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The cave is cold and dark and damp. But at least it’s out of the beating snow–the sky is so thick with it that it blots out the moonlight, if there is any.
Den Mother reckons tonight is a full moon, for all that we can tell.
Feeling around in the pitch black, I find a slab of rock distended from the wall–by touch more than by sight, really–a hard, divoted surface. I lay my sword down in its scabbard, and it clinks.
I feel a sharp pinch on the flesh of my upper arm. I stifle a yelp.
That would be Den Mother.
A few feet away, I hear her whisper, voiceless and angry:
“Look for the places covered in lichen. That way, every scout in the world won’t hear it when you set down your things.”
I’m a woman now, and therefore ready for the trials. I have to prove myself on this journey if I’m to become a warrior. So far, I worry that I haven’t acquitted myself well.
I was assigned my Den Mother at random. She’s old enough to be my mother, or near enough, but she regularly best fighters half her age in combat games.
I don’t think she thinks much of me.
“Do you think we can build a fire?” I whisper, an attempt to strike up a genial conversation.
“It’s damp. Not much use in trying,” she replies. Her voice, normally low and sonorous like a man’s, sounds like dry, rustling leaves when she whispers.
I hear her rub her hands together, a distinctive magic gesture I have yet to fully grasp.
The air vibrates. The hair on my neck and arms and the roots of my scalp get that funny feeling, and my teeth chatter a little.
A locus of light appears–I know it’s not bright, but my eyes are used to the dark–and grows into a sphere between her hands, illuminating her hard, beautiful features from beneath.
I once attempted a similar technique, a simple channeling of life force from the ether. I couldn’t do it; the focus it required was too much.
For her, it seems easy as breathing.
She holds the light in the air above one upturned palm. With her free hand, she holds open the sleeve of her spacious bedroll.
“In here, child,” she says. “It’s best we sleep together if we’re going to keep warm.”
I’m old enough to partake in all the adult rituals. I’ve worked, I’ve provided, my body sprouted ages ago.
I’ve hardened by training.
And she has the nerve to treat my full personhood as a joke.
I decide to let the insult pass.
I climb inside, and she climbs in after me and pulls the flap shut. We’re wrapped up together, breathing each other’s air, dimly illuminated by the spark of light she holds in her hand.
She tents the top of the roll by tucking her pack to one side, mine to the other. With the packs crammed in, there’s scarcely enough room for the both of us. But it is warm.
She wriggles out of her clothes–first out of her boots, leggings, and heavy skirts, then her plated tunic and undershirt, slowly uncovering a taut, sinewy body with low, small breasts and a scarred stomach.
Once nude, she bundles the clothes together and kicks them into the bottom of the roll.
Her tanned skin looks red in the flickering supernatural light. Her bountiful body hair casts shadows that meld with her tattoos, which appear to dance. Her nipples, dark and prominent, look like treats.
“Out of your clothes, child,” she says. “You’ll sweat in them in the night, and they’ll be impossible to dry.”
Reluctantly, I start shucking my own clothing, a less lived-in version of her own.
I’m afraid I won’t be warm enough.
But I’m also compelled by the notion of being naked with Den Mother.
Den Mother is thought to be one of the most beautiful women in our extended clan. The sight of her body is not a disappointment.
When I was a child, other girls would giggle and trade lewd rumors about her sexual habits. Boys would boast about spilling bahis firmaları their seed onto crudely drawn images of her in various states of undress.
I’ve been curious about her since I was old enough to feel the stirrings.
I worry she’ll notice the hardening of my nipples, the thickness of my scent, the quickness of my breath.
I would rather she didn’t know.
But she’s my den mother, my designated mentor. I’ve pledged to learn her ways. It’s best that I do as she says.
We’re close. She wraps her hard arms around me, pulling me closer. We’re pressed together, the full length of our bodies.
My face presses to her collarbone just above her modest breast. She’s warm; she smells deliciously sweaty and earthy. My breasts, larger than hers and not yet as finely aged, press into her rippled belly.
Her groin, wreathed in stupendous curls of pubic hair, feels especially humid against my thigh.
A moment’s silence passes before she speaks.
“Tell me,” she asks, “have you fucked yet?”
“No,” I lie.
She laughs. “Bullshit.”
It is bullshit.
Fucking is my pasttime, and I don’t much mind who with. It’s not unusual for a trainee–the work is hard, so play must be hard also.
But always fellow trainees, or civilians.
I’ve never had someone with an actual rank, and certainly never a den mother.
