Authors: P.W. Chance
Highhawk grabbed the witch-girl’s hands and pulled her close,
kissing her deeply, trapping Sparrow’s head between their
thighs. The witch-girl felt motion below, felt Highhawk’s lips
part in a gasp as Sparrow began to kiss and lick. Highhawk’s
skin was fever-hot against the witch-girl, her tongue quick and
hungry as their lips met, her fingers trailing downward as their
breasts pressed and slipped against each other. Then her hand was
between the witch-girl’s legs, and they were all rocking
together, gasping and kissing and nibbling each other.
The witch-girl came up for air as Highhawk and Sparrow pulled each
other down to the ground. She found a jar of wine and drank
greedily, head buzzing pleasantly. Smoke tickled her nose and making
her skin tingle, sensitive, feeling every breath of air, every
feather-light brush of another body dancing past hers. She turned
and saw Howl, dancing by the fire, long braid swaying, a thin leather
cord around her neck. The witch-girl grinned.
She slipped behind Howl as she danced, pressed against her back, ran
her hands down Howl’s arms until they were dancing together,
movements mirrored. The witch-girl’s hands rode the backs of
Howl’s hands, the witch-girl’s hips rode Howl’s
hips, the witch-girl’s teeth gently tugging Howl’s collar
as they swayed with the drums. Softly, the witch-girl pressed on the
hands, guiding them up to stroke Howl’s throat, run down her
body. Slowly, the witch-girl rocked against Howl’s back, until
the witch-girl was leading their dance, Howl dancing as her puppet,
her shadow. Close against Howl’s ear, she whispered.
“This feels good, yes? Moving as I move you.”
“Yes,” Howl breathed, eyes closed, rocking back against
her.
“You think of Black-dog, often.”
She could hear Howl’s breathing, ragged in the heat of the
cave, the raw pleasure of the dance. “Yes,” she gasped,
finally.
“You think of what it would be like if he used you.” The
witch-girl guided Howl’s hands, one stroking her chin, her
throat, the other gliding down over her stomach, along her thighs.
“Yes. Yes.”
The witch-girl smiled, eyes glittering. She had finally spotted
Black-dog, moving through the crowd like a wolf through the
wind-swaying forest.
“You are my hand,” she whispered to Howl. “You
move as I move you.”
“Yes.”
“You will go there, to Black-dog. You will kneel before him.
You will open your mouth, show him your tongue.
She felt Howl’s body shiver against hers. “Yes, I will,
yes.” Her voice was a hoarse whimper.
“Go now.” She gave Howl a push, and watched her sway
through the dance and fall to her knees before Black-dog.
The witch-girl grinned. She would wait a little while, now. She
passed into a part of the dance that was all touching hands, a sea of
them, and she sank into it. Finger trailed over her scalp and down
her neck, down her back and over her bottom, over her thighs and
stomach and breasts, all at once, leaving trails of stars along her
tingling skin. She watched through the moving bodies as Black-dog
bared his teeth, seized Howl’s head in his hands, pulled her
forward to press her mouth against the base of his shaft. The
witch-girl didn’t know if it was her own hands or another’s
that began to gently stroke between her legs as Howl whimpered and
panted, growing more obedient, more eager. Hands petted the
witch-girl, rolling over her shoulders, down her back, making her
stretch and grin as she watched. Black-dog had his hands in Howl’s
hair, guiding and controlling her, making her nuzzle against him,
lick him, a cruel little smile on his face. He pulled her back.
Howl gazed up at him with wide eyes, adoring and fearful, wanting
only to please him, as he slowly pulled her forward, filling her
mouth with the heat of his cock.
The witch-girl smiled, slipping forward out of the tangle of touching
hands and rocking bodies, stepping through the dance toward Black-dog
and Howl. Howl was working hard, working desperately, bobbing her
head and stroking and licking. Black-dog loomed over her, eyes
half-closed, one hand in her hair, growling with satisfaction as he
enjoyed her submission. As the witch-girl approached, his head was
slowly tilting back, his smile widening as he drew closer to his
finish.
The witch-girl grabbed Howl’s long braid and yanked her back,
away from Black-dog’s body. “And now stop,” she
said, sweetly.
Black-dog opened his eyes, snarled, glared down at the witch-girl
with rage and unsatisfied hunger. Howl gasped, panted for breath.
She stumbled to her feet, looking from one to the other in confusion.
The witch-girl smiled at Black-dog, and stuck out her tongue.
Black-dog’s eyes stayed locked on the witch-girl as his hand
shot out, seizing Howl by the back of the neck.
“Move as I move you,” he growled.
“Yes!” Howl gasped.
“Hold her down.”
