A Gorean Storean Ch. 06

It's really odd how long it takes her to realize he's the villain of the piece, considering all the evidence that's staring her in the face.

He rides a black tarn for christsake, what were you thinking, woman? Were you somehow thinking he was the good guy in all this? Just cause he does these daring night raids and he swept you off your feet doesn't make him some kind of hero.

You think just cause someone has balls it makes him this paragon of manhood?

Bitch, please.

You loved the evil. You stared straight into the darkness, and you smiled like a good little slave and you said, "fuck me harder, darkness."

Ja, ma vanashe.

All the time you had him inside you, you knew were just thinking "give it to me. Give me all that pain and anger. I know part of you hates me, and here's the thing- I totally feel you on that. And I want to feel the hate, the rage, the pure unadulterated loathing, hard and painful, thrusting into me."

He hurt you, and you wanted him to hurt you.

You liked the pain.

Now, as you spiral down into miles of empty air, don't forget how enthusiastically you fucked your own destruction back. You liked it when you made your rapist moan in spite of himself. He didn't want to give you what you really wanted, but he couldn't help himself. He didn't want to love you, weak and pathetic and naked, at his mercy, but you made him love you. You made him want to protect you, pain in his ass that it was. You made him want to be the good guy so you'd believe it, and that got you off.

What's the point in lying to yourself, here at the end of the story? You're dying. It's over. And soon the voice you were forbidden to raise except to agree or flatter will simply cease to matter, and who gets to talk, and what language they do it in, will be an academic point.

Her stomach drops out, and its funny to her that falling like this feels exactly the way she thought it would. Everything that she was afraid would happen, each time Thunderbolt would rise from the ground in a jarring gyring fury of wind, is happening- there was never really anything she could do, lashed by her wrists and ankles, and even if she could get away, where would she go?

She'd die out there for sure, the other girls know how to make snares and all kinds of crafty stuff that would keep them fed if they had to kick around the wilderness for a while, but she doesn't have the first clue how the fuck to go about keeping herself warm and fed.

Vol of Thentis loves to hunt. He hates the girl for that look she gets on her face, like she's too good to eat that bloody meat- butchering is hard work, and she's really not much help- he can see how frightened she is that he'll see her disgust when he laughs aloud at the dying thrashing of the animal caught in his snare, and he wants her to share his joy so badly that he strikes out before he even thinks and catches her a blow, and he hates her for the self loathing that rises instantly when her bright strange eyes fill up with tears.

She makes him ashamed of himself, so he rapes her. If she were worth anything, surely the gods would have granted strength to her arm to fight him off. No warrior would suffer such indignities with such a disgusting gladness. She likes it, and he can tell she knows he knows, and it makes him unreasonably angry that she tries to hide it.

He's tried speaking slowly, constructing simple sentences that even a barbarian should be able to understand, but she's too scared to even try to learn or comprehend.

"Stupid slut," he laughs, and when her eyes fill up with tears, he just sighs angrily and pushes her down to fuck her.

Dear God, she thinks, as the drops of his sweat fall to prick her skin like chilly raindrops, I think he meant that as a compliment.

She glares into his eyes, and he wants to strike her for her disrespect. You cannot judge me, you little whore, I own you! He thinks. And then he laughs aloud at how ridiculous the thought is, now that he comes to think it.

He's laughing at me, she thinks, but he was angry a minute ago. Maybe this is good, at least if he's laughing he won't go looking for that whip of his. Just how the blue fuck did I end up in this situation again, anyway? The whole part with the spaceship and the monsters just felt really unclear and confusing.

He takes forever running traps and cooking food, and by the time he's managed to roast a half raw piece of meat for them she can barely stay awake long enough to eat, as hungry as she is. She's too tired to be self conscious as the last light fades and she shivers in the chilly air, even though Vol of Thentis is staring at her in that way he does. It's a look of curiosity and concentration, his gaze as intent as it was two hours ago when he peered close to drive his skewer into the oozing chunks, and squinted in the failing light as the sun sparked and burned and sank behind the horizon and the night overtook the still cold planet like the smothering, itching folds of a black wool blanket, with a chilly wind and the sorrowful sound of a nameless bird weeping in the near distance. He managed to both scorch the outside and leave the inside unpleasantly raw, so that the wet center breaks apart on her tongue and disentigrates in her mouth with a slimily unpleasant feel. She almost gagged, the meat so fresh and raw it tasted rotten.

