By the Sweat of the Succubus' Brow

Kaletina's dark woolen skirts were bunched up and pooled onto the small of her back.

The fleshy, hefty cheeks of the young dancer's ass were a reddish olive-brown color under the clear drops of sweat which had beaded up all over her pleasingly wide, violently trembling bottom. The yellow light given off by the ornate bronze lantern, which was suspended from the middle of the inn room's ceiling, made the perspiration glisten as it ran in gleaming rivulets over and down the shaking mounds of the girl's fetching rear.

Her chubby-fingered hands gripped two of the four stout hardwood posts of the inn's spacious bed, dancer-bells chimed at her ankles. A fat cushion had been placed under her belly, so that her olive butt was forced to jut upward and back. Her blouse was unlaced and the band of unbleached cotton cloth normally used to confine her firm breasts had been loosened so that the soft tit-flesh bulged out against the rumpled blanket.

From the point of view of the man who fucked the girl from behind, Z'mbutu the Nubian, his long and thick black cock seemed to slide into the deep cleavage of her generous ass, but he was actually penetrating below the double-curve of her derriere into the hairy and plump lips of the slut's tight cunt.

Kaletina threw back her head, her long black straight hair draped over shapely shoulders, and cried out as she felt the smooth wedge of his big cockhead stretch her sex wide, the abrupt friction striking an intense burn throughout her shuddering, instinctively clasping pussy.

"Too big," she moaned.

The dancer's throaty voice was thickly threaded with a Steppenian accent. Her red lips were stretched back to reveal her somewhat crooked teeth. Her legs kicked setting off her ankle bells on a wild fit of jingling. "Too big."

Z'mbutu was big, the saucy little strumpet was correct on that matter, but he had no intention of stopping. The alchemist had already paid good coin for Kaletina's advertised talents and his intent was to get his money's worth. He ignored the tart's protest, tensed his hips and fed her another few inches of his dark manhood, grunting as he plunged deeper into her spasming sheath.

"Please," the girl whimpered, the black phallus filling her to capacity. But it wasn't only his size that caused the dancer concern, she could feel the actual mass of his huge cock, the weight of his meat packing her full.

When she turned her face on the blanket, Z'mbutu could see how the epicanthic folds at the corners of Kaletina's pretty light-brown eyes formed them into almond-shapes. Tears cruised down the trollop's blushing cheeks as she looked back and up at the looming Nubian. Then, to her surprise and in contradiction to her voiced protest and tears, she issued a trailing moan of pleasure.

To the alchemist's dark eyes the dancer was impossibly exotic, hailing as he did from the Black kingdom of Banturia, on the vast equatorial savannah region. She, too, was an alien to the city-state of Narlenyss, their present location, but of the Steppes people, from a rugged land far to the north.

Z'mbutu chuckled, grinning as he felt the slut's walls strongly hug and lavishly oil his intrusive cock. Her rough lover paused, allowing Kaletina to adjust to his unceremonious and brutal entry. When he spoke, it was full of mockingly false concern.

"If it's truly too big, I'll stop. Is that want you want, my juicy dancing girl?"

She moaned, negating her protests, and pressed her succulent ass back, wordlessly entreating him to plunge deeper. Once more Z'mbutu chuckled. He raised his right hand then brought it down hard on her sweaty ass. Kaletina screamed at the sudden sting and humped down against the pillow under her tummy. He took the opportunity to ram the rest of his long and corpulent shaft into her. He could feel her juices beginning to slather her contracting cunt in self-defense.

Again she screamed when he slammed into her. Z'mbutu was unconcerned. The cries of a wench being taken, willingly or otherwise, was not an uncommon occurrence in the Maul District, as the Foreign-Quarter of the city was also known. It was unlikely that any ill-conceived rescue effort would be mounted on her behalf.

Earlier in the evening, after having witnessed her somewhat uninspired dance in a shabby tavern frequented by the sages of the city's university, Z'mbutu had paid Kaletina's inflated price and brought her back to his room at the inn. Whilst she had sprawled on the bed and drank lustily from a bottle of wine, he'd used his mouth on her.

Z'mbutu could tell, by the amount of unshaven hair on her body, that the girl hadn't been in the city for very long. The refined pleasure women of Narlenyss, the city's prostitutes, preferred a clean-shaven look to their legs and underarms. Their sexlips were likewise free of hair, exposed to the seeking eye of a prospective customer. The hairy girl had never felt a man's lips and tongue on her pussy. In her culture men cared more for their sturdy shabby ponies than they did for their women.

