The Sunward Sporestalks

Her soul already bared, I reached an outer shell. Their nerves and their animal brains. Veruca's dominant, a ferocious wolf or rabid dog. Junia's hidden still, guarded and controlled even as she convulsed atop the other woman's mouth.

She came. They came. Sound and smell were dulled and distant – I had reached to close. Colours and sparks enveloped me. Shaking, I fell. Blood rushed through my veins, hounded by my raging heart. And – slowly and painfully – my cock reawakened.

Each of us had grabbed one of her hands. Me her left, and Junia her right. "Dragon's mercy," I said. The servant opened her mouth, but we heard the steps outside. Heavy boots, slow and searching. She instead bucked against Verruca, and, panicked, claimed another sticky orgasm.

"We are in here, lad," I said, after.

A lanky young man opened the door, gasped, and shut it behind. He wore simple clothes. Brown breeches and muddy boots, and a once-white shirt. Sweat covered a pale face, and he reeked of horse shit.

Junia stood, hurriedly dressed and eyes downcast, far apart from the bed, and from the writhing wild woman. His eyes skipped her right over, and I could hardly blame him. Verruca offered up her body to him, to us. I tore my gaze away and gave the satisfied servant a wink and a not particularly subtle nod. She returned it and then slithered away.

He did notice me, after a few endless moments. Keeping his eyes square on mine, he addressed me: "Beg your pardon, Sir, I figure I figured wrong. I'll leave you and your lady-love be."

"Cocks!"

"I do not think that will be an option," I said, "I can go, should you wish for privacy."

But the boy had pulled down his simple pants and already prepared himself. He did not look better nude. Flabby, white skin covered brittle bones, and smudgy tattoos betrayed a foiled dream of military service. His cock stood proud, however, and the naked woman yelped with glee.

Pain and need fought inside me, as I beseeched whatever deity would listen for strength. Bart did not need any help. He howled in triumph and claimed her waiting hole. And she, raving and shaking, goaded him on.

Something gave, and I was on her. I kissed her lips, and I felt the quiver. Her hands explored my body. She popped buttons, undid bows, and tore at the fabric. Soon my robe was done away, and her hands were on my cock.

She moaned something, and I lifted her up. Hooked high between us, she squealed like the pig on the spit. I kneaded her swinging tits. Goosebumps ran to her stiff nipples, and a rolling purr escaped from deep inside her throat.

Each of his thrusts buried her regal nose deep in the coarse field of my pubes. Spit soon covered my prick. Her throat was the tightest, sweetest prison, and I would not last much longer.

"More!" Verruca demanded as soon as my still spewing cock unlatched her tongue. The groom held on for a bit longer. But her frenzied need and focused furry overwhelmed him. "More!" Licking her lips and scooping him from her loins, she begged again.

I was beat and admitted as much.

"I've got an idea," he said. The groom had redressed himself in a hurry, and his eyes darted to and fro, away from my nakedness, to the wall and back to the wild woman's stained body. "I was in the Drum, yesterday. Place's a dive but it's cheap. Meet some legionaries. Orcs. Hard drinkers, and hard fu- lov- fuckers. They are down for everything, everyone knows."

"Get! Them! Bring! them! Here!" Veruca sat upright on her bed, and the sun burned in her eyes.

"You heard her," I said, and found my robe. "I'll come with."

He nodded, clearly uncomfortable, but he led me to the establishment. I had never seen The Ferryman's hospitality room, but it had to have been less horrible than the piles of dirty straw I saw at the Drum's. Looming, tossing shapes arose as soon as the stable hand opened the door. "Whadya want?" asked the largest. Bart said nothing.

Flaming reds and muted greens covered their stirring forms. They had slept in uniform, wrinkled cloth, and battered. Some wore leather, some even mail. A few grabbed their close-by weapons; belts with sword and long knives, and wicked axes.