Her fingertips are trailing down my spine. They come to rest in the shallow depression at the top of my asscrack.
“Would you like to fuck me right now?” she whispers hotly on the side of my face.
“Yes,” I whisper back.
I was unprepared for my own answer.
“Spread your knees,” she orders.
I lift one knee and plant my foot, exposing the whorls of pubic hair that hide my sex. Her hand is immediately there, parting the hair and touching the thick lips beneath.
Her fingertip locates my cunt, gathering a film of slippery discharge from just inside of it. She deftly dances around my erect clit as though some deeper wisdom were working through her, guiding her hand.
The attention is absolutely lovely.
There isn’t an enormous difference between the way she’s touching me and the way I touch myself. But there’s something about being touched by another, so expertly, that’s finer than mere masturbation.
Already, I feel the warmth spreading, and a wetness welling up in me that demands satisfaction.
Then she bites my ear, hard. It damn near feels like she’s trying to take a piece off. I stifle my scream against her bosom, and she laughs voicelessly. She leaves wet spittle on my throbbing earlobe.
After the initial sharpness, the pain dulls into a persistent hum that somehow melds with the lower, hotter hum that’s beginning to emanate in earnest from the base of my body.
Gods, this is what I’ve been craving. What I’ve imagined, in nights when we’ve encamped separately, when I’ve touched myself under the watchful gaze of a thousand stars and with her in my head.
Except I wouldn’t have imagined this.
She grunts rhythmically as she works, low sounds in the back of her throat next to my ear, sounding for all the world like an oafish boy pleasuring himself in any wet hole that would have him.
But there’s nothing oafish about Den Mother. Her powerful arm throbs against my body, rocking me helplessly, her fingertips swirling with an expert motion that seems to originate from deep within her core.
Her free hand probes between my asscheeks, gripping me, squeezing, pinching. More pain, throbbing in that agreeable way. Her finger finds the coarse bed of hair that grows protectively around my asshole.
She doesn’t stroke it or fuck it–she applies a firm grip there, a pleasant, unchanging pressure that contrasts the strident way she now strokes my clitoris, which is hard-tempered with arousal.
I hold Den Mother tight, pinning her arm between our bodies, kaçak iddaa muttering the many obscenities of the world into her soft tit, her hard sternum.
Then I feel my body give way to the warm wave of pleasure, and I cry “Mmmph!,” my breath making a watery fart as it escapes between my open mouth and her skin.
She holds me by my cunt and my asshole as I stifle my heavy breathing against her. My inner muscles work frantically, as if wringing the orgasm out of me.
She works me all the while, until she’s certain I’m done.
Some time passes–how long, I can’t be sure–until she rolls me off of her, my weight posing little challenge to her.
Our bedroll, our makeshift pup tent, smells heavily of our breath and my sweat and my secretions.
I must be drifting in and out of awareness. It takes me by surprise when she suddenly speaks.
“Lie still,” she says.
Right now, with my limbs feeling weak and boneless, lying on my back is something I can accomplish.
She sits upright, tenting the top of the bedroll with her head.
I wonder if this is the start of further attentions from her. I feel like warning her that I’m far too sensitive to be touched.
Instead, she swings a leg over me, straddling me, her knees to either side of my head, her hairy sex suspended just over my chin. She faces away from me, sighting down the length of my body, her ass in my face.
I hear her say, “Go on, catch your breath. Be quick about it.”
Then she descends.
Helpfully, as she squats, she pulls the hair apart and spreads the lips underneath with her fingertips. My open mouth makes contact with something very warm and soft and wet.
The hair on her asshole makes grazing contact with the tip of my nose. The scent is powerful, as if every sweat gland in her body were concentrating its output in a single pungent location.
It intoxicates me, arouses me further, plunges my mind into the depths of lust. My inhibitions are overwhelmed. In this moment, I would do anything to satisfy Den Mother’s appetite.
I begin licking her humid cunt. It’s a little awkward–I’ve practiced on many people with many configurations of sex parts, but never with them inverted like this. I’m clumsy at first
But Den Mother is uncharacteristically patient, holding herself open for me until I find my bearings and begin lapping away.
Soon, my tongue confidently navigates between her lips. She takes her hands away.
I feel her palms come to rest on my tits. She begins to massage them, not in a terribly pleasurable way, but more as if kneading dough, as if amusing herself with how pliable they are in her strong hands.
