by P. W. Chance
“They say that you speak with ghosts, witch-girl,” he called over his shoulder. “Listen well! You will hear your people’s voices soon!”
The witch-girl’s fingers gripped her knees. Her stomach was twisting. She hadn’t stopped them. She had barely slowed them down.
She would be safe. They wouldn’t dare attack a witch. They would simply kill or enslave everyone she knew. Everyone she loved, or hated, or mocked, or admired. Every friend and lover. And she would be left alone, exiled, free to wander into the wilderness and go slowly mad with loneliness.
She needed to buy more time. Time for the women to come in from gathering and arm themselves, time for the hunters to return.
There was one last thing that she could do.
The River-warriors were turning away, vanishing back into the forest. Her voice cracked as she called out to them.
“I ask for mercy!”
Ten-hands paused, looking back at her.
“I ask for mercy! You have me surrounded. I am your captive. I surrender, I submit.” She bowed forward, hair trailing in the dust, hands stretched out in supplication. “I will obey, I will serve. I will not resist. I will take no revenge. Do as you will with me for a night, but show me mercy and spare my life.”
A wave of whispers passed through the forest around her, the River-warriors muttering to each other. Suspicious. Greedy. She closed her eyes tight and bowed even lower, flexing her back, raising her hips, showing them the curves of her body. Her face burned with embarrassment, but she could think of no other way. She must offer herself to delay them.
She gritted her teeth, swallowing her shame. If she must do this thing, she would do it well. By all the ghosts in the earth and the lights in the sky, she would do it well. She would show these wide-eyed brutes the power of desire; she would make them want her, make them hunger for her, make them worship her body as they bruised it. She would make them mad for her, even if that meant they would tear her apart.
She raised her head, pale hair shrouding her eyes, lips parted. They were watching her. They were all watching. She spread her fingers wide in the dust and slowly raised her body, back curved, breasts hanging full and round. Ten-hands was staring. His hand was frozen in the air, reaching for his spear. The witch-girl drew her arms close to her sides, framing her breasts, pushing them forward.
Want me, she thought. Look at me, you blood-thirsting giant. Look at my skin, glowing in the sun, blushing with your stares. Look at my lips, my pink tongue running over them. Look at my face, pleading, vulnerable. Look into my eyes. This is an old, old spell I’m putting on us now. Want me. And then take what you want.
He was coming toward her, Ten-hands, tall and cruel. He reached down, grabbed her by the hair, turned her face up toward him.
“You want mercy, Cave bitch?” There was heat in his eyes. “Mercy, in war?”
The witch-girl whimpered, to hide her relief. He might kill her. But he would use her first, and then his warriors would want a turn. The Red Cave tribe would have time to prepare. They would live.
Ten-hands’ cheek twitched when she whimpered. He liked that. Liked seeing her pride break. She gave him more. Shame burned in her cheeks as she let herself beg.
“Please.”
His lips curled in a smile. She looked up at him, eyes wide, tears gathering.
“Please, just let me live.”
His lips split, showing his teeth in a cruel grin. His fist tightened in her hair. All around them, his warriors were drawing closer, watching, muttering.
“You have no magic at all, do you,” he said softly. “Just tricks and ghost stories. Tricks, like all of your clan. Tricks, like a wicked child.”
He pulled her head back, baring her throat. Her chest jutted forward. She gasped, the position painful. She could feel the warriors watching, feel their fear fading, their hunger for her growing as they closed in.
“Wicked child.” Ten-hands was loosening his belt. His breath was coming faster, she could hear it. As she surrendered her control, he was losing his. “Wicked, pale-skinned little cave slut. I will punish you.”
He hit her, hard. Her head snapped sideways, and a stunning light flashing in her eyes. Her cheek felt icy, a feeling that gradually thawed into pain as her mouth opened in surprise and she shook her head to clear it.