They laughed at my explanations; rough grunts, and deep. But they invited us to the common room where they enjoyed free reign. Their leader seized the tap and drew our meals. Mostly foam and an insipid body, it was the best and worst breakfast I have ever had.

Again, I described Verruca's condition in excessive detail. Raucous laughter followed. Some suspected a prank, and others even joked about Imperial attempts at subversion. Behind loud words, however, I detected something else. Looks and subtle motions, Legion training or bloodline secrets. Not all jokes were, but some wanted to believe.

"Look," I said, "she's just across the road. We can go and take a gander. I am but a humble scholar, and you already know my buddy Bart here."

"It's hot," one said.

"Chain-kissed swamp-town," another answered.

"You lead," the one behind the counter commanded.

I shrugged and did so. The hairs on my neck bristled and stood, and I knew that they were fingering their weapons behind me. The sun burned the deserted dirt road, and a seaward wind covered us with sallow dust. In my deepest inside pocket, I found the rings. The shearstone whispered softly, the miry mouth of the Gash just out of range. The fireseed set in brass fit my trembling finger perfectly.

A bright flare sparked as it consumed the sunlight and singed my skin. That little pain a small price. Should the worst have happened, I could have taken them all. They whispered behind me – it might have been close.

We reached the common room of The Ferryman, and found it empty yet. Their shapes were distorted in the polished bronze behind the bar, but even their loudest, crudest jokes could not hide the growing distrust. One swatted away a fly with his left, but never took the other hand away from the broad dagger on his hip.

"Don't like that," he said.

"So you said the last time we gave some human slut a taste of orcish pride. Maybe stick to sticking it to long-ears – or their men."

Bellowing laughter filled the narrow stairway; rough and too loud. Too loud for me to hear their footfalls or the movement of their hands. And too long to even sound natural. This close a dagger would be fast – too fast maybe. Bart joked with them, but I saw the beads of sweat on his brow.

Relief washed over me when I opened the door. I cleared the through-way, and they fell silent immediately. Her dress, heedlessly discarded on the bed. The ritual scars on her neck and under her breasts. Her hands between her legs, dancing a rabid, crooked dance; as if in mad prayer. One bowed and mumbled a greeting in his native tongue. Another turned as if to run away.

"Just fuck me!" She crawled towards them, and growled something. Guttural syllables, Steppe-Dwarven. I did not understand the words, but her enunciation left no doubt: "Just fuck me!"

In the corner of my eye, I saw the leader. He was talking to one I had not noticed before. Smaller than his brethren, hunched over and gnarled. He wore a scarf in the colours of the Fifth Legion, but nothing else that would have identified a Republic soldier.

"The spirits... Blessed whispers."

"Agree."

"Signs... Safe and holy."

"Nice."

"Fuck! Fuck me!" she interrupted their whispered conversation with renewed mewls.

The leader laughed. He pushed her up, and he lifted her high. He took her standing against the wall. His heavy gear; leather robe and a scintillating stone axe, he had dumped on the floor. But he had kept a piece of soft cloth, printed with colourful hunting-scenes, wrapped around his waist. His body slammed into her, and her high-pitched, fevered moans aroused not only jealousy.

The other members of his merry band had claimed the bed for themselves. They shared strong alcohol from an earthen jug and a gourd pipe filled with taback and lynchweed. Soon the heady smoke burned in my lungs, and the foul brew in my throat. Blood rushed back to my loins, and my veins pulsated with renewed vigour.

They had each removed their leather and mail. Most were naked, but a few wore the same colourful shawls around their hips. Bart, naked again, mingled with them. I too removed my robes. We were all stroking our erections.

A roar. By the wall, the giant orc had forced her to her knees. The swaying loin-cloth hid her head. Her loud, lewd slurps from underneath filled the room. Spit and gobs of amber-coloured precum dripped to the floor. He roared again, and she gargled as she desperately tried to clean his cock. He stepped back. Streaks of yellow covered her face. Thick ropes clung to her hair and oozed from her forehead. Her left eyelid was glued to the ridge of her nose, and a small, marshy river flowed lazily from between her half-opened petals.

