Flowing Blonde Scalp

I lay there on my back, panting, my legs bent but still spread, not wanting to hide anything from the savage, scared witless at what he was thinking, contemplating, but with the overwhelming desire to have him inside me again. Evening was coming on, and I had no idea how many more "agains" there would be. And what would happen when they stopped.

My eyes, when they weren't turned to him, conveying my want of him, strayed to where his loincloth and belt lay—and to the long, blonde tresses of the scalp attached to the belt.

Was this going to be my fate too? He seemed to be contemplating that himself now, and yet with each time he had taken me, his face had exhibited yet greater sense of awe and wonder. He sat next to my right leg, in magnificent nakedness, an arm embracing my knee, the hand of that arm playing with the moss at my foot with the point of his unsheathed knife. His eyes kept moving around but always coming back to mine. I could tell that he was struggling in thought, trying to make up his mind about something.

I shuddered and moaned as I felt his hand cup and squeeze my sex. Rough fingers parted my sex-swollen labia and rubbed the inner surfaces there. I groaned and opened my legs wider and raised my pelvis to his touch, trying to show him that I wanted him, trying to make him want me again. One of the fingers invaded, and making little panting sounds, I moved my hips, up and down, up and down, on the hard finger, drawing more of it inside me with each upward movement. Panting and moaning. We didn't speak the same language, but could be possibly misconstrue what I was trying to convey?

The savage was breathing heavily now and arose up on his knees between my thighs. My eyes traveled down this muscular torso to see that he was in magnificent erection again. Not long, but impossibly thick. Leveraging on my feet, I lifted my buttocks off the moss, signaling that I welcomed his entry, the stretching my vagina with that thick, throbbing member of his. The passage would be easier now with my own flow mixed with his prodigious semen from the previous takings—and from the number of times he'd already been in there, stretching the walls to his needs and requirements.

The fear subsided to be overtaken by the burning desire for him. He was choosing the sword over the knife again, at least for now.

He didn't take me this time on my back, between my spread thighs. He ran a beefy arm under my waist—which was raised off the ground when I lifted my buttocks to meet his stiff staff half way in my signaling that I wanted him, wouldn't fight him. He turned me on my belly and lifted me up to my knees with the power of the arm encircling my waist.

I bit hard on the gag of material covering my mouth and expending a deep groan as he thrust his thick manhood between my labial folds, now so familiar with the shape of him, and immediately began to pump me again. This was an angle that permitted him to reach deeper than before. He was crouched over my hips, his chest pressed into my shoulder blades. The heel of his left hand dug into the moss beside my shoulder. He still clutched the unsheathed hunting knife.

I moaned as his staff moved in and out, a bit deeper with each stroke, and back and forth inside me, still working at stretching me to his needs. The fingers of his right hand buried themselves in my long, blonde hair, seeking and finding the scalp. A jolt of fear went through me in an electric charge that raced through my body and initiated that first explosive orgasm and flow deep inside me. Was he going to scalp me now, or cut my throat, here, during the sex act? Somehow, I didn't care, not as long as I was able to explode again. He had moved me up a plateau in heat. He was deep inside me. How could I ever had thought that he wasn't long? I couldn't remember John ever having reached this depth before. Or John recharging to do it this often. Or me flowing for John as I was doing for this savage beast.

I shuddered and saw stars again. My flow was steady and I was on a new high. The fingers in my hair closed into a fist. He jerked my head back, brutally, painfully. Pain from the grip on my hair and the arching back of my head and on the thick staff increasing its insistent, deepening pumping inside me. But none of the pain mattered. The pleasure of him moving inside me overlay it all. I never wanted it to end. At the same time, I was afraid from moment to moment that it would end—that he'd raise that left hand with the knife in it and slit my throat, or, worse, with him still thrusting inside me and making my passage walls shimmer and stretch, building to that last, great orgasm, he'd move the knife to my forehead and start taking my scalp.