It's the same penetrating gaze that fixes her now, a restless dissatisfied audience that will soon grow bored if she remains paralyzed with fear, a crowd that will turn nasty if she cannot find the strength within herself to move and lose herself in her role. Her own eagerness paralyzes her with the realization of her own unseemly haste, and she sprawls headlong over her own desire and falls into a shuddering confusion of tears.

Vol of Thentis lets out his breath in an angry rush, and turns away to stir the fallen fire.

She feels her appetite desert her, but she forces herself to swallow even though her throat has become very dry. The more she tries to overcome her shyness, the more she realizes the massive depth of her vulnerability. The frankness of his desire both arouses her, and chokes into silence the words that long to rise in her throat.

He's never really bothered giving his slave girls names, and this is something he regrets after all these years because they have a way of running together in a blur of hair and eyes and breast and legs, and only rarely will he think of this one or that one; he can bring to mind how she squeezed him with her legs until he thought she meant to hurt him, but that he let her (because the pain felt strangely good), remember how she used to squirm and cry out his name in a shrill voice until he thrust himself into her mouth just to shut her up, and how the little bitch came in a hot wet rushing flood of tears and shame when he pulled her hair until she screamed. He can remember the perfume she was wearing when he took her, and that the night had been cold with chancy stingy moonlight and the flying had been poor, but he cannot recall her smile, nor whether or not she sang, or if she scorched the clothes with the iron.

What was it he called that blond creature that he snatched from those city walls so long ago? He doesn't think he ever found out what she called herself when she was free- to be honest, he didn't care, but he wishes he had some way to call her to mind.

He had to beat her more often than he would have liked, and even now it troubles him; she had been a troublesome slave, so he wishes he did not feel such sorrow in recalling her.

The girl is asleep in a pile of furs. One of the most annoying things about her is the way she snores; it's loud, almost male, a grating sound that intrudes on his thoughts on the rare occasions that he has an evening to himself, between hunting their food and fighting battles and staying awake when bandits are nearby, an ehn to himself to sit and think by the fire, drinking and brooding.

His thoughts often make him weep, and although he could shed his tears in the company of his sword brothers, it feels unseemly to weep before a female slave.

Are you afraid of what the Earth bitch thinks? His friends would mock his reticence, he knows.

No use in beating her for it, it would be like shocking Thunderbolt for crapping at the wrong time. The beast can't help it.

He thinks he called her Marissa, the one with golden hair, but he cannot be sure. That could have been the name of some paga girl he bedded of a drunken night; it was a hundred years and more ago. Yes, Marissa was another wench, he recalls her now. She was black of hair with a little waist and big, soft breasts that seemed to rise from her smooth olive stomach as if borne up by the very air. He had spent all but his last few coins on drink, and he needed employment for his sword before he could afford a whore, in truth, but when he walked past the dingy little paga tavern and saw her on her knees serving wine, he knew he would go hungry the next day.

As it happened he had been able to get a good price for his sword in spite of his hangover, and before the morning was even spent, for the war in that city had become hot and bloody and killers were in high demand upon both sides. But that night he cursed his hard cock even as he haggled down the landlord and handed over his last copper, beckoning the girl to follow him with a curt, angry gesture.

It would be easier, by the priest kings, to think back to Marissa's wet and welcoming embrace, smooth as silk and hot as black leather in the sun, to stroke away the ache he feels inside (now dulled but not stilled by drink), to lose himself and forget the rough rasp of his own sword-calloused hand on the tender skin of his cock and imagine instead Marissa's wet lips and the tears he struck from her eyes when her teeth grazed him and the gasp of pain and fear that sent him shooting down her throat in a screaming torrent of rage and triumph, if that skinny restless earthgirl could at least be silent as she slept. Lazy, he thinks her, but when he stirs to rise and take her where she lies (fallen still at last! He should be relieved that she's closed her eyes and freed him to drink and dream by his fire. He never knew such a strange creature, so full of worry) he finds he cannot bear to rouse her, even to serve his brief straightforward pleasure. How can such a little creature make such a din? They can hear you down in the cities of dust, girl! He wonders irritably, spitting in his palm and returning to his task with a renewed will.

