Message-ID: <25864asstr$966481805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com
X-Original-Message-ID: <3.0.6.32.20000816075012.007b7190@yahoo.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"
Subject: {ASSM} The Bargain 4/4 {Maureen Lycaon} (MM+/m, nc, violent, caution, humil, anal, oral, magic, goth, slow)
Date: Wed, 16 Aug 2000 23:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/25864>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: english, IceAltar
THE BARGAIN
@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, August 2000. All rights reserved
under the Bourne Convention, but permission granted for
this to be distributed on Usenet and archived on the Web,
provided that *no* changes are made to it and that *no*
money or other consideration is charged for downloading it.
WARNINGS: You know the drill -- all rights protected under
the Bourne Convention, all resemblance to persons living or
dead is solely coincidental and unintentional, nothing here
is intended to advocate any of these acts, etc.
Another warning before you go diving right in for the
naughty bits:
This is psychologically a very cruel story, even though the
physical brutality described is fairly mild. If you're a
survivor of rape, particularly homosexual rape, this might
arouse unpleasant feelings or memories, so think twice
before you read it. I don't want to upset anyone that way.
Really.
Also, think twice if you're the type who considers Harry
Potter books "Satanic", or if you have an aversion to
knives.;-)
This story -- it's a story with spooge in it, not a spooge
story -- takes quite a while to reach the sex part, so
please be patient; the second half *is* mostly spooge. You
may also think the human sacrifice scene is gratuitous, but
trust me, it *does* belong there.
AUTHOR'S BORING NOTES: My thanks once again to Ron, who gave
useful critiquing and encouragement, and also to Partran,
who gave technical advice on medieval matters.
Some of the hints and allusions here may seem mysterious if
you haven't read my earlier story about Raven, "The Price".
You can find it (along with this story as one whopping big
114K file as well as my other erotic tales) at Maureen
Lycaon's Velan Archive of Erotica at:
http://velar.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/
The Bargain: Part 4
Tirnal was on the very verge of climaxing now. Raven
released his grip on his organ, and then the captive mage
couldn't help but utter a small cry of unfulfilled longing
and despair. He clutched at the coverlet, squirming, all
his will focused on not reaching down to touch himself.
Yet he would not beg for release. He whimpered, once.
And now at last Raven's own passion was in full and raging
life.
He got off the bed. He quickly peeled his black breeches
off and let them drop to the floor, leaving him as naked as
the mage, a nakedness that felt not vulnerable but
powerful, his body and his lust bared like an unsheathed
sword, ready to take this man, conquer him, possess him.
He pounced on Tirnal, seizing his arms in an expert grip,
pulling him off the bed to his feet. Forcing his wrists
behind his back, he pushed him down to his knees on the
floor facing the other two men.
Tirnal's dripping, burgundy-colored erection bobbed
helplessly; there was nothing he could do to conceal his
hunger, his need. The craving and humiliation was plain on
his anguished face and taut muscles.
"I think" -- Raven's voice was low and savage, and he felt
as if he could climax there and then -- "that this slut is
ready to be used. *Aren't you, Tirnal?*"
All Tirnal's composure, all his pride, seemed lost; his
skin was glistening with sweat, his hips jerking against
his will. As Zhourn laughed and Algarn joined in,
chuckling, there was something like a choked sob from him,
shaking his entire body.
"Yes, lord!" he cried, almost a wail.
Raven gave his wrists a warning squeeze, then released him,
to take his dagger from the dresser.
And then, returning to the kneeling mage, he seized a
handful of that long dark hair, pulling back slowly but
irresistibly. Tirnal somehow managed to keep his hands
locked behind his back, but Raven's grip was forcing his
head back. He had to arch his entire body in an effort to
maintain his balance.
He desperately straddled his thighs wide to keep from
falling, muscles quivering with the strain, in a position
of obscene offering. His throat was offered up like that of
a sheep pinned for the slaughter.
Raven lowered the dagger to that proffered neck, placing
the tip of the blade precisely against the jugular, where
the life throbbed visibly under the skin. His captive's
ragged breathing filled the room.
