Every practitioner, every scholar of the arts should be aware of the power of the seasons. Wintersweet, bottled at the solstice: auguries and misty steps. Spring and The Mender’s gifts: blessed founts chilled by molten ice; verdant herbs, fresh or dried.
Earth and sky in confluence. Fool’s moon in autumn. Leashstar and Voidmoon above all. The oldest tabulations of the later predate the Republic’s founding, and the finest lenses are ground to track the former. The Sporestalks need neither. And if their date for High Summer were to differ from ours I would assume an impurity of glass or a mistake in writing.
Their sect hails from the boreal wilds. The woods surrounding the Gash’s source are said to house their sanctum, but I have not seen that fabled grove. Communities all along the river do welcome them, as healers and as priests. (For the role of Druidic sects in folk religion, see al-Thowou’s Mellorsinic Cults and the spirit world .)
Verruca, my primary informant, had roamed all the way down to Auster. Like the seasons, they move with the stars. As moons and planets follow their orbits, they bring these seers with them – though not usually all the way down to the river’s sugach.
Lacking as the Sporestalks are in a formal conception of the unmooring, their practices nonetheless should be considered as the missing link between the wild sorceries of the primitives and the advanced arts. In the view I am hoping to advance, they are not merely vessels for quasi-divine powers, like for example the shamans of the steppe orcish and boreal human tribes, but instead utilize a unique approach to high magic through celestial ritual.
It is in the celebrations surrounding High Summer we find an explanation of both components necessary for the arts. First, it should be noted that the importance of the day of High Summer itself tends to be overstated in most accounts. While the confluent zeniths of Leashstar and Voidmoon produce the aforementioned spike in arcane potential, this peak extends for multiple days before and after the actual astronomical event. Furthermore, the folk religious demands surrounding the day often make complicated preparations and techniques impossible to perform during the date itself.
Secondly, a reliance on the absolute maximum implies an amount of intent the sect actively shuns. They envision themselves not primarily as wilful actors on the natural order, but rather as the agents of its will. This is in part a clear act of self-deception; their subdivine spirits may express feelings, or even something approaching appetites, but the world itself is, of course, fundamentally empty, a vessel to be acted on by gods and ensouled mortals.
My third point is then their paradoxical self-creation. They may deny their own will, but they do manifest it. Change is a tool for the trained practitioner. We are and are not what we will, and the self, the knowledge of the self, are the necessary origin and the absolute limit of the art. Sporestalks, on the other hand, are who they believe to be.
Neither dragon, nor fey, but the bestial is their source. And as such they are changed. Not human, not dragon, not demon, not fey – not even orc – but beast. Whether or not our conceptions of bloodline and lineage even hold for them is a question unsettled by the literature, and my own observations do not suggest an easy answer, one way or the other.
Most are eager to follow. Blood may or may not command them, but they obey. In the weeks before High Summer they venture deep into the wild and – and by decree of the administration the details will be omitted.
Others, more similar to us than some might wish to admit, seek mastery. “Has it worked for you,” I asked my informant, “ever?”
She lodged in the hospitality room of The Ferryman, where I had taken the roofside suite. From courtesies shared at breakfast, over common choices in entertainment, to entertaining conversation, we had grown closer over two weeks. The beliefs and practices of her sect proved an intriguing filed of study, and she was willing – eager even – to share her insights. We had even begun to share our food during the meals, with her feeding me meat dishes and her deserts, asking only bread in return.
“Not yet,” Verruca said. (I never asked a clan name.) “Last year, I experimented with blightroot. That made it worse. Cold sweats, racing heart, and I got so fucking wet. As a swamp.
It was like a downpour after summer heat, like the raging sea. And I fled. Then came the loss of control: growth of fur and claws, a tail even. And you know the properties of untreated orcish healroot. I don’t remember everything, but…”
Following the publishing guides of the Library Commission and the Student’s Bureau’s decision concerning teaching material, I will continue to withhold the salacious details.
Suffice it to say, her story made its impression on me. Scandalized but laughing and – I am not ashamed to admit – somewhat aroused, I offered well-considered praise:
“A stunning tale – I’d have given up after that.” And after a pause: “What are you doing for this year?” High Summer was a week away, and I sensed that I had stumbled onto a veritable experiment.