He grabbed her head in both hands. Before she could close her mouth, he hauled her forward, forcing his cock between her lips, choking her. She raised her hands to push him back, to pull away and breathe, but strong hands closed around her wrists and hauled them behind her back. The men were all around her, now, holding her arms, her neck, her hair, forcing her forward for Ten-hands to use.
Her eyes watered as Ten-hands slid in and out of her mouth. She couldn’t pull away, couldn’t even move. The time for planning and manipulation was over. All she could do now was try to please them, and try to breathe enough to stay conscious.
Ten-hands pulled away. She gasped for breath, drooling and coughing. His hand flashed out, slapped her other cheek. She could feel his stinging handprint lingering, like a pink sunburn on her skin. She looked up at him as he towered over her, grinning cruelly and flexing his hand, deciding whether to hurt her more. She opened her mouth to speak, but hands reached around from behind her and pulled a thick leather rope into her mouth, gagging her, tying it tight behind her head.
Ten-hands stepped away, took a seat on a stone. He patted his knee and beckoned. The men all around her laughed, lifted her, carried her forward, dropped her bent over his knees with her hindquarters in the air. Her arms were free only a moment before he caught them, the fingers of his left hand easily closing around both her wrists. Her head hung down toward the dusty ground, hair veiling her eyes, gag salty in her mouth from some man’s sweat. She felt exposed, embarrassed, flushing pink as the warriors gathered around, laughing and muttering and staring at her raised ass.
She felt Ten-hands shift, and clenched her eyes shut. He was holding her wrists with one hand, leaving the other free to… SLAP. The impact rocked her forward, forced a muffled cry out past her gag. She was just beginning to feel the sting, feel her bottom begin to burn, when his hand came down again, on the same side, rocking her forward, beginning a rhythm. Quick waves of pain shot up her spine with each blow. The pain never had time to burn and fade, but only to grow and grow with each slap of his hand on her left cheek, her right, her left again. She she felt like she must be glowing red as a hot coal down there, hot and stinging, whimpering around her gag as the brute enjoyed himself, as the warriors watched. Left cheek, right, left, and then she screamed as the hand came down low between them, pain shooting through her mound as he slapped it.
He wasn’t hitting her any more. She gasped for breath, choking. He was saying something to his men, she could dimly hear him speaking of punishment, of sharing, hear them laughing in turn. The pain wasn’t fading so much as settling in, turning into a hot, steady ache in her cheeks, a painful tingling in her cunt. She should listen. She needed to know what was coming next.
Hands on her back. Hands in her hair. Hands reaching down to cup her breasts and squeeze, to tug hard on her tender nipples. Most of all, hands coming down behind, spanking, slapping, pinching, smacking her thighs and cheeks, gripping her mound, running fingers up down her slit. Her eyes went wide with surprise and embarrassment; until they started touching her there, she hadn’t realized she was wet. But they were crowding around, hurting her, using her, enjoying themselves by toying with her helpless body, and despite the pain when they touched her cunt she was dripping. She was glad they couldn’t see her face, hanging down toward the dirt, burning with shame. This wasn’t what she wanted, wasn’t what she liked. It didn’t make sense that the heat of the pain was rising into her belly, that she was starting to ride the waves of shame and pain and almost enjoy them. It wasn’t right. She only ever felt this way with Black-dog.
At the thought of him, something broke inside her.
Hands gripped her breasts,
squeezing, crushing, and they were his hands. Blows rained down on her ass and thighs, and it was him hitting her, using her, pouring his anger and lust out onto her. The heat inside her was him, she was taking the pain for him, everything he wanted to do to her, everything painful and obscene, she wouldn’t say no, couldn’t, she rejoiced in his using her. Her body shook. All the air in her lungs left her in a long, helpless, muffled moan, as hands touched and squeezed her, as fingers slipped inside her wetness to curl and stroke and force more sensation into her.
They threw her down on the ground, on her back. Pulled her arms out to the sides and held them down. Someone tugged the gag out of her mouth and she gasped, tried to explain, tried to tell them what she was feeling, but the only words she could form were “please” and “yes.” They were crowding close now, coming down on top of her, and in the crowd she could see him, just in glimpses. His dark hair. The broad plane of his chest. His eyes, watching. “Yes,” she said. “Please.”
