Longing's Levant

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  He refused to open his eyes. Even when his mouth was free of the woman’s hand, he would not look up at his captors. He would mutter no word. Humiliated as he was, shame filling his immortal soul, he kept his eyes closed until the moment the elixir invaded his system and changed his world forever.

  “Here it comes,” someone said with a knowing chuckle.

  The first thing Evann-Sin noticed was the intense heat that rippled through his body from the scalp of his head to the pads of his toes. It felt as though he had opened an oven door and stepped inside. The strength of the warmth was such that he tried to gasp in an equalizing breath, trying to cool his flesh, but the heat increased until every pore of his skin oozed sweat.

  Then the need began to build in his loins, flaring wide his eyes.

  “Ah,” the women sighed in unison when they saw their captive begin to squirm against the growing feeling in his shaft. They got to their feet and stared down at him as he arched his hips upward, groaning as need flooded his lower body.

  Never had he known such powerful lust.

  Never had he felt such a rigid erection as the one that now stood at attention between his thighs—throbbing, aching and oozing passion’s nectar from its swollen tip.

  Wiggling his hips in the sand, unconsciously straining his cock toward the woman kneeling between his legs, Evann-Sin began to pant.

  “Who is to be first?” the leader inquired, looking around her.

  “I drew the longest straw,” Sagira said breathlessly. She waited until another woman gripped his right ankle before getting to her feet.

  “Sheathe him well, then, Sagira,” the leader said.

  Evann-Sin’s eyes narrowed dangerously as Sagira began removing her short tunic. She smiled wickedly at him as the tunic slid to her feet and she was revealed to him in her youthful voluptuousness.

  “Like what you see, warrior?” she asked.

  “Go to hell,” Evann-Sin snarled, his numb tongue having trouble forming the words.

  “I’d rather take you to the heavens, my handsome one,” Sagira giggled then squatted over him, her wiry pelt poised at the surging head of his shaft.

  Digging his hands into the sand, Evann-Sin turned his head away, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. He could do nothing about the raging passion in his body but neither would he strive to take pleasure from the rape that was about to take place.

  Though he wished otherwise, Sagira was a beautiful woman with lush breasts and long tapered legs. She smelled of lilacs and when she leaned over him, her long hair tickled his bare chest as though a hundred eager fingers were caressing him. Her womanhood was hot and velvety smooth as it slid down the turgid length of him. The weight of her rump on his upper thighs, her pelvis on his lower belly spurred the hot passion coursing through him and he strained upward, wanting as much of his shaft to penetrate her body as possible.

  “Ride the stallion, Sagira,” a woman chanted and soon they were all saying the words in a hushed, reverent tone.

  Despite the rampant lust that stiffened his member to hardened steel, the warrior did not release his seed when he felt the lazy ripples of release pulsing through Sagira. He looked up at her as she threw her head back and a deep, satisfying groan escaped her arched throat. When she lowered her head and looked down at him, he glared her.

  “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it, warrior?” Sagira purred. “You should be pleased that you sated me.”

  “Am I to be honored that you find rape enjoyable?” he asked with a snarl.

  “I found it beyond enjoyable, warrior,” Sagira said, removing her body from his. She stood, accepting her discarded tunic from one of the other women.

  “Who is next?” the leader inquired.

  “I am,” the one called Hael replied. “Luka, Trista, Lanoi then Ijuni are after me.”

  “Don’t forget me!” Oriel laughed. “I’m before Ijuni! What of you, Lanoi?”

  “I am having my monthly,” the woman holding his right wrist said wistfully. “Else I’d be on him, too.”

  “You shouldn’t care about that,” their leader chuckled. “Have his ass just the same!”

  Evann-Sin’s howl of rage echoed through the night air but the women paid no heed to his vicious, vulgar curses as the next woman knelt over him and impaled her hot flesh upon his staff.

  Infuriated beyond reason, Evann-Sin glared at the women who raped him. In the undulating light of the campfire, he stared into eyes the color of summer skies and green fields and every shade in between. He watched small breasts, large breasts and conical breasts bobbing against tanned flesh and flesh as white as snow as the women rode him. He breathed in perfumed scents and musky odors that drove the wedge of passion deeper into his loins. He felt red hair and brown hair, blonde and black and silver hair fanning across his chest, tickling him. He tasted full lips and thin lips and lips that tasted of wine upon his own.

