Heart of the Forest

The chief clapped his hand. At once, the dancing stopped, and though not the drums. Those simply lowered to a steady thump.

"Welcome," he said in the same border language as the warrior's leader, though his command of the language was better and his accent clearer.

"Welcome to our distant cousins, long lost in the brightlands," it took her a second to realize that what a barrier the broad daylight might be to a group long accustomed to living under the forest's constant shadow. So the two groups felt some form of kinship? That could be a problem, depending on just how distant "long lost" actually meant.

"And welcome," he continued, "to our other guests, strangers until today. Let us know them now, and be strangers no longer."

The drums rose to new heights, even as the shaman threw a powder of some sorts onto the fires, making them flare into bright colors reminiscent of the bodypaint worn by the tribe.

There was a loud cheer, enough to make Rosalyn wince in fear of attracting attention from the forest, but it was hard to deny the good cheer of those around her. Perhaps tomorrow, after they had been formally welcomed, she could address the thorny issue of these runaway thieves.

Youths in white and black paint came around, bearing large cups filled with a sweet smelling juice. Rosalyn accepted hers with a gracious acknowledgement, though she got the impression that the youth did not understand her words. The chief smiled in her direction, said a few words she couldn't understand in the tribal tongue, then bowed briefly over the drink. After the others in their circle did likewise, Rosalyn gestured to her group and had them follow along. First raising the cup over his head with both hands, the chief brought it back down to his lips and drained it in one swift motion.

Out of pride, perhaps, Rosalyn was determined to do no less, and brought the cup to her own lips. She was not entirely without trepidation as the first drops hit her tongue, but arrows could have taken them just as easily as poison. If the tribe meant them harm, there was little she could do to prevent it. Better, she thought, to demonstrate her good graces and see if diplomacy would succeed where force could not.

The liquid was every bit as sweet as it smelled, moreso, perhaps. Fruity, though she could not have said exactly what she was tasting. Not wine. There was no bite to it, no sharpness, but there was... something. Subtle, underlying the obvious tastes, but unmistakably there. Curious. Perhaps she would have a chance to ask later.

The youths were quick to refill the empty cups. Then again once those were gone. It was good that they were not wine, though Rosalyn could hold her drink better than most.

She'd been given no clear answer, when she asked about the beverage. There were no right words, it seemed, or at least none known to the chief or other elders. An important, essential even, part of the welcoming ceremony. That was all she had gathered.

They exchanged pleasantries, though it was hard to speak of much when the only language they shared was incompletely understood by both. Mostly, she watched the celebrating crowds around her, taking in this strange and wonderful new people. They were clustered in small groups, mostly by paint color. The warriors were obvious. Bare chested and heavily painted, though most had changed into ornate, heavily decorated kilts around their lower body.

Rosalyn and her band looked quite out of place in their travel worn garments, having been given no chance to change. Not that cleaner clothes would have made them fit in any more amongst this strange people.

Like the ones serving the head circle, the youths were mostly in black and white. A few, she'd noticed, had other colors mixed in. Streaks of blue, on occasion, or yellow. Never green. Neither the chief nor the green woman had cared to say why.

Yellow was the most common, followed closely by blue, though not all those who wore blue had the shaved head of the warriors. The yellows were more fully clothed, as were the greens who were not busy at the drums. Yellows, for the most part, wore brightly colored tunics, woven with shimmering multicolored thread. Rosalyn took note of that, thinking about how Duke William's looms could be enriched by access to such dyes. Something to think about once they had been formally welcomed.

The greens, by contrast, wore the simplest of clothes. Plain, single colored robes or tunics that fit loosely around them, showing glimpses of the full body paint they wore. Strangely, the greens wore no shoes, not even the snug fitting sandals favored by the rest of the tribe. If they wore ornamentation at all, it was mostly plantlife. Flowers, garlands, or even oak leaves braided into the hair.

They had not eaten yet, though the savory smell of roast meat made her stomach rumble. A welcome change to the travel rations they'd been 'enjoying'. Fearing rudeness, she had held off asking about the food. When she finally did mention it, the chief merely smiled and told her it would come later.

"Ceremony first," he had said. "Takes time to prepare. Special food."

