She teaches him to use a crossbow

Martin opened his eyes, blinking in the morning light. Brunhilde was snuggled up in front of him, her arm and leg still tight around him. His face was still nuzzled in her breast. In the bright morning sun, she looked angelic. Her long red hair was a mess and lay over the front of her head, covering her eyes and part of her face. The bit below her nose fluttered a little whenever she exhaled. Martin wriggled out of the covers a bit to reach her face and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. She did not open her eyes, but he saw the corner of her mouth turn up in a smile.

“Good morning,” she said softly.

“Good morning,” he replied.

She sat up and the covers slid down her body, baring her from the waist up. She stretched her long white arms and yawned widely, then shook her head to move her hair from her face.

“Hungry?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Martin was lying on his back with the blankets up to his chest, both hands clasped behind his head and watching her.

“Hungry? Uh, yeah, I could eat,” he said.

Brunhilde reached down and brushed his hair back. Then she saw the bulge in the covers around his waist.

“Looks like you have other needs I ought to see to first,” she said, reaching one hand under the covers.

It didn’t take long. There was a bit of panting and bucking his hips. As a lad, he had always had a tough time orgasming from morning wood. During those rare mornings when he had time to stroke it, he’d never managed to finish himself off. But Brunhilde had great endurance and the muscles of her arm never seemed to get tired. She was athletic, certainly. He grunted, thrashed a little, and spent himself on her hand. She offered him her hand and he dutifully licked it clean, and accepted the deep kiss from her afterward with equanimity. She always found a way to taste him, even though she liked to see him tasting himself.

“Come on,” she said afterward, “That doesn’t count as breakfast.” She was leaning over him at that point, hands on either side of his head, great breasts hanging like ripe fruit from her torso. Her hair hung down and tickled his face a bit. He held back a sneeze and reached up with one hand to feel her bust and smiled.

“Come on,” she said again, “Let go of my tit and let’s get something to eat. There’s dried meat here.”

They had eaten and dressed themselves. Or rather, she had dressed herself. His habit was filthy and she had a **** throw it away. He had sat naked, wrapped in a blanket on a big wooden chair made for Somai while Brunhilde sent a **** to market. Incoming slaves captured from raids were frequently stripped and had their clothing sold, and cloaks and trousers and shirts were often part of the spoils of war. The **** came back with a tunic, a belt, some hose, fine leather boots, and a few other things. He chatted with Brunhilde as he dressed himself.

“I don’t suppose this is Somai clothing?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, “It’s male clothing, and it’s too small.”

“The Somai don’t have men or children?”

“Children, yes, but only girl children. We have to capture men from other lands to breed with.”

He was halfway through putting a boot on when she said that. He paused and looked up at her, brow wrinkled in confusion. She was leaning with her back against a wooden beam that ran floor to ceiling, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other.

“You mean the Somai never give birth to men?”

“Very rarely. And when we do, they usually die in childbirth. There are legends of full-grown Somai men, but I have never seen one.”

He stared intently at her for a moment. Then his brow relaxed and his eyes went slightly out of focus, and he turned his head away from her slowly.

“Where are you woolgathering, Martin?” she asked. He shook his head as if startled from a daze and said, “I…”

Brunhilde had an uncanny intuition for the thoughts of others, especially men. She read him easily.

“Perhaps you will give me a child,” she said, “We’ll have to see. There are laws and customs around that.”

“What laws and customs?”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re going hunting soon. This afternoon, or tomorrow if you’re a slow learner.”

“Hunting?”

She nodded and said, “Yes, hunting.”

“I… How will I pursue an animal?” he asked. He had caught small game in snares before, grouse and pheasants before becoming a monk, but never hunted with a bow. One of his older brothers had allowed him to draw a bow once, and he had barely been able to stretch the string. It was much harder than it looked.

He felt a sudden pang of sadness as he thought of his family and the monastery. He had already left his family to become a monk, and the feelings of loss there had been dealt with when he first entered the monastery. It was a near certainty that they had been unaffected by the raid. The monastery itself? Well, his vows were broken now. He felt a hot feeling on the back of his neck that he recognized as guilt and grimaced. He’d allowed a woman to have him, had traveled to a foreign land, had eaten meat when he was meant to only eat vegetables…

“You won’t need to pursue an animal,” said Brunhilde, snapping him out of his reminiscence, “I know with your hip you’ll do no such thing. But that does not stop you from ambushing an animal or hunting from horseback.”