  One after another, they took him, satiating their lust. Each in turn rode him hard, wriggling their luscious bodies atop the steel of his sword yet his erection held. The release he began to pray would erupt held off until he was whimpering with the pain of the friction of their bodies against his.

  “Soon, warrior,” they whispered and began the rotation again with Sagira squatting over him and impaling her musky flesh along his still-hard length.

  “Please,” he began to beg, the need for release turning him to a quivering mass of hopelessness.

  “Soon,” they told him. “Soon.”

  Long into the night, they used him for their pleasure. His shaft was sore, the tip as raw as ground meat, when, at last, they moved away and stood in a circle, their hands joined.

  The first rays of the new morning sun would soon be cresting the trees. Already the false dawn was lurking on the horizon. The campfire had died down to smoldering embers and the desert air was cool as it played across Evann-Sin’s naked flesh.

  Tears were easing down his cheeks when the circle parted. He was whimpering with exhaustion, frustrated with need, helpless to the red-hot lust throbbing in his shaft. He turned his eyes to the movement on his left and watched a shadowy figure enter the circle.

  Dressed in a sheath of shimmering gold cloth, the material hugging her body like a second skin, the newcomer came to stand over him. He was stunned by her physical beauty and in awe of the magnetic persona that reached out to grab his attention with velvety claws. Her hair was as black as midnight. The thick tresses reached her ankles, rippling gently in the pre-dawn breeze. She gracefully knelt beside him and ran a cool hand over his chest, threading her fingers through the thick hair that grew between his breasts.

  “A prime specimen of maleness is this one, Sylviana. He will breed strong offspring. Come and take him now.”

  Mesmerized by the elegant beauty of the imposing woman kneeling beside him, Evann-Sin was barely aware of Sylviana positioning herself at the juncture of his thighs. So ensnared by this newcomer’s beauty, he did not smell the rancid odor that pervaded Sylviana’s overweight body nor the vile stench of her breath. His full attention was riveted on the seductive newcomer so that he barely glanced at Sylviana when she impaled herself upon his turgid staff.

  “You are ours,” the newcomer pronounced. There was a predatory smile on the seductive woman’s face. When she leaned over him, lowered her mouth to his throat, he made no protest.

  He drew in a surprised breath as her sharp teeth sank into his flesh, her lips pressed firmly to his jugular. The sting lasted but for a moment then peacefulness descended from the predawn sky as she began to feed on him. As he grew weaker, he closed his eyes.

  She is killing you, Evann-Sin, his inner voice warned. She is drawing the life’s blood from your veins.

  He found he did not care. The lassitude that had claimed him had placed him far beyond the shackles that bound him to the earth and had carried him into a realm of starless nights and infinite space. He drifted in the ebony abyss, reveling to the cold winds blowing over him, and knew immeasurable sere
nity.

  The newcomer removed her lips from his wound then circled the punctures with her tongue, laving the hurt. She stroked his cheek. “How do you feel, warrior?” she asked.

  He was satiated as he had never been before and felt loose-boned and lost in a mind-numbing fog. So tired was he, so weak, he knew he would not have been able to raise his hands even had his wrists been free.

  “Release your seed, warrior,” the newcomer commanded. She stroked his cheek. “We want your get.”

  Passion burst upon the warrior like a dam escaping its banks. Hot semen surged from his steely weapon and spurted copiously, and long into the waiting receptacle perched upon him. He could feel the muscles of Sylviana’s vagina pulsing around him as she reached her own strong climax and the sensation made him arch his head back and scream with the release.

  “I will bear a son from this mating,” Sylviana proclaimed as she ran her fingertips over Evann-Sin’s lips. “Consider yourself lucky I do not castrate you as I long to do. Perhaps you’ll live long enough to give my future son a sister or two to fuck!”

  “The dawn comes, Highness,” one of the women said.