Marissa. Marissa. Her name is the soft sad whisper of the wind blowing through the dying stalks of the sa-tarna in the dying of the year. Her nipples stood hard enough to hurt if a man caught one in the eye as she knelt before him and tried her best not to shiver in the chilly air. Her skin had a soft and ashen pallor beneath the tan where the sun had kissed her khaki skin as she served her master's customers in the courtyard of the tavern by day. A walled in garden behind the inn, tables and chairs were set beneath a trellis with flowering vines whose name he did not know, and Marissa served paga while a fountain played and birds sang in the leaves and the shadows danced on the stones. A common tavern in a nameless town, Vol of Thentis had passed the place several times as he found his way about after leaving thunderbolt in the hands of the local tarn keepers.

At night the moons rose in the sky and Marissa danced, ringing out a tune with little silver bells as she shook her wrists and ankles, making a song as she kept time to the gyrations of her hips and breasts and offered herself to the warriors as they swaggered by, trying to catch their eyes as they passed the little stage by the fire. No doubt the landlord would beat the girl if she were not able to bed enough men of a night, as well as pour and clean, wash dishes and change linen. Her tired face had brightened when she caught Vol of Thentis looking, and she blushed and tried to hide her face when he mouthed the words "Tal, Kajira," at her. He'd have to come in and pay for her to hold her close enough to make her look at him, and when she spun away, hair flying as she lept and leaned and twirled furiously to resume her dance, he had been decided.

Marissa had blushed modestly enough when he told her to kneel, but he could see the excitement beneath her fear and loosened up his swordbelt, letting it fall to the stones and shaking his scarlet tunic loose of his skin where sweat had plastered it to his chest. The rich, sour smell of his own body greeted him, earth and rain and blood, as he pulled the half-soaked fabric past his face and flung it down; already soiled, he left it where it lay. Marissa shrank back and he caught her easily by her hair, jerking her off her feet so that she stumbled into his arms with a frightened little cry. He shut her mouth with his lips, her spit sweet and sour. In her terror she was salivating freely and Vol of Thentis let her warm spit run down his throat as he pushed her to the narrow bed alcove and kissed her atop the stained, grimy cushions. Drinking her in, he forced his hands to be precise and steady as he undid the clasp of her camisk and pulled it from her body with as gentle a motion as his impatient hands and cock would let him, not wanting to tear it as he knew he could not pay the landlord for it. A cheap nothing of a garment, but the man would want something for it just the same.

The girl was bought and payed for though. Vol of Thentis took her in his arms, her body feeling light as a feather to him with the blood coursing hot through his veins, and when he thrusts himself inside her it is liquor and it is battle and it is laughter and songs beneath the stars, it is the clasp of a friend's hand and an enemy's cry of woe and despair as his men break and run before the wind of Thunderbolt's terrible wings and his snatching, rending claws and the red sorrow of Vol's sword as it makes a ragged, bloody ruin of iron and bone, muscle and sinew.

He felt her breathing begin to come in short pained gasps as his body pressed the air from her lungs, and he propped himself on his elbows to allow her to inhale more easily. She caught her breath with a sob of gratitude, and her throat moved as she gulped reflexively. Vol of Thentis caught her smooth, thin skin between his teeth, biting hard enough to leave a mark that might last a week or two, no longer caring if the innkeeper blustered and whined about damage to his property. No doubt he could appease the man by collecting some debt for him, or meeting some foe in the field on his behalf. Bargains could always be struck with innkeepers.