“On the season before that I had some initial success with fasting and meditation,” she said. “I still ended up fucking my way through Ingveer, of course. It started out innocent enough: I’d meet a likely lad, and we’d spent the night together. Might not’ve been the season at all. Soon, however, any offered drink or a single sweet laugh were enough to get me into bed. Or into an alley. Or on my knees right by the counter. One wouldn’t be enough, and I’d have two or three each night. Then two or three at once. During days as well. I missed the festival and spent the day on my back instead.
I am no longer welcome there. Even in my haze, I saw the bloodied knife. He had murdered one rival already, and seeing me like that – it broke him. There was a howl; inhuman and wild – I think I enjoyed it. Then he attacked. Ten against one, but his weapon did cruel work. They beat him to death.
I am a skilled healer – usually. However, I hadn’t brought any herbs, and I could not rightly see. One was fucking me all the while – I think. The blade had missed his heart by inches. It was lodged under a rib, and they had gotten him before he could pull it out again. I staunched the bleeding – somehow. It got removed later and the bone did heal, maybe.
There is always a price. Even for us; especially for us. Power taken from nature, from herbs. Or from the song of the spheres, this close to High Summer. Even from blood, from life’s flow. I do not remember what I did. I probably came on some mule driver’s cock and smeared his injury with our discharge. It might’ve been the spirits. Fur started to grow, and his eyes turned bestial. Or maybe ’twas wood. Bark scabbing over the bleed and knobby branches sprouting along the rib. The others preferred to bind their own wounds and to go see an alchemist.
One was found poisoned the next day. They hanged his betrothed, but hurled stones at me as they chased me away.”
“Dragon’s Mercy!”
“Yeah. Live and grow. Live and grow.”
“And now?”
She laughed. The shadow of her palm fell over our empty plates and the pitcher of water we shared. “I keep clean. And I have studied, and I have travelled; all the way to the Shears – if you can believe it. Mother, Father and Child keep jealous guard over the ports on the big islands, over Schwarzscharf and Helgeland. On the small isles, however, on the lonely rocks where five families and a hundred sheep share an orchard, the Moonshadows still hold sway.”
“They are another sect?” I produced notebook and coal pen from my robe.
“Yes. They are watchers of tide, and they follow the call of the sea. Shoals of ice float past the islands in winter, but they cloak themselves in seal skin. They taught me much, and I collected salt grass and sinner’s sponge. The lynchweed grows better here, and I got it while in bloom. The mash doesn’t taste half bad, mixed with milk. I meditate, in the morning and at night, and the spirits whisper in my sleep.”
“You meditate?” I asked and made another note.
She gave me a knowing smile. “Not like you people. We don’t do weird breathing and nonsense syllables. I find a quiet spot instead. Somewhere surrounded by bushes and roots. And then I’ll fill my cunt with my a wooden fuck-stick.”
“Gramercy,” said I.
Distant thunder roared. The air brimmed with aetherized energy. Lightning flashed and rain fell in heavy drops on the window sill. She stretched. Wiry muscles rippled under her tight shirt and her small breasts pushed against the buckskin. “Speaking of,” she said, “I should get going.”
“Do you need help?”
“No. Thank you.”
We both watched the floor, or our cups. The thunder rolled closer.
“It’s raining.”
She rose. “I’ll manage.” She may have smiled.
“See you tomorrow, then?”
“See you tomorrow.”
Auster is not famed for its wines, but The Ferryman did import some decent vintages. I drank away my embarrassment and began to compile my notes. Tried to. When I motioned the serving girl for another jug, the rain had stopped.
The puddles outside glowed with the golden-orange sunset. A soft breeze cooled my skin, and on the back porch the hubbub of the teeming, steaming masses felt far away. I sipped from my cup, and did not think about anything.
Bloodpeepers flitted above the already stagnant rainwater. The first moonbeam convinced me. A snap of my fingers, and their corpses disgorged the stolen fluids. Not without a pang of guilt, I murmured the incantation. The pool rippled, but my contrition proved needless.