They forced her legs apart. Someone kissed her, biting her lip, then someone else was biting her neck while others kneeled over her, stroking their shafts, and she raised her head to kiss and lick at the underside of a ready cock, looking up with pleading eyes at the river-warrior she was serving, seeing only Black-dog. Then the first one shoved into her below, painful in her sore cunt, but finally, finally touching the waiting places inside her. She moaned mindlessly, arching her back. Her vision swam with images of taut-stomached warriors staring down at her with undisguised lust, stroking themselves faster and faster. The one using her was slamming into her, reaching deep, each impact of his hips on her sore mound making her cry out, his long hair spreading over her chest as he bent to suck at her breast, bite her nipple. And then he was pulling out, pouring hot whiteness onto her stomach, leaving her sticky, and another was taking his place.
By the third, she was begging. By the sixth, she was coming, whimpering and shaking as they held her still, never slowing, using her one after the other. By the ninth, her eyes rolled back in her head and she sank into darkness, leaving her body nothing but a mindless doll for them to fuck.
*********
She saw Black-dog’s face above her, ruddy in the firelight, hair as dark as the night sky above him. He was close, wonderfully close and warm. She laid her cheek against his shoulder. She didn’t want to wake from this dream. She just wanted to rest for a while, to take comfort in this fantasy where he came to rescue her. She just wanted to curl up next to his chest, feel his arms supporting her, listen to his slow, steady breathing. She sighed, watching the look of concentration on his handsome face as the lighting changed from firelight to pale moonlight, as they slipped away from the war camp.
The witch-girl blinked. She wasn’t dreaming.
Silent as a shadow, Black-dog carried her into the forest and away.
Chapter 7
I Know You
Tree trunks, black in the moonlight, slipped past them as Black-dog carried her deeper into the forest. He held her close against his chest, one arm under her shoulders and the other supporting her legs. He moved as if she weighed almost nothing.
She closed her eyes and pressed her face into his shoulder, her heart sinking. As much as she had longed for him, as much as she had dreamed of rescue, this would ruin everything. Twice, Black-dog had stolen a witch from the River-folk. They would be furious, their vengeance doubled. She could call out to them, cry out that she was being kidnapped, but that would only mean fighting and death.
His shoulder smelled of pine forest and male sweat. His arms rocked her gently as he carried her. His body was warm. She stayed silent.
They were far from the camp, now. A low, dark hill rose between them and the distant firelight. Black-dog’s hounds, Fika and Rika, appeared out of the forest like gathering shadows. He lowered the witch-girl to the ground.
She set her feet down. She felt crumbling old leaves beneath her toes, cool and soft. Black-dog turned away, crouching, retrieving something from beneath a fallen log. The curve of his back was beautiful in the moonlight.
“I have to go back,” she said. She kept her voice soft.
“No,” he said, simply and confidently, as if she had asked whether it was raining.
She backed away, one step. “I must. I may be able to stop the war.”
Black-dog pulled a bag from beneath the log. His back straightened as he lifted it and examined the contents. “No. Ten-hands will fight. He has more warriors than the Cave has hunters, and he will send messages to his cousin tribes down the river as well. He is tired of sticks and bruises, tired of being ambushed and tricked by smaller numbers, tired of shame and frustration. He wants blood. He dreams of it. But that is not what matters now.” He turned. His right hand trailed lines of darkness. The witch-girl blinked, and her eyes focused, told her what she was seeing: a nest of leather cords, straps, bindings.
She darted left, then turned right and started running as hard as she could. He was on her in seconds, hand on her shoulder, foot tangling her legs, guiding her fall into a pile of leaves. In silence, she struggled, trying to twist out of his grip. Trying to ignore the heat she felt whenever he touched her, the singing joy inside her each time she tested her strength against his and found him stronger, much stronger.