In the deadened acoustic space of the bedroll, her heavy breathing seems strangely close. It sounds perverse. It might disgust me, if it didn’t excite me so.
I am Den Mother’s plaything. I lick her cunt, which secretes a froth onto my chin. I sniff her asshole, which invites and repels me with its strength. She squeezes my tits, for her pleasure, not mine.
The further along she gets, the more I feel I can gauge Den Mother’s state of arousal by how aggressively she kneads, pulls, and pinches. By my reckoning, she must be getting close.
I’ve been with women with delightfully sensitive nipples. Were I one of them, no amount of smothering would silence my screams right now.
As it stands, my own breasts, large as they are and with broad nipples to match, are fairly immune to Den Mother’s playful abuses.
But they do hurt.
I’ll be carrying heavy bruises under my tunic for a week.
Den Mother begins to rock her hips, dragging her cunt up and down my mouth, smearing me with sticky cum. Her hands freeze, my tits currently locked in her painful grip.
Aside from a grunt that stays deep within her core, she makes no sound. But the tight but powerful vibration of her body, which I feel through her ass kaçak bahis and through her hands, tells me all I need to know.
When she finally releases me, relinquishing my tits and raising her weight off my face, I gasp for breath.
The inrushing air cools the slick coating of her cum that covers my entire mouth, like grease after a hot feast, and I realize it’s been some time since I took a full breath.
Looming above me, her heavily tattooed back and her tight, masculine ass a tableaux before me, Den Mother keeps still, save for the slow rise and fall of her shoulders as she comes down from climax.
I’ve never seen Den Mother gather herself–I’ve never had an opportunity to see her ungathered–which is perhaps why she chose to face away from me.
I hear her say, quietly, “Not bad. Not bad, young woman.”
I have the impulse to say something uncouth, but it occurs to me that, even in her current state of disadvantage, Den Mother could easily kill me and surrender my body to the frozen wastes.
I hold my tongue.
She climbs off of me, taking care not to drag the bedroll that rests atop her head and shoulders as she moves.
She crouches at my feet, between my legs, facing me, the bedroll still tented atop her head, her knees apart and her hairy sex displayed obscenely.
She looks me over, her chiseled beauty softened by the light, looking upon my splayed, sex-drunk body with almost clinical interest. It’s puzzling at first, but I think I understand.
I believe she’s committing the sight of me to memory, for her personal use, for future nights. I wonder how many times she’s done this, how many nights’ worth of amusements she’s collected over the years.
Being looked at now, in my disadvantaged state, makes me suddenly nervous, self-conscious. It makes me acutely aware of my limpness and nakedness and vulnerability.
But it also feels strangely emboldening. It occurs to me that I’ve never been looked at like this before.
Sure, others, especially men, would give furtive glances as I walked by, then bravely make remarks to to their friends once they thought I could no longer here.
What would they say to each other if they caught me fucking? If I allowed them to watch, or if I made them watch? The mere thought of it spikes my arousal.
I’m already planning to explore it more when I get the chance, mentally sketching out demands for my future partners.
I debate the wisdom of propositioning Den Mother for another fuck, but she’s on the move again, lying down next to me, allowing the roof of our ad hoc tent to sag inward.
Her rough hands grip me. None too gently, she rolls me onto my side and pulls me to her, my back against her body, her breasts against the back of my head.
She kicks over the pack that tents the bedroll, letting it collapse fully upon us. The light slowly fades away. Then it’s dark. I feel her arm drape over me, her hand on my belly, her breath in my hair.
I’m quite warm.
I feel apprehensive about speaking to her. After a small eternity, my curiosity gets the better of me.
“I thought you didn’t like me,” I say.
“I detest you,” she says, matter-of-factly.
Her harsh words make me stiffen in her arms. I think she feels it.
She clarifies, “I felt like fucking, and your body arouses me. Do you not feel the same?”
I say nothing. She persists.
“Does my body arouse you? And did you feel like fucking also?”
“It does, Den Mother,” I say. “And I did want to fuck you.”
“There is nothing wrong with fucking someone who only wants you for your body,” she says, yawning against my head. “Not only is it enjoyable, but you’ll find it can be one of your most useful tools.”
“Yes, Den Mother,” I say.
“You’re a woman now,” she says. “You’ll find that it’s necessary to be detestable.”
As she dozes off, with me bound in her unbreakable embrace, I think, very well.
Did you enjoy this story? Give it a favorite, a rating, and a comment to let me know what you think. As usual, thanks for reading.
– The Author
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