The mobile and talented lips on her sex had both scandalized and excited the Steppes-bred barbarian. It hadn't taken long for her to put the bottle down and to splay her hands over Z'mbutu's head as she'd ground her cunt against his mouth. Kaletina had encouraged his efforts with vulgarities in both her native tongue and the slang she'd picked up from her time in the city.

She came several times in succession, drenching Z'mbutu's face in her juices, her musk.

Z'mbutu was tall, as was normal for his people, and he was strong from traveling the world mostly on foot. He loomed over the much smaller girl as he'd begun to disrobe. He had taken his time undressing as she'd jabbered away, arousing him further with her obscene entreaties. Then she had suddenly fallen silent. Her eyes had gone wide at the sight of his ebony cock, not only long but the black meat was thick as well. She watched as his cock had hardened to its threatening fullness before her startled face. There was the first sign of panic in her heavy-lidded drunken eyes.

But, to Z'mbutu's way of thinking, a whore, just as any other merchant, was obliged to render her goods in the agreed upon manner at the agreed upon time and place. Z'mbutu had bought the pussy, sharing a bottle of good wine with the greedily thirsty wench in the bargain, he'd be poxed if he wasn't going to use the dancing slut as he saw fit. And so, he'd mounted her from behind.

Now, his powerful hips tensed again and he buried several more vein-humped inches into the reluctant little prostitute. Once more she cried out, then groaned as he pried her buttocks apart with his big dark hands. Her pucker, a healthy pinkish-brown, winked up at him from the deep valley of her spread ass. He placed the pad of his right thumb to the tight pit and rubbed, stimulating the cluster of nerves which ringed the orifice.

Kaletina's body went tense. Her leg and arm muscles strained, the tendons taut. Her sensual mouth was pulled back, again revealing her charmingly crooked teeth. She caught her breath, then issued a wanton moan as she released, her cunt oils generously bathing his enormous member entombed so deeply in her active cunt.

"By the Goddess!" She exclaimed and groaned wantonly into the rumpled blanket.

Pressing her ass back, the dancer ground her clenched hole against his thumb, encouraging him to penetrate the crater. "Use me, outlander," she growled, over her shoulder. Tears freely ran down her face. "Fuck me."

And so he did. Z'mbutu long-stroked her, slow, arrogantly flexing his big phallus deep into Kaletina's molten tunnel. She sobbed beneath him, pressing her ass back as far as she was able, feeling him ram her, packing her full time and again with the masterful cock. His thumb anal-fucked her as a wet spot grew on the blanket beneath her. She came several more times as his heavy cock sac wetly slapped her hairy cuntlips.

Eventually, inevitably, Z'mbutu could no longer hold back his load. "Receive my seed, girl," he grunted, his voice rough from sustained effort and passion. His hand came down on her jiggling cheeks and he spanked her hard as he came. The sweating Banturian threw back his head and issued a smooth baritone laugh in exultation as he pumped into her rippling pussy.

The sensation of his white-hot cum rushing into her clenching cunt ignited Kaletina again. She screamed, humped, and mewled her way through another intense series of orgasms. All the while Z'mbutu kept sawing in and out of the whore, his creamy cum drooled in thick ropes from the gaping mouth of her reddened and stretched pussylips, frothed in the dark curls of her thick cunt hair, and ran in pearl rivulets down her olive thighs. :. While Z'mbutu splashed his face with water from a basin on a table, he looked at the somewhat tarnished brass mirror above the wash table at the reflection of the released barbarian, Kaletina. He watched her wipe herself with the top blanket from the bed. She rewrapped her breasts with the cotton banding and from the waistband of her skirts she pulled out a small perfume vial. Despite her dry wiping, Z'mbutu's scent was still on her. There weren't many men who wanted a whore who smelled of another man's leavings. She sprinkled the bottled scent over her thighs, working a few drops into the curly thatch of her delta. Then Kaletina rubbed the perfume over her arms, behind her ears and finally dabbling some in the hollow of her throat. She hopped down off the bed and smoothed down her skirts, her ankle bells chiming.

She looked over at him and saw Z'mbutu looking back through the mirror. "Mind if I have another swallow of wine?"

The alchemist was sure she wouldn't have bothered asking permission if he weren't looking. "Aye. Help yourself. You were a good bed-romp, if a bit on the expensive side."

