Twelve days had passed since he lost the guide. Perhaps lost was too optimistic. Twelve days ago the guide had disappeared silently during the night, with half the furs and food. Twelve days since he had last seen the fast clear waters of the emerald coloured creek.
Twelve days had past since they had spotted a thinning of the trees ahead, the sound of rushing water, a welcome sight in the relentless cold of the forest canopy. A clearing meant more sunshine, if even for a moment, to warm their icy skin and a creek was drink to quench their thirst. He could hear the swift running water before he laid eyes on it. Jogging ahead, he knelt at it's banks to drink the cool water cupped in his hands. The sun did indeed feel warm on his back for the first time in days. He turned his face to it to soak it in.
Standing, he gestured to his companion to drink. The guide did not drink, he just stood.
“How to cross?” the traveller enquired in his limited language.
“No cross. Go back”, replied the guide.
“Come, friend,” he smiled with excitement, “We go across!” He walked his fingers across his palm.
The guide picked up the reigns to the sledge and turned south.
The explorer snatched the reigns and turned to the creek. Gingerly, he alighted atop a slippery rock and then hopped to another and another, carefully manoeuvring the pack of furs to keep it dry. He made it to the far shore with a thud into the soft peat. Turning to smile to his companion he waved him across, then set to work pulling his bundle up the creek bank. The sledge followed him then stopped him with a jarring yank on the rope. It was caught on a branch. He reached under to disengage it, feeling the smooth branch under his fingers, too smooth and cool, his touch told him. As he pulled at the branch he suddenly jerked away dropping a crumbling arrangement of whitened bones. His heart raced, then calmed. Just a dead animal. He squatted down to investigate. No, a human hand, still held precariously together in places with sinew. Poor soul, to die alone in the cold bleak wilderness, watched over by only Hel and the silent forest.
The guide padded over to him, “Go back, not safe”, he pointed to the bones, and said something in his native language. The traveller didn't understand. “Red, bad”, he tried in frustration, to express himself in the Norseman's tongue, “Blood, bad lady magic!”
Bad lady magic? He laughed and patted the guide on the shoulder, “It's ok, my friend. Let us go,” and turning his back to the sun, he trekked into the trees.
The explorer had wanted to continue north for two more days. He had plenty of time to get back to his ship. That was twelve days ago.
He was a Norseman and considered himself resourceful. In his 26 years he had travelled, traded and raided across the northern islands from Hibernia to the Baltic. Never straying too far from the coast, he now knew why. The inland cold was dry, drier than anything he had ever felt. The guide had told him the snows would come late this year. But the cold did not wait. There were no leaves left on the trees. The edges of the long lost emerald creek had be frozen solid, at least he expected it to be frozen if he ever found it again.
Today was partly sunny and he knew for certain that he was heading south. Three bleak cloudy days in a row had left him disoriented in this foreign land. As soon as he had discovered the guide had fled, the Norseman packed up camp and followed their tracks toward the coast. But he still had not crossed the emerald creek again. He saw his own footprints and those of the guide impressed in the soft earth, now frozen in place until spring. It was impossible he was lost. Impossible but hopeless. For twelve days he had backtracked on his own prints and nothing looked familiar.
Drowsy from cold, he peered ahead to a break in the undergrowth. Perhaps a trail? He released the sledge and climbed up the slight embankment. There was a distinct worn path winding through the trees to the west. He checked on his pack, down below and walked backwards always keeping it in sight, for about 25 paces. The path wound down a ravine. To a creek? The emerald creek? He was close!
Something crunched under his boot. With hesitation, he looked down, only to find more bones.
Furiously grinding them underfoot, he backtracked to his pile of gear and sat. He took a swig of water and looked down. All the footprints were gone, his, the guide's, the footprints going north and the footprints going south. Gone. He put his head in his hands in resignation, staring at the frost covered earth, willing it to give him a sign. Listening for something, someone, anything but just silence. He stroked his golden beard, now caked with heavy frost. Winter had finally caught up with him.
Time to press on. He followed the new path until the sun was at it's highest. Down the ravine, he was descending but veering north again. He would follow this to the bottom and find the water. Then he would make permanent winter camp. He would not be meeting his ship. He would not find the coast before the snows came.