I saw a tree instead. Knotholes and weathered bark formed a withered face. It laughed at me. The twigs and leaves quavered; stronger than the weak wind. They moaned in my ears; harmonious and mirthful.
I did not sleep well that night. My sheets were filthy from sweat, and the dreams came in dreadful fits. No spirit whispered to me; instead my mind, boiling and licentious, formed delirious promises. The flies took their revenge on my drowsing form, and I could barely breathe in the stale air.
Someone had brought cold water for my morning ablutions. As ordered. The rooster had not yet crowed, and I felt like I had not slept at all. I washed away sweat and dirty visions. The unseen servant had prepared my toiletries. I shaved my face and, after a moment’s hesitation, my crotch. The perfume burned on the fresh cuts. The smell of ambergris and yrsun oil. Massaging the slackening skin, I willed back beauty into the dying loam.
Dressed in my best robes, yet tired still, I shuffled downstairs to get an early breakfast. Verruca was waiting at our table. “Don’t you ever sleep?” I asked.
She did not answer. A strange paleness had griped her usually youthful face. Beads of cold sweat ran from her temple. The heat had not bothered her before.
“Are you alright?” I sat down beside her and extended a helping hand.
“It’s time,” she said. Her breathing was ragged, and when she grabbed my arm I noticed the wet film along her fingertips.
“Dragon’s Mercy!”
“Yeah. I fear there isn’t much more to be done. I won’t run – and my thoughts are slipping. It’s begun.” She licked her lips. “I need your help.”
“But of course. Anything.”
She laughed mirthlessly. “We’ll need a room. You choose – I can’t – not anymore… Let me just – first…” She had moved her right hand back under the table and now she shuddered. Even more dew clung to her fingers when she offered me her hand. “Now.”
She stumbled after me until we reached my room. On the threshold, she threw herself into my arms and yielded her half parted lips to my kisses. “I need to be fucked,” she panted.
I had gathered as much.
The room door closed shut behind us, and I tore open my robes. Loll-tongued, she dropped to her knees and eagerly accepted my girth. She sucked and slurped and sucked, until I was close to bursting.
“By the Dragon, I am close!”
“No! Fuck! No! Fuck my cunt!” Panting, she led me to the bed. “I need it.”
The green linen and soft leather of her shirt gave easily, and I revealed her spread and readied legs. She squealed as I thrust into her warmth; once, twice, thrice – and I could hold back no longer. The first spurt into entered her depths, and the second hit her belly. Jerking, groaning, I rose, and the rest disappeared between her strawberry lips.
“More.”
The antler buttons on her jacket had come undone, and I stripped it away. Sweat covered her body, dripped from her pert tits and clung to stiff nipples. The wild taste of pine and rutting beasts.
“Fuck!” She only stopped her obscene pleas when I stuffed her mouth. Sucking and gargling, she returned the blood to my cock.
“I want your ass!” The cruel edge in my voice surprised us both.
For a moment, disgust and hesitation flashed on her cum streaked face. Shame even. “I’ve never, not even…”
But I saw her fingers. She had filled the void the moment I had withdrawn. It had not been enough. Fast and manic she had plunged into herself, but she had been unable to overcome the celestial pull. She gobbled down my prick, and, cock-drunken, she convinced herself.
“Anything.”
The smell of fire and thyme filled the air. Her fingers moved like snakes. Spurts of golden grease bubbled, like molten butter, from the tips. She spread her cheeks and opened herself to me.
Cooling spit lingered, connected me to her luscious lips for a moment longer. As I touched her hips, I felt a furious calm. Carefully, I prepared myself. I probed the ring with my fingers and poised myself for entry. The need to rut, to dominate, to take, to fuck had come and gone and I would be gentle. But she bucked against me and impaled herself.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuuck!”
“Quite.” Seizing her hair, I forced a kiss on her lips. The need had returned. “You’re amazing. You’re a slut. You’re an amazing slut.” I re-entered her in a single thrust. Her sides caught between my vise-like grip, I mounted her. Fluid gushed from her cunt, and her curses and moans became incoherent.
I did not last long.