"Not for Narlenyss." She reminded him, offhandedly, before tipping the bottle and nearly emptying it. "My thanks."

"Think nothing of it."

While the little slut had been overpriced, still, Z'mbutu considered it money well-spent.

The alchemist was on the trail of a mystery and the dancer had been the final stage in an experiment, of sorts. The women of Narlenyss were legend the worldwide, known for their seductive fabled beauty, their irresistible carnal charms. This was why he'd come to the city in the first place, his scholarly curiosity piqued, to see if the legend was fact or merely baseless rumor.

After spending eight months in the capitol city he'd found that the reputation of the ladies of Narlenyss was well-earned. Which had only served to set him after another mystery. Why were the women so irresistible, what made them so?

In retrospect the answer seemed obvious. It was the perfume, of course.

His ardor spent, Z'mbutu was completely dispassionate toward the dancer. It followed a familiar pattern. He'd found that the arousal power of the perfume was least effective in the post-coital stage.

"See you the next time you're in the tavern." She gave him a drunkenly flirtatious wink.

"Aye," he said. Which won't be anytime soon, he thought.

"Farewell, then, Banturian."

"And to you, my sweet little tart."

The strumpet dimpled a smile and left the room in a swirl of long skirts. :. A quarter-hour later saw him exiting the notorious Maul, with its attendant population of cut-throats, purse-snatchers, forgers, and whores. Leaving behind the rabble and streets of garbage-strewn squalor, his well-traveled and battered satchel strapped over one shoulder, and his chain-mesh lined cloak about his head and body as a cowl and cape, Z'mbutu entered Narlenyss' famous riverside Garden District, where dwelt the wealthy of the prosperous principality.

Lacking any entrée to the local social upper-crust, Z'mbutu hadn't much occasion to visit the renowned district, on the river's Left Bank. However, he had been there once before, the night he'd tracked the mystery of Narlenyss perfume to its source. To the house of Lord Chenei, a rich recluse who hadn't been seen in public in the memory of the city's oldest citizen. And it was to that man's mansion that he now ventured, for the right good Lord Chenei was at the heart of the mystery.

The beguiling perfumes of Narlenyss all came from one perfumery which held the monopoly, Bluzo's. Z'mbutu had brought the establishment under extended observation and had determined that the base, the musk used in the perfumes, was delivered to the perfumery by Chenei's manservant, Belarthor.

One night he'd followed the man back to the severely neglected manse grounds of Chenei. The next day Z'mbutu had a messenger deliver a letter to the manor, advising its owner that he was on to the secret of the perfume, thus, if his Lordship had any great desire to keep his secret it would be in his best interest to meet with the alchemist. The aristocrat had obliged the request by return messenger. It was the Z'mbutu's hope that the meeting would be profitable, both in the academic and economical senses.

Under the moonlight, the steel shod tip of his walking staff flashed as it tapped against the finely masoned and scoured clean stone walkways of the scenic neighborhood. Ages before, the banks of the Isane River had been encased in white granite during a building surge, brought on by some long forgotten king. Walkways had been laid-out before the fine houses of the nobles. Z'mbutu admired the expert ancient masonry of the lain stone, which shone a whitish gray under the light of the Moon. Not even the rightfully renowned stone-artisans of Saweza could have wrought better.

Through the centuries, large sections of the banks had also been walled, to prevent accidental drownings, but more importantly, to discourage house thieves from using the river as an avenue of convenience. Private jetties, both covered and open, stuck out into the river current. They were the sheltered piers of the wealthy, with fabulously outfitted gondolas moored to them, and secure gates at the land end of the boardwalks.

A wind came up, but Z'mbutu's cloak, with its unique lining, hardly stirred. The trees, however, were losing their dried and dead leaves in the autumn night wind. The cast-off leaves blew down the stone walks with the faint rattle of old bones. It didn't take an alchemist to know that winter was only a matter of weeks away. The world had lost its summer vitality. In the countryside, beyond the city, the last of the harvest was being tucked into barns, silos, and sheds. Z'mbutu pulled his great cloak tighter about him and lowered his head against the stiffening wind.

As he passed by one of the many small garden parks in the district, a mugger detached from the shadows of the night shrouded garden, his bare feet almost completely silent against the cold granite as he tailed the cloaked alchemist. Z'mbutu's staff continued to tap the walk, a lonely sound in the night. Most of the shutters of the houses had been closed for the night. No welcome mellow glow of candle or lamp shown along the way, except for the dancing flames of the street torch-lamps sparsely spaced along the riverside.

