and
start rocking her, stirring inside her. He would rise beneath her,
arching his back, pushing deeper into her, until they were both
gasping with the motion. She would fall forward, onto him, her
breasts on his broad, tanned chest, her lips finding his, and they
would kiss each other savagely, hungrily, selfishly taking what they
wanted from each other. His shaft would move sweet and painful
within her, while his arms closed around her to hold her close, hold
her still as he moved more violently, hauling his length in and out
of her faster and faster as he growled and she gasped, the pleasure a
flood washing away both of their minds. Until, finally, he would
rise up underneath her, push his full length into her eager cunt, and
kiss and bite her neck as he came, came, came inside her, and she
would groan as it poured into her, her toes curling as his heat
filled her. She would gasp and flex within the prison of his arms,
held tight against the fire-heat of his chest, her skin almost
burning with him, her hand clenching tight around the leash, taken,
triumphant.
She would have him. Tonight.
She blinked, finally seeing what was before her eyes. The leash was
finished. Oiled and braided, soft and strong, it hung in looped
coils in her hands. She was breathing hard. Her cunt was warm,
begging to be touched. A shiver ran through her as she closed her
fists around the braided leather cord. There was power in it now,
she could feel it.
She looked up the wall, to Grandmother’s skull. Granny
Rattlebones grinned down at her.
“This will work,” the witch-girl said. “I am
stronger than him.”
Grandmother grinned.
“You said to taste them both,” the witch-girl said. She
smiled, rubbing a thumb over the smooth leather. “You said
that I would know what to do then. But I won’t let him use me
like Sparrow, make me into his beast, his toy. I will use him,
instead. I will take him.”
“Take,” Grandmother whispered in the night wind. The
witch-girl heard the old woman’s laughter, far away. “Yes.
At dawn. He’s the night, child. Waking’s when he’s
weakest. Time for taking, when he’s waking. Warm him, charm
him, find him, bind him. Tie it tight…” Her voice
faded as a bird began to sing. Morning was coming, sunrise soon.
The witch-girl rose, and stepped out into the morning fog.
*********
She took a torch and tiptoed between sleeping dogs and men, walking
deeper into the cave, down into the darkness of the earth. Down in
the depths she searched for him, following footprints on the sandy
floor. Far from the entrance and the fire circle, far from the other
men and the light from outside, down in the dark she found his lair.
He was sleeping, nude, on a pile of thick furs. His dogs slept
beside him. All around, hunt-trophies and treasures were piled
heaps. Spears, axes, and knives were stacked carefully against the
walls. His chest was rising and falling in long, slow breaths as he
dreamed.
She blinked in surprise. The walls were painted. She saw ochre deer
racing across the vaulted ceiling, lean hunting hounds, flowing lakes
and rivers. Her heart beat faster; making paints and images like
this was witchcraft, he shouldn’t have known how. Her eyes
followed the swirling forms, trying to understand the spell being
worked here.
In the center of the paintings was a great black man-shape with white
teeth in its stomach, like a hunger that could never be filled.
A dog growled. He was awake. He was watching her, dark eyes
glittering, lying at ease on his furs. His tan skin shone red in the
torchlight. His hounds rose to their feet and padded forward,
circling around her, blocking her escape.
She smiled. She knew what he would see, looking up at her: pale skin
shining in the shadows, golden hair falling to hide one soot-dark
eye. For this crafting, her lips were painted black as night.
Bracelets hung at wrists and ankles, beads of turquoise, beads of jet
black. Breasts and hips full and bare, for him to see.
start rocking her, stirring inside her. He would rise beneath her,
arching his back, pushing deeper into her, until they were both
gasping with the motion. She would fall forward, onto him, her
breasts on his broad, tanned chest, her lips finding his, and they
would kiss each other savagely, hungrily, selfishly taking what they
wanted from each other. His shaft would move sweet and painful
within her, while his arms closed around her to hold her close, hold
her still as he moved more violently, hauling his length in and out
of her faster and faster as he growled and she gasped, the pleasure a
flood washing away both of their minds. Until, finally, he would
rise up underneath her, push his full length into her eager cunt, and
kiss and bite her neck as he came, came, came inside her, and she
would groan as it poured into her, her toes curling as his heat
filled her. She would gasp and flex within the prison of his arms,
held tight against the fire-heat of his chest, her skin almost
burning with him, her hand clenching tight around the leash, taken,
triumphant.
She would have him. Tonight.
She blinked, finally seeing what was before her eyes. The leash was
finished. Oiled and braided, soft and strong, it hung in looped
coils in her hands. She was breathing hard. Her cunt was warm,
begging to be touched. A shiver ran through her as she closed her
fists around the braided leather cord. There was power in it now,
she could feel it.
She looked up the wall, to Grandmother’s skull. Granny
Rattlebones grinned down at her.
“This will work,” the witch-girl said. “I am
stronger than him.”
Grandmother grinned.
“You said to taste them both,” the witch-girl said. She
smiled, rubbing a thumb over the smooth leather. “You said
that I would know what to do then. But I won’t let him use me
like Sparrow, make me into his beast, his toy. I will use him,
instead. I will take him.”
“Take,” Grandmother whispered in the night wind. The
witch-girl heard the old woman’s laughter, far away. “Yes.
At dawn. He’s the night, child. Waking’s when he’s
weakest. Time for taking, when he’s waking. Warm him, charm
him, find him, bind him. Tie it tight…” Her voice
faded as a bird began to sing. Morning was coming, sunrise soon.
The witch-girl rose, and stepped out into the morning fog.
*********
She took a torch and tiptoed between sleeping dogs and men, walking
deeper into the cave, down into the darkness of the earth. Down in
the depths she searched for him, following footprints on the sandy
floor. Far from the entrance and the fire circle, far from the other
men and the light from outside, down in the dark she found his lair.
He was sleeping, nude, on a pile of thick furs. His dogs slept
beside him. All around, hunt-trophies and treasures were piled
heaps. Spears, axes, and knives were stacked carefully against the
walls. His chest was rising and falling in long, slow breaths as he
dreamed.
She blinked in surprise. The walls were painted. She saw ochre deer
racing across the vaulted ceiling, lean hunting hounds, flowing lakes
and rivers. Her heart beat faster; making paints and images like
this was witchcraft, he shouldn’t have known how. Her eyes
followed the swirling forms, trying to understand the spell being
worked here.
In the center of the paintings was a great black man-shape with white
teeth in its stomach, like a hunger that could never be filled.
A dog growled. He was awake. He was watching her, dark eyes
glittering, lying at ease on his furs. His tan skin shone red in the
torchlight. His hounds rose to their feet and padded forward,
circling around her, blocking her escape.
She smiled. She knew what he would see, looking up at her: pale skin
shining in the shadows, golden hair falling to hide one soot-dark
eye. For this crafting, her lips were painted black as night.
Bracelets hung at wrists and ankles, beads of turquoise, beads of jet
black. Breasts and hips full and bare, for him to see.
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