Breakfast...a life saving feast!!!

Breakfast on a Ledge

The first grey fingers of dawn were probing the eastern sky when the skeletal host reached the sheltered valley. They moved not with the clumsy, clattering gait of mindless undead, but with a chilling, silent precision. Ancient armor, little more than rust and brittle leather, did not creak. Pitted swords did not rattle in scabbards. There was only the soft, dry crunch of countless bony feet on soil and stone, a sound like a field of dead cornstalks whispering in a wind that did not blow.

At their head rode the General, a skeleton clad in the ornate, corroded plate of a forgotten kingdom. A tattered plume of black horsehair nodded from his helmet. In one bony fist, he clutched the reins of a skeletal steed; in the other, a notched longsword rested point-down on his thigh. The green pinpricks of light in his eye sockets swept the clearing with tactical assessment.

The campfire was dead, a mound of white ash. The two warvs were gone. But the scent of them—of sweat, leather, and animal musk—still hung faintly in the chilled air. And there, by the fire, was the sleeping sack. A thick woolen blanket formed a long, low mound, a distinct bulge in its center suggesting a body curled within.

The General raised a gauntleted hand. The advancing column halted as one. Absolute silence descended, broken only by the distant cry of a carrion bird.

With a gesture, he directed two skeletal infantry forward. They approached the sack, their movements eerily fluid. Without hesitation, they raised their rust-eaten spears and drove them down into the bulge with brutal, synchronized ****.

There was a soft thump of impact, but no cry. No spurt of blood. The spears met little resistance, sinking deep into the ground beneath.

The General urged his steed forward. One of the skeletons used the haft of its spear to flip the blanket back.

Underneath was a careful pile of brush, rocks, and moss, artfully arranged to mimic the shape of a sleeping body. A crude decoy.

A dry, clicking sound issued from the General’s helmet—the approximation of a scoff. He dismounted, bones whispering, and knelt by the cold fire pit. His skeletal fingers sifted through the ashes. They were cold. Hours cold. He found the waste pile, the pungent, mingled scents of the two living beings still potent. His gaze tracked from the pile to the tree line, then lifted to the sheer, rocky face of the mountain rising to the south.

He stood. From a pouch at his belt, he produced a small, black mirror shard. Holding it up, he breathed a single, guttural word onto its surface. The air around it shimmered.

In the depths of the Spire of Black Stone, Maeven’s scrying window flickered. The image of the peaceful camp was replaced by the grim visage of her General. “The nest is empty, mistress. A ruse. The beasts are gone. Their trail leads south. To the mountains.”

Maeven’s lipless mouth stretched into a grimace. “They have fled. They cannot be far. The woman is clever, but she is slow, burdened by flesh. Find them. Grind their bones to meal.”

“The mountain pass is treacherous. To pursue directly will cost time. There is a longer route, around the western shoulder. It will add a day.”

Maeven’s eyes, like chips of frozen jet, gleamed. She had seen the shimmer around the woman in her vision. She had felt the nascent power. Letting them run into the wilds was not without risk. But then, a new thought occurred. A cruel, delightful possibility. Her gaze drifted to an ancient chart etched into her chamber wall, a map of the nearby peaks. Her finger tapped a specific, dreaded symbol.

A true, rotten smile cracked her face. “No. Do not take the pass. Continue your pursuit directly. Follow their trail to the very foot of the cliff. And then… wait.”

“Wait, mistress?”

“They have chosen their path. And it leads directly into the lair of Tindra.” Her laughter was a dry rustle, like scuttling insects. “They are already dead, General. They simply do not know it yet. Let the mountain claim them. Watch, and bring me their trinkets when the silence returns.”

The connection severed. The General lowered the mirror. He turned his empty gaze south, toward the daunting cliff face. He issued a silent command. The army turned and began its slow, inexorable march toward the mountain’s base, a tide of silent bone soon swallowed by the pre-dawn shadows of the foothills.

*

Twenty vertical miles to the south, and several thousand feet higher, Sue Storm’s world had narrowed to three points of contact: the rough, cold granite under her searching fingers, the worn soles of her boots braced on a tiny spur of rock, and the burning ache in every muscle of her thighs and shoulders.

They had been climbing for hours in the frigid, thin air. Dawn had come and gone, the molten orange sun doing little to warm the sheer rock face. They had fled the camp in the dead of night, moving with a haste that permitted no luxury. Sue wore only her chainmail skirt—the leather leggings and underclothes abandoned in the rush—and the matching, scant chainmail bra that did little to contain her breasts or protect her from the cold. The metal was icy against her skin, and with each reach and pull, the hard links chafed painfully against her nipples, a constant, sharp reminder of her exposed state. Skeeve, clad in his simple trousers and tunic, fared little better, his green skin tinged with blue at the extremities.