“Fuck! More! Fuuck!” Fire burned between half-lidded eyes, and her only movement was to finger at her overflowing holes. “More.”
I fed my spent, filthy member to her ravenous lips, but I had given her my all. “I need a break.”
“Get someone else! Anyone!” She seized my neck. “You don’t get to play jealous. I need to be fucked! Find me a cock! Cocks! Anyone with a tongue! Some girl to lick me clean! Anything with a tongue or a cock!” Her begging descended into untranscribable obscenities, into incoherent howls.
Vowing help, I dressed myself. My steps were unsteady, and I must have looked odd and dishevelled. Hot, humid air filled the dark corridor, and quiet the lonely staircase. It was early yet, even though I felt in dream – or in the Second Circle.
The common room was empty, but two of the staff took their breakfast in the kitchens. The stoves and ovens had not yet been lit, but the heat was rising already. He had removed the heavy dress jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. She wore a starched apron and a short skirt, and little else.
“Magister!” She curtsied, buttered roll in hand. “Is everything to your satisfaction? Do you need more water? I swear it was deep-cold when I fetched it, but with the heat there is only so much we can do.”
“Everything has been delightful. Thank you,” I assured her. I have trafficked with the denizens of all seven hells, but pimping out the lust-crazed Sporestalk was a new experience. “Actually, I was wondering if I could get some help with – with a heavy load.”
“Certainly,” she said.
“Actually, this might take a man’s doing. You there…”
“Andy, Sir.” He gulped down a piece of roll and hastened to his feet.
“Excellent. Andy, if you’d please…”
“Certainly, Sir.”
On our way up the stairs, I vainly searched for the words to forewarn him.
“Fucking Chains!” He had opened the door, and explanations had become unnecessary.
“Gimme your cock!”
“I am sorry, mi’Lady, I cannot.” Andy had paled. “Junia and I – we are in love. I could never do her dirty. Treat her like that. I should – I need to – I beg your leave.”
The early bright is augur’s light. The alignment so close, for once the energies aligned. I saw. Verruca might have as well, if she was not writhing on the bed, begging each of us in turn to take her. Motes of daybreak danced on mind’s stairs and heralded her arrival, or I might have heard her footfalls instead.
His soul was clear to read, however. Desire, the kind they price on the Tatters. I do not judge. And liar’s guilt, the kind only the most leal domestic can experience. His face may have betrayed him anyway, or the deep shade of red might have been caused by him watching the frenzied druid.
And I, I waited. These are the rare moments when the real unmooring happens, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. I conducted the events, and I was conducted in turn. For moments of bliss, I was numb to his stammered explanations and insensate to Verruca’s begging. Then I ripped open the door.
“Eep!” she said.
“Junia!” said her ‘lover’.
“Welcome,” said I.
The blessed light darkened, but I could read Junia’s being for a few precious heartbeats more. Tatters’ desire consumed, annihilated embarrassment. A similar lie, shared often and with practised ease. The bucket and clean – mostly – wash-cloth in her hand must have been The Fox’s will.
A shuddering Verruca whimpered, and I did not even need to point.
Water dripped from the soft rag, and with a wet squelch the maid began to cleanse the gaping holes. A last flicker of hesitation, and, shuddering, the maid extended her tongue. “Fuck. Fuck! Fuuck!” Verruca complained, moaned, begged, commanded.
“Mhm,” I mumbled – but I was still spent. Sunlight hit the room, hot and bright, and new magic rooted me on parted lower lips. Junia had cupped the druid’s breasts and teased her nipples. A last inspiration befell me, carnal and needful: “There is another. The groom. Get him.”
“Bart?” Andy asked, relieved.
“Sure,” said I and shrugged.
“I’ll go get him,” he said and scurried away. The door banged shut behind him, and he rushed down the stairs with hurried steps.
Junia lifted her head. Disgust had overwhelmed lust. “Bart is an ugly man. He’s got an ugly body; corpse-like and white like wax. And he’s got cruel dreams, cruel and ugly. I don’t like him.”
She would say that, though she did not seem to mind me. “Best hurry, then,” I said.