He held her down, grip firm and unyielding, weight pressing her into the leaves, as she strained against him. Finally, exhausted, she relaxed. As she panted, breathing in the earthy scent of the forest floor, he took her wrists. She felt him wrap a cord around them, quick and snug, binding them behind her back. She gritted her teeth and struggled again, kicking and bucking, fighting him, fighting the desire inside her that wanted to just let him do it, let him tie her and touch her and do whatever he wished with her. Alone with him, with his body so close above her, she could barely fight against the binding between them. Was he fighting it too? Or was it controlling him?
When her struggling slowed again, he bound her ankles. Then he bent her legs at the knee and tied her ankles to her wrists.
He rolled her on her side, then lay down next to her, watching her eyes. She panted and glared at him, her hair falling in a tangle across her face.
He reached out, gently, and brushed her hair back out of her eyes. She stared at him, furious. He was lying on his side, one hand supporting his head, the other idly playing with her hair. She was tied, helpless, straining against her bonds, and he was just watching her. The binding caused her body to arch toward him, thrusting out her chest, which was heaving as she fought to catch her breath, and he was watching from a foot away with his face as calm and composed as if he were watching falling leaves in autumn.
Her heart was thudding. Her mind was a mad storm of emotions; anger at being bound, thrilling joy at his closeness, raw and embarrassing lust for his body to join with hers. Deep and despairing sorrow, too, at the fate they’d stumbled into. Hopeless, to think they might be together. Hopeless, to think that they might both survive.
And there he lay, stroking her hair, face still and calm as if he felt nothing for her at all.
This is why I didn’t know, she realized. This is the face he showed me for years, while in his heart he loved me, or hated me. This silent mask.
His arm wrapped around her back and pulled her closer, pulled her against the warmth of his body. Her anger rose, but there was nothing she could do to pull away. She was pressed against him, her cheek against his chest, her stomach against the rippled muscles of his abdomen, her thighs against his.
I could bite him, she thought. I could turn my head and bite him. Or kiss him.
His heart thudded in her ear.
It was beating hard, raw and ragged. Deep within his chest. Deep behind the silent mask of his face. She listened to the thunder inside of him, the drums beating quick and fierce, the rhythm driven into a frenzy by her closeness, by the maddened love and hate he felt for her.
She closed her eyes, listening. Gradually, the beating slowed. She relaxed against him, bound and safe in his ar
ms. There was nothing she should do, because there was nothing she could do. So, she was free. Free to forget yesterday, and tomorrow, and simply be there with him, warm in his embrace, listening to his heartbeat.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and slowly let it out. There with him, alone together in the silent forest, she was happy.
Black-dog stroked her hair. She closed her eyes. They lay together without speaking, two beating hearts in the boundless dark.
The wind brushed through the treetops. The moon sailed behind a cloud.
Black-dog sat up. More straps went around her, crossed behind her shoulders, broad between her legs. He lifted her onto his back, looked up through the trees to the north star, and started to walk.
He carried her through patches of moonlight and shadow, the black shapes of the dogs keeping pace to either side. The witch-girl’s chest was pressed against his warm, broad back. Though she couldn’t move, leather straps supported her comfortably. She rested her head on his shoulder, letting the gentle rocking of his pace lull her towards sleep. She remembered the first time he had tied her with leather. He had left her arms and legs free, then, only wrapped a strap around her waist and between her legs. But it had felt harsh, violently sexual, like being taken hard. This time, even though her wrists and ankles were carefully bound, she felt comfortable. Safe. Like he was holding her helpless in his embrace.
They were going uphill. The wind was getting cooler.
Black-dog stopped at an old, dead tree with a staff leaning against it. He reached into the dark hollow of the trunk and pulled out a fur cloak. He shook it out and pulled it over them both, so that the fur warmed her back and the two of them looked out at the world from the same wide hood. He reached further into the tree and gathered a waterskin. He raised it to his lips, tilted his head back, and swallowed half the contents in seconds.