A Gorean Storean Ch. 02

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That feeling, you can only say what it is in Gorean.
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Part 2 of the 6 part series

Updated 11/01/2022
Created 12/25/2010
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Yes, this is a satire. You're allowed to laugh.

*

Another fire, pasangs away...

She had not been able to keep from voiding her bowels when she heard the spear cut through the air; at what seemed to her the eleventh hour he had raised his shield, and the deadly missile struck with a dull, anticlimactic sound of wood on wood. She could hear the tearing sound of another pair of giant wings, rending the air asunder; a man's voice called out, and Vol of Thentis, who had been idly stroking her between her fettered legs, paused not at all in his teasing as he drew a spear with his other hand and turned, so fast she was hardly aware of his movement, to fling it in a smooth motion that sent it whistling in a deadly arc away into the darkness.

He smelled her terror and smiled; her nether hole had leaked, albeit but a little. Still, the smell of her fresh shit was keen and immediate in his nostrils. Yet he felt her, warm and wet, helpless beneath his touch in spite of her fear, and as he reached for one of his own throwing spears he called her the name which in Gorean means "coward" or slave- literally, one who, in her weakness and fear, is worthy only to serve the pleasures of strong men.

He recognized the voice carried on the wind, recognized that deep bellow, the unmistakable accent of the men of Treve; a lowlander might not have heard the subtle inflections that distinguished the accent of Treve from that of Thentis, but to Vol it is the difference between sunset and moonrise. He knows that voice, he knows it well, and it brings a smile to his lips to hear the voice of his old friend:

"Coward! Son of she-urts! Yield me up the slave-girl and thank me for your life!"

He fires back, playfully, slowly, although to the girl this bantering joust must seem swift and deadly as the movements of a flesh eating swamp tharlarion thrashing from the water to snatch its prey.

"Festering thing from a Dar-kosis pit! You know her price is steel! Have her of me if you can, weakling and coward!"

The two men's laughter mingles as a pie-bald battle tarn draws up alongside Thunder Bolt, and Vol of Thentis leans at a precarious angle (which maneuver makes the naked girl gasp in fear) to clasp the hand of his friend.

"Tal, you son of a she-sleen! Well met!"

"Tal, my friend! And your slut- does she ravish well?"

"The slut, by the priest kings! There is a tale. Let us land and make camp- I have a tale that needs a fire and a bottle of wine, and I doubt me you will call me liar before I have had done."

Teeth flash in the dark as his friend breaks into a broader smile. "I might call you many thing- rogue, vagabond- but liar? Never. Let us make camp- I would hear this incredible story of yours."

She can't understand a word they're saying, of course; still, she finds the conversation (to her own subsequent embarrassment) easy enough to follow, in general outline at least; Vol of Thentis is a talented mimic, and she blushes when she recognizes a genially cruel and dead to rights portrait of herself in his words and gestures. That high pitched voice, that quavering, cowering stance, this is how she looks and sounds to him, she sees this suddenly and blushes heavily at this unadorned, unflattering insight. The man he was fighting earlier, who bewilderingly now transpires to be what looks like a close friend, laughs so hard that he sprays a mouthful of whatever they're drinking into the fire, which momentarily flares bright and tinged with blue; she has no idea what that liquor is, but she can smell it from here, eye-watering and strange- alien moonshine, she thinks, and suddenly, kneeling on another planet, naked and unregarded by two men who are rapidly becoming very drunk indeed, despite the fact that each is built like a brick shit house, she breaks down and laughs aloud.

She's still laughing when a hard mouth clamps down on hers, an unshaven chin grinding and prickling against her face; still laughing as she's rocked back with her legs in the air and he, almost panting, finally manages to slide into her; she laughs as he turns to Vol of Thentis and says something in Gorean, in an unbelieving tone, and Vol of Thentis laughs that loud, boastful laugh that could make you hate him if it didn't seem so innocent, the pure pleasure of a little boy, the childish pride . She can't stop laughing; "This is my firetruck, and this is my giant flying raptor, and this is my X-box, and this is my sex slave."

They're both slurring their words a little, and the man on top of her smells like a distillery, especially when he breaks a sweat; still, he's so hard it's almost alarming; he confirms her suspicion that he might shoot a load at any time by pulling out, slowly, and groaning like a man under torture- but then he slams it in, all the way, and bottoms out so hard it hurts and she lets out her breath all in a gasp. She feels something well up in her then, something effervescent and giggly, and she opens her mouth for the first time in...hours? Days?

"Oh fuck me!" She hisses, and he lets out a sound between a grunt and a bellow and starts to pound her and after a time she can no longer distinguish where her sobs end and her desperate gasping laughter begins.

When she releases her juices, all in a rush, he shouts something in Gorean and he and Vol of Thentis both share another one of those laughs; he seems perfectly at ease with his friend watching, they're enjoying it, like two men playing soccer or shooting hoops, but she's beyond caring. If anything, she squirts and spasms all the harder, whether because of all this scrutiny, or the perverseness of the situation, the sheer humiliating flattery of being used and enjoyed like this, she doesn't know.