Junia paled, reddened and paled again. But she stood, and hiked up her skirt. Wet splotches covered her panties and darkened the resplendent green dye of the fabric. She tore them off and threw them away. I caught the token, and by her wink she may have intended it. “Watch,” she mouthed and crawled onto the larger woman.
“Fu…!” Verruca’s complaint disappeared between the servant’s thighs. She continued her muffled protests, but moved her tongue. Sweat beaded both women, and their moans filled the air. The servants high-pitched and fevered; Verruca’s low and rumbling.
The smell of sweltering sex filled the room. I closed the blinds. The rising sun no longer burned, but humid heat remained.
“Thank you!” Junia screamed; whether she meant me or the druid, I could not tell.
I sat down by their side. Verruca was overflowing, even before I placed my hand between her legs. A forest stream, clean but wild. Pine and Warder, honey and spice. The servant tasted human, and a curious expression replaced sheer lust when my tongue touched the stained fabric.
Her soul already bared, I reached an outer shell. Their nerves and their animal brains. Veruca’s dominant, a ferocious wolf or rabid dog. Junia’s hidden still, guarded and controlled even as she convulsed atop the other woman’s mouth.
She came. They came. Sound and smell were dulled and distant – I had reached to close. Colours and sparks enveloped me. Shaking, I fell. Blood rushed through my veins, hounded by my raging heart. And – slowly and painfully – my cock reawakened.
Each of us had grabbed one of her hands. Me her left, and Junia her right. “Dragon’s mercy,” I said. The servant opened her mouth, but we heard the steps outside. Heavy boots, slow and searching. She instead bucked against Verruca, and, panicked, claimed another sticky orgasm.
“We are in here, lad,” I said, after.
A lanky young man opened the door, gasped, and shut it behind. He wore simple clothes. Brown breeches and muddy boots, and a once-white shirt. Sweat covered a pale face, and he reeked of horse shit.
Junia stood, hurriedly dressed and eyes downcast, far apart from the bed, and from the writhing wild woman. His eyes skipped her right over, and I could hardly blame him. Verruca offered up her body to him, to us. I tore my gaze away and gave the satisfied servant a wink and a not particularly subtle nod. She returned it and then slithered away.
He did notice me, after a few endless moments. Keeping his eyes square on mine, he addressed me: “Beg your pardon, Sir, I figure I figured wrong. I’ll leave you and your lady-love be.”
“Cocks!”
“I do not think that will be an option,” I said, “I can go, should you wish for privacy.”
But the boy had pulled down his simple pants and already prepared himself. He did not look better nude. Flabby, white skin covered brittle bones, and smudgy tattoos betrayed a foiled dream of military service. His cock stood proud, however, and the naked woman yelped with glee.
Pain and need fought inside me, as I beseeched whatever deity would listen for strength. Bart did not need any help. He howled in triumph and claimed her waiting hole. And she, raving and shaking, goaded him on.
Something gave, and I was on her. I kissed her lips, and I felt the quiver. Her hands explored my body. She popped buttons, undid bows, and tore at the fabric. Soon my robe was done away, and her hands were on my cock.
She moaned something, and I lifted her up. Hooked high between us, she squealed like the pig on the spit. I kneaded her swinging tits. Goosebumps ran to her stiff nipples, and a rolling purr escaped from deep inside her throat.
Each of his thrusts buried her regal nose deep in the coarse field of my pubes. Spit soon covered my prick. Her throat was the tightest, sweetest prison, and I would not last much longer.
“More!” Verruca demanded as soon as my still spewing cock unlatched her tongue. The groom held on for a bit longer. But her frenzied need and focused furry overwhelmed him. “More!” Licking her lips and scooping him from her loins, she begged again.
I was beat and admitted as much.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said. The groom had redressed himself in a hurry, and his eyes darted to and fro, away from my nakedness, to the wall and back to the wild woman’s stained body. “I was in the Drum, yesterday. Place’s a dive but it’s cheap. Meet some legionaries. Orcs. Hard drinkers, and hard fu- lov- fuckers. They are down for everything, everyone knows.”
“Get! Them! Bring! them! Here!” Veruca sat upright on her bed, and the sun burned in her eyes.
