A Damsel in Distress

On the other side, beyond the broad, languid river, he laid eyes on a chilling scene. A beast, twice as large as a horse and covered with thick, oily scales was bearing down on a defenseless maiden. She had climbed up a dead tree, which the lizard was pawing at with its vicious claws. Even as the green-eyed wanderer watched, the sunbleached wood was beginning to crack.

Without hesitation, the wanderer, clutching his axe, began to swim as fast as he could, each stroke of his mighty arms carrying him forward. Currents snatched at him, but his body was firm as a rock and he remained unperturbed by the treacherous rapids. As he was almost at the other side, he saw another man come bursting out of the forest. He was old and wiry, with a thick, greying beard. Armed with a simple club, he began to flail at the lizard, though he clearly stood no real chance against it. "Leave her alone you stinking snake!" he howled in desperation as he swatted at the trunk of the scaly torso. The beast didn't even seem to notice him at first, until with a snort, it flicked its long, spiny tail at the aged attacker, sending him sprawling as the maiden cried out "No! Father!"

Doubling his efforts, the warrior reached the shore, bursting out of the river in a spray of foamy water. With a mighty battle-cry he hurtled towards the beast, axe raised high above his head. Just as the tree-trunk gave way, cracking and sending the maiden tumbling down towards razor-toothed maw below, he leapt. The muscles in his legs bulged out, hard as steel ropes as they unleashed their wild strength and catapulted him high into the air, a roaring projectile of savage muscle, hair and glinting obsidian. As he landed with a loud thud on the lizard's broad, spine-ridged back, he brought his axe crashing down like a meteor of black glass. With a sickening crack, the blade tore through the tough scales of the beast's face, shattering as it penetrated the thick skull and sending a spray of obsidian shrapnel into the soft brains within. With a single strike, the warrior had pulverized the monster's forehead. Still belting out his primal war-cry, he grabbed one of the beast's sharp horns, wrenching it from the remains of its skull and bringing the point down on its neck, punching through the sinew and meat and giving it a vicious twist as slick, red blood spilled forth. If the creature had somehow survived having its brain scrambled by the pale-haired warrior's cannonball swing, it was now, without a doubt, extremely dead.

As the mad fire of battle cooled within the warrior's eyes, he climbed off the leaking corpse of his destroyed prey and turned to the woman, who seemed paralyzed in awe at the brief, but unspeakably savage, burst of violence she had just witnessed. Eyes wide she gazed up at her naked and bloodstained saviour, taking in the silver mane and smoldering green stare, the broad, heaving chest, muscle-corded arms and the splintered fragment of bone, clutched in a dripping red fist, which was all that remained of the pulverized axe. Her eyes wandered down to his lower body, the thatch of silver pubic hair and the penis that dangled nearly halfway down to his knees, thick and meaty dispite being flaccid, and the large, full ballsack behind it. Her mouth dropped open as a confusing cocktail of panic, relief, terror and arousal flooded her body...

Realizing this wholly inappropriate welling-up of lust seemed to neutralize her imminent fear at being almost devoured, undoing her shocked silence. She shook her head to clear the thoughts that had risen up from the steamy depths of her fertile young mind, ajusted the strips of fur that covered her full, youthful bosom and scrambled over to the prone form of her father, shaking him until he coughed and sat up. She flung her arms around him, weeping with relief. "Oh father! I'm so glad you're alive...". The old man coughed again, "I won't be much longer if you keep chokin' me like that Kailla!" he grunted before turning to the warrior, "And to whom do I, well, we, owe the honour?" he asked. The warrior didn't answer. He was kneeling by the carcass, methodically yanking out the fangs from the beast's bloody maw. He cupped his hands to the gaping wound in its neck and drew back a handful of deep crimson blood. He lifted it to his lips and drank deeply, crimson ichor running down his chin. Licking the oily red fluid off his fingers, he turned to face the pair. White teeth grinning broadly from a blood-slicked jaw, he gestured at the corpse.

"The blood of your enemies. It makes you strong!" he stated in a deep, melodious voice, "You, Grandfather! I saw you attack the beast. You're brave, a good warrior! You deserve a drink too! Why not have a mouthful to bring back some of your old strength?"

The old man took one nervous look at the rapidly-cooling wreckage of scale and mangled meat and grimaced, "I think I'd rather stay weak, if it's all right with you... But I'll gladly hear your name. My name is Grom of the Forest Tribe. You saved me, and more importantly, you saved my beloved daughter Kailla! We are in your debt."

The warrior stood up, seemingly unashamed of his floppy nakedness. "I am Stren, the Hunter. You needn't thank me. I've come a long way and it has been far too long since I last saw other people, so your company is enough..." he was interrupted by a loud rumbling, coming from his stomach, "Although I have gone hungry these past... nine days or so. If you could share meat and mead with me, I would be grateful!"

"Our camp is behind yon hill. We've still got a few supplies there." Grom said, pointing deeper into the forest "You'll have to wait til we reach the village for mead though. It's about two days walk. We should rest at the camp for today and set out tomorrow at dawn."

It took the trio around five hours to reach the camp, hidden behind an outcrop of rock. On the way there, Grom and Kailla paused at regular intervals to forage for berries, roots and grubs. Stren had insisted on hauling as much of the meat as they could carry, as well as one of the horns from the slain lizard. The weight of the two mighty hind-shanks he carried under his arms barely slowed him down. For a man who had gone without food or water for days, he seemed like a boundless font of energy, cheerfully humming a tune as he strode fearlessly through the underbrush. Throughout the day, young Kailla found her gaze drawn again and again to the mighty phallus dangling between his legs as if she could't quite believe it was real and had to periodically check to make sure she hadn't imagined its swinging girth. Whenever Stren brushed up against her, it sent a shiver through her lithe body. She felt a warmth between her thighs, that set her fidgeting nervously whenever they stopped to rest or forage. When she bent down to gather a particularly fresh-looking shroom, she angled herself so that Stren could catch a glimpse beneath her small wolfskin loincloth. Her thighs, toned and smooth, curving up to her taut, youthful behind were a feast for the eyes of any man and her inner thighs glistened wetly with what couldn't just be sweat...