Her new senses, honed by the tribal sigil and her deepening connection to this world and its creatures, had screamed the warning long before sight or sound could confirm it. A cold, greasy feeling in the air. A scent of dry rot and ancient malice carried on a wind that shouldn’t have reached their valley. She’d awoken Skeeve with a hand clamped over his mouth, her eyes wide in the moonlight. There was no time for anything but flight. As they’d hastily gathered their most essential gear, she had knelt by the nervous warvs, placed her hands on their warm necks, and reached for the whispering, empathic thread the White Witch had taught her to sense.

It wasn’t language. It was intention, emotion, picture-thoughts. She had poured into them a sense of safe, home, run. An image of the stables of Bardo, of hay and security. A compulsion to flee north and not look back. The animals had snorted, stamped, but the intelligence in their eyes had shifted from fear to purpose. They had vanished into the night before the first skeletal scout crested the distant rise.

Now, clinging to the mountain, Sue’s stomach was a hollow, clenched fist. The **** exertion had burned through their meager reserves. Her head swam slightly, a sign of both altitude and starvation. Skeeve, a natural climber but smaller, was tiring rapidly. She could hear his labored breaths below her.

We need fuel, she thought, the logic cutting through the fatigue. Chemical energy. Carbohydrates, proteins… fluids. Her scientific mind, never fully dormant, presented the brutal, efficient equation. They had no food. But they had each other. And their bodies, in the throes of survival, could produce the necessary sustenance. The thought wasn’t shocking. It was practical. Primal. The sigil on her belly warmed in approval.

Her eyes scanned the face. There—a ledge. Not wide, but deep enough. A sanctuary, however temporary.

“Here!” she called down, her voice raspy. “Skeeve, up here! Now!”

With a final, grunting heave, she pulled herself onto the ledge. It was about four feet deep, ten feet long, a shallow gouge in the mountain’s skin. She collapsed onto her back for a moment, chest heaving, then rolled over and helped haul Skeeve’s trembling form up after her.

He lay panting, his eyes closed. “Too… high… too cold…”

“We’re stopping,” Sue said, her voice firming. She pushed herself to her knees. “We need to eat.”

Skeeve cracked an eye open. “No food. Left pack.”

“We have food,” Sue said. Her tone was not seductive. It was matter-of-fact, a commander issuing a necessary order. “Lie down. On your back.”

Confusion flickered across his sharp features. “Lady…?”

“Lie down, Skeeve.”

The command brooked no argument. He shimmied out of his small pack and scabbard, then obeyed, stretching out on the cold stone. He looked up at her, bewildered, exhausted, but a spark of his innate curiosity glimmering through.

Sue didn’t explain. She simply moved, swinging one leg over his chest, her chainmail skirt riding up. She settled her weight down, not on his chest, but lower, planting her knees on the rock on either side of his head. Her body hovered over his face.

“We need sustenance,” she stated, as if discussing rations. Then, she leaned forward, her hands going to the tie of his trousers. Her fingers, cold and nimble, made quick work of the knot. She yanked the rough fabric down his hips, past his thighs, freeing him.

The cold mountain air hit his groin, and his flaccid cock twitched. Understanding, slow and then all at once, dawned in his wide, yellow eyes. His nostrils flared.

Before he could speak, Sue lowered herself.

Her bare, swollen sex, already slick with a mixture of her own arousal and the cold sweat of the climb, came to rest directly over his mouth. The scent of her—musky, female, alive—filled the space between them. She didn’t grind. She simply presented herself. “Drink,” she commanded, her voice low and urgent.

A ****, hungry sound vibrated in Skeeve’s throat. His hands came up, not to push her away, but to grip her trembling thighs, his claws pressing gently into her fair skin. His tongue emerged, not in a teasing flick, but in a broad, flat, **** stroke from the bottom of her entrance all the way up to her clit.

Sue gasped, her head falling back. Gods, yes. It wasn’t about pleasure. It was about need. Her body, starved and stressed, interpreted the sudden, wet heat as a lifeline. Her hips gave an involuntary jerk, pressing more of herself against his mouth.

Skeeve needed no further encouragement. He feasted. His tongue dove into her entrance, lapping up her slickness with frantic gulps. He suckled at her inner lips, his pointed nose nuzzling her curls. Then his focus found her clit, and he attacked it with a relentless, circular pressure, his mouth sealing over the bundle of nerves.

Pleasure, white-hot and urgent, detonated at Sue’s core. It was too fast, too raw. Her body, strung wire-tight from fear and exertion, had no defenses. A broken cry was torn from her lips, echoing faintly against the cliff face. Her back arched violently. Her thighs clamped around Skeeve’s head as a torrent of release gushed from her, a hot, salty-sweet flood directly into his waiting, drinking mouth.

He groaned beneath her, the sound muffled by her flesh, and swallowed convulsively. He drank her climax down, gulping the vital fluid, his tongue milking her for every drop.

As the shattering waves of her orgasm began to recede, Sue’s own mission snapped back into focus. His turn. Protein. Energy. She pushed herself up on trembling arms, shifting her body down his. Her mouth was already watering with a different kind of hunger.