Ahead a distinctive pile of bones. This time there was no surprise. Another human skeleton crumpled on the side of the trail. There was no time for mourning. The path turned sharply and he knew he was finally at the bottom of the ravine. And there was the creek, almost completely frozen but never a more welcome sight to his weary eyes. He looked up to find the sun disappeared, snow had started to fall. He tried to get his bearings, scanning the creek north and south.
Something caught his eye. A flash of red. So out of place here. It seemed to hover over the creek.
He followed the shore toward it until a pile of stone came into focus. It was a bridge. A stone bridge! Unmistakably made by men. He broke into a run, stumbling, eyes blurring in the cold. He saw red, gold, white, snow falling, his breath swirling a frozen mist before his eyes. He stopped and focused his gaze in wonder.
The bridge spanned the creek, interlocking stone, covered in a layer of fresh white powder snow. In the middle of the bridge was a large stone block. Radiating from the block in every direction were large chains tethered to the base structure. The chains were golden under the dust of powdery snow, swirling up from the floor of the bridge into a tangled mass atop the stone block.
As he crept closer, in awe, he saw the chains did not lay in a heap upon the block, but rather entwined about a body. A human curled on her side, a woman, yes a woman he could see her bare breasts, she was fair as the snow dust and completely naked except for the gold chains.
He cursed, who would kill a woman so? Leaving her out to freeze, bound in chains? He approached. The gold chain links were as large as a child's hand. They bound her wrists, ankles, waist, breasts and neck. Where the chains met her skin, red angry chafe burns and cuts bled dark against her white skin. The only shroud to cover her in death was the cloak of silken hair, dark red tresses the colour of blood draped in a veil cascading over her curves.
He stared at the sight of her frozen in time. Completely paralysed, his eyes watered with grief. She was magnificent and proud even in her bondage, mesmerizingly beautiful. Her skin was so vibrantly and unnaturally white. She must have been frozen instantly upon death.
He slowly backed to the shore, every step adding distance and clarity. He would have to clean her and if he could, release her body and provide proper death rites. He felt uneasy though, as if he was disturbing something. He thought of the skeletons in the woods. He shivered at the words of the guide, Bad lady magic. He looked around. The forest was silent and empty. He could see nothing but the steep walls of the valley rising on both sides above the creek. This spot was isolated, but how did he come upon this scene? Was he safe? Who did this? Was there dark magic at work?
He set about to building a fire and lean-to shelter, for the snow was getting heavier and he had only a short time before dark. As he performed the routine camp tasks it was almost as if he could go about the business of surviving and pretend he had not seen anything. Every so often though, he would glance to the bridge and the feelings of horror and shock would flood back again. Eventually he sat by the fire alone in his thoughts and his thoughts turned to her.
He approached her again. The chain links were fused. There were no locks, no shackles just chain interlinked in such a way it could only have been hot forged in place. He scratched his nail along a link, the metal was soft. He tried to lift a chain that tethered her ankle to the ground but it was too heavy. Was this solid gold? If it was, it was more gold that he would ever see in his lifetime. The only way he could see to free her was to hack through the chains with his axe.
He found himself staring at her wounds again. She must have felt much pain. He couldn't stand to look at them any longer. He would begin by cleaning her. Pouring water onto a cloth he padded up to her. Hesitantly, he reached for her neck wounds to wipe her clean but the cloth fell away and his bare hand touched her instead, sparks running through him as the sensation of her skin overtook. Even in death her skin was silken smooth. His gaze lowered to her breast and his fingers trailed automatically to caress it's full roundness.
Water
He must get water, he thought, yes water. He bent down to pick up the cloth, as he rose from the ground he found himself staring into her wide open dark blue eyes.
She blinked.
Water
He fell backwards with fright.
Water
Her voice was a silken caress. She was alive.
He stumbled to find the water flask. His eyes never leaving her. Blood began to trickle from under her chains. Panicked he pressed the cloth to her bleeding wound until he saw another rivulet of blood stream over her breast.
Water
Her voice was in his mind yet her lips did not move. He pressed the flask to her mouth but the water trickled down to the stone slab. He didn't know what to do. She stirred in her chains opening new wounds, more blood. He held the flask to his mouth and took a huge gulp of the frozen liquid. He let it warm in his mouth as he lowered his lips to hers. His mouth pressed against her cold flesh as he parted her lips with his hot tongue and gave her water. She let out a small moan as she drank from him. Three more times she drank before he tore himself away.
