Fire in the Cave

by P. W. Chance

  She would have him. Tonight.

  She blinked, finally seeing what was before her eyes. The leash was finished. Oiled and braided, soft and strong, it hung in looped coils in her hands. She was breathing hard. Her cunt was warm, begging to be touched. A shiver ran through her as she closed her fists around the braided leather cord. There was power in it now, she could feel it.

  She looked up the wall, to Grandmother’s skull. Granny Rattlebones grinned down at her.

  “This will work,” the witch-girl said. “I am stronger than him.”

  Grandmother grinned.

  “You said to taste them both,” the witch-girl said. She smiled, rubbing a thumb over the smooth leather. “You said that I would know what to do then. But I won’t let him use me like Sparrow, make me into his beast, his toy. I will use him, instead. I will take him.”

  “Take,” Grandmother whispered in the night wind. The witch-girl heard the old woman’s laughter, far away. “Yes. At dawn. He’s the night, child. Waking’s when he’s weakest. Time for taking, when he’s waking. Warm him, charm him, find him, bind him. Tie it tight…” Her voice faded as a bird began to sing. Morning was coming, sunrise soon. The witch-girl rose, and stepped out into the morning fog.

  *********

  She took a torch and tiptoed between sleeping dogs and men, walking deeper into the cave, down into the darkness of the earth. Down in the depths she searched for him, following footprints on the sandy floor. Far from the entrance and the fire circle, far from the other men and the light from outside, down in the dark she found his lair. He was sleeping, nude, on a pile of thick furs. His dogs slept beside him. All around, hunt-trophies and treasures were piled heaps. Spears, axes, and knives were stacked carefully against the walls. His chest was rising and falling in long, slow breaths as he dreamed.

  She blinked in surprise. The walls were painted. She saw ochre deer racing across the vaulted ceiling, lean hunting hounds, flowing lakes and rivers. Her heart beat faster; making paints and images like this was witchcraft, he shouldn’t have known how. Her eyes followed the swirling forms, trying to understand the spell being worked here.

  In the center of the paintings was a great black man-shape with white teeth in its stomach, like a hunger that could never be filled.

  A dog growled. He was awake. He was watching her, dark eyes glittering, lying at ease on his furs. His tan skin shone red in the torchlight. His hounds rose to their feet and padded forward, circling around her, blocking her escape.

  She smiled. She knew what he would see, looking up at her: pale skin shining in the shadows, golden hair falling to hide one soot-dark eye. For this crafting, her lips were painted black as night. Bracelets hung at wrists and ankles, beads of turquoise, beads of jet black. Breasts and hips full and bare, for him to see. In one hand, a torch. In the other, a collar and leash.

  He rose, head nearly brushing the ceiling, dark hair falling forward as he leaned toward her. She could feel his eyes on her, on her thighs, her breasts… her throat.

  “Witch-girl,” he rumbled. “You are in my den.”

  She thought she would be afraid. Instead, she was only eager. He might hurt her, he might beat or choke or bite her, but she could endure. She would let the sensations wash through her, swimming in pain and pleasure like a fish in a raging river, let him do with her whatever he desired, and in the end she would bind him and be victorious. She held out the leash.

  “I have need of your strength, Black-dog. Your strong hands, to tie a knot.” She smiled up at him as he stepped closer, her eyes wide and innocent.

  He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrow. “And if I do this thing for you, witch-girl?”

  There was a tremble of warmth in her belly. She gave him a sweet, happy smile. “Then you can use me as hard as you want.”

  His hand moved like a striking snake. He grabbed her throat, under her chin, tilted her head back. As she gasped, his mouth found hers, hard and hungry, stealing breath from her lungs. His arm was around her waist, pulling her against him.

  She melted into him, arching her back to press her pale, cool skin against the heat of his body. He growled, his whole body moving and flexing against her as he pulled her closer. He released her throat and grabbed her hair instead, yanking her head back. His lips and tongue moved down her bared throat, kissing and stroking, his touch ticklish-hot on her neck.

  The ground dropped away as he lifted her. He turned, spinning her through the air, then threw her down onto the furs. Before she could rise, he was on top of her. The torch fell to the stone floor, guttering, throwing strange shadows on the ceiling as his weight pressed her down into softness, as his hair fell around her face, a black veil. His skin was warm on her thighs as she raised her legs and wrapped them around him, holding him close. His lips were on her neck again, she whimpered with the pleasure of the touch, his hips were grinding against hers. His shaft was pressed between them, rocking against her mound, waves of pressure between her legs as he held her down.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She had to focus. He was touching her, devouring her, he was overwhelming. She had to remember not to let him win, but only let him think he was winning. She could feel her decision eroding, feel the edges of it washing away like sand on the lakeshore. She could feel how good it would be to surrender, let go, let him do whatever he wished. She had to give him pleasure enough that he lost his mind before she did.

