Fire in the Cave

by P. W. Chance

  She slipped behind Howl as she danced, pressed against her back, ran her hands down Howl’s arms until they were dancing together, movements mirrored. The witch-girl’s hands rode the backs of Howl’s hands, the witch-girl’s hips rode Howl’s hips, the witch-girl’s teeth gently tugging Howl’s collar as they swayed with the drums. Softly, the witch-girl pressed on the hands, guiding them up to stroke Howl’s throat, run down her body. Slowly, the witch-girl rocked against Howl’s back, until the witch-girl was leading their dance, Howl dancing as her puppet, her shadow. Close against Howl’s ear, she whispered.

  “This feels good, yes? Moving as I move you.”

  “Yes,” Howl breathed, eyes closed, rocking back against her.

  “You think of Black-dog, often.”

  She could hear Howl’s breathing, ragged in the heat of the cave, the raw pleasure of the dance. “Yes,” she gasped, finally.

  “You think of what it would be like if he used you.” The witch-girl guided Howl’s hands, one stroking her chin, her throat, the other gliding down over her stomach, along her thighs.

  “Yes. Yes.”

  The witch-girl smiled, eyes glittering. She had finally spotted Black-dog, moving through the crowd like a wolf through the wind-swaying forest.

  “You are my hand,” she whispered to Howl. “You move as I move you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You will go there, to Black-dog. You will kneel before him. You will open your mouth, show him your tongue.

  She felt Howl’s body shiver against hers. “Yes, I will, yes.” Her voice was a hoarse whimper.

  “Go now.” She gave Howl a push, and watched her sway through the dance and fall to her knees before Black-dog.

  The witch-girl grinned. She would wait a little while, now. She passed into a part of the dance that was all touching hands, a sea of them, and she sank into it. Finger trailed over her scalp and down her neck, down her back and over her bottom, over her thighs and stomach and breasts, all at once, leaving trails of stars along her tingling skin. She watched through the moving bodies as Black-dog bared his teeth, seized Howl’s head in his hands, pulled her forward to press her mouth against the base of his shaft. The witch-girl didn’t know if it was her own hands or another’s that began to gently stroke between her legs as Howl whimpered and panted, growing more obedient, more eager. Hands petted the witch-girl, rolling over her shoulders, down her back, making her stretch and grin as she watched. Black-dog had his hands in Howl’s hair, guiding and controlling her, making her nuzzle against him, lick him, a cruel little smile on his face. He pulled her back. Howl gazed up at him with wide eyes, adoring and fearful, wanting only to please him, as he slowly pulled her forward, filling her mouth with the heat of his cock.

  The witch-girl smiled, slipping forward out of the tangle of touching hands and rocking bodies, stepping through the dance toward Black-dog and Howl. Howl was working hard, working desperately, bobbing her head and stroking and licking. Black-dog loomed over her, eyes half-closed, one hand in her hair, growling with satisfaction as he enjoyed her submission. As the witch-girl approached, his head was slowly tilting back, his smile widening as he drew closer to his finish.

  The witch-girl grabbed Howl’s long braid and yanked her back, away from Black-dog’s body. “And now stop,” she said, sweetly.

  Black-dog opened his eyes, snarled, glared down at the witch-girl with rage and unsatisfied hunger. Howl gasped, panted for breath. She stumbled to her feet, looking from one to the other in confusion.

  The witch-girl smiled at Black-dog, and stuck out her tongue.

  Black-dog’s eyes stayed locked on the witch-girl as his hand shot out, seizing Howl by the back of the neck.

  “Move as I move you,” he growled.

  “Yes!” Howl gasped.

  “Hold her down.”

  He shoved Howl forward. She collided with the witch-girl, who fell with a shriek of delight with Howl on top of her. Howl scrambled to grab the witch-girl’s wrists, desperate to obey Black-dog. The witch-girl laughed beneath her, then smiled, purring, as her hands were pinned down to the soft earth. She looked up at Howl, admiring her panting, parted lips, her cheeks blushing so dark they half-hid the spray of freckles across them. Howl was close above the witch-girl, lying on top of her, looking down at her and smiling with triumph as the witch-girl stopped playing at struggling. Then Howl’s eyes went wide. Black-dog was behind her. The witch-girl grinned, watching Howl’s smile melt into confusion and need as Black-dog grabbed her hips. The witch-girl was close enough to see every detail, to feel Howl’s heart thumping in her chest as she bit her lip and half-closed her eyes, as Black-dog’s fingers stroked between the shy dog-keeper’s legs. Howl’s lips brushed the witch-girl’s cheek as her mouth opened wide, gasping, as Black-dog parted and stretched and pushed himself into her.