Running to his camp he fetched his axe and raced back to her. He hacked at her chains frantically until in his fatigue, he realized it was pointless.
You cannot break them
He took off his fur jacket. He tried to wrap her in the skin but she thrashed and fought. He climbed over her and pressed his body against her. He wanted to warm her, to heal her. “Woman!” he shouted. She stilled. He stared down at her. Her eyes met his.
Leave me
“No!” he replied in anger, “Let me free you.”
Leave
He pulled his tunic over his head, then pressed his warm skin against hers, wrapping her in his arms. She started to twist and turn under him again.
Leave
He glanced at his forearm and saw her blood smeared there. He brought the arm up to his mouth and licked. His cock stirred under his clothes. He lowered his mouth to her chest and licked some more, feeling his cock swell as he lapped up the metallic red liquid that trickled over her breasts.
I will take your magic
Her voice was all around him, the voice in his head. What was he doing? He was lust crazed with thirst for the taste of her. He tried to pull off her but her long red hair lashed out, at first its silken softness caressing him, then turning to sharp knives slicing at his back.
Give me your magic
He growled in pain. Where her hair had cut him, a burning sensation spread across his back then smoldered into waves of pleasure coursing through his body. His cock pressed painfully confined as he struggled to pull free of her trap. Rising to his knees above her, his fingers tugged and pulled at his laces, desperate to free himself from his clothes.
You are mine now
Give me your magic
At that command he was unmanned. Spasms shook him as the hot liquid spurted from his cock. He let out a fierce cry of relief and fell back panting. His seed sparkled on her bare skin and he watched in awe as her bleeding wounds closed where it touched.
Magic.
Leaning over her, he smeared the essence of his body on his hands then slowly spread it over her breasts. She writhed beneath him as the chafe marks and scrapes healed before his eyes..
“Who are you?” he begged, “What matter of woman or creature are you? Are you a witch?”
I am your mistress
Now give me your magic
Her blue eyes watched. He could not look away. She tried to lift her body but the chains held her. There was still blood on her. She was still wounded. He felt his cock stiffen again at the sight. He had gone mad. Completely mad. His body vibrated and burned. He couldn't stop himself he had to taste her again. He ran his tongue over her thigh. The tiny drop of blood was enough to whip him to full arousal.
He followed the chains from her waist to between her legs. They were tight fastened, strung between her pussy lips leaving only a finger's width of access. Hungry he pulled her legs apart and slid his tongue between the chains. She tasted sweeter than he could ever imagine. She was a witch alright. And he didn't care. He devoured her, his tongue probing through the prison to taste inside her. She was responding to him now as a woman. She moaned and lifted her hips to his mouth. He could feel her thighs tremble. The chains between her lips seemed more slack but perhaps it was her wetness. He roughly pulled, trying to move them further apart. All he could think of was having his cock inside her but it was no use, he would never get past her bonds.
He took her swollen pink flesh into his mouth and sucked letting his teeth graze her. His fingers dug deep into the flesh of her bottom as he drew her around him, never close enough, never deep enough. He felt her thighs clench around him. Now he was completely smothered by her wetness as she released her pleasure on his face and he drank from her. His body was singing with tension now. He pounded his fist against the stone in frustration. Then her legs opened for him and he watched the two chains slowly slip outward pulling her juicy lips wide apart in invitation.
He scrambled up and swiftly mounted her, driving his cock deep inside. She was hot, soft, slippery, silk encasing his shaft. “Witch!!” He cursed as he thrust hard. He looked down at her gold imprisoned body as it absorbed the shock of his pounding but he was completely driven now, relentlessly fucking her, wanting to go ever deeper and faster. He could feel her writhing and thrashing beneath him. Her pussy squeezed and tightened around his cock. He could smell her blood. He lowered his head and licked a drop of it from her neck, the taste of her pushed him over the edge. He exploded inside her succumbing to the spasms of pleasure taking control of his body.
His whole body spent, he lay motionless across her.
I am the Mistress of the North
She stirred under him. He felt her flex and tighten her arms.
