coals. “Confuse them, and they become frightened and angry. Feed them pleasure, and they learn to like things easily enough. You had no problems last time?”
Highhawk smiled. She was short-haired, long-limbed; her teeth were a bright flash of white in the smoky hut. “The hunt went well. My spear did not break, my legs did not tire, my prey did not sense me. If the spirits were angered by a woman hunting with the men, they did not show it. Your magic works well.”
The witch-girl raised an eyebrow and glanced up at the painted skull on the wall. “Of course.” She breathed in the sweet smoke of the herbs, then reached into a wooden bowl to cover her fingers with ochre. Eyes closed, she carefully spread the ruddy pigment on her face. She smiled beneath her paint. “Did I not learn my craft from Grandmother Rattlebones, who learned it from Old Water Woman, who learned it from the Witch of Thorns, who stole it from beneath a stone in the dark before time began?”
Highhawk laughed. “You did, you did! And even without their stories, you are my wisest and cleverest friend.” She leaned forward, smoke curling around her, and grinned. “And my prettiest.”
The witch-girl stuck out her tongue. “Stop that. This ritual is important, it’s not just play and pleasure. You can praise my beauty afterwards.” She reached for another bowl and continued painting herself, drawing lines of soot along her brows, blackening her lips. “And what of the men?”
“What about them?” Highhawk leaned back, half-vanishing in the gloom. The hut was hung with vines and branches, an indoor forest.
“The spirits accept you as a hunter, and give you no trouble. But do the men?” The witch-girl’s face was a painted mask, now, a mix of woman, deer, and gazelle. She reached for white chalk dust and added spots.
“Ha! The men are no trouble, not any more. White-stag and Black-dog are no fools, and do not allow foolishness in their hunters.” She threw her head back proudly, the red firelight shining on the curve of her throat, the long muscles of her arms, the swell of her breasts beneath her leather vest. The witch-girl ran one eye down her, admiring. Nice to have pretty friends, indeed. “My aim with a spear is as sharp as White-stag’s,” said the huntress, “though he can throw farther. And I am as silent a scout as Black-dog. Women, men, that only matters in the cave. In the forest, we are hunters.”
“Good. Lean close.” Highhawk leaned forward, smiling, and the witch-girl painted her with her fingers. Black soot surrounded Highhawk’s eyes, so they shined out of darkness. Her lips were smooth and soft under the witch-girl’s fingers as she stained them red. The witch-girl stroked downward, drawing a broad red bar down Highhawk’s throat, toward her chest. She could feel the beating of Highhawk’s heart under her fingertips, feel the rush of air in her throat as Highhawk sighed happily. The witch-girl set her hands on her friend’s stomach, then slid them up the tan, smooth skin and under under Highhawk’s vest. She shrugged it off, baring her small breasts. Hidden behind her lips, the witch-girl bit her tongue. Highhawk stretched like a cat as the witch-girl stroked along her arms, many small strokes, feathers of white and black. Yellow for her hands. Black for her fingers. Wings, talons, a mouth marked with blood.
“Hold still,” the witch-girl muttered. Highhawk chuckled, and stilled herself as the witch-girl moved behind her. Smooth fingertips trailed lines of cool, wet pigment down either side of Highhawk’s neck, over her shoulders, down her back, swirling, stroking. She held her breath as she felt the witch-girl’s fingers run in one long pull straight down her spine. She gasped, shivering. The witch-girl growled, and Highhawk grinned and held herself still again. The
fingertips reached forward, around Highhawk’s slender chest. Highhawk clenched her teeth, her breath quick in her nose, as the witch-girl stroked cool lines around and over her breasts, fingertips sinking into the velvet-soft skin, lingering and circling around her nipples.
“Not fair,” she muttered, arms trembling slightly, fighting to stay still.
The witch-girl threw a handful of herbs onto the fire, and strong-scented smoke billowed around them, curling around the branches and vines. The shadows grew deeper, and the walls seemed to pull away, vanishing into the gloom, leaving them in forest. The witch-girl stood, stepping away from the kneeling hunter, breathing the smoke deeply. She could feel the spirits beginning to arrive, rustling in the leaves, twisting in the smoke, waking in the back of her mind. She breathed them deep into her chest, welcoming them, opening herself to them as she lost herself in the maze of vines. Rabbit and boar, stag and doe... she felt the beast-spirit coming, the primal thing that cast those creatures as its shadows into the world. It began to fill her, opening her eyes wide, filling her nose with scents of fruit and grass and earth and blood. She spoke, while she still could.
“Do you want me, Highhawk?”
“Yes.” The hunter was rocking where she kneeled, smoke twisting around her as another spirit rose into her. Her voice was a rough growl, echoing through the forest. “Yes.”
“Then hunt me.”
Highhawk stood, shoulders rising and falling as she breathed. She slipped into the vines and vanished.
The witch-girl stepped carefully, silently, through the smoky forest. The beast-spirit was riding her, and she gave it control, let it turn her head from side to side, staring through the gloom, listening. She felt drunk with the spirit’s animal simplicity, eager and afraid, hot coals warming her chest, lightning shivering down her spine. She grinned, leaning forward, baring her teeth and panting.