  She slid her hand downward, along his chest, his stomach. His skin was hot, riding over hard, rippling muscle. She reached down further, down to touch herself, finding shocking heat and wetness there. She moved her fingers slowly, gathering the wetness. It felt so good to touch, to feel how ready her body was for him. Whatever her mind was trying to plan, her body wanted him, wanted him to fill her and use her. She bit back a needy whine, then reached up and closed her hand around his shaft.

  He groaned happily, rocking against her, his hot, thick shaft sliding in her slippery fingers. She smiled, panting between parted lips. She could do this. She could make him feel more pleasure, make him lose control first. She could bind him with the leash and pull him toward her, make him mount her and use her and cry out in helpless joy. She just had to get the collar on him. She’d lost track of it in the confusion. Her eyes darted around the room.

  He had the leash.

  He had it in his hands, he had taken it from her while she was distracted. His mouth set in a hard smile of satisfaction, he slipped his hands beneath her and wrapped the collar around her waist. The leash, smooth braided leather, went down beneath her cheeks and came up between her legs. His hands moved quickly, tying a knot below her naval, above her mound. She was bound, a broad leather strap around her waist and a thick braided cord snug and tight against her most sensitive places. She shifted slightly and felt it moving, smooth and cool against her bottom, its width spreading her cheeks slightly apart. It felt firm and tight in her slit, already getting slick with her wetness. He tugged the cord, finishing the knot, and she let out a sobbing gasp as it tightened against her bud. It felt like the leather was tightening around the core of heat inside her, binding it, squeezing it with no hope of release.

  She gasped for breath, cheeks hot, looking up at him. He wasn’t smiling, now. He was staring down at her, a hunger almost like rage burning in his eyes.

  “I tie the knot,” he said, voice low, “With my strong hands.” He had one hand on the knot, the other on the leash that led out of it. He held the knot firmly, took a deep breath, and hauled back on the leash with all his strength. She gritted her teeth, bracing for pain, but the strap only tightened a little. Instead, the knot shrank, pulling tight, becoming a hard nut of twisted leather. A surge of helplessness rose in her. She wondered if he could untie her now even if he wanted to.

  She shifted her hips, and had to bite back a moan as the cord slid against her bud. Black-dog was standing, looking down at her, smiling at his work.

  “I tie the knot,” he said, pacing slowly around her, the lea
sh in his hand, “and then I fuck you as hard as I want.”

  He was standing behind her, now, above her head as she lay on the furs. She panted, trying to catch her breath, trying to think. It had all gone wrong. She was bound instead of him, she could feel his hand on the leash as if he were touching her directly, each breath she took made the leather shift and slide in her slit. Her mind raced helplessly. There must be some way to fix it, there must be some way to turn it around.

  Then his hand was in her hair, pulling, and he was pulling on the leash, too, tugging the cord into her, sweet painful pressure. He hauled her to the edge of the pile of furs, then relaxed his grip. Her head hung off the edge of the pile, upside down, throat bared, breasts rising and falling as she gasped. He was tugging on the leash in a steady rhythm now, the cord pressing and sliding in her, building heat. She flushed pink with shame. She had expected a struggle, but to be losing like this, to be lying helpless before him as he made her come with a dog collar and a leash, it was too shameful, too embarrassing. But she couldn’t make it not feel good. Couldn’t stop the sliding pressure, and the steady, strong tug of his hand. Her body lay limp, rocking as he pulled on the harness, glowing inside as the cord stroked back and forth in her tenderness.

  She looked up at him, standing above her head. His bare thighs, the tanned muscles of his stomach, his broad chest, up to his eyes, watching her as he played with her. His shaft was standing, hard; the underside was inches above her face. He reached down, stroked her neck and chin. She felt her mouth opening, moaning. He pushed his cock-head between her open lips, hot and smooth against her tongue, filling her mouth, blocking her breath.

  He rocked in and out, growling with satisfaction, still tugging the leash, using her body for his pleasure. She was getting dizzy. Each time his stroke pulled back she gasped a little air, but it wasn’t enough, she was getting confused. He was huge and hot in her mouth, her lips were wet and stretched around his shaft, her hips were rising and falling as she pressed against the tight, thick cord. She was moving with his tugging now, rocking her hips against the cord pressing into her. He was growling like a beast, he was tugging and thrusting faster, her head was full of clouds, her cunt was full of heat and sliding leather. She reached up, wrapped her hands around his cock, stroked him, trying to please him, trying to earn some more air… it was working, he wasn’t thrusting all the way into her throat now, she could breath as his head pushed in and out of her mouth, salty sweetness leaking from the tip onto her tongue. He groaned approval as she stroked him, tugging steadily on the leash. She had barely enough thought left to keep her hands moving, keep giving him pleasure so he would keep tugging, keep making her feel good, she needed only a little more, only a little more to come and break inside and be his…

  She was almost mindless. It felt so sweet. He was tugging, she was stroking, she was tasting him, he was pressing and squeezing her breast, moving in her mouth… a flicker of motion caught her eye.

  The end of the leash.

  He was holding it halfway down its length, firm grip, tugging, tugging. The slack, the extra length, was dangling and swinging right beside her head.