I am the Lady of Winter
Her whole body coiled like spring. He tensed. He was suddenly aware of great strength radiating from her muscles. He looked to her wrists, noticing her wounds had completely healed. He felt great energy coming from her, roaring in his ears. The feeling in the pit of his stomach was something any sane man would remember. Fear. It was a warning to retreat.
Her wrists tugged and the chains broke. He didn't have time to react before he felt himself being flung through the air with great force and slamming down, head first, on the hard, icy rock. His bones crumpled like the lonely skeletons on the path.
Sharp stabbing pain as he cautiously opened his eyes. Through the blurry veil of delirium he saw her rise off the stone slab. Every twist of her perfect body snapping links of chain as she pulled herself up to her knees. Screeching, she ripped off all of her restraints and hurled them with blazing fury.
He was fading. The pain of his smashed head was overcoming him. His eyes met hers. As he slipped into the darkness he watched giant white wings unfurl from her back and stroke the icy air, lifting her up to the sky.
You are mine now
------------------------------------------------
Inara scanned the beach hopefully, relaxing as her eyes rested upon him. He walked through the sand, purposefully striding toward her. A cold gust of wind blasted her sideways. She watched him stop and survey the fjord before proceeding to the house.
“Husband!” She spoke cheerfully in greeting. He walked past her, eyes fixed straight ahead. She was used to it though.
When her husband had returned from the sea months ago, his father had called on her and released her from her bond as wife. He had come home damaged, he said. Not right in the head. There was a massive scar on his skull from a near death blow but something too had happened to his essence and spark. He was like a candle snuffed. But she stayed for him.
He had been lost to his group overnight, They had found him three hours from the camp the next day, naked, crumpled in the snow, clutching his pack. He had not spoken on the voyage home and he rarely spoke now at all. Occasionally, he would look to the forest and proclaim, “Winter is coming.”
She followed him inside their home. He began to gather food and clothes from about the hut. He pulled out his old pack and stuffed the items inside. His Axe was last to go in. He flung it over his shoulder and looked directly at her for the first time today. “Winter is here,” he said matter of factly and spun on his heal and walked out the door.
Gathering her skirts, she chased after him running alongside his lengthy stride.
“Husband?” she pleaded, “Husband, where are you going?"
His eyes were blank as he whispered, “My Lady of Winter, the Mistress of the North,” and left her standing at the edge of the fjord.
Twelve days had past since they had spotted a thinning of the trees ahead, the sound of rushing water, a welcome sight in the relentless cold of the forest canopy. A clearing meant more sunshine, if even for a moment, to warm their icy skin and a creek was drink to quench their thirst. He could hear the swift running water before he laid eyes on it. Jogging ahead, he knelt at it's banks to drink the cool water cupped in his hands. The sun did indeed feel warm on his back for the first time in days. He turned his face to it to soak it in.
Standing, he gestured to his companion to drink. The guide did not drink, he just stood.
“How to cross?” the traveller enquired in his limited language.
“No cross. Go back”, replied the guide.
“Come, friend,” he smiled with excitement, “We go across!” He walked his fingers across his palm.
The guide picked up the reigns to the sledge and turned south.
The explorer snatched the reigns and turned to the creek. Gingerly, he alighted atop a slippery rock and then hopped to another and another, carefully manoeuvring the pack of furs to keep it dry. He made it to the far shore with a thud into the soft peat. Turning to smile to his companion he waved him across, then set to work pulling his bundle up the creek bank. The sledge followed him then stopped him with a jarring yank on the rope. It was caught on a branch. He reached under to disengage it, feeling the smooth branch under his fingers, too smooth and cool, his touch told him. As he pulled at the branch he suddenly jerked away dropping a crumbling arrangement of whitened bones. His heart raced, then calmed. Just a dead animal. He squatted down to investigate. No, a human hand, still held precariously together in places with sinew. Poor soul, to die alone in the cold bleak wilderness, watched over by only Hel and the silent forest.
The guide padded over to him, “Go back, not safe”, he pointed to the bones, and said something in his native language. The traveller didn't understand. “Red, bad”, he tried in frustration, to express himself in the Norseman's tongue, “Blood, bad lady magic!”
Bad lady magic? He laughed and patted the guide on the shoulder, “It's ok, my friend. Let us go,” and turning his back to the sun, he trekked into the trees.
The explorer had wanted to continue north for two more days. He had plenty of time to get back to his ship. That was twelve days ago.