But when I was lifted over the top and felt his hot semen exploding deep inside me with a triumph cry and three expulsive jerks, I remained uncut. I wasn't uninjured, though. I was bruised, battered, and swollen and my muscles ached from accommodating him. And it was only when he released the hold of his teeth where my neck reached my shoulder, that I realized that he had bitten me deep there. I was bleeding. For the briefest moment I thought that he had cut me with the knife and that I was just too numb to realize it.

He held there, mounted on my hips, my knees wobbly but still holding me up. We were both panting hard, but cooling down. The pressure of his staff inside me wasn't as taxing as it had been, but it didn't seem he had gone completely flaccid. He still commanded and possessed me fully with his manhood. I wanted to be in this position forever—but, no, I wanted him to move inside me, and I wanted to feel his hot lather constantly release and coat my inner walls.

Both of his rough, calloused hands came around to my chest, and he cupped my breasts and raised my back up to his muscular, sweat-slicked chest. I could feel the beating of his heart and moaned at the feel of a strong man's chest and encircling arms and the hands on my breasts, moving, squeezing, pinching the nipples. It had been so long since I'd had a man hold me like this. I was groaning deeply, unable to tell him what I was feeling—how much pleasure I was getting out of his body despite the fear of the situation and what he might—no, probably would—do to me after he was finished ravishing me.

But I didn't care. I could die now and be satisfied. I had wanted to die so many times before while Samuel was being kind to me and everyone else was being good to me—but not like my John had been good to me. Many had been the moments when I had decided that I might as well be dead, that I was shriveling up anyway. It was one thing to endure the aloof kindness of an old man like Samuel. If I had come to him not knowing what else I could have in life rather than having lain with John and wantonly coupled with him in the darkness for hours, I would never have known what I was missing with Samuel. I certainly was missing nothing with this magnificent savage now. If it ended in death, it would be a glorious death.

His teeth were latched onto my neck again. He could taste my blood. His body was twitching and trembling, as was mine. He was coming alive again—as was I. I could feel him reengoring inside me, and I moved my pelvis and squeezed my channel walls, trying to signal that I wanted him again.

But his staff was pulling out of me. I moaned my disappointment. But it had only withdrawn to present itself at my other opening. I did struggle this time, trying to show my objection. But he didn't care. If anything, the struggling seemed only to arouse him more. I emitted a silent scream through the gag in my mouth and bit down hard on the material as the gigantic bulb of his member found lodging inside the entrance of my anus. He was working his hands on my swollen breasts hard and raising and lowering my torso with the effort to enter me through the anus, and I was struggling and writhing against him, but to no avail. He had taken a large swath of my hair in his mouth and was moving my head back and forward in the same rhythm as his sinking and withdrawal of the thick rod inside my anal channel. Only one hand embraced and squeezed a breast now. The fingers of his right hand were parting my labia again and invading me, deeply in that channel. He wanted this and would have it.

Fully saddled in my anus, he held steady, throbbing inside me, as I adjusted to him and pain was replaced with the pleasure of being fully possessed by a virile muscular man again—this time in a different and deliciously forbidden way. John would have never have done this. John was a civilized man. This was a savage beast. I trembled at being possessed by a savage beast.

The instinct of survival came into play again. If this gave the savage pleasure and he enjoyed taking me this way—as the reactions of his body clearly indicated he did—then I would give him as much pleasure and acceptance of it as I could. It was somewhat of a rationalization—to protect myself from being aroused by the totally uncivilized, forbidden nature of the act.

Tentatively, I began to move my pelvis back and forth on the buried staff. When a sigh, he indicated his pleasure that I was accepting him this way, and he began the slow pump that increased in speed and frenzy as it will do with any man lost in heat. The spurting flow of him inside me was more pleasure than pain or shame.

When he wanted this again, I would give it to him gladly, although perhaps with a bit of struggle, as he seemed to enjoy that. If he wanted this again—if he wanted me again.

If I survived the day.

* * * *

I shudder to think that I planned this. I didn't foresee this exactly, of course. But I had fantasized about it and put myself in the position to be here. I had started to venture over the top of the ridge to the west in my solitary walks to examine and bemoan my life, such as it was. Samuel, whose cabin and fields were at the western-most edge of where civilization had been pushed, on the eastern slope of the mountains, had admonished me not to go even as far as the ridgetop.

