The first song of Ruven: The Lamb and the Wolf

Chaos Factor: 5

The firelight flickered warmly in the yurt, the scent of cedarwood filling the dark, close space. The Merrideen girl reclining on the furs at the edge of its light shifted uneasily. At 20 summers, she was a woman grown - but still she shivered at the prospect of the night before her. Excitement and nerves warred in her breast, and she absently patted her accoutrements, checking her appearance: the heavy spirals of gold hanging from her earlobes, the silver bangle wrapped around her right bicep, the string of carnelian beads adorning her bare waist above the curve of her hips. She pulled a strand of her black hair to her nose and inhaled, closing her eyes to absorb the musky scent her older sisters had combed into it not an hour ago. Her gauzy breast band and waist wrap clung to her skin, tied with simple knots, and she self-consciously plucked the breast band higher as she adjusted her posture, waiting with impatience. Should she add another log to the fire? Better not. She could already feel a cool trickle of sweat down her spine. The yurt was warm.

The stranger entered suddenly, making her startle. He was enormous: well over four cubits tall and with shoulders wider than the girl's entire body. He had appeared suddenly at the edge of their encampment, riding a powerful horse and wearing a cloak that seemed to be the skin of one of the great cave bears. Below the cloak he was bare-chested and heavily muscled, his bulging pectorals gleaming in the firelight as he paused to regard her. He wore the tall boots of a Dranorrin rider, and his bronzed skin spoke to a life on the open steppe. Everyone had treated him with wary respect when he asked for a space at their fire. The girl pushed herself up to a half-sitting posture, her lips parting involuntarily as his flinty blue eyes met hers, seeming to stab at her from under his mop of black hair. A rough beard covered his chin, short-cropped but unshaven, bristling slightly as he frowned.

"Honored guest," she murmured, inclining her head.

"Who are you?" His voice was rough, curt, but clear. She shivered slightly at his directness.

"I am Bethtali, honored guest. I am the third...and youngest...daughter of Hanmil." She inclined her head again. "My father sends me to your tent for your...pleasure, my lord."

"Hrm." Moving with the easy grace of a panther, the stranger unslung the quiver holding his bow and arrows, leaning it on one of the yurt's posts. He shrugged off his great hand-and-a-half sword and leaned it nearby before crossing the yurt in a pair of long strides. Bethtali rose to her knees instinctively as he approached - whether to honor him or run, she wasn't sure, but before she could do either his massive hand reached down, cupping her chin. Bethtali inhaled sharply, nervously, as his fingers pressed into her jaw and opened her unresistant mouth. As she gazed up at his shadowed form, wide-eyed, he turned her head to one side, then the other. Inspecting her. Then, with a grunt, he let her go. She collapsed slightly as he left her, crossing the yurt again to the sturdy cot that lay on one side of the space. She panted, glancing across the room at him through her dark lashes, heart hammering in her chest. The power in that hand...she knew instinctively that he could break her jaw, if he chose to.

The stranger sat on the cot, spreading his muscular legs wide as he flipped the end of his bear pelt back to leave him free to move. He leaned forward, folding his hands between his knees as he observed her. "So, Bethtali. Your father sent you to honor me?"

"Y-Yes, lord," Bethtali whispered.

"Hm. Come. Kneel."

Bethtali hesitated a fraction of a second before rolling forward to stand. Tentatively she knelt before him. Once again that massive hand took her chin, tilting her face up toward his. The blue eyes pierced her again as he asked, "What do you think of your task, Bethtali?"

"It...it is an honor, my lord," she whispered.

"Hm. And that is why you're here? To honor me?"

--Does she have an ulterior motive?
Fate Roll: Fate Chart (50/50, CF 5)
1d100=73. No

She swallowed. "Yes, my lord."

--Does he believe her?
Sense Motive (Perception) vs. Deception DC 14
1d20+5+1=13. Failure - but since she's not being deceptive, he just believes she's acting normally

The huge man chuckled suddenly. "You swordless sheep-folk. A Dranorrin woman would never allow herself to be commanded to a stranger's bed." He leaned back, releasing her chin and bracing his hands on the cot. "Very well then, little lamb. Take off your wrap. Let me see what the old man honors me with."

