Naked on All Fours

Chapter 4: The Breaking of the Caravan (Part 3)

"No---!"

She grabbed at the remnants, clutching handfuls of mud-soaked fabric. But the pieces fell apart in her fingers. The cotton had been weakened by fire, by tearing, by days of constant stress, and now by the water and the mud and the violence of the fall. It was nothing but sludge---grey-brown mush that oozed between her knuckles and dripped onto her bare thighs.

She was naked.

Completely, utterly, irreversibly naked.

She looked down at herself, and what she saw made her stomach lurch. Her breasts hung bare and pale, the nipples tight and dark against the cold rain. Her stomach was smeared with mud, the hollow of her navel filled with dirty water. Her pubic mound was completely exposed, the dark triangle of hair matted and dripping, the cleft of her sex visible between her trembling thighs. When she shifted onto her heels, she could feel the cold mud pressing against her bare buttocks, could feel the rain running down the crack of her ass.

She had nothing. Not a scrap. Not a thread. Not a single inch of fabric to hide behind.

"Lyra! Move!"

The voice was Dren's. He appeared out of the rain, his sandy hair dark with water, his face set in grim determination. His eyes found her---and stopped. She saw him take in the scene: the girl on her knees in the mud, the ruined shreds of her dress scattered around her, the complete, unadorned nakedness of her body. His gaze traveled from her face to her breasts, from her breasts to the dark patch between her legs, and something flickered in his expression---something she couldn't read.

But he said nothing about it. There was no time.

"Get to the center of the circle," he shouted over the wind. His voice was different now---harder, more distant. "Stay low. Stay out of the way."

She nodded, unable to speak, and ran.

The center of the wagon circle was chaos. Men and women rushed back and forth, shouting and cursing as they struggled to secure the wagons, calm the horses, keep the whole caravan from being scattered by the storm. Lyra found a spot between two supply crates and huddled there, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. The position hid most of her body, but she knew it was a temporary refuge. Eventually, the storm would pass, and she would have to move, and everyone would see what she had become.

The storm howled for what felt like hours. Rain lashed her bare shoulders and back. Thunder cracked overhead, so loud she felt it in her bones. And through it all, she crouched in the mud, completely naked and shivering, waiting for it to end.

When the storm finally passed, the world was a ruin.

The wagons were intact, but barely. Two of the canvas covers had been shredded by the wind, leaving their contents exposed to the elements. One of the horses had broken its lead and fled into the forest; the others were trembling and wild-eyed, their coats lathered with sweat and rain. The ground was a churned mess of mud and debris, and the air smelled of ozone and wet earth.

And Lyra was still naked.

She had tried to salvage something---anything---from the wreckage of her clothing, but there was nothing left to salvage. The dress had been reduced to a foul-smelling paste of mud and dissolved fabric. The scarf was gone, blown away by the wind to some distant corner of the forest where she would never find it. She had crawled through the mud where she had fallen, searching desperately with her fingers for any scrap of cloth that might still be intact, but her hands found only pebbles and twigs and the soupy remains of what had once been her only garment.

She had nothing. Nothing at all.

She looked around the camp. The mercenaries were beginning to regroup, their faces exhausted and grim. Pip was tending to the horses, his red hair plastered to his forehead. Voss was shouting orders, her voice hoarse but still sharp. And Dren---

Dren was looking at her.

His expression was strange---a mixture of pity and something else, something she couldn't quite name. His eyes moved over her body with a slow, deliberate assessment that made her skin prickle. She crossed her arms over her chest, but her hands couldn't cover everything---one breast remained partially visible, the pale curve spilling out beneath her forearm, and below, her pubic mound was entirely exposed, the dark hair glistening with rainwater.

"Voss wants you to help with dinner," Dren said. His voice was carefully neutral, all business. "We're camping here tonight. The men need hot food after... all this." He gestured vaguely at the destruction around them.

Lyra stared at him. "I don't have anything to wear," she whispered. "My dress---it's gone. Everything's gone. I'm completely---"

"I can see that." His voice was flat. No offer of a spare tunic, no suggestion of a blanket. Just the cold acknowledgment of her nakedness, followed by a slight shrug. "Voss won't care. Neither will the men. Just get the fire going."

He turned and walked away.

Lyra stood frozen for a long moment, her arms still crossed over her chest, her body trembling with cold and humiliation. Then, slowly, she moved toward the remains of the cooking fire.

Dinner was a miserable affair.

The fire was difficult to light---the kindling was soaked, and the wood had been scattered by the wind. Lyra spent nearly an hour huddled over the pit, blowing on wet tinder and nursing a feeble flame that kept threatening to go out. The position forced her to crouch on all fours, and she could feel the cold air on every part of her body---her bare breasts hanging down beneath her, her bare buttocks raised to the sky, her exposed sex completely visible from behind, the pink folds of her labia parted slightly by the spread of her thighs.

Behind her, the mercenaries watched in silence.

Galt was there, his scarred face lit by the flickering flames. His eyes were fixed on the cleft of her ass, the intimate details of her pussy clearly visible between her legs. He didn't speak, but he didn't need to; his gaze said everything.