But as kind and caring as old Samuel was, I was taking such walks to get away from him and his insensitive sensitivity.

Samuel was my second husband, if he could be called that, and was three times my age, too old to express interest in me as a woman and to fulfill a woman's needs. I can't believe that other couples out in this wilderness didn't do has John and I had. We never spoke of sex in the community, of course, but every year there was another baby or two. John and I didn't discuss it with others either, and, on the surface, he was a shy and reserved man. But, in the darkness, when he came to me and inside me, he was hard and strong and long lasting and made me come to know fully what being a woman was. And he recognized that, with me, it was the progression. The first coupling was comforting, the second in quick succession was glorious, the third was deliciously wanton. We rarely reached wanton, but when we did, I'd be humming throughout the next day.

John had died within a year of our marriage, though, departing life in an farming accident when he fell on his head on the edge of the plow in a field he was preparing. I didn't find him for hours, and I have no idea how long he suffered. But I suffered from months afterward, so grieving and despondent, that I lost the baby that had been forming inside me.

I liked John—it had been an arranged marriage—and I'm sure I would have come to love him, especially when the children started to come. But looking back on John after my grieving had subsided, I must admit that what I missed about him the most was what was between his legs—and inside me more nights than not. I hadn't known it before, of course, and would not have guessed it about myself, but I loved the coupling. I loved having a man moving inside me and exploding and filling me with his seed as I flowed for him, dancing on the clouds, which was so much more pleasurable than farming on the edge of civilization. And then taking me again almost immediately.

What I should have missed most was the security that his strong body had given in providing food for the table and a roof over our heads, such as they were.

The community came to my need, however, being goodhearted if not steeped in personal sin as I was, and before winter came I had been married to the old widower, Samuel. Samuel was kind and provided for my surface needs, but he wanted nothing beyond housekeeping and nursing, as needed, but his farmland, his Bible, and the memories of the first two wives who had worked themselves into the grave serving his wants.

If I was only going to be here to work myself into a grave, I might as well go sooner, I thought, and save further grief. That was why it meant nothing to me to wander around the wilderness, looking for solitude to clearly struggle with myself whether life was worth living.

It thus was that I almost stumbled into the savage's presence when I had walked over the ridge and down the side of a mountain brook. I did hear the splashing in time, though, to crouch behind bushes and cast my eyes on a pool of water formed below a rock cropping, fed by a waterfall, and then feeding a waterfall into the next, lower pool.

The savage was magnificent. He was standing, naked, in the center of the pool, and sluicing water over his body. His shoulders were broad and his musculature pronounced. But it all tapered down to a flat belly, a trim waist, and narrow hips before flaring out again to beefy, muscular thighs and calves. His face was ruggedly handsome, the eyes black and piercing. His jet-black, straight, glossy hair fell down almost to his waist behind. The buttocks beyond were globular and hard.

I had seen nothing like this perfect statue of a man. John had been well formed and I had loved running my hands over the curves and into the crannies of his naked body as he moved inside me, but he had nothing compared to the curves and bulges on this savage giant. I had little idea of the physique of Samuel, although, being a man of hard labor, I knew, from when he washed himself on the porch before meals, that he was well-muscled for his age as well. But again nothing like this.

I felt myself moan and my hand lifting up the hem of my dress and search up between my thighs as I crouched there and focused my eyes on the savage's groin. Although he had been well endowed in his manhood, John was rivaled by this primitive being. The savage's meaty orbs hung low in the sac behind a thick, if not terribly long shaft. I gasped, though, as I continued to watch and the savage began to stroke his shaft with one hand while sluicing water on his body with the other. The appendage was growing in length and girth—still not reaching the length of John when hard, but the girth sent electrical charges through my body and I felt the wetness on the fingers that had found their goal between my thighs.