"For guests," laughed the leader of the warriors, seated at the chief's right side.

Rosalyn chuckled at that, prompting a ring of laughter around the circle. Despite the terror of the early day, it was surprisingly easy to like these people. They had appeared hostile initially, but that was expected in such a forbidding environment. Certainly, they had made up for it later. If nothing else, they were quite a charming people. Rosalyn smiled warmly at her newfound friends around the circle.

Sometime after, there was a tug at her shoulder. She turned to find a young brown-haired girl in yellow paint, who was motioning her to a nearby dance circle. The drumbeat throbbed, urging Rosalyn to her feet, to motion. Still... she looked to the chief, not wanting to inadvertently give offense.

"Go," he waved her off with a smile. "Dance. Is what night is for."

A thankful Rosalyn hurried to her feet, letting the young woman guide her away. They welcomed her in, music and dance a common language they otherwise lacked. Moving to the beat of the drummers, Rosalyn was lost in an inescapable sense of freedom. Swaying in step to the music, she closed her eyes and let the sounds drive her.

A touch came then, hands on her worn traveling clothes. Rosalyn's eyes opened to see the yellow haired woman unfastening her dusty tunic. What? Her lips started to form the question, before realizing that the woman would not even understand the question.

The warriors, Rosalyn decided. Perhaps she, with her sword and armor and mounted company, was supposed to be likewise topless. Smiling again, Rosalyn held her arms up to help the woman strip her clothes away. Of course she could trust the woman, it all made sense once she thought about it.

She did, however, blush at the appreciative murmurs that arose once her chest was bared. A quick glance at the head warrior showed his eyes fixed directly on her, that usual knowing smile across his blue face. Not that bare breasts were anything new to them, of course, but it had to be admitted that she was, well, a bit more endowed than the average warrior.

Quite a bit, actually. It wasn't that the tribe's women were all flat, by any means, but it appeared the more busty among them had chosen other paths in life. Rosalyn could sympathize. Certainly, she would have some serious second thoughts if she was forced to run around with her breasts hanging out. That was for court gowns, Rosalyn thought with an amused titter, not for battle.

The women didn't stop with her tunic, continuing on to her trousers and underclothes, until she was standing completely naked. It was puzzling, since the other warriors were dressed from the waist down, but not terribly so. She trusted that it would make sense in time. Most of the others in Rosalyn's party, she saw, had already risen to join the dance circles. For those few remaining, every so often she saw another smiling, yellow painted woman come to pull them away.

Rosalyn let the music take her once more, savoring her newfound freedom as the dance carried her along. Free from restraints, from cares and worries, she let the music take her. The dance was different now, without the confining clothing she had worn. More languid, flowing from her hips and core. More unrestrained.

More... sensual.

They came to paint her soon after. A smiling, green painted woman carrying a bowl of red pigment. Red. Strange, she had seen none in red so far. What did it mean? Perhaps, Rosalyn thought as the woman dabbed her finger in the bowl and began tracing the paint across Rosalyn's abdomen, perhaps the color was reserved for guests?

The woman hummed softly as her fingers traced their lines across Rosalyn's flesh. The painter paid particular attention around her bosom. Tiny, delicate spirals dancing around her breasts as they wound their way in towards her nipples. These had, of course, grown hard under the other woman's careful touch, though Rosalyn did her best not to react. Whatever this paint meant, it was clearly an important part of the tribe's identity. She wouldn't cheapen it by becoming crassly excited by the process. Or at least she would hide that fact.

Around the fires, she could see that the rest of her company were drawn into the celebration. Some already painted and marked. Kira, especially, looked radiant as they traced out patterns in a red paint that matched the woman's fiery hair.

The fingers against Rosalyn's flesh lowered, gentle touches drawing lines down across her midsection. Gently around her belly button before winding their way lower. Rosalyn bit back a moan, unable to keep her face passive any longer, but at least hoped she was able to stifle any noise. The markings circled her legs, patterns and fingerstrokes that moved inexorably inward. From the base of her ankles, up her calves, until the fingers gently stroked their way up her inner thighs.