  She reached out.

  Her bud was singing, the smooth braided leather sliding back and forth over it. His cock was huge in her hand, fucking her mouth, heedless of her need to breathe. She couldn’t think. She felt his heartbeat in his shaft, thundering, knew his pleasure was rising to the breaking point. She took the leash in her hand, wrapped it around his shaft, and stroked him with the smooth, oiled leather.

  The cord tightened against her and she came, white light charging up from the heat between her legs to wash away her last traces of thought. He came, pouring himself into her mouth, a rush of thick hotness, painting her lips sticky white. She swallowed, swallowed again, gasped for air. Smiled. She felt like she was floating, like she was lost in a happy dream.

  He fell to one knee, panting, looking down at her. For a long time, they looked into one another’s eyes, dark into pale blue, blue into dark, shadows growing deeper as the torch slowly burned out. Outside, it was dawn. Here, in the heart of the earth, it was as if night was gathering again. There was something on the cave roof, she saw, that glowed. Something that gave off light, little specks like stars.

  Black-dog reached down and uncoiled the end of the leash from around his shaft. He glared at her, eyes shining in the gloom.

  He growled. “What did you do?”

  “Gave myself to you,” she sighed happily, “and took myself from you. I’m bound to you. You’re bound to me. No one else can please you now. No one else can feed your hunger, turn it into happiness and release.”

  He stood, a black shape in the darkness, eclipsing the stars behind him.

  “You are bound to me,” he said. His voice was deep, echoing through the cave. “But I will free myself from you. I will break your witchcraft, as my hands snap bones and shatter stones. I will leave you begging for my touch, as I walk free. I am Black-dog. I will not be bound.”

  He turned and vanished into the dark, his hounds padding after him. She was alone.

  She let out a long sigh, wincing as the motion shifted the leather that still bound her. She reached down, carefully exploring with her fingertips. The collar, sized for the largest hounds, was snug around her waist. It rested at the top of the curve of her hips, a broad strap. Not painful, not cutting into her skin, but definitely too tight for her to slip out of it.

  Her fingers found the knot, the hard-twisted place where the leash and collar came together. She worked at it, trying to pull it apart; her breath caught in her throat as the tugging shifted the cord, moving it in her slit and between her cheeks. She held the knot still with one hand and pried at it with her fingernails. Hopeless.

  She sat up, gritting her teeth against the sliding, pressing sensation, and reached down further. She took the cord in her fingers and pulled, pulling it a hair’s thickness away from her body, reducing the pressure, freeing herself for a moment from the sliding and rubbing. The collar tightened around her waist, the pressure on her rear hole increased, but for a moment, a blessed moment, she could let her tender bud rest… the oiled leather slipped from her fingers, tension snapping it back into place. The little impact shot a harsh wave of sensation up her spine, forcing a groan from between her teeth. For a moment, she lay helpless on the furs, arms limp, twitching with the aftershocks. After that little respite, the touch and pressure were even harder to bear.

  She lay there, gasping, wondering if it was witchcraft or pure strength that Black-dog had used to do this. They were bound, both to each other. She could feel him; she knew he was alive, felt anger, hunger, a sense of planning. Focusing on the link was making her remember, making her think of his body, the weight of him on top of her, the warmth that rose inside her. She closed her eyes tight, turned her mind away from him.

  She had to get out of this collar. Would that break the binding? No… the leather was no longer touching Black-dog, but he was still bound. If she cut it, though, got a stone knife and sawed through the cord, there was no way of knowing what would happen. It could free them both, or only one. Or the power in it, the power she’d put in and Black-dog had added to, could rush out like lightning and strike her dead. She needed to untie it, not cut it. She needed oil, and help.

  Moving carefully, the cord gently rubbing her with each motion, she got to her feet. She pulled a fur from Black-dog’s sleeping pile and wrapped it around herself, soft and warm on her skin. She reached out one hand to trail along the cool stone wall and slowly walked out of the cave, up towards the light.

  She would have to walk past the men.

  The morning sun was streaming through the cave mouth. The men were awake in the big, high-ceilinged cavern, fixing tools, telling jokes, cooking breakfast over the coals of the central fire. As she stepped out of the dark, their eyes turned toward her.

  She kept her gaze fixed on the cave mouth, the way out, the warm light. She straightened her back, he
ld the fur close around her, and stepped forward. The cord slid in her. She felt a flush rising in her cheeks. She stepped again, kept moving, feeling the eyes on her. Some were smiling. She knew what they must see: pretty witch-girl, clothing gone and hair wild, stumbling home after being Black-dog’s toy. Fucked until she forgot her name, like Sparrow. Still flushed and confused from being used. They were wrong, she hadn’t lost, she wasn’t like that, she had to tell them… what? Tell them that she was blushing and stumbling, not because she’d been fucked and broken, but because Black-dog had tied a dog leash over her cunt and it felt good? Open the fur blanket and show them the tight leather, the wetness on her thighs? Her face was hot. She was having trouble breathing.