The moment didn't last too long, though. The savage was climbing out of the pool. He reached down and lifted a beaded belt and loin cloth from the ground and fastened the apparatus around his slim waist. A knife on a sheath hung down from the belt on one side, but it took me a while to figure out what was hanging down on the other side. Some sort of animal pelt, I thought, but the hair of the pelt was long and golden blonde. Nearly the same shade as my own hair.

I reacted with revulsion and fear when I realized that it was a scalp. The scalp of some blonde woman. There had been periods of time out here on the edge of the settled world of uprisings and isolated raids—and deaths among the settlers.

I shrank away from the bushes and turned and quickly went the way I'd come over the ridge and down to Samuel's farm. I still was not prepared to think of it as Samuel's and my farm.

Over the next several days, my thoughts continually went back to that blonde scalp. Even more, though, they went back to the magnificent body of the savage. I was young and ripe and I had known the pleasure of the coupling. Here, with kind Samuel, I was drying up into a prune before my time.

I thought of the scalp and the savage and of my needs, and I fantasized on the death of that woman and what might have come immediately before that—what the savage had done to her. What it seemed like, in his extraordinary sensuality and animal magnetism, that he must have done to her. And increasingly I thought, if I was seeking the solace of death anyway, being savaged by a savage—especially one like the one I had spied in the altogether—would be a glorious way to flame out.

There was no conscious plan to it, but not too many days later, I had found the hidden pool on the far slope of the mountain again, and it was I who was standing, naked in the pool, sluicing water over my body.

I knew he—or someone or some animal—was watching me from the bushes. My body glistening from the water droplets, I threw my head back and swished my long, blonde curls out behind me. The strands almost reached the curve of the small of my back down onto my generously plump buttocks. I took my ample breasts in my hands and squeezed them, flicking my thumbs across the plumped-out nipples. I was humming and moaning in low tones. I moved a hand down over my gently rounded belly to between my thighs. Carefully parting my labia between two fingers, I found my clitoris with a third and rubbed the hard nub. My moans deepened and rose in volume.

My eyes flew open in shock and a surprise that I really shouldn't have had at the sound of the primordial animal cry. The savage was upon me before I had time to take a breath and was dragging me to the side of the pool. He didn't take me out of the pool at that point, though. He bent me over the ferns at the edge of the pool, on my belly, my legs still in the water, grabbed the back of my neck and forced my cheek into the wet ferns, and slid a large, calloused hand between my thighs in back. My legs and buttocks felt like rubber, and I let them spread and cried out as a fat finger entered me and forced its way up into me. I was sobbing and struggling with him, but to no avail—and cursing myself for allowing my fantasies to take me to this point.

Within seconds, though, the fingering wasn't enough for him. His thighs were pressing into mine, and he was fumbling at my entrance with his hand—and with something else. It felt like a battery ram. I writhed and cried out and struggled under him as he stuffed it inside me. Thicker, far thicker than John had been. His hands went to gripping my wrists now, and raising my arms over my head and out, pinning me to the ground at those too points—and at the third, his mounted manhood pinning my hips to the wet ferns at the edge of the pool.

When it was too late to prevent the invasion and when he started withdrawing it and then pushing it in again, the memories of the pleasure and want overtook me, and I lay there, snuffling, all of the fight drained out of me, as he gave me all that I had been pining for over the past several months—and more than John had ever given me. He probably had no idea before he tensed, jerked, and gave a victory groan of his own, that my own periodic groans marked the small explosions of pleasure memory deep inside me.

He lay, panting and heavy on top of me, cooling down, for several minutes afterward. It was over in what seem like only seconds. At that moment I thought in partial disappointment—although how could I be disappointed with what he had thrust inside me, how he had bathed my insides with his hot flow?—that it would be a pity to lose my life for such a brief moment of pleasure. Little did I know that it had only started.

He pulled out of me, rose, and climbed the bank, standing beside me. I looked up to see, first, that golden hair hanging from his belt—he still wore his belt, but the loin cloth had come out of the belt in front and was hanging off the back. The sheath for the knife was empty, but then I saw him holding it in his hand, as he stood over me, a menacing look on his face.