“You heard her,” I said, and found my robe. “I’ll come with.”
He nodded, clearly uncomfortable, but he led me to the establishment. I had never seen The Ferryman’s hospitality room, but it had to have been less horrible than the piles of dirty straw I saw at the Drum’s. Looming, tossing shapes arose as soon as the stable hand opened the door. “Whadya want?” asked the largest. Bart said nothing.
Flaming reds and muted greens covered their stirring forms. They had slept in uniform, wrinkled cloth, and battered. Some wore leather, some even mail. A few grabbed their close-by weapons; belts with sword and long knives, and wicked axes.
They laughed at my explanations; rough grunts, and deep. But they invited us to the common room where they enjoyed free reign. Their leader seized the tap and drew our meals. Mostly foam and an insipid body, it was the best and worst breakfast I have ever had.
Again, I described Verruca’s condition in excessive detail. Raucous laughter followed. Some suspected a prank, and others even joked about Imperial attempts at subversion. Behind loud words, however, I detected something else. Looks and subtle motions, Legion training or bloodline secrets. Not all jokes were, but some wanted to believe.
“Look,” I said, “she’s just across the road. We can go and take a gander. I am but a humble scholar, and you already know my buddy Bart here.”
“It’s hot,” one said.
“Chain-kissed swamp-town,” another answered.
“You lead,” the one behind the counter commanded.
I shrugged and did so. The hairs on my neck bristled and stood, and I knew that they were fingering their weapons behind me. The sun burned the deserted dirt road, and a seaward wind covered us with sallow dust. In my deepest inside pocket, I found the rings. The shearstone whispered softly, the miry mouth of the Gash just out of range. The fireseed set in brass fit my trembling finger perfectly.
A bright flare sparked as it consumed the sunlight and singed my skin. That little pain a small price. Should the worst have happened, I could have taken them all. They whispered behind me – it might have been close.
We reached the common room of The Ferryman, and found it empty yet. Their shapes were distorted in the polished bronze behind the bar, but even their loudest, crudest jokes could not hide the growing distrust. One swatted away a fly with his left, but never took the other hand away from the broad dagger on his hip.
“Don’t like that,” he said.
“So you said the last time we gave some human slut a taste of orcish pride. Maybe stick to sticking it to long-ears – or their men.”
Bellowing laughter filled the narrow stairway; rough and too loud. Too loud for me to hear their footfalls or the movement of their hands. And too long to even sound natural. This close a dagger would be fast – too fast maybe. Bart joked with them, but I saw the beads of sweat on his brow.
Relief washed over me when I opened the door. I cleared the through-way, and they fell silent immediately. Her dress, heedlessly discarded on the bed. The ritual scars on her neck and under her breasts. Her hands between her legs, dancing a rabid, crooked dance; as if in mad prayer. One bowed and mumbled a greeting in his native tongue. Another turned as if to run away.
“Just fuck me!” She crawled towards them, and growled something. Guttural syllables, Steppe-Dwarven. I did not understand the words, but her enunciation left no doubt: “Just fuck me!”
In the corner of my eye, I saw the leader. He was talking to one I had not noticed before. Smaller than his brethren, hunched over and gnarled. He wore a scarf in the colours of the Fifth Legion, but nothing else that would have identified a Republic soldier.
“The spirits… Blessed whispers.”
“Agree.”
“Signs… Safe and holy.”
“Nice.”
“Fuck! Fuck me!” she interrupted their whispered conversation with renewed mewls.
The leader laughed. He pushed her up, and he lifted her high. He took her standing against the wall. His heavy gear; leather robe and a scintillating stone axe, he had dumped on the floor. But he had kept a piece of soft cloth, printed with colourful hunting-scenes, wrapped around his waist. His body slammed into her, and her high-pitched, fevered moans aroused not only jealousy.
The other members of his merry band had claimed the bed for themselves. They shared strong alcohol from an earthen jug and a gourd pipe filled with taback and lynchweed. Soon the heady smoke burned in my lungs, and the foul brew in my throat. Blood rushed back to my loins, and my veins pulsated with renewed vigour.
