The Trials of Dara Firebird Ch. 02

All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive feedback and frequent "fives".

Please read Part 1, or you might be a bit confused.

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After Baron Olaf and Bruno left, Dara forced herself to wait until the sliver of moonlight traveled a good four hands across the far wall. She sat in the damp cold, clutching the skeleton key to her breast, anxiously straining her ears for any sound or commotion that might tell her that Olaf had realized he had been duped.

After what seemed an interminable length of time, Dara finally stood up and went to the cell door. Reaching her hand through, she slid the key into the lock and turned it. To her immense relief, the lock clicked and the heavy barred door swung into the cell, squealing on rusty hinges.

Dara slipped out the door and silently padded her way down the narrow hall, keeping one hand on the wall to guide her through the near impenetrable darkness. Passing several other cells along the way, she didn't hear or sense any other prisoners, for which she was grateful. She didn't need someone yelling for the guards, or pleading for her to help them. She wanted to make her escape as uncomplicated as possible.

At the far end of the long hallway, she stopped at the closed door and listened intently. On the other side, muffled by inches of thick wood and metal, she could hear the sounds of snoring. Any loud noise or squealing of hinges would be sure to wake the sleeping Bruno, and Dara hesitated at the door. Snapping her fingers softly, she turned back around and practically ran back to her cell. Inside, she rooted through the pile of moldy straw until she found the remnants of her glob of lard.

Back at the door at the end of the hall, she slathered lard in and around the large rusted metal hinges, working it in for several minutes. She hoped this might soften any sound the door made upon opening.

As quietly as possible, Dara eased the passkey into the lock and cranked it around. There was a muffled "clank", and the door swung silently into the hallway an inch or two. Through the crack, she could see Bruno leaned back in a large wooden chair, his immense booted feet propped up on a sturdy plank table in front of him. One hand idly scratched his hairy belly, the other dangled to the side, hairy knuckles almost touching the floor. He sputtered and mumbled, then went back to snoring loudly.

Dara slipped through the doorway, eased it quietly shut behind her, and tiptoed past the large table, making for the stairs on the far side of the room. Keeping her eye on Bruno, her heart in her throat, she made the stairs and darted silently up.

She dredged her memory for anything she could remember of Olaf's keep. As a child, it always loomed on the hill, casting its baleful shadow on the town below. Never having been inside it, she could only piece together a rough floor plan based on what she could see from the outside. It had a high crenellated stone wall with open towers on the corners. It had a portcullis and a drawbridge, which were usually open after midmorning til dusk. She knew it had a large courtyard, where the men-at-arms practiced during the day, and a large hearth hall for the baron to entertain guests and to preside over legal matters.

Other than that, she had no idea how to make her escape. Dara realized she couldn't hardly waltz out the front door and bang on the portcullis, asking for it to be raised. Even if she waited until it was opened for keep business, many of the guardsmen would recognize her at sight; after all, she had serviced most of them during her two month stay. Perhaps in the dark she could climb onto the battlements and scale down the outside into the town below. The thought of falling fifty feet onto sharp rocks below caused her to quickly disregard that plan.

Dara shuddered, and swore to herself that if caught, she wouldn't go down without a fight. The top of the stairs opened into a long hall with doors along its length. At the far end was a wide, double door, presumably leading to the great hearth hall. Dara started down the hall, pausing at each door to listen intently. At the third and final door closest the hall's end, she paused and thought she heard a slight scraping sound. Leaning in to the door, pressing an ear against the worn wood, she almost fell in as it abruptly opened.

Standing there, one hand on the door handle, the other at her throat in fright, stood a young girl dressed in the uniform of a scullery maid -- long brown skirt, white peasant blouse, and stained apron. For a moment which seemed to last an eternity, they scanned each other up and down. The girl was short and plump, with curves and bumps in all the right places. Her mousy brown hair was done up in a bun at the back of her head, with stray strands and wisps framing her pretty, dumpling-like red-cheeked face. Her ample bosom heaved, her large brown eyes widened as she took in Dara's appearance.

"You! You're the prisoner all the guardsmen have been going on about," she exclaimed.

"Please don't t-turn me in! I can't go back th-there," Dara implored, choking on her words, her eyes welling up with tears.

The maid stuck her head out into the hall, looked up and down, seemed to come to a decision, and motioned Dara inside.

"Hurry, before someone comes! Ohh, we better not be caught, or they'll flay me alive -- after they use me like a common wh— Oh, sorry! You probably have more reason not to want to be caught."