He was a Norseman and considered himself resourceful. In his 26 years he had travelled, traded and raided across the northern islands from Hibernia to the Baltic. Never straying too far from the coast, he now knew why. The inland cold was dry, drier than anything he had ever felt. The guide had told him the snows would come late this year. But the cold did not wait. There were no leaves left on the trees. The edges of the long lost emerald creek had be frozen solid, at least he expected it to be frozen if he ever found it again.
Today was partly sunny and he knew for certain that he was heading south. Three bleak cloudy days in a row had left him disoriented in this foreign land. As soon as he had discovered the guide had fled, the Norseman packed up camp and followed their tracks toward the coast. But he still had not crossed the emerald creek again. He saw his own footprints and those of the guide impressed in the soft earth, now frozen in place until spring. It was impossible he was lost. Impossible but hopeless. For twelve days he had backtracked on his own prints and nothing looked familiar.
Drowsy from cold, he peered ahead to a break in the undergrowth. Perhaps a trail? He released the sledge and climbed up the slight embankment. There was a distinct worn path winding through the trees to the west. He checked on his pack, down below and walked backwards always keeping it in sight, for about 25 paces. The path wound down a ravine. To a creek? The emerald creek? He was close!
Something crunched under his boot. With hesitation, he looked down, only to find more bones.
Furiously grinding them underfoot, he backtracked to his pile of gear and sat. He took a swig of water and looked down. All the footprints were gone, his, the guide's, the footprints going north and the footprints going south. Gone. He put his head in his hands in resignation, staring at the frost covered earth, willing it to give him a sign. Listening for something, someone, anything but just silence. He stroked his golden beard, now caked with heavy frost. Winter had finally caught up with him.
Time to press on. He followed the new path until the sun was at it's highest. Down the ravine, he was descending but veering north again. He would follow this to the bottom and find the water. Then he would make permanent winter camp. He would not be meeting his ship. He would not find the coast before the snows came.
Ahead a distinctive pile of bones. This time there was no surprise. Another human skeleton crumpled on the side of the trail. There was no time for mourning. The path turned sharply and he knew he was finally at the bottom of the ravine. And there was the creek, almost completely frozen but never a more welcome sight to his weary eyes. He looked up to find the sun disappeared, snow had started to fall. He tried to get his bearings, scanning the creek north and south.
Something caught his eye. A flash of red. So out of place here. It seemed to hover over the creek.
He followed the shore toward it until a pile of stone came into focus. It was a bridge. A stone bridge! Unmistakably made by men. He broke into a run, stumbling, eyes blurring in the cold. He saw red, gold, white, snow falling, his breath swirling a frozen mist before his eyes. He stopped and focused his gaze in wonder.
The bridge spanned the creek, interlocking stone, covered in a layer of fresh white powder snow. In the middle of the bridge was a large stone block. Radiating from the block in every direction were large chains tethered to the base structure. The chains were golden under the dust of powdery snow, swirling up from the floor of the bridge into a tangled mass atop the stone block.
As he crept closer, in awe, he saw the chains did not lay in a heap upon the block, but rather entwined about a body. A human curled on her side, a woman, yes a woman he could see her bare breasts, she was fair as the snow dust and completely naked except for the gold chains.
He cursed, who would kill a woman so? Leaving her out to freeze, bound in chains? He approached. The gold chain links were as large as a child's hand. They bound her wrists, ankles, waist, breasts and neck. Where the chains met her skin, red angry chafe burns and cuts bled dark against her white skin. The only shroud to cover her in death was the cloak of silken hair, dark red tresses the colour of blood draped in a veil cascading over her curves.
He stared at the sight of her frozen in time. Completely paralysed, his eyes watered with grief. She was magnificent and proud even in her bondage, mesmerizingly beautiful. Her skin was so vibrantly and unnaturally white. She must have been frozen instantly upon death.
He slowly backed to the shore, every step adding distance and clarity. He would have to clean her and if he could, release her body and provide proper death rites. He felt uneasy though, as if he was disturbing something. He thought of the skeletons in the woods. He shivered at the words of the guide, Bad lady magic. He looked around. The forest was silent and empty. He could see nothing but the steep walls of the valley rising on both sides above the creek. This spot was isolated, but how did he come upon this scene? Was he safe? Who did this? Was there dark magic at work?