They had each removed their leather and mail. Most were naked, but a few wore the same colourful shawls around their hips. Bart, naked again, mingled with them. I too removed my robes. We were all stroking our erections.
A roar. By the wall, the giant orc had forced her to her knees. The swaying loin-cloth hid her head. Her loud, lewd slurps from underneath filled the room. Spit and gobs of amber-coloured precum dripped to the floor. He roared again, and she gargled as she desperately tried to clean his cock. He stepped back. Streaks of yellow covered her face. Thick ropes clung to her hair and oozed from her forehead. Her left eyelid was glued to the ridge of her nose, and a small, marshy river flowed lazily from between her half-opened petals.
The servant took too deep a drag and started to cough. A harsh, hacking rattle, and sick sounding. The soldiers laughed and one clapped his shoulder. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Even wracked by his fit, he had not stopped rubbing his veiny length. “Fuck!” He stumbled, weak-footed, across the room, but he did not make it. The first spurt hit the floor and the second her body, and then her nimble fingers guided him into her mouth. He finished in her throat and slunk back to the bed.
“Chains,” said one of the naked ones. He had found the deserted bucket and dumped her with tepid water. Dirty droplets flew in all directions as she cleaned herself like a butcher’s dog in the rain.
Shaking and sputtering, she never stopped massaging her overflowing sex. The one with the bucket grabbed her by the wet hair, and he dragged her kneeling form to the middle of the room. There he feed her his cock. The fully naked among his compatriots joined them there. Encircled by grey-green cocks, she served them in turn. Sensing a gap, I stepped up too.
She had noticed. A mischievous light shone in her eyes, and then her hands reached my cock. Their claim to her mouth was absolute, but she favoured me with her hands. Left. Right. Faster and faster.
One grunted, and she swallowed it all. Two others lifted her up. Arched between them, she was fulfilled. Finally, crudely, fully. A languid gaze from her half-opened eyes drew me in. Muscles tensed and sweat glistened. Moving her arms like this must have taken superhuman will. Or unnatural need. Trees rustled and the sun looked down on me. Natural need.
One stood opposite me, and we had each grabbed a tit. Her other hand had disappeared under his loincloth, and she rewarded each squeeze. Then the chanting started.
My attention had slipped away from the wizened one, but he now stood, naked and erect, flanked by his chanting companions. The stink of dog root, roostertooth sap and bear fat; the salve thick on his cock.
At both ends, the men redoubled their efforts. Soon another load of thick semen covered her face and drooled from the corners of her mouth. The other needed a few moments longer. He fucked her to the bed and rammed her into the creaking mattress.
I was left standing; stroking my cock and watching. Her form hidden under his raging bulk. She moaned and screamed, until words formed: “Hurry up! Fill me up! I need it in my ass!”
A howl marked his explosion. He withdrew from her dripping, covered body. Sensuously, she turned around and raised up her backside. Their voices reached a crescendo. And he approached.
His ancient knuckles cracked as he spread apart her cheeks. He asked something and she answered in their tongue. A prayer or a desperate plea. He jammed into her. No wind-up, no more warnings; he took her backdoor like a cunt.
He did not last long, and another took his place. She gave me a sticky wink and I hurried her mouth. I did not last much longer, and was soon replaced.
Debauchery followed. One moved under her, and she took glee from having three holes served at once. And meanwhile, I was spent; I thought myself beyond drugs and craft, but they seemed to regenerate without end. She was passed around from bed, to wall, to floor. From cock to cock, to cocks.
I had gained proficiency at packing the bowl with taback and lynchweed. Most of the herbal haze which thickened the air had escaped from my lungs, and the jug got emptier and emptier. Those taking temporary rest from the woman’s bodily arts did notice the cinders sparking from my fingertips, and they seemed duly impressed.
Verruca, however, was the one to finish the booze off for good. Slithering, crawling, she escaped their attentions long enough to fill her mouth and to empty the vessel. She showed me the mixture, lucid enough to tease. Stringy globs of yellow swam in the clear rotgut. She gargled and swallowed. She coughed and cursed, and then went back to getting railed.
One turned it upside down, caught the last drops on a calloused finger, and licked it. “That all?” he asked.