The room they entered was the kitchen prep area. A huge oaken table, probably fifteen paces long by five paces wide, took up most of the space. On the table were pots and pans and utensils being readied for the keep's morning repast. Dara's mouth began to water as she smelled the delicious aroma of baking bread. On the far side of the room stood another wide door, probably leading into the kitchen.

"Here, under here! Go under the big table and hide! I'm supposed to be dicing celery and carrots for guardsmans stew," the maid pointed under the huge table and spun around as a voice yelled through the door.

"Martha! Are you not done with the carrots yet? Gods girl, you have to be the slowest woman on the face of the earth!"

As Dara dove under the table, a large huge-breasted woman poked her head through the door. Jabbing with a long wooden spoon, the woman continued scolding Martha.

"Hurry, girl, or I'll demote you to chamber pots!"

Martha sat heavily onto the bench in front of where Dara crouched under the table and made like she was slicing vegetables. Peering down at the bedraggled blonde girl, she wondered to herself what to do.

Dara was a mess. Her clothes were torn and dirty, her hair matted and unkempt, her face splotchy with dirt and...other stains. Yet, in spite of her state of uncleanliness, Martha could see a vibrant beauty just beneath the surface. The girl's wide, innocent eyes were a startling blue, like the color of a clear, spring morning sky. Her hair was long and blonde, and if washed, would probably be most fetching. Her legs were long and muscled, her pert bosom high and proud.

"Please help me...I'll do anything for you, if you'll just help me get out of here," the girl whispered to Martha, a note of desperation in her voice.

Martha paused to consider. All her life she had been a scullery maid -- always the servant. Used and abused by everyone around her, male and female alike, she was near the bottom of the keep's pecking order. For the first time in her life, she had total control over someone else. Someone kneeling at her feet, looking up at her beseechingly.

Martha smiled lasciviously, spread her legs and reached down and slowly pulled up the hem of her long skirt. Dara sat back on her haunches, her mouth hanging open as the skirt traveled up Martha's plump thighs.

"Tell you what. You do what I want for a few minutes, and I'll help you get out of here."

Martha pulled the skirt hem up to her waist and spread her legs as wide as she could. Her bush was thick and dark, the wiry hair coarse and untrimmed.

"You lick where I point to, and I won't yell for the guards, understand?" Martha whispered.

Dara nodded, her eyes tearing up, realizing that once again she was to be forced to pleasure another.

Martha pointed to a spot high up on the inside of her thigh. Reluctantly, Dara leaned in and wetly dragged her tongue up, just along the edges of the other girl's mound.

"Good, now the other side," Martha whispered, looking down at Dara.

Dara sighed in resignation and licked up the inside of her other thigh, causing goose pimples to pop up on Martha's legs.

"Perfect, you know where to lick next..."

Dara could smell the heady aroma of arousal emanating from the girl's steamy pussy, and moisture beaded on the lips nestled in the dark bush. She had never licked a woman before, but to her surprise and not a little chagrin -- her own body began to respond, and she felt her lower belly begin to heat up.

Leaning forward, she sucked in a deep breath and licked her way up, from the plump, juicy lips at the bottom to the hard little nub near the top, Martha's thick snatch tickling her nose.

The scullery maid groaned and arched her back, both hands reaching down to grab handfuls of Dara's hair. Dara lapped at her pussy, slurping the girl's lips wetly, darting a sharp, rigid tongue deeply into her vagina every few licks.

Both girls were so intent upon their activity, they didn't notice when the kitchen door opened and the cook stepped into the prep room.

"MARTHA! What on earth are ye doing girl! Leaning back with yer eyes closed! Are ye trying to nap on my time? Get to slicing, or I'll take a paddle to your arse!"

Martha lurched upright, eyes popping open and scrambled for a kitchen knife in front of her, and began slicing carrots.

The woman eyed her balefully, then went on, "I'm hearing we're to have visitors this week. The new King's messengers are traveling the countryside, meeting with all the Lords. Rumor has it that old King L'Phoenix squirreled a bastard boy away among us commoners, and the usurper wants the lad dead. They say he'd be about eighteen summers by now, and that he has a birth mark in the shape of a firebird right next to his johnson! Imagine that! King's messengers riding from village to village, demanding all boys to drop their trousers!"

Martha crept one hand down and pointed to her still dripping pussy. Dara sighed quietly and leaned in to continue her oral efforts, her tongue working busily up and down, lapping and kissing the maid's distended and juicy lips.