"I could end it for you right now, Tirnal. No more shame.
No more pain." His voice was soft.
Slowly, slowly, just touching the skin without cutting it,
he drew the point across the throat, underneath the jaw.
"Think of it. You could escape the torture, the altar of
sacrifice. A quick death. Would you like that?"
Tirnal closed his eyes, opened them again. His teeth were
gritted with the effort of keeping his balance. Sweat
glistened on his face.
The dagger's point inched down to his chest, then slowly
circled one nipple. With a quick wrist movement, Raven
nicked it, just enough to draw a bead of blood. The mage's
body jerked.
"Well, *would* you? Would you like the mercy of a quick
death?"
Tirnal swallowed painfully, larynx jumping.
"My lord?" he asked, his voice uncertain.
The dagger descended slowly to his navel, the tip lightly
caressing the skin just below its rim where the last
straggling line of dark pubic hair faded out on his lower
belly.
"It can be, Archmage. I can do that for you. All you need
do is renounce our bargain. Jahl is mine."
"No!" Tirnal cried, trying to shake his head, unable to
because of Raven's tight grip on his hair. "No . . ."
The dagger descended, through the tangle of dark pubic hair
(and the passage of the blade severed a few little curly
hairs that drifted down to the floor), to Tirnal's
stiffened, throbbing maleness. Raven lifted it on the flat
of the blade, pushing it to one side, caressing it
teasingly, and then he probed very gently at the swollen,
reddened testicles underneath.
Tirnal's entire body shuddered. His arousal began to
soften.
Raven withdrew the blade, released his grip on his hair,
letting him straighten up. Then he actually squatted down
in front of him to tease his genitals with the dagger,
tickling with the tip, caressing. Once he even dealt the
softening penis little slap with the flat of the blade,
cold metal smacking against the heated skin.
Tirnal was very careful not to move. His jaw was still
clenched, but his breathing actually steadied a little as
his lust eased.
Finally Raven stood up, the dagger still in his hand, and
looked down at the kneeling man.
"You are magnificent!" he said, quite sincerely. "Naked,
used, degraded -- and still you don't plead for mercy or
beg back your bargain. Where did you come by such
strength?"
Tirnal lifted his head to look up at him. His face was
pale underneath the beads of sweat, but he seemed to dredge
up some remaining reserve of pride as his gaze met the
blond mage-warrior's.
"Not all of the Light are weak, Lord Raven." His voice was
hoarse, strained.
Raven studied his face, seeing the resolve underneath the
shame and pained need in those intense hazel eyes. He
couldn't help but smile a little as his admiration grew.
"You are a better man than the Light deserves, Archmage.
Would that I could spare you."
He turned away, laying the dagger back on the dresser.
"Over the edge of the bed," he commanded. "I am ready to
use you."
Once again Tirnal obeyed.
Raven braced himself with one hand on the mage's lower back
as he used the other to guide his ramrod-stiff organ
between those rounded buttocks. He felt Tirnal shudder as
he pressed against the rear passage; that ring of flesh was
clenched tight, quivering at the shock of threatened
intrusion. He didn't hurry; he just kept up the steady
pressure, waiting for the inevitable moment when those
muscles were forced to relax.
It came, and he forced his way in, ignoring the mage's gasp
of pain, the sudden stiffening of his body.
That orifice was so tight it was almost painful, and very,
very hot; Raven uttered a gasp of his own as he slipped in,
burying part of his length in those helplessly accepting
bowels. Tirnal abruptly cried out, shivering; he clenched
his fingers in the coverlet and buried his face in it,
straining not to cry out again.
*If he had ever suffered what I have, he would not call
this pain,* Raven thought. *This is child's play.*
The memories that thought aroused were ashes in his mouth,
and he quelled them before they could spoil his pleasure,
forcing his way in still deeper.
The mage was shaking, sweating, as he strained to accept
him. His fists were clenched into knots.
"Please . . ." he breathed. It might have been against his
will.
"No."
And then the final inner resistance gave way, opening up to
accept the rape