Skeeve’s cock, now fully erect and impressively thick for his frame, stood proud from his groin, the green skin flushed a darker shade. It twitched, leaking a bead of clear pre-cum.

Sue didn’t hesitate. She didn’t kiss or tease. She descended on him like a woman finding an oasis in the desert. Her lips parted, and she took the broad, smooth head into her mouth in one smooth, deep motion, swallowing him to the root.

“Gah!” Skeeve squealed, his hips bucking off the stone.

Sue’s world narrowed further. The taste of him—musky, slightly sour, like wild apples and earth—flooded her senses. It was food. Life-giving. Her throat worked around him, swallowing against his length, creating a tight, wet vacuum. One hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, her fist pumping in a tight, **** rhythm that matched the savage suction of her mouth. Her other hand cupped his heavy, green testicles, rolling them in her palm, squeezing gently but firmly, as if milking a piece of ripe, exotic fruit.

She was relentless. Her head bobbed, her cheeks hollowed, her tongue lashed the throbbing vein on his underside. She poured every ounce of her will, her survival instinct, into this single act. Cum. Give it to me. I need it. We need it.

Skeeve was babbling, a stream of Goblin-tongue pleas and curses. His claws scraped against the stone. His body was a bowstring pulled to breaking. “Sue! Lady! I’m—I’m gonna—!”

She redoubled her efforts. A deep, humming groan vibrated in her chest, the sound traveling directly down her throat and into the cock buried there.

It was the final trigger.

With a shriek that was pure, unadulterated release, Skeeve erupted.

The first hot, bitter-sour spurt hit the back of Sue’s throat. She swallowed instantly, a reflexive gulp. The second followed, thicker. She moaned around him, the sound of her pleasure and satisfaction vibrating against his sensitive flesh, stimulating him further. “Mmmmmm…” The hum was audible, a contented, greedy sound.

She kept sucking, kept swallowing, as pulse after pulse of his seed filled her mouth and throat. It was rich, copious, more than she’d expected. Her stomach, so empty moments before, warmed as it was filled. She milked him with her fist, with her mouth, with her squeezing hand on his balls, determined to get every last, precious drop.

When the final tremors subsided and his cock began to soften, she didn’t release him immediately. She slid her lips up to the tip and sealed them there, sucking gently, her tongue flicking, coaxing out a few last, sticky droplets. Only when she was certain he was spent did she pull off with a soft, wet pop.

She sat back on her heels, breathing heavily. Skeeve lay beneath her, utterly spent, his face and chest glistening with her juices, his softening cock wet and glistening in the cold air.

Sue wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. A deep, full feeling settled in her belly. Energy, warm and buzzing, began to replace the cold fatigue in her limbs. She let out a loud, unladylike burp.

Skeeve sat up slowly, wiping his own face with his forearm. He looked dazed, sated, and profoundly confused.

Sue stood, her legs steady now. She offered him a tired, genuine smile. “Not a bad breakfast,” she joked, her voice hoarse.

He blinked, then a slow, awed grin spread across his face. “Not bad at all, lady.”

They re-dressed quickly, the urgency returning. As they shouldered their packs and Sue secured her sword, she rubbed her flat stomach above the swirling sigil. Another burp escaped her. “More cum than I thought,” she muttered, shaking her head in wry amusement. The warmth in her gut was spreading, a potent, revitalizing fuel.

The climb resumed, but now with a renewed vigor. The **** edge was gone, replaced by a driven purpose. Hours later, the character of the rock face changed. The sheer cliff gave way to a steep, scree-covered slope, leading up to a massive, dark opening in the mountainside.

A cave. Not a natural fissure, but a wide, arched mouth that seemed carved by intelligent hands. And guarding it, arranged in a silent, macabre row, were skeletons. Not the freshly animated ones pursuing them, but ancient ones, bleached white by centuries of sun and wind. They were propped against the cave walls, clad in crumbled armor and clutching weapons so rusted they were mere outlines of swords and spears. Silent sentinels of a forgotten age.

Sue and Skeeve crouched behind a boulder, catching their breath. Below, two miles down and barely visible in the late afternoon light, they could see the tiny, ant-like line of the skeletal army assembling at the very base of the mountain cliff they had just scaled. A neat, patient line of ****, waiting.

*

In her spire, Maeven watched through the General’s mirror. She saw the two specks reach the cave mouth. She saw them pause. A flicker of irritation crossed her features. They were still alive. Too alive.

The General’s voice echoed in the chamber. “They have reached the high cave. The lair entrance. Do we ascend? The back pass will take a day to navigate.”

Maeven stared at the image, her earlier confidence coiling into cold certainty. She leaned forward, her rotten smile returning, wider and more terrible than before.

“No,” she whispered, the sound like dry leaves in a tomb. “They are in the lair of Tindra now.” Her laughter was a soft, chilling thing. “They’re already dead, my faithful General… they just don’t know it