Hendrix of Gor Ch. 01

Ho men, women, sluts, and base creatures who dwell in cities. I am Hendrix, outrider of the Alar. I must not be confused with Hendix, who had no R in his name and who was boiled alive while gloriously singing his own praises.

My end will no doubt be equally stunning. But for now I live in open fields and sing the song of the sword. I ride headlong into danger. I fuck headlong into ripe women. And I slaughter fools who raise my ire.

This is my story. These are my fists. Below, my cock. Strapped to my back, the sword I simply call Song. Each part with its role in the grand adventure which is my destiny.

I could easily begin with my birth, but as gorgeous a babe as I was, there was little fighting or fucking done at that time. The best I can say is that I developed my war cry during that period. It is a cry I have cultivated to perfection and recently used to such extent that my voice is hoarse with ragged glory.

My lips parched, leathers bloodied, I trudge alone from the field of battle and find myself amongst the chattel and provisions of my dead enemies. I snatch vittles, but no mead is to be found. I now know there was good reason to slaughter these fools. Anyone who does not drink mead is a fucking waste of breath. There are few liquids worthy of my gullet. I taste from skins of water and wine, spewing them each in turn from my mouth. As I do, something catches my eye. Gleaming golden locks, blowing in the wind.

They are attached to a little slut sitting forlorn and cross legged upon a wooden chest. She is a naughty, distracted thing for she does not see that a man approaches and so she does not open her thighs in respect to me. She is lost in thought, perhaps wondering what will happen if her master does not return from battle.

I am what will happen. Before she has noticed my approach, I take her by the collar and drag her from wooden chest to my own chest of muscle and bone.

"When there is no mead," I explain to her wide green eyes, "I turn to such nectar as I can find."

The crack and gravel of my voice makes her flinch but she manages a, "Yes, Master" between full pink lips. There is something about the girl which pleases me. A whim, it may be. My own capricious spirit. Or perhaps my discerning eye that sees what I can make of her.

And so I hoist her middle parts to my face by the natural handles of her ass. There I find what I seek, my beard soon dampening with the rush of her need, my tongue washed with squirt after honeyed squirt of the treasured liquid I pump from her. I gulp and she gives. Folds as wet as a gushing spring. A needy little slut if ever I tasted one. She melts like a sack by the end, drained as she is, pummeled by the orgasms I've given her, and so I throw her over my shoulder to keep me warm in the furs this night.

The fabric over her rump blows in the evening breeze, her ass like an uncovered beacon in twilight. This lewd display draws an indignant gasp at a place hidden from my eyes. But soon I find her. A free woman, clothed from foot to neck so that I know her shivering is not from cold but fear. A widow now, I'd wager. Husband slain by Song, no doubt.

"Ho, slut," I call to her in my rasp.

She does not appreciate this title, spitting in the dirt. But I have knowledge of women. I know that there are two kinds. The ones who know they are sluts and the ones who must be made to know.

"Your husband is dead. Killed by a Song."

"You mock me, heathen. And the memory of him. A song did not kill him."

"My Song did, woman." I pat the hilt of the sword strapped to my back. "There is no mockery in that."

There are tears at her eyes, but she is full of wrath, wiping them away. "I will sing a happy song at your funeral then," she says. "And dance on your grave."

I tilt my head. "That would be a great honor, woman."

She tilts her head back at me, trying to make sense of what seems to her nonsensical.

I raise my hand, palm toward her. "Hold all further thoughts. I am tired and we have much distance to travel before nightfall."

"I am not coming with the likes of you, murderer."

"Oh but you are."