  The Queen of the Daughters of the Night winced and looked fearfully to the horizon. Upon seeing the first fingers of light clawing up the heavens, she hissed, “You fed me well, warrior. It is truly regrettable that I cannot finish what I started. You are only partly of the Blood.” Placing her fingertips to her lips, she blew him a kiss then vanished as the first rays of the morning broke over the nearby dunes.

  As morning spread over the desert, the women took to their mounts and departed, each to her own village or settlement. The Akkadian warrior was left where he lay—naked and spread eagle to the encroaching, blistering sun.

  Sylviana, her hand on her belly, kept a secret smile on her fleshy face long after she slipped into bed. Lying awake, her thoughts on the handsome Akkadian whose seed was being carried within her body, she knew the child of their union would be magical. His blood tainted with the spores that had come from the queen’s sharp fangs, the boy would be of the queen’s ancient heritage. He would be shedim.

  Chapter Two

  Tamara awoke with a vicious headache that pounded through her temples with every beat of her heart. She found herself lying on a pallet of thick furs beneath a canvas tent. Sitting up gingerly, wincing, she looked about her. A small brazier on a tripod kept the desert cold at bay and beside her was a tin tray holding a bowl of fruit and a carafe of water. Hungry as she was, she ignored the peace offering and got up, swaying a little as she did. She stood still until the dizziness passed, then ducked under the tent’s flap.

  Though a fire blazed cheerily just beyond the tent, Tamara realized she was alone except for her horse. There was no sign of her fellow warrioresses or their mounts. Her horse had been unsaddled, hobbled for the night and left with a small amount of forage. Nearby, was a stream of water that trickled softly over rocks that gleamed in the moonlight.

  Putting a hand to her bruised neck, she vaguely remembered the vicious hit that had rendered her unconscious.

  “You are a dead woman, Sylviana,” Tamara hissed through clenched teeth.

  She knew where her sisters had gone.

  And why.

  Throwing aside the tent flap, she walked as fast to her horse as her pounding head would allow and searched for the saddle. Relieved when she found it, she bent down and retrieved the dagger and sword that lay beside it. Now, she had protection for she was alone in the vastness of the Quesa where thieves abounded. With a dagger and her own razor-sharp sword in hand, she felt more confident.

  Back in the tent, she laid the weapons aside and took up the meager food that had been left for her. She was ravenous and made quick work of the repast. After draining the carafe of water, her headache subsided somewhat and she lay back on the furs, grateful for the small comforts her sisters had thought to leave her. Reaching for her black dagger, she pulled it to her chest and turned to her side, facing the tent’s entrance. If danger presented itself, she would be ready with a hand that was well trained to the lethal blade.

  Just as she closed her eyes, thinking to rest them a moment and no more, she sat bolt upright, her heart slamming against her ribs for her horse whinnied, alerted to something beyond the perimeter of the encampment. Knowing it could be a predator of either the two or four-legged variety, she eased her free hand toward her sword and brought it up. With the ease of many years of hard training, she got to her knees then slowly rose up to a crouch as the horses whinnied once more.

  Not waiting for something or someone to attack, Tamara shoved aside the tent flap and rushed outside, ready to meet the threat. She blinked then squinted, a muscle in her jaw beginning to work.

  “Did you finally wake from your beauty nap?” Sylviana sneered as she dismounted the big black brute of a horse upon which she was riding.

  Seeing the woman she had vowed to kill, Tamara lifted her blade and would have plunged it into Sylviana’s belly but a movement to her right stayed her hand. Sylviana’s cronies were coming toward them, their hands on the swords at their hips. Casually, Tamara rested the steel of her blade on her shoulder. “It is not I that needs one,” she replied.

  Sylviana narrowed her eyes. “Are you inferring that I do?” she demanded.

  “If the description fits,” Tamara answered. She tapped the blade on her shoulder as the other women joined them.

  “Be careful what you say to me, girl. I am the leader here,” Sylviana snapped.

  Tamara smiled but there was no warmth in the expression. Her eyes were as cold as the steel resting on her shoulder. “Then perhaps I should challenge you for the leadership, for I have no intention of being tarred with the same dirty brush you have been for your vile action.”