He set about to building a fire and lean-to shelter, for the snow was getting heavier and he had only a short time before dark. As he performed the routine camp tasks it was almost as if he could go about the business of surviving and pretend he had not seen anything. Every so often though, he would glance to the bridge and the feelings of horror and shock would flood back again. Eventually he sat by the fire alone in his thoughts and his thoughts turned to her.
He approached her again. The chain links were fused. There were no locks, no shackles just chain interlinked in such a way it could only have been hot forged in place. He scratched his nail along a link, the metal was soft. He tried to lift a chain that tethered her ankle to the ground but it was too heavy. Was this solid gold? If it was, it was more gold that he would ever see in his lifetime. The only way he could see to free her was to hack through the chains with his axe.
He found himself staring at her wounds again. She must have felt much pain. He couldn't stand to look at them any longer. He would begin by cleaning her. Pouring water onto a cloth he padded up to her. Hesitantly, he reached for her neck wounds to wipe her clean but the cloth fell away and his bare hand touched her instead, sparks running through him as the sensation of her skin overtook. Even in death her skin was silken smooth. His gaze lowered to her breast and his fingers trailed automatically to caress it's full roundness.
Water
He must get water, he thought, yes water. He bent down to pick up the cloth, as he rose from the ground he found himself staring into her wide open dark blue eyes.
She blinked.
Water
He fell backwards with fright.
Water
Her voice was a silken caress. She was alive.
He stumbled to find the water flask. His eyes never leaving her. Blood began to trickle from under her chains. Panicked he pressed the cloth to her bleeding wound until he saw another rivulet of blood stream over her breast.
Water
Her voice was in his mind yet her lips did not move. He pressed the flask to her mouth but the water trickled down to the stone slab. He didn't know what to do. She stirred in her chains opening new wounds, more blood. He held the flask to his mouth and took a huge gulp of the frozen liquid. He let it warm in his mouth as he lowered his lips to hers. His mouth pressed against her cold flesh as he parted her lips with his hot tongue and gave her water. She let out a small moan as she drank from him. Three more times she drank before he tore himself away.
Running to his camp he fetched his axe and raced back to her. He hacked at her chains frantically until in his fatigue, he realized it was pointless.
You cannot break them
He took off his fur jacket. He tried to wrap her in the skin but she thrashed and fought. He climbed over her and pressed his body against her. He wanted to warm her, to heal her. “Woman!” he shouted. She stilled. He stared down at her. Her eyes met his.
Leave me
“No!” he replied in anger, “Let me free you.”
Leave
He pulled his tunic over his head, then pressed his warm skin against hers, wrapping her in his arms. She started to twist and turn under him again.
Leave
He glanced at his forearm and saw her blood smeared there. He brought the arm up to his mouth and licked. His cock stirred under his clothes. He lowered his mouth to her chest and licked some more, feeling his cock swell as he lapped up the metallic red liquid that trickled over her breasts.
I will take your magic
Her voice was all around him, the voice in his head. What was he doing? He was lust crazed with thirst for the taste of her. He tried to pull off her but her long red hair lashed out, at first its silken softness caressing him, then turning to sharp knives slicing at his back.
Give me your magic
He growled in pain. Where her hair had cut him, a burning sensation spread across his back then smoldered into waves of pleasure coursing through his body. His cock pressed painfully confined as he struggled to pull free of her trap. Rising to his knees above her, his fingers tugged and pulled at his laces, desperate to free himself from his clothes.
You are mine now
Give me your magic
At that command he was unmanned. Spasms shook him as the hot liquid spurted from his cock. He let out a fierce cry of relief and fell back panting. His seed sparkled on her bare skin and he watched in awe as her bleeding wounds closed where it touched.
Magic.
Leaning over her, he smeared the essence of his body on his hands then slowly spread it over her breasts. She writhed beneath him as the chafe marks and scrapes healed before his eyes..
“Who are you?” he begged, “What matter of woman or creature are you? Are you a witch?”
I am your mistress
Now give me your magic
Her blue eyes watched. He could not look away. She tried to lift her body but the chains held her. There was still blood on her. She was still wounded. He felt his cock stiffen again at the sight. He had gone mad. Completely mad. His body vibrated and burned. He couldn't stop himself he had to taste her again. He ran his tongue over her thigh. The tiny drop of blood was enough to whip him to full arousal.