The servant took too deep a drag and started to cough. A harsh, hacking rattle, and sick sounding. The soldiers laughed and one clapped his shoulder. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Even wracked by his fit, he had not stopped rubbing his veiny length. "Fuck!" He stumbled, weak-footed, across the room, but he did not make it. The first spurt hit the floor and the second her body, and then her nimble fingers guided him into her mouth. He finished in her throat and slunk back to the bed.

"Chains," said one of the naked ones. He had found the deserted bucket and dumped her with tepid water. Dirty droplets flew in all directions as she cleaned herself like a butcher's dog in the rain.

Shaking and sputtering, she never stopped massaging her overflowing sex. The one with the bucket grabbed her by the wet hair, and he dragged her kneeling form to the middle of the room. There he feed her his cock. The fully naked among his compatriots joined them there. Encircled by grey-green cocks, she served them in turn. Sensing a gap, I stepped up too.

She had noticed. A mischievous light shone in her eyes, and then her hands reached my cock. Their claim to her mouth was absolute, but she favoured me with her hands. Left. Right. Faster and faster.

One grunted, and she swallowed it all. Two others lifted her up. Arched between them, she was fulfilled. Finally, crudely, fully. A languid gaze from her half-opened eyes drew me in. Muscles tensed and sweat glistened. Moving her arms like this must have taken superhuman will. Or unnatural need. Trees rustled and the sun looked down on me. Natural need.

One stood opposite me, and we had each grabbed a tit. Her other hand had disappeared under his loincloth, and she rewarded each squeeze. Then the chanting started.

My attention had slipped away from the wizened one, but he now stood, naked and erect, flanked by his chanting companions. The stink of dog root, roostertooth sap and bear fat; the salve thick on his cock.

At both ends, the men redoubled their efforts. Soon another load of thick semen covered her face and drooled from the corners of her mouth. The other needed a few moments longer. He fucked her to the bed and rammed her into the creaking mattress.

I was left standing; stroking my cock and watching. Her form hidden under his raging bulk. She moaned and screamed, until words formed: "Hurry up! Fill me up! I need it in my ass!"

A howl marked his explosion. He withdrew from her dripping, covered body. Sensuously, she turned around and raised up her backside. Their voices reached a crescendo. And he approached.

His ancient knuckles cracked as he spread apart her cheeks. He asked something and she answered in their tongue. A prayer or a desperate plea. He jammed into her. No wind-up, no more warnings; he took her backdoor like a cunt.

He did not last long, and another took his place. She gave me a sticky wink and I hurried her mouth. I did not last much longer, and was soon replaced.

Debauchery followed. One moved under her, and she took glee from having three holes served at once. And meanwhile, I was spent; I thought myself beyond drugs and craft, but they seemed to regenerate without end. She was passed around from bed, to wall, to floor. From cock to cock, to cocks.

I had gained proficiency at packing the bowl with taback and lynchweed. Most of the herbal haze which thickened the air had escaped from my lungs, and the jug got emptier and emptier. Those taking temporary rest from the woman's bodily arts did notice the cinders sparking from my fingertips, and they seemed duly impressed.

Verruca, however, was the one to finish the booze off for good. Slithering, crawling, she escaped their attentions long enough to fill her mouth and to empty the vessel. She showed me the mixture, lucid enough to tease. Stringy globs of yellow swam in the clear rotgut. She gargled and swallowed. She coughed and cursed, and then went back to getting railed.

One turned it upside down, caught the last drops on a calloused finger, and licked it. "That all?" he asked.

"I'll go get more," said Bart. I too volunteered my aid.

The buttons did not close right and my steps were unsteady, but we made it downstairs. We got three bottles of the good stuff, and I ordered us lunch.