  Sagira looked uneasily from one woman to the other. “What action is it you mean?” she asked.

  “Did you go after the Akkadian?” Tamara countered. Her stare was steady on Sylviana. “That is his mount you are riding, isn’t it?”

  A hateful sneer lifted one corner of Sylviana’s mouth, revealing an eyetooth badly in need of pulling. “What if it is?” she asked with a snort. “It was my right for the insult he threw at me.”

  “Did you kill him?” Tamara asked softly.

  Something in the way Tamara asked her question caused a ripple of unease to wiggle down Sylviana’s spine. “Not I,” she was quick to deny.

  One finely shaped brow lifted. “But he has gone to the Underworld, has he not?” Tamara inquired.

  “Our Lady came for him,” Luka said.

  Tamara nodded. “And was this before or after you raped him?”

  Sagira bit her lip. “It was our right to take him, Tamara. Such is the way of the Daughters. This you know.”

  “What was he to you anyway?” Sylviana asked. She put her hands on her ample hips. “He was fair game to any woman who could capture him.”

  Tamara lowered her blade so that the lethal tip pointed straight at Sylviana. “I had claimed him as mine.”

  “How was she to know?” Luka asked. “You did not say as much to us.”

  “Well, that is certainly too bad,” Sylviana sneered. “But it would not have changed anything. His life was forfeit the moment he dared to insult me.”

  “Just as your life is forfeit for daring to take what was mine,” Tamara stated.

  “Tamara, no!” Sagira said, stepping between the two women. “Fighting over a male is forbidden.”

  “And besides,” Luka joined in, “Sylviana is with child.”

  “A child stolen from the loins of the man whose seed I would have been carrying had you left him the hell alone,” Tamara said from between clenched teeth.

  “I will not claim dispensation for being with child,” Sylviana snapped. She drew her weapon. “Stand aside Sagira, and let me dispatch this sniveling bitch.”

  “You must not fight over a male,” Sagira warned. “The Tribunal will…”

  “We are fighting over the
leadership of this troop,” Tamara barked, and pushed Sagira out of the way. “That is allowed and even encouraged.”

  Sagira and Luka barely had time to scuttle back before Tamara and Sylviana clashed blades. The other three women of the troop who were watching from just outside the battle kept their distance.

  The two warrioresses were evenly matched. Both were skilled with the heavy swords they wielded. Both had trained under the tutelage of expert battle mistresses. Though Sylviana was stronger than her opponent, she carried more body fat and was quicker to wind than Tamara. By the fifth collision of the blades, she was breathing heavily—by the tenth, she was panting and beginning to sweat profusely, her ripe body odor causing several of the women to cover their noses.

  The sand beneath the feet of the women churned as they struck and parried, lunging at one another, jumping back to avoid the deadly thrust of the other. The music from the steel rang out over the desert air, punctuated by grunts and hisses escaping the throats of the combatants.

  Sylviana caught a hit low on the blade of her weapon and the screech of steel meeting steel vibrated through her arm as Tamara came nose to nose with the older woman.

  “You are jackal fare,” Tamara promised, and with relative ease pushed against her sword to send Sylviana stumbling backward.

  Sylviana nearly lost her footing in the loose sand but managed to right herself. With a bellow of rage, she came at Tamara, intent on bowling the younger woman over, sending her to the ground where she could skewer her with her blade.

  But Tamara stepped aside, and it was Sylviana who stumbled past, once more nearly crashing to earth. Instead, she spun around, her lips drawn back from her rotting teeth.

  “I will take your head, you worthless slut!” Sylviana screamed. She pulled her arm back, raising her blade to shoulder height then arced the weapon over her left shoulder.

  “Sylviana! Lower your blade!” Lanoi cried out.

  Tamara grinned. She knew Sylviana was beyond rational thinking and that expertise with the blade meant nothing once fury took over. Getting a firm grasp on the pommel of her own sword, she waited for the enraged warrioress to run at her, knowing Sylviana meant to swing the blade toward Tamara’s neck in an attempt to lop off her head. Flexing her knees, she angled her weapon slightly.