  Before the witch-girl’s eyes, Howl slowly came apart. At first, her teeth were clenched, her eyes closed in pain, but as the rocking began her face gradually relaxed. Soon her eyes were half-open, lips parted, gasping, as Black-dog forced pleasure into her. The witch-girl smiled, feeling her own heat rise, cushioned in wine and smoke and teasing, as Howl’s body moved against hers, Howl’s mind slipping away. By the time Howl’s eyes were open wide, rolling back, panting with her tongue hanging out as Black-dog rode her hard, the witch-girl was panting too. Heat burned between the witch-girl’s legs. Howl threw back her head, letting out a long, wavering wail, her body shaking and jerking against the witch-girl as Black-dog grabbed her neck from behind and forced her to come. As she went limp, Black-dog lowered her head toward the witch-girl. Howl’s lips were hot against hers as they came together in a long, sighing kiss.

  Black-dog gently lifted Howl off the witch-girl. Howl curled up in his arms, murmuring happily, as he carried her outside the circle of the dance.

  The witch-girl stretched and rose, savoring the memory of Howl’s ecstatic face, and Black-dog’s look of control and satisfaction as he took her from behind. The witch-girl could feel a warm knot inside her, wine and wanting. She bit her lip. As the dance spun around her, the witch-girl looked around, seeking Black-dog, seeking completion for that warmth inside her.

  Thick, strong arms wrapped around her from behind. Black-dog had found her first. His arm was across her eyes, blindfolding her as he pulled her back and down.

  She was sitting in his lap, held by his arms, a blind prisoner of his strength. She could feel him behind her, his heat and strength, feel the hunger in his lips as her pulled her head to the side to bare her neck, kiss, bite. His other hand was moving downward, petting her to make her legs slowly part, slipping inside to stir and make her gasp and move against him. The heat inside her was almost painful now, a fire burning her from the inside. She wanted him, needed him, needed his arms around her, and his teeth on her neck and his shaft inside her, needed him to need her and take her and use her up.

  She gasped in shock. He was stroking her, stroking her wetness down to touch her other entrance, to tickle and press and tease. It was strange to be touched there, and good, and the fact that he was doing exactly as he pleased to her made her heart thump and her chest flush hot with embarrassed desire. She was his, he was hers. He would die for her, and he could do anything he wanted to her. He would never even ask; there was nothing she would refuse him. And then he was pushing inside, and she could not think of anything at all. It was big, impossibly big, and strange and new and painful and good. She was gasping, mouth open wide, eyes still covered by his arm, body helplessly arching with the strain of taking him in. Slowly, slowly she relaxed, slowly his lips on her neck and his hand on her breast worked the tension out of her, let her take shaking breaths, her mind almost drowning in the sensation of being his. And then she felt him lean back, and pull her legs apart, and heard him speak.

  “Friends! Look at my love! Is she not beautiful? Is she not all that a man might desire?” She was blushing, his hand was stroking her inner thigh, offering her up, she knew they were l
ooking at her but she couldn’t see. He was still inside her, behind, she was still filled with him almost to breaking, and then he said the words she knew were coming: “Come, enjoy her! Share her with me!”

  The fire in her was roaring. She had never been so desperate, so aroused. There were hands on her, lips on her thigh, on her cunt, and she didn’t know who. They were all made strangers by the arm across her eyes, and try as she might she couldn’t tell them by their touch, by their smell, by the feeling as the first cock pushed into her, so sweet and strange with Black-dog still inside. Filled in both places, bound by Black-dog and joyfully offered to the world, she was riding a high wave of almost unbearable pleasure, past shame, past thought. She could hear herself moaning. Black-dog was behind her, embracing her, moving inside her as turn after turn was taken with her in front, strangers touching her, kissing her, filling her, pouring themselves into her. When she came, she screamed, and he was whispering her name, and she was screaming his.

  They lay together by the fire, all the tribe around them, on the edge of sleep. Black-dog was slowly, gently, stroking her hair. Her head was on his chest, hearing the great, slow beating of his heart. As her eyes closed, the witch-girl caught a glimpse of something. It was in the air, stretching between her and Black-dog. A binding. Not thick, crude leather. Hanging in the air between them, trailing between them everywhere they touched, were a thousand beautiful, shining threads.

  P.W Chance is 30 years old and lives in Chicago. Contact the author at pwchancebooks@gmail.com.