The Sporestalk demanded one of the bottles for herself. She first used it again as mouthwash. "You are darling," she said as she scraped emissions off of her face and applied peach brandy as perfume. "Watch this!" She sat down on the bed and spread her legs wide. "Come and get it fuck-boys!" She let the alcohol trickle from her bosom down past her navel and along the inside of her thighs. "Come and get it, boys!"

Wasted drink ran down and pooled around her feet. She snapped her fingers and two obeyed. Two tongues touched her hamstrings and made the pilgrimage upwards. Soon one had reached and parted her lower lips, and she fed them her pearl.

"How do you feel?" I asked. Smoke and alcohol had made me sluggish and I more sensed, felt her in the hot and smokey room.

"Better. Clearer. Ahhh – do not stop!" She smiled, maybe. "Why don't you come closer? And bring more – I am almost out."

I did. With shocking strength, she pulled me closer. She seized the bottle and again rinsed her mouth. Lips touched lips and her tongue wrestled with mine. The taste of booze, ripe plums and something musky, something I preferred to not think about.

A knock on the door. Andy carried in the food on a tray. I had ordered enough for everyone. Steaked beef, thick cuts and raw under the fire-seared crust. "Feed me," Verruca demanded. "And you two, do not stop!"

The servant did her bidding. Something animalistic returned. She growled and bloody juice dripped from her chin. Her hand was on my bulge, and with the other she forced the kneeling warriors against her sex.

A trick of the light, but for a moment she looked more orcish than the soldiers. A heroic queen, crowned in blood and served by the vanquished. She graced me with her beatific, horrific smile.

"I am ready," she said and wiped her mouth on Andy's shirt. "Aren't you eating?"

I missed cutlery and felt – truth be told – rather overwhelmed. Our companions did not. They ate with appetite and with greasy fingers. One, having chewed his piece down to the bone and sucked out the marrow, dropped down. He tapped a kneeler on the shoulder and took his place. Verruca gave an appreciative hiss.

"You should try some meat," she said, "I'll try yours." Her hand and maybe the herbs had rejuvenated me. Her tongue found me half-erect and growing. As she engulfed me, I grabbed a piece. Bloody juice splattered, and she slurped.

"May I stay?" asked the servant.

Paling and embarrassed, I covered up my spit-slick cock.

"The more, the merrier," she said and hid me in her mouth.

I forced a nod. The orcs who had finished devouring their meal and now shared the pipe and the last bottle did not care. Andy, red-faced, cared a lot. He had no eyes for Verruca – or me. Whereas my ethnographer's instinct was rapidly overtaken by her skill, he watched them like the thirsting wanderer, escaped from sandy desert heat.

"Come together!" An agile jump, and she was down on the floor. Me, she pulled by the foreskin. The orcs did not need further invitation, and neither did Bart. We surrounded her, ready to burst. "You too, my friend!" She pointed at the other servant. Andy had lost all colour.

Shifting his eyes and shaking, he was welcomed by the soldiers in the circle. They slapped his back, and some of the more observant ones took delight in showing off their steely muscles and prodigious members.

She had lavished me with her mouth, and I did not give up this privilege until the last moment. My white mixed with their copious yellow. She swallowed and wallowed and made sure that Bart and Andy too aimed their loads at her. Both did, even if the latter never gave her his full attention.

"Fucking Chains," said the orcish leader.

"Fucking Chains!" I agreed after some hesitation.

I retreated soon after. Satisfied, weirded out, and weirdly satisfied; I sat down by the bar and began to compose the first, rough draft of this text. Bart had followed me and served wine, but never quite met my eyes. Andy had stayed behind – I never asked for details.

The next day, she bade me buy a tent and led me deep into the forest. "How do you feel?" I asked her out there, away from prying ears.

"Awesome." She smiled. "I might do this every year from now." My face may have betrayed me, because she started to laugh. "Worry not, we can still fuck for the fun of it."