He followed the chains from her waist to between her legs. They were tight fastened, strung between her pussy lips leaving only a finger's width of access. Hungry he pulled her legs apart and slid his tongue between the chains. She tasted sweeter than he could ever imagine. She was a witch alright. And he didn't care. He devoured her, his tongue probing through the prison to taste inside her. She was responding to him now as a woman. She moaned and lifted her hips to his mouth. He could feel her thighs tremble. The chains between her lips seemed more slack but perhaps it was her wetness. He roughly pulled, trying to move them further apart. All he could think of was having his cock inside her but it was no use, he would never get past her bonds.
He took her swollen pink flesh into his mouth and sucked letting his teeth graze her. His fingers dug deep into the flesh of her bottom as he drew her around him, never close enough, never deep enough. He felt her thighs clench around him. Now he was completely smothered by her wetness as she released her pleasure on his face and he drank from her. His body was singing with tension now. He pounded his fist against the stone in frustration. Then her legs opened for him and he watched the two chains slowly slip outward pulling her juicy lips wide apart in invitation.
He scrambled up and swiftly mounted her, driving his cock deep inside. She was hot, soft, slippery, silk encasing his shaft. “Witch!!” He cursed as he thrust hard. He looked down at her gold imprisoned body as it absorbed the shock of his pounding but he was completely driven now, relentlessly fucking her, wanting to go ever deeper and faster. He could feel her writhing and thrashing beneath him. Her pussy squeezed and tightened around his cock. He could smell her blood. He lowered his head and licked a drop of it from her neck, the taste of her pushed him over the edge. He exploded inside her succumbing to the spasms of pleasure taking control of his body.
His whole body spent, he lay motionless across her.
I am the Mistress of the North
She stirred under him. He felt her flex and tighten her arms.
I am the Lady of Winter
Her whole body coiled like spring. He tensed. He was suddenly aware of great strength radiating from her muscles. He looked to her wrists, noticing her wounds had completely healed. He felt great energy coming from her, roaring in his ears. The feeling in the pit of his stomach was something any sane man would remember. Fear. It was a warning to retreat.
Her wrists tugged and the chains broke. He didn't have time to react before he felt himself being flung through the air with great force and slamming down, head first, on the hard, icy rock. His bones crumpled like the lonely skeletons on the path.
Sharp stabbing pain as he cautiously opened his eyes. Through the blurry veil of delirium he saw her rise off the stone slab. Every twist of her perfect body snapping links of chain as she pulled herself up to her knees. Screeching, she ripped off all of her restraints and hurled them with blazing fury.
He was fading. The pain of his smashed head was overcoming him. His eyes met hers. As he slipped into the darkness he watched giant white wings unfurl from her back and stroke the icy air, lifting her up to the sky.
You are mine now
------------------------------------------------
Inara scanned the beach hopefully, relaxing as her eyes rested upon him. He walked through the sand, purposefully striding toward her. A cold gust of wind blasted her sideways. She watched him stop and survey the fjord before proceeding to the house.
“Husband!” She spoke cheerfully in greeting. He walked past her, eyes fixed straight ahead. She was used to it though.
When her husband had returned from the sea months ago, his father had called on her and released her from her bond as wife. He had come home damaged, he said. Not right in the head. There was a massive scar on his skull from a near death blow but something too had happened to his essence and spark. He was like a candle snuffed. But she stayed for him.
He had been lost to his group overnight, They had found him three hours from the camp the next day, naked, crumpled in the snow, clutching his pack. He had not spoken on the voyage home and he rarely spoke now at all. Occasionally, he would look to the forest and proclaim, “Winter is coming.”
She followed him inside their home. He began to gather food and clothes from about the hut. He pulled out his old pack and stuffed the items inside. His Axe was last to go in. He flung it over his shoulder and looked directly at her for the first time today. “Winter is here,” he said matter of factly and spun on his heal and walked out the door.
Gathering her skirts, she chased after him running alongside his lengthy stride.
“Husband?” she pleaded, “Husband, where are you going?"
His eyes were blank as he whispered, “My Lady of Winter, the Mistress of the North,” and left her standing at the edge of the fjord.
No comments:
Post a Comment