The enormous-breasted cook went on, "At any rate, we need to be prepared. After ye finish here, go make the extra rooms ready for our exalted guests. No more goofing off, girl!" She pointed her spoon at Martha, and jabbed for emphasis, "You have until dawn's first light to finish in here, or I'll blister yer bottom!"

After the cook retreated back into the kitchen, Martha looked down at Dara. The girl's nose was buried deeply in Martha's hairy mound, her tongue noisily licking and slurping around and around, up and down. She would pause every few moments and wetly kiss the insides of Martha's thighs, then return her tongue to the wet gash before her.

Martha could feel herself nearing an explosion, and her sex heated up like a brick-fired oven. Reaching down and gathering Dara's hair in both hands, she pulled the girl's face until her hot, darting tongue was directly over her hard, sensitive clit.

"Ohh, that's right! Right there, suck on it...I'm sooo close..."

Dara's tongue slurped and swirled around the hard nub, her face dripping in juices. Martha moaned and shuddered, and her legs went stiff. She pulled Dara's mouth onto her clit and hunched her hips up and down on the girl's face as she exploded in fevered climax.

"Oh gods, girl...yessssss...yesssss...right there! That's the spot...Unnnnhhhhh."

Wet juice coated Dara's face and chin, and dripped down the insides of Martha's thighs. She slowed her licks as Martha came down off her orgasm, and looked up at the other girl's heavy-lidded eyes.

"Wow! That was glorious. Lick me clean -- I see drips running down my legs," Martha pointed to a long rivulet of pussy juice running down the inside of one plump leg. Dara started at the girl's knee and licked her way up to her mound, cleaning as she went. When she had licked Martha's legs spotlessly clean, she sat back and exhaled deeply.

"Are you going to help me escape now?" Dara pleaded shamelessly, "I did what you asked..."

"Help me finish chopping these up, then I have an idea to get you out of here..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, Dara stood in the middle of one of the guest chambers, looking at herself in an ornate, floor-to-ceiling mirror. For the first time in months, her beautiful, long blonde, honey-colored hair was washed and clean, and hung in cascades of ringlets and waves over her shoulders and down her back. Gone also were the old shredded rags of clothing, replaced by brown sturdy leather breeches, soft doe-skin knee high boots and a loose cream woolen tunic.

"Put your hair in a tail and tuck it into the back of your shirt. Wear this cap, and the guards will think you are a messenger boy, as long as they don't get a close look at you." Martha held out a dark, woolen cap, which Dara took and placed over her head.

"These clothes belong to Olaf's brat nephew, Hendrik, who isn't due for another visit in a few months. Hopefully no one will notice they are missing. You are about his size, do they fit to your liking?"

"I -- I think so. The boots are a tad roomy, but they'll suffice. Gosh, Martha, I've never worn anything so nice!"

Martha stood back and scanned Dara up and down. The gorgeous girl was long and lanky, with a nice, high chest and a pert, tight rear. She reached a hand out and cupped one of her tight cheeks, squeezing gently.

"I can see why the guards all loved you, dear. Put a little meat on these bones, and you'd be a stunner, that's for sure."

Dara blushed deeply, then a tear dripped down one rosy cheek.

"I can't thank you enough, Martha...for the first time in a long time, I have hope."

Martha turned and rummaged in a large iron-banded trunk for a few moments. She straightened up with a long slim glittering blade in one hand, and a worn leather scabbard in the other.

"Hendrik has most likely outgrown this, so he probably won't be looking for it. It looks like it would be a perfect fit for you, however."

Dara's piercing blue eyes blazed as she gazed in wonder at the blade before her. With reverence she reached out and took it from Martha's hands. It was about three feet in length, but felt light as a feather. She ran a thumb down its edge and felt its sharpness. Nodding in approval she wrapped her hand around the pommel and swiped the air a few times. It felt like an extension of her arm, and she could feel something click into place, as if the gods themselves had set circumstances in motion, allowing her to reach this one point in time. It was smithed from some strange, silvery metal, and foreign symbols decorated the base of the blade and the solid hilt.

With her brow furrowed in determination and her jaw set with purpose, Dara belted the scabbard to her waist and slid the glittering blade home with a soft snick and a light clang.

"Well then, I guess it's time for me to make my escape."

Martha gaped wide-eyed at the girl in front of her. The light from the open window glinted in her golden hair, creating an almost otherworldly effect. Standing there tall and proud in her leathers, glittering longsword belted to her hip, Dara was the epitome of the warrior princess. Her blue eyes flashed, and she strode across the room and out the door.

THE END

In part 3, Dara seeks to join up with the black forest bandits.