“I cannot draw a bow,” he said.

“You cannot yet draw a bow. I will feed you red meat and train you until you can. There are bows for people your size. In the meantime, there is no reason you cannot use a crossbow.”

Her full red lips were touched by a smile, and she continued, “As for your endurance, I think you’ll be fit to swim across the ocean with my training.”

“But how? I cannot run,” said Martin.

“I can train your heart and lungs without running. I just have to fuck your brains loose on a nightly basis,” she said, giving her tinkling bell laugh. Despite everything they had done already, he turned scarlet. Noticing his blush, Brunhilde walked over to him, her footfalls heavy on the creaking wooden floor. She reached to the back of his head and grabbed a fistful of hair, with just an inch of give between her hand and his head. Gently, she pulled his head back, and planted a fierce kiss on his lips.

“No reason to be embarrassed, love. You’re all mine now,” she said.

Her house was in the city, but there was an old stone wall that ran the perimeter of a fairly large property. It had once been a market square of some kind and was still paved with cobblestones. There was a bullseye in front of a stack of hay bales near the stone wall, which was as high as a Somai’s head. Brunhilde brought him outside and took a crossbow with her. It was a long morning of learning to load the bolts, pull the lever to ready them, and then take aim. After the second attempt, Martin loaded the crossbow with surprising speed.

“You learn quickly,” said Brunhilde, “Now shoot.”

He took aim at the bullseye and pulled the release. The bolt went wide, hit the stone wall, and clattered away. He sighed. Perhaps they wouldn’t go hunting for a few days at this rate.

“Come on,” she said, “Load another.”

“Alright,” he said, “I can try it. I don’t think I —”

“Quiet,” she said sharply, “Don’t argue with me. Load the damned bolt.”

He swallowed his words and loaded another bolt. Again, it went wide.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m trying to —”

She slapped him on the back of the head. His head snapped forward and he yelped. For a moment, it was as if the archon were beating him again. He shook it off and began loading the bolt. As he did so, she continued her lecture.

“You can’t expect to improve if you’re simpering and apologizing between every shot. Spare me. You don’t have anything to apologize for, so stop saying you’re sorry.”

He loaded the bolt, feeling a tightness in his chest from the harsh words. He stared at the center of the bullseye, inhaled deeply, and held his breath. His eyes were completely still, focused on the bullseye. His finger touched the release almost of its own accord, and the bullseye was pierced by an arrow.

“Lucky shot!” he said, smiling. She slapped him on the back of the head again.

“No, not a lucky shot,” she said irritably, “You hit the bullseye because you listened. Unfortunately, you had to open your mouth again. Once more.”

He continued like that for the rest of the morning, saying nothing. Soon, she made him take steps back from the bullseye. He noticed she never struck him for missing the target, only for not paying attention. And sometimes she’d let that slide as well, so long as he did not speak. After many shots, he was able to hit the bullseye from a decent distance.

“Simple enough,” said Brunhilde, “You learn quickly, when you’re not flapping your gums. Are you ready to hunt?”

He nodded. She looked down at him with a little mirth in her eyes.

“You can say ‘yes’, Martin,” she said.

“Yes, I’m ready to hunt,” he said. She flicked the side of his head playfully, as if to punish him for speaking again. Without warning, he kicked her hard in the shin.

“Agh! You little shit!” she yelled. He dropped the crossbow and took off running, laughing raucously. Brunhilde closed the distance quickly and tackled him. He was laughing still. She pinned him down, her facial expression a wrestling match between anger and amusement.

“Oh, come on!” he said, “You know that was funny.”

“It was,” she said. She raised a hand as if to slap him again, and he flinched. While his eyes were closed, she pressed her face against him and invaded his mouth with her tongue, gripping his hair lustfully and yanking it. Then she moved her mouth next to his ear.

“Just for that,” she whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you rough tonight.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he replied. But he felt jittery inside.