“I’ll go get more,” said Bart. I too volunteered my aid.
The buttons did not close right and my steps were unsteady, but we made it downstairs. We got three bottles of the good stuff, and I ordered us lunch.
The Sporestalk demanded one of the bottles for herself. She first used it again as mouthwash. “You are darling,” she said as she scraped emissions off of her face and applied peach brandy as perfume. “Watch this!” She sat down on the bed and spread her legs wide. “Come and get it fuck-boys!” She let the alcohol trickle from her bosom down past her navel and along the inside of her thighs. “Come and get it, boys!”
Wasted drink ran down and pooled around her feet. She snapped her fingers and two obeyed. Two tongues touched her hamstrings and made the pilgrimage upwards. Soon one had reached and parted her lower lips, and she fed them her pearl.
“How do you feel?” I asked. Smoke and alcohol had made me sluggish and I more sensed, felt her in the hot and smokey room.
“Better. Clearer. Ahhh – do not stop!” She smiled, maybe. “Why don’t you come closer? And bring more – I am almost out.”
I did. With shocking strength, she pulled me closer. She seized the bottle and again rinsed her mouth. Lips touched lips and her tongue wrestled with mine. The taste of booze, ripe plums and something musky, something I preferred to not think about.
A knock on the door. Andy carried in the food on a tray. I had ordered enough for everyone. Steaked beef, thick cuts and raw under the fire-seared crust. “Feed me,” Verruca demanded. “And you two, do not stop!”
The servant did her bidding. Something animalistic returned. She growled and bloody juice dripped from her chin. Her hand was on my bulge, and with the other she forced the kneeling warriors against her sex.
A trick of the light, but for a moment she looked more orcish than the soldiers. A heroic queen, crowned in blood and served by the vanquished. She graced me with her beatific, horrific smile.
“I am ready,” she said and wiped her mouth on Andy’s shirt. “Aren’t you eating?”
I missed cutlery and felt – truth be told – rather overwhelmed. Our companions did not. They ate with appetite and with greasy fingers. One, having chewed his piece down to the bone and sucked out the marrow, dropped down. He tapped a kneeler on the shoulder and took his place. Verruca gave an appreciative hiss.
“You should try some meat,” she said, “I’ll try yours.” Her hand and maybe the herbs had rejuvenated me. Her tongue found me half-erect and growing. As she engulfed me, I grabbed a piece. Bloody juice splattered, and she slurped.
“May I stay?” asked the servant.
Paling and embarrassed, I covered up my spit-slick cock.
“The more, the merrier,” she said and hid me in her mouth.
I forced a nod. The orcs who had finished devouring their meal and now shared the pipe and the last bottle did not care. Andy, red-faced, cared a lot. He had no eyes for Verruca – or me. Whereas my ethnographer’s instinct was rapidly overtaken by her skill, he watched them like the thirsting wanderer, escaped from sandy desert heat.
“Come together!” An agile jump, and she was down on the floor. Me, she pulled by the foreskin. The orcs did not need further invitation, and neither did Bart. We surrounded her, ready to burst. “You too, my friend!” She pointed at the other servant. Andy had lost all colour.
Shifting his eyes and shaking, he was welcomed by the soldiers in the circle. They slapped his back, and some of the more observant ones took delight in showing off their steely muscles and prodigious members.
She had lavished me with her mouth, and I did not give up this privilege until the last moment. My white mixed with their copious yellow. She swallowed and wallowed and made sure that Bart and Andy too aimed their loads at her. Both did, even if the latter never gave her his full attention.
“Fucking Chains,” said the orcish leader.
“Fucking Chains!” I agreed after some hesitation.
I retreated soon after. Satisfied, weirded out, and weirdly satisfied; I sat down by the bar and began to compose the first, rough draft of this text. Bart had followed me and served wine, but never quite met my eyes. Andy had stayed behind – I never asked for details.
The next day, she bade me buy a tent and led me deep into the forest. “How do you feel?” I asked her out there, away from prying ears.
“Awesome.” She smiled. “I might do this every year from now.” My face may have betrayed me, because she started to laugh. “Worry not, we can still fuck for the fun of it.”