With trembling hands, Bethtali reached up to pluck at the knot binding her breasts in place. After a few pulls, it came loose, and she pulled the cloth away, letting it drop to the ground beside her. She fought her instinct to cover her breasts - the stranger's gaze seemed unnaturally sharp, an almost physical presence as it raked over her naked body. Her full, round breasts trembled slightly, and she tried to still her breathing as she felt her dark nipples harden, stiffening as the press of his gaze on her brought them to an aching fullness. She let out a tiny, involuntary gasp as he reached forward and cupped one breast, hefting it as though it were a piece of meat at market and running a calloused thumb over her nipple, sending a tingle through her chest.

"Fine tits," he grunted. "Your clan must be proud. They've produced a good breeder, no doubt..." Bethtali flushed, and he smirked. "Have you been with a man before, Bethtali?"

"Y-Yes, my lord..."

"Ah, good. No need to teach you, then." He grinned as he undid his girdle. "Come on, little lamb. To your task."

Bethtali's breath caught and her eyes widened as he pulled aside his loincloth. In the flickering firelight his manhood gleamed, golden and smooth, as thick at least as two of her fingers and a handspan long - still inert. Her heart leaped into her mouth, and she tried to swallow it down. Merciful gods... "I...I - "

The stranger laughed. "Bigger than the sheepfarmers' around here, eh? Don't worry, girl - I'll let you take your time, at first. But to it, now. Your father didn't send you here to stare at it." With a caustic chuckle, he reached forward and seized her by the hair, pulling her forward with an insistent yank that made her gasp and drop to her hands and knees before him. He released her immediately and Bethtali, stunned, found herself inches from his member. She inhaled shakily and swallowed, steadying herself. Then she crawled forward and leaned in to tentatively kiss the flesh of his inner thigh, pressing her lips and nose into the warm, musky hollow of his leg.

She kissed her way inward from that hollow, hearing him grunt ever so slightly at the caress on his tender places. As the warm, solid flesh of his cock brushed her cheek, she reached out and gently lifted it with one hand, continuing her trail of kisses until finally she could open her mouth wide and suck one of his massive testes into her mouth. The fragrance - musk, sweat, the iron tang of blood, horse - filled her senses, and she moaned slightly as she suckled, feeling herself moisten despite her fear of him. His organ felt massive and weighty, like a river stone in her mouth, and she heard him sigh in contentment as she swirled her tongue around it. For some minutes she sucked first one egg, then the other, holding his shaft out of the way and stroking it as she did so. She felt it stiffen and - impossible, surely - swell slightly as the stranger let out a growl of satisfaction. Her tongue traced a wet trail up his heavy scrotum, then pressed flat against the smooth, firm underside of his shaft as she began to lick upward. Her mother's words the first time she was told the way of women and men echoed in her head: Remember, your tongue builds the tower up; your mouth is the cap. She wrapped her lips around his shaft and glided upward, sneaking a glance at the stranger as she did. He had leaned back on the cot, an expression of satisfaction on his face and his cock increasingly hard under her mouth. Still, though, he watched her through half-lidded eyes, a smile playing at his lips as she slurped at him. The intensity of his gaze cut her like a knife, and she felt herself dampen further. She spread her knees, arching her back as she approached his crown and rolled the foreskin down to lick the underside of his swollen glans. Could he smell her wetness? It seemed impossible that he could not.

"Well done, lamb," he rumbled as she capped off her journey with an open-mouthed kiss to his head.

"W-Will you mount me, lord?" she asked, still stroking his thick shaft with one hand while her other steadied the base. Her dark eyes sought his, fear mingled with desire in them. Her lower lip, slightly swollen, glistened in the firelight.

"Mount you? No...I'd enjoy that mouth some more." One large hand cradled her cheek, his thumb pushing its way into her mouth and flattening her tongue for a moment before withdrawing.

"M-More? My lord?" Bethtali asked uncertainly. In her training and experience, she did not have a reference for this. When her elder sisters had been married she had taken her place beside the altar, first with her middle sister and then alone, to suck their husbands to hardness so that they could place the sacred horns on their head and mount their brides as a ram mounts a ewe. On the two occasions prior when she had been granted as a night-gift to a particularly important guest, she had built the tower as she was instructed and ended the night with her face pressed into the furs, submissively offered up for the older man's delectation. She hesitated, not certain what was desired of her.

The stranger saw her uncertainty and barked out a laugh. "Ha! These sheep-men have no culture. They keep their women ignorant. Not to worry, though. I will teach you." His fingers tangled themselves in her hair and seized as he sat up, pulling her insistently forward so that her cheek rested against his warm, firm stomach. The tip of his erect cock brushed her lips. "Open your mouth, lamb." Bethtali did so uneasily, and he pushed her head firmly down, her mouth enveloping his cock.

She had not felt anything like it before, and she feared suddenly that it would break her. To kiss his head and cap off the tower was one thing - but this? His member filled her mouth, feeling impossibly large, and she clutched desperately at his bare thighs as it **** her jaw wide, depressing her tongue. Just when she worried she couldn't take it any more, he pulled her upward, relieving the pressure slightly, then pushed down again. Though overwhelmed by his scent and the sensation of fullness, she began to understand what was wanted of her and closed her lips, sucking on him tentatively as he pulled her up and down, and was rewarded with a groan of pleasure.

"Yes, lamb. That's it." A wet sucking noise was beginning to fill the tent as he cradled her head in both hands, manipulating her up and down his rod. It felt horribly lewd, and Bethtali's nipples throbbed, her cunt dripping as he showed her how to bring him off. The stranger kept talking, almost idly, as he fucked her mouth, hands firm on her head.

"It amuses me, you know, the way you sheep-folk train women. You're treated as breeding stock, even matched to a passing stud, but never trained in the arts of love. But then what need has a fertile ewe of love? The ram mounts her, and that is all." He pushed her deeper and Bethtali gagged as he hit the top of her throat, bucking slightly against his hands. For a moment she feared that he would **** her with his cock, but then he pulled her back to the tip. Though he did not release her, she managed to gasp a sputtering breath in around his glans before he pushed her back down again. "There is so much your women here will never know, never experience. Dranorrin women pride themselves on their skill and stamina in the tent - you'd be laughed out of the women's longhouse for this showing. Or, more likely, bound and trained by some of the older girls who like such things. Their pretty wooden cocks are, I'm told, good practice for the fleshy kind. Every clan wants to prove they're the strongest, the most adept, the most athletic, so all train. There's a saying about my people: 'For every mile a Dranorrin man can ride his horse, a Dranorrin woman can ride her man a league." He laughed again, a low, dark sound.

Bethtali sputtered, helpless, tears standing in her eyes as he **** her downward once more. With every stroke he pushed her a little farther, his thick, firm cock prodding past her mouth to penetrate her throat. She couldn't help but gag and feebly slap at his thighs as he grunted in pleasure, his cock twitching in her mouth - a strange sensation. Finally he pulled her up and, for once, off of his cock, allowing her to gasp for breath, chest heaving and mouth stained with spittle as she stared up at him wide-eyed.

"Not a bad showing," he grunted. "But I would finish now. Place your hands behind your back." Winded, she did so, and she shivered as he pulled out a length of rope and tied her wrists together. What now...? He stayed standing, though, looming over her as she knelt bound before him.

"There we go," he rumbled. "That's the proper way...arms out of the way so I might enjoy those lovely tits as they bounce and heave. If your throat were properly trained I wouldn't bother with the rope, but as it is...well, you're my gift, and I will have my pleasure." He took hold of her head once more and thrust forward, pushing past her lips and into her mouth. Bethtali's nostrils flared, tears running down her cheeks as she tried to open wider to accommodate his girth. He held her still this time, steadying her head as he pumped in and out of her. She could feel her cunt, swollen, hot, and wet with need - there was something about this man that made her want to bend for him. At the same time she felt debased, the wet sound of him fucking her mouth surely audible beyond the yurt.

"Yessss," he growled as he stroked. "You sheep are so compliant...Dranorrin are, whatever else, a bold and violent people. We are like our horses, wild and tempestuous on the open steppe. You lot are like your sheep - easily led. No Dranorrin woman would have let me bind her so easily, though a few I know would have asked me to do it." He snorted, still fucking her, Bethtali gagging with each stroke. "We do our fucking face-to-face, our intents open. And that's how we do our fighting, too. None of this sneaking around, planning ambushes and double-crosses." He snarled as he thrust hard into her mouth, making Bethtali buck involuntarily. "That's why I don't feel bad about killing those two out there."

Wait...what? Bethtali's eyes widened as she looked up at him, helpless. He glanced down at her, muscles rippling as he continued to fuck her throat, and laughed. "You really didn't know, eh? I was coming back from pissing when I heard two of your kin talking, deep in the shadows between the yurts. Away from the guest-yurt enough to be safe...or so they thought. An older man with a wart above his nose, and a younger one with a scar on his shoulder."

Bethtali's mind struggled to process what he was saying as he continued to fuck her. Mishtim...and Nephti? A distant uncle and his son, by the reckonings of her people's elaborate kin-webs. But what were they...?

"They wanted my horse, my tack, and my sword," the stranger said as he thrust, deeper with every stroke. Bethtali's lungs burned. "They planned to ambush me tonight - after I had spent my energy in you and gone to sleep, they planned to sneak in here with knives and cut my throat. Too cowardly to fight a Dranorrin face-to-face. Unfortunately for them, they met one in the dark." He grinned savagely down at her. "I did not even have to draw my sword - a dagger was all it took to kill those cowards. I needn't have bothered, though - even after a lusty fuck I could have taken them, and this is less than that!"

Bethtali's chest heaved. She couldn't breathe - whether from fear or the massive cock in her throat she was unsure. Oh gods! What did you do, Mishtim...now this Dranorrin brute will kill me, too! With his massive hands on her head and her hands firmly bound, though, there was nothing she could do but struggle vainly. Even as she did, he tightened his grip and growled.

"None of that, now. As always, I have killed the ones who would kill me, and I - " He punctuated his words with a savage thrust that made Bethtali's vision swim. " - I am more alive than ever."

He fucked her mouth some minutes more, Bethtali quivering as she let him, tears running down her cheeks. "It is inconvenient, though," he muttered discontentedly. "They were the ones who violated guest-right - or they would have done - but now I have no proof of it. Your kin will doubtless think I killed them for sport or gold. Not that they had any." He sighed, irritated. "It seems I must ride off again. But not - " he thrust hard again, " - before - I - take - my - pleasure!"

He began to fuck her throat more quickly now, making the dazed Bethtali wonder if her jaw would break. She had never experienced anything like this before - when she had previously been given as gift, the old men had mounted her with a sort of abstracted pleasure. Her sisters' husbands, on their wedding days, were more passionate but still decorous, plowing their brides in the hope of children. This was different. She felt like a toy in the hands of a violent child - like a rabbit caught by a panther in the hills. She felt wholly at the mercy of this wild, savage man, and she feared that she would shatter under his snarling pursuit of pleasure.

Suddenly she felt his hands tighten painfully in her hair, his full member begin to twitch in her overworked mouth. "Ah! Fuck!" he bellowed, thrusting himself in her as deep as she could take him. She felt him explode, gagged, nearly retched as he unleashed his hot, sticky seed into her. She felt her mouth begin to fill and, when he did not stop pulsing, attempted to swallow around his cock. She gagged again, though, this time hard enough that he withdrew and she coughed and heaved, his bitter white spunk spilling out of her mouth, down her chin, and onto her breasts and belly. Dimly she was aware of the stranger, above her, snarling out a cry as he finished his climax, the last thick spurts of his spill plastering themselves warm across her cheeks, lips, and nose. She bent nearly double as he released her hair, chest heaving as she gasped for air, skin burning with a strange mixture of arousal, shame, and fear. Never had she seen a man's spill before, let alone had it cover her face and chest. She felt used up, wrung dry in a way that was wholly new. She had a strange, irrational fear that someone would see her like this and know that she had performed in some unnatural way, had wasted this man's seed.

When she had caught her breath, she dared finally to look up at him. He was seated back on the cot in the firelight, at ease, his muscles still gleaming, looking for all the world as though he'd done no work at all - ready to run a mile or fight a band of orcs.

"Please..." she whispered. "Please...don't kill me."

He surprised her with a laugh. "Kill you? Why should I kill you? I don't believe you knew of your kin's treachery. Did you?" She shook her head frantically, and he snorted. "I thought as much. And it would be a shame to take those lovely lips out of this world before they've even been proper trained." He frowned. "If anything, your kin are the ones you have to worry about. When they find out what I've done you'll be stained by one who killed their blood. Is that a thing your people punish for?"

Bethtali's eyes widened. She had not thought of that. "I...I will be...exiled," she whispered, horrified. "At best..." She stared into the darkness beneath the cot as though it could provide her a place to hide. She could see it clearly: the discovery of the bodies, the fury toward the stranger, and when he was found missing, the rage toward her who shared his bed. She might be stoned, driven in pain and humiliation from the camp. Or worse, she might live on, unmarriageable and despised, ignored by the camp until her father paid some other clan to take her on as a servant or whipping girl, a scapegoat to drive the bad spirits out of the flock...

"Your people are fools," the stranger announced brusquely, snapping her from her reverie. "To waste a perfectly good girl because she slept unknowing with a man they would not have wished." He stood, re-girding himself and picking up his bow. "I like you, wench. You have fine tits. You'll come with me. Stay silent and close now, for we must leave." He glowered at her. "Obey me and you yet may live. Fail, and I suspect you'll die."