"Stand, traveler. And deliver!"

The robber had stolen quietly upon his intended victim, knife drawn, but the torch-flames of the streetlamps had betrayed the would-be accoster, casting his skulking shadow before him. Z'mbutu had seen it and was prepared. He spun around at the sound of the barked command, thrusting his walking stick out toward the mugger, a seemingly natural enough reaction. The man caught the end of the long cane, pulling it to one side and back, in an attempt to relieve it of Z'mbutu's grip. At first, he seemed to have succeeded, the wooden stick came back with his hand. But it was only the end of the staff which pulled free, exposing a near foot-long gleaming steel knife.

Z'mbutu, his expression grim, thrust the blade to the hollow of the bandit's throat. "You were saying?"

The robber groaned in fright, raising his grimy hands, dropping both the cane's end and his own nicked edge skewer.

"What sort of impression do you suppose an act of villainy such as this makes upon a person? I would be in my rights to kill you in self-defense. Slice open your throat, like so much roast beef. Right here, right now."

He applied enough pressure so that the tip of the staff-knife pierced the robber's skin. Under the light of the Moon the mugger's blood ran in black drops from the prick wound. The frightened man whimpered and began to weep as he wet his trousers, his water running down his right foot.

"My cane-end, please." Z'mbutu hand out his long fingered dark hand.

The mugger, trembling violently, and grimacing at the sting of the wound, carefully and slowly bent down, retrieved, and handed back the alchemist's property.

Z'mbutu grunted and pulled the knife from his accoster's throat. "Now, begone, before I call the guard. But first, I'll relieve you of the weight of your purse, if you please."

With hands that shook almost uncontrollably, the humiliated robber gave his worn and nearly empty purse over.

"Apply yourself to an honest profession," Z'mbutu admonished, then pulled the tip of the point from the robber's throat. "Go."

The man went. :. A mason wall, twelve feet high and topped with two-foot long wrought iron spears, surrounded the brooding two-story structure. The valet, Belarthor, stood by the open ornate wrought-iron gate. The man was of average height but he was wide, giving the deceptive appearance of being squat. His clothes, although of fine cloth and expert weave, were far removed from current fashion. His large head was hairless and his skin of a vellum complexion. His somewhat hooded eyes were gray.

"Master Professor, if you please." He gestured, indicating Z'mbutu should enter.

Z'mbutu nodded beneath his cowl and walked through the gate just as a strong gust caught and threw a pile of leaves up into the air. The litter mobbed around him in a maelstrom, before the breeze snatched the riot of leaves away toward the flowing waters of the river. The half-rusted hinges of the gate groaned irritably as the valet closed it. He secured it with a large steel-banded wooden lock.

"This way," Belarthor said. He proceded the visitor up the front path. Z'mbutu noted the stone of the path was spider-webbed with cracks, fine and bold, from which turfed weeds sprang up, turned brown and gray with autumn chill.

The groundskeeper is lax, the alchemist thought. Or nonexistent.

Evading the stairs which led up to the columned porch of the manse, the valet led Z'mbutu along the path which branched off to the side of the house and to a closed wooden gate. Belarthor pushed open the portal, which screeched of rusty hinges as well, and the men went through. They found themselves in a side-yard which hosted bare-branched fruit trees in wooden half-barrels, weed-choked overgrown flower-beds with unclipped deadheads nodding into the dirt, there was weather-stained statuary and stone benches covered with moss.

Everything about this place reeks of neglect, Z'mbutu thought.

Belarthor pushed open a door in the side of the house and the pewter light of the Moon was washed out by the strong yellow light of lanterns. "Come, enter. And welcome to my master's house. Dinner is waiting."

Z'mbutu nodded and ducked in through the doorway. :. The cook was a woman of middle years, a full-curved matron who'd retained much of the fiery beauty of her youth. Her name was Hana. Her dark hair was highlighted with bronze-red streaks caused by rinsed henna. Her unbound bosom strained nicely at her blouse, the nipples unashamedly prominent, as she set a place for Z'mbutu at a long table in the dining room. She wore no perfume and the alchemist could smell her genuine chore woman's scent.

Hana saw Z'mbutu appraising her and she gave him a bold glance of her own, before sashaying back through the kitchen door, bumping it open with her wide hip.