He took his money's worth from the girl that night, and she screamed her pleasure to the bare, ill lit little room as the chill set into the stone and the torches burned down low. He had not left her til she was so exhausted that he could no longer rouse her. After he had taken his pleasure of her twice in brutal succession, he saw her eyes grow heavy and her weary limbs relaxed even as the blood rushed back to her face and hands. He thought she would drift into sleep then and there, so he placed his thumbs beneath her arms and lifted her bodily from the bed, standing her on her feet facing him and then forcing her gently back down, her knees buckling a little from her rough and sudden deposit, to sit facing him upon the bed.

He knelt before her.

She tried to shrink back, her buttocks clenching gently as she pulled her stomach taught, struggled to contain the terrified racing of her heart as it pounded against her bosom, but Vol of Thentis's strong arm wrapped her little waist in a grip of iron and he used his left hand to roughly, impatiently, push her thighs apart.

He buried his face between her legs. She tried to evade his tongue's insistent search, squirming her little bottom back on the cushions, but he wrapped his rough warm palm around the trembling silk of her left buttock, tightening his fingers until he judged the pain would be enough to dissuade her half hearted enterprise at escape. He laughs at her when she gives in almost instantly to the searing ache when the pressure of his fingers burns down in her tender flesh, and she almost throws herself into his arms now that he's given her a little taste of what he can do.

He pulls her closer and rewards her with a kiss. She learns quickly. He likes that in a slut.

This should wake you up, my wilting little Talender. My poor dying venumium, I'll be the rain that brings the color back to your petals. You shall have your water, my thirsty little flower, but the downpour will grind you into the earth and your small brave life be forfeit to the might of the thunder and the lightening and the dreadful winds that will sweep you before them. My sweet Marissa, my storm will tear up root and stem and scatter your frail pieces to the ends of the Earth. Awake, my thirsty little paga maid, be still my little dancer, lie still beneath your master.

And she whispers in his ear as her little arms come up to clasp him as a drowning woman might, "Ma, Ja Vanashe."

He pushes her down on her back, and brushes the soft curtain of her shiny black hair to one side to form an iridescent puddle on the rough cloth of the cushion. He places his hands upon her hips and feels her shyly moving in his grasp, shifting to be comfortable; her dark grave eyes beg his pardon. She fears being thought insolent. Good.

He allows her fidgeting. She's only a girl, after all, she can't comprehend his passion. He buries his face in her hot lap, burrowing into the dark wire of her pelt so she won't see his tears. She falls still, cold and patient as a still pool whose placid calm he destroys with a crash; she shudders beneath him and ripples radiate from the shattered center of her, and she shakes and weeps and shudders beneath his devouring tongue.

Thinking of her there on her back, those dark liquid eyes pouring over as she choked on the words "ma ja vanashe" her little nails striking soft brief sparks of pain in the skin of his back as she clawed at him in her panic, her silent struggle to be still lost before it was begun as she clings to him in terror. And chokes out "vanashe. Vanashe. Ma vanashe", as the the tempest sends her fragile form tumbling headlong through the air and she shivers and shakes trembling as she loses herself in oblivion and the silence pounding like to deafen her.

When she can no longer hold herself still and his impatient hands have caught her little wrists, his arm bearing down but just enough to hold her in her place, she screams aloud and her sharp little teeth catch at his palm, a sweet little defiance like the sting of a biting insect in the moment a man crushes it into a smear of blood on his palm.

When he feels himself about to climax he fumbles for his dirty tunic and wraps it around his hand, catching his spill in the soiled silk. His sweat has dampened it and it will dry stiff in any case, the girl will never notice the stain when she rinses their clothes in the water when dawn comes.

He hopes.

Vol of Thentis shifts his way this way and that, the ground hard beneath his back, feeling the unpleasant tingling sensation in his loins and wincing at the inevitable sinking of his spirits.

He can hear his friends' jealous laughter now, the smoke and smell of memory another unwelcome intrusion, and with the blood subsiding in a rush that he hears like the melancholy music of an ice-cold waterfall, he cannot shut out the voices that clamor in his mind's ear.

Oh god, he's jerking off again. Earthgirl doesn't open her eyes or make a move. She's learned to keep still if she doesn't want his attention, which is as immediate and overwhelming as the shocking plunge into cold water.

She wishes she had a cigarette more than anything in the world right now.