It has to be late- there are two moons visible at the moment, and they both look like they're about to set. But she can't sleep. Part of the reason she can't sleep is the snoring of the two men- stone drunk, passed out, each man has his sword clutched firmly in one hand and the other arm a part of the general tangle of limbs on the other side of the fire. Vol of Thentis has laid his dark head on his friend's shoulder, and the man's free arm clasps him tight.

Almost as soon as they had finished with her they retreated to the other side of the fire, leaving her (not for the first time) both shocked and perversely delighted at their utter self-absorption, their genuine facility for blithely ignoring her unless they have a hard-on. Her outrage and amusement are also keeping her awake.

Gritty dirt of a cleared ring around the dug-out fire-pit. Scratchy blanket. The grass would be softer, but even falling to ash the fire is warm, and she thinks it might be a bad idea to move from where Vol of Thentis put her. By no stretch of the imagination does she strenuously object to being bound hand and foot, but it does get a little tiresome after a few hours. If he notices this discomfort, he doesn't seem to care.

It's not that Vol of Thentis is going out of his way to be a prick. He's certainly not demonstrably cruel (to her, anyway). But still, on this occasion, (as in so many others) before she rolls over to sleep, she murmurs, "You guys are assholes."

If only her knowledge of that fact decreased her love.

Tor-tu-Gor rises a few ahn later- a very few- and both men awake to a world of utter vileness.

"I am as dry as the cities of dust," groans Vol of Thentis. They rolled over in the night and slept back to back, swords outward, instinctively assuming the habits of the battle-field, and he raises one arm slowly and painfully to block out the light.

His friend stirs with an answering groan, which is incoherent in the main but consists primarily of a series of unrelated but piquant curses- he's essentially saying "shit-piss-cunt-fuck," only what Vol of Thentis hears is more literally translated as "explosive diarrhea of an ill tharlarion," and the like.

They spend a few ehn consoling themselves with groans and heartfelt if extremely coarse expressions of their misery before Vol of Thentis raises his voice-

"Kajira!"

He raises his head (muttering "tarsk-shit" as he does so) and calls louder

"Kajira!"

"Curse the slut," he mutters, dropping back like a pile of stones, but with no real rancor.

She wakes to the sound of his voice, and although it is peremptory and arrogant as ever she hears the note of sincere agony and smiles as she gets to her feet and folds the blanket under which she slept-

The poor bastard has a hangover.

The saddlebags are neatly stored near where the Tarns are roosting, and the lethal monsters coo sleepily and ruffle their feathers, eyeing her incuriously- not unlike the two warriors, they have thoroughly dismissed even the remotest possibility that she might be regarded as a threat.

As she approaches the two men, who are painfully regaining consciousness, she feels a little nervous- it will not be good if they decide to take out the consequences of their debauchery on her. But when she kneels beside Vol of Thentis, he opens one eye and the gratitude on his face, to which she knows he would never give voice, is so palpable that she smiles all over again, and to her shock he smiles back.

The two men gradually open their eyes and sit up, passing the water back and forth, and when he catches sight of her the stranger from last night makes a curious gesture- his hand perpendicular to his face, his lips shape a kiss, and he makes a motion as if brushing something toward her.

He just blew me a fucking kiss.

They collapse again after the water is gone, and Vol of Thentis says another of the few words she's picked up in Gorean, so she gets up and goes to blow up the embers of last night's fire and start the water boiling.

If it had ever crossed her mind to imagine this mad set of circumstances (and one hardly sees how it could have done so) one set of skills she would not have imagined coming in handy, one aspect of her life, if any, that she would have supposed to be left behind her forever, is the job of barista.

Try describing this situation in a resume.

The black wine is very good. The two men, having managed to pry open their eyes, are now feeling appreciably better, and are regarding the girl with amusement. She's kneeling with her knees together like a tower slave, and Vol of Thentis reaches out lazily to spread them apart- "nadhu," he says, patiently, and when she holds the position obediently he strokes her between the legs, ostensibly to reward her.

His friend reaches out and feels her, reaching across Vol of Thentis to take advantage of her exposure.

"She is very hot," he remarks admiringly.

"She is only a barbarian," replies Vol of Thentis modestly.

"The slave-fires burn very hot in the bellies of barbarians. And she is eager enough to please you, my friend." He grins, "as well she should be."

"She is very skilled in love," admits Vol of Thentis.

"And in the brewing of black wine."

"It is strange, my friend. She knows little enough now, and knew less when I found her, but she brews black wine as if she had been trained beneath a lash. A strange place must be her home, where women cannot cook nor sew- in those ways she is as useless as a free woman, yet she brews black wine like a slave."

"And squirms in the furs like one."

"As you say."

"She would look well in a steel collar. Such a pretty animal should bear a pretty collar, and moreover were she mine I would wish her marked as such."

"It is known to me. I must buy one."

She cannot avoid a whimper when Vol of Thentis takes her nipple and squeezes with a burning sudden pressure. This sign of passion makes both men laugh, and Vol of Thentis jokes, "Her ears should be pierced also."

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