Glade and Ivory Ch. 22

The shelter where Glade and Demure lived had over the year been improved greatly from the flimsy wood and deer-hide tent they'd originally built, but it was nothing like as well built as those of most Raft People. Nevertheless, they'd lived in the ramshackle construction of branches, leaves, baked mud, antelope skin, and stitching for so long that it was as much a home as they'd ever had. It had witnessed so much fucking, and not just between the two women, that the very soil was soaked in life-giving semen and vaginal juice.

However, this home resembled more a prison when Glade parted the skins that covered the entrance and the mountain goat man strode in with his woman several paces behind. As soon as they were inside, he groped at Demure's bosom while his woman looked on impassively.

"Fuck her," said Demure with a sweet smile to the mountain goat man as he clumsily pawed her. "Fuck Glade. She wants you to fuck her. She thinks you're a fucking stud. She thinks you're a fucking man."

These were the most amiable and sweetly spoken words that Demure had uttered all evening and although the man had no idea of the meaning of the individual words, the intent was completely apparent to him as Demure offered him a startled and confused Glade.

"What the fuck are you doing, you bastard?" Glade whispered, only just suppressing a tone of anger and resentment in her voice. "It's you this prick wants to fuck."

"Enjoy her," said Demure, ignoring Glade's words. "And after that," she continued as she squeezed the mountain goat man's penis, "you can fuck me. You can fuck me up the arse if you want to."

Demure said other words in this vein as she cajoled the mountain goat man towards Glade's bare flesh. She even assisted his predation by removing all encumbrances and by guiding his eager and anticipatory penis towards the thick hair that hid Glade's labia. However, these weren't words that Glade heard as she surrendered herself to the fate she was about to endure. How many times had she been raped? Too many. And once more was far from welcome. She almost instinctively surrendered herself to the inevitable, whilst resenting every second, as this slobbering, brutish man, now distinguishable more by his tattoos and scars than by his furs or headwear, forced his way into Glade's utterly dry and unaccommodating vagina. Each thrust was an agony further worsened by the fact that it was an echo of earlier violations. The drip of slobber onto her cheek and the rough grip on her shoulders and waist only compounded her misery. And this was an ordeal that would end only when the mountain goat man had spent his seed.

Perhaps this was what Glade's conniving lover had planned. Perhaps she wanted the man to exhaust his passion on her one-time slave and thereby be spared the indignity of rape. At moments like this, Glade remembered how much she had once hated Demure and let that sore loathing be a comfort in her current misery.

And then the mountain goat man abruptly stopped fucking Glade and slumped down on top of her. Had he ejaculated so soon? Was he so completely spent by his exertions as to collapse right on top of her? And why wouldn't the shit-faced bastard get off her?

The last question was partly answered when she realised that it wasn't the man's warm perspiration that was trickling onto her shoulders and cheeks, but something much darker and more viscous. Then the mountain goat man was hefted off her. Glade blinked up above in the dark shadows of the shelter, illuminated only by the half-light of the moon through the deer-hide of the shelter, to see the even darker figure of Demure who held a fishing spear in one hand and the mountain goat man's flint-knife in the other. Even in the dim shadows Glade could see that both were dripping with blood.

"The woman?" wondered Glade, whose wits were alert to the remaining threat.

"Don't worry," said Demure, whose white teeth were still visible in the gloom. "I didn't kill her. But her nose is as flat as her man's and she won't be able to nibble so easily ever again."

Glade couldn't tell in the dark how true this was, but the woman was weeping and groaning in the shadowy corner of the shelter. The only reason her cries weren't audible beyond the shelter was that her head was inside her man's furs that Demure had tied around her head before smashing her in the face with a stone.

"Why didn't you kill her?" wondered Glade, who was surprised as much by her lover's show of mercy as by her haste in saving them both from the mountain goat man's further predation.

"I knew you wouldn't approve," said Demure with a chuckle that betrayed how much she'd enjoyed her moment of violence and brutality. "And anyway we're not going to be around when she's discovered in the morning."

"Where are we going?"

"We'll each take a raft and sail away before it gets light," said Demure.

"That's the only thing we can do," agreed Glade. "The Skull People can't sail. We'll be safe."

"But only if we tie this woman up," said Demure as she produced some cord that was normally used to secure the logs and branches of a raft together. "Either that or we kill her..."

"We'll tie her up," said the more ethically inclined Glade, aware just how much Demure's restraint in this case was less from sympathy for the helpless Skull Woman than an acknowledgment of Glade's quite different practices.

As the two woman tied the struggling woman in cords that normally held together thick lengths of timber rather than blood-stained human limbs, their conversation was on the details of their perilous escape and how they could take with them as many of their possessions they could carry to the safety of the rafts without attracting unwelcome attention.