She looked now to the tribe's war leader, watching her intently from across the circle. Rosalyn licked her lips, wondering what he saw just now. Did he like the way she looked in her new paint? Suddenly, his approval mattered quite a great deal.

Rosalyn gasped as the fingers touched her lower lips, sliding up to oh so barely brush against the nub at the top. Her breaths were coming out in short, ragged gasps. Her entire body felt warm, and not just because of the celebratory bonfire. No, there was an altogether different sort of fire burning inside her.

It wasn't until the green painted woman appeared in front of her, blocking her view of the war leader who had captured her, that Rosalyn realized that the painting had stopped. No more touches, no more fingers on the skin, but the fire still raged.

The woman's lips pressed against hers. A taste of berries and honey. Or something more primal. An intoxicating nectar drank straight from the lips of the woman before her. Rosalyn returned the kiss, savoring it though the pleasure did little to slake that terrible need.

A touch on the temple told Rosalyn that the fingers had returned. Without in any way breaking or interrupting the kiss, the woman began gently brushing her fingertips across Rosalyn's face. She pressed herself against the soft, body before her, returning the kiss with an aching necessity whose intensity should have frightened her had it not been so sweet and fulfilling.

At long last, the kiss broke. Rosalyn did nothing to resist as the other woman pulled away. With a gentle tug, the woman returned Rosalyn's attention to the war leader and his chief. It was then that Rosalyn understood.

Dropping to her knees against the soft ground, Rosalyn immediately bowed before them. The chief, the war leader, how could it possibly be that she had failed to recognize the greatness inherent to both. And she? She was nothing, a stranger, a nobody, unless they deigned to make her otherwise. So she bowed low, offering herself to them in any way they desired, desperate for their approval.

Did they desire her? Would they accept her service?

"You see," laughed the war leader, drawing aside his loincloth, "special food for guest."

Oh, yes. She was on him in an instant. Kissing, touching, pressing against him with those same soft breasts that had caught his eye not long ago.

There was a touch at her other end, and she lifted her rear to accommodate. Without pause or preamble, she felt something slip between her lower lips, filling her completely. It was right and proper, she knew, for the tribe's chief to be the first to spill his seed inside of her, if he so desired. It appeared, she thought as she pressed back against him, that he did so desire.

The first seed, as it happened, came not from the chief behind her, but the vigorous young war leader to her front. Pulling her face to him, the war leader bucked his hips and released her first helping of the tribe's special "guest food". It was not to be her last.

As Rosalyn moved to kneel beside her worshipful tribal leaders, she saw that the rest of her band were currently preoccupied in much the same way she had been only moments ago. All, except a last few still being painted, were on their knees or backs serving the tribe as best they were able. Always, it was a blue they served, whether warrior or elder. Though on occasion, there might be a green beside, gently stroking the flesh as she whispered encouragement in the newcomer's ear.

Not just the tribe's men, either. Most of Rosalyn's men, and no few of her women, had their heads pressed deep between the spread legs of a bare chested warrior woman. This was right and proper, Rosalyn thought, it was where they all belonged.

As the last of her company was shown the truth, it came time for the tribe to enjoy the feast itself. This time, of course, it was to be the guests who served the tribe. Her entire company, she was glad to see, was freshly painted and eager to please their new friends. Rosalyn herself, she was surprised to learn, would not be serving at the chief's circle. Instead, he summoned the three raiders to where she knelt in the dirt, together with another pair of women from Rosalyn's company.

"These ones," said the chief, "are knowing in the proper courtesies of a guest. Where were your pass-gifts, your greetings of fellowship. You who had to be roped and led like outcasts dare take grievance with these ones? Serve them now, you shall, until I say otherwise to you. My gift to a proper guest, you are."

Rosalyn saw delight blossom on the young raider's face, and felt an immediate wave of contrition. How dare she pursue and harass friends of the tribe. If only... if only it had been someone else they had stolen from, rather than his lordship the duke. Still, the chief had commanded, and here, now, in the heart of the forest, that was what counted.

"Of course," she said, bowing before them, "as you command."

Rising to follow, she could not help but see the eagerness that shown in the man she'd been told to serve, the leader of the three raiders. Even now, a certain nervous anticipation tempered the expression. He was, she realized, quite young. The age when she had begun patrolling in her own right. She tried to remember how she felt back then, and was doubly impressed how he had handled himself. The way he had evaded her for so long. Even when he should have been caught, he managed to gain the upper hand.

Nevermind that they'd had help. That someone else had performed the actual ambush. He had come out on top, despite everything. He was so incredibly clever to have sought out and placated the mysterious men of the forest. Not to mention brave, to stride boldly into the legendary forest.

Handsome, too, despite his youth. Well built, lean and strong. A bit lanky, perhaps, but that was to be expected. He would grow into it. A warrior's stance. Not quite tempered by experience, but powerful and desirable nonetheless. The fire in her loins had never gone away, it was not the sort that could be slaked by a single coupling, but now it burned fiercely for him.

"So," he stammered in his own tongue. Another border language, but one she was more familiar with.

"You're, like, my slave now?"

"I," Rosalyn paused. She hadn't thought of herself like that. Not in those terms. But... "yes, I am yours, so long as the elders will it."

That was true. She was his, his to do with as he willed. Enslaved by will of the tribe, and by her own desires.

Somehow, that make the youth all the more nervous, biting his lips and looking away. Sneaking a glance at her chest, only to look away again. Surely, he wasn't so inexperienced, was he? Not this strong, clever man. But maybe, maybe if he'd only been on one or two raids (it never even occurred to her that this might be his first). His people set great store by such things. No wonder he had been so eager to strike his fortune, however unfortunately he had chosen his target.

"I order you to, um I mean, I command you to," he paused, indecision masked his face. Rosalyn felt a pang of pity, even as desire filled her. She knew where her duty lay.

"To pleasure you, my master?" she asked, draping an arm around his neck. He could only nod.

She pressed in close, kissing him even as she worked to remove his clothing. A tribal garment, which should have been a warning earlier that evening. Now, it was only an obstacle to her duty.

His return kiss was shy and fumbling, but sweet nonetheless. She could feel his desire, restrained beneath a nervous tension he had not yet released. She would deal with that next.

He climaxed for the first time into her hand, when she'd touched him as she touched her naked body to his. His shame and contrition were immediate, but she smiled and brought her hand up to slowly lick the remnants away. He started to regain some confidence, with more to follow as she knelt down and used her mouth to prepare him for a second attempt.

As soon as he was firm, she again directed him towards his seat, straddling his lap as she impaled herself on him. The pace was slow, teasing, giving him time to explore her eager body to his heart's content. She continued moving, sliding up and down on him as she showed him where to touch, what to do, in order to inflame her lust. Yet always slow, at a pace which satisfied neither his lust nor hers. There was one lesson yet to teach.

It was in his eyes, the frustration, the desire. In those eyes where she saw the first spark of resolution. She paused then, holding herself just above him as she rocked side to side. Still teasing, still denying what he so desired. Then he moved.

In a moment's time, her back was on the ground, pressed against the short mossy grass as he took her. This was what she had wanted. That power, that strength which he had shown so clearly in the field, but buried beneath his nervousness tonight.

Now it was out. Unleashed, unrestrained. She arched her back, touching herself as he plowed into her. What had been building for so long now crashed over her, blazing brightly throughout her whole being as the sensation overwhelmed her.

"You love that, don't you," she head him say as awareness returned. He was still pumping inside her, and she writhed at his touch.

"Yes, oh yes," she cried.

"Look at you. The famous marshal, now just a tribesman's fucktoy. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, oh god yes. I'm your toy, your fucktoy. Please"

There was no resistance, and little in the way of thought. Just need. Burning, carnal desire.

"Beg for it," he commanded, and Rosalyn was helpless to resist.

"Fuck me. Cum in me! I need you!"

"Good girl," he said, and Rosalyn climaxed once more.

When she finished, she looked up at the man who had just spent himself in her, the man who had mastered her. There was no hesitation now, no nervousness. Not after the way he'd just claimed her. Rosalyn could only gaze up in wonderment at the man her arms were still wrapped around, the man whose weight pressed down upon her. Servitude and desire mingled into a most delicious state of submission. Now he had truly become a man.