He shoved Howl forward. She collided with the witch-girl, who fell
with a shriek of delight with Howl on top of her. Howl scrambled to
grab the witch-girl’s wrists, desperate to obey Black-dog. The
witch-girl laughed beneath her, then smiled, purring, as her hands
were pinned down to the soft earth. She looked up at Howl, admiring
her panting, parted lips, her cheeks blushing so dark they half-hid
the spray of freckles across them. Howl was close above the
witch-girl, lying on top of her, looking down at her and smiling with
triumph as the witch-girl stopped playing at struggling. Then Howl’s
eyes went wide. Black-dog was behind her. The witch-girl grinned,
watching Howl’s smile melt into confusion and need as Black-dog
grabbed her hips. The witch-girl was close enough to see every
detail, to feel Howl’s heart thumping in her chest as she bit
her lip and half-closed her eyes, as Black-dog’s fingers
stroked between the shy dog-keeper’s legs. Howl’s lips
brushed the witch-girl’s cheek as her mouth opened wide,
gasping, as Black-dog parted and stretched and pushed himself into
her.
Before the witch-girl’s eyes, Howl slowly came apart. At
first, her teeth were clenched, her eyes closed in pain, but as the
rocking began her face gradually relaxed. Soon her eyes were
half-open, lips parted, gasping, as Black-dog forced pleasure into
her. The witch-girl smiled, feeling her own heat rise, cushioned in
wine and smoke and teasing, as Howl’s body moved against hers,
Howl’s mind slipping away. By the time Howl’s eyes were
open wide, rolling back, panting with her tongue hanging out as
Black-dog rode her hard, the witch-girl was panting too. Heat burned
between the witch-girl’s legs. Howl threw back her head,
letting out a long, wavering wail, her body shaking and jerking
against the witch-girl as Black-dog grabbed her neck from behind and
forced her to come. As she went limp, Black-dog lowered her head
toward the witch-girl. Howl’s lips were hot against hers as
they came together in a long, sighing kiss.
Black-dog gently lifted Howl off the witch-girl. Howl curled up in
his arms, murmuring happily, as he carried her outside the circle of
the dance.
The witch-girl stretched and rose, savoring the memory of Howl’s
ecstatic face, and Black-dog’s look of control and satisfaction
as he took her from behind. The witch-girl could feel a warm knot
inside her, wine and wanting. She bit her lip. As the dance spun
around her, the witch-girl looked around, seeking Black-dog, seeking
completion for that warmth inside her.
Thick, strong arms wrapped around her from behind. Black-dog had
found her first. His arm was across her eyes, blindfolding her as he
pulled her back and down.
She was sitting in his lap, held by his arms, a blind prisoner of his
strength. She could feel him behind her, his heat and strength, feel
the hunger in his lips as her pulled her head to the side to bare her
neck, kiss, bite. His other hand was moving downward, petting her to
make her legs slowly part, slipping inside to stir and make her gasp
and move against him. The heat inside her was almost painful now, a
fire burning her from the inside. She wanted him, needed him, needed
his arms around her, and his teeth on her neck and his shaft inside
her, needed him to need her and take her and use her up.
She gasped in shock. He was stroking her, stroking her wetness down
to touch her other entrance, to tickle and press and tease. It was
strange to be touched there, and good, and the fact that he was doing
exactly as he pleased to her made her heart thump and her chest flush
hot with embarrassed desire. She was his, he was hers. He would die
for her, and he could do anything he wanted to her. He would never
even ask; there was nothing she would refuse him. And then he was
pushing inside, and she could not think of anything at all. It was
big, impossibly big, and strange and new and painful and good. She
was gasping, mouth open wide, eyes still covered by his arm, body
helplessly arching with the strain of taking him in. Slowly, slowly
she relaxed, slowly his lips on her neck and his hand on her breast
worked the tension out of her, let her take shaking breaths, her mind
almost drowning in the sensation of being his. And then she felt him
lean back, and pull her legs apart, and heard him speak.
“Friends! Look at my love! Is she not beautiful? Is she not
all that a man might desire?” She was blushing, his hand was
stroking her inner thigh, offering her up, she knew they were looking
at her but she couldn’t see. He was still inside her, behind,
she was still filled with him almost to breaking, and then he said
the words she knew were coming: “Come, enjoy her! Share her
with me!”
The fire in her was roaring. She had never been so desperate, so
aroused. There were hands on her, lips on her thigh, on her cunt,
and she didn’t know who. They were all made strangers by the
arm across her eyes, and try as she might she couldn’t tell
them by their touch, by their smell, by the feeling as the first cock
pushed into her, so sweet and strange with Black-dog still inside.
Filled in both places, bound by Black-dog and joyfully offered to the
world, she was riding a high wave of almost unbearable pleasure, past
shame, past thought. She could hear herself moaning. Black-dog was
behind her, embracing her, moving inside her as turn after turn was
taken with her in front, strangers touching her, kissing her, filling
her, pouring themselves into her. When she came, she screamed, and
he was whispering her name, and she was screaming his.
They lay together by the fire, all the tribe around them, on the edge
of sleep. Black-dog was slowly, gently, stroking her hair. Her head
was on his chest, hearing the great, slow beating of his heart. As
her eyes closed, the witch-girl caught a glimpse of something. It
was in the air, stretching between her and Black-dog. A binding.
Not thick, crude leather. Hanging in the air between them, trailing
between them everywhere they touched, were a thousand beautiful,
shining threads.
P.W Chance is 30 years old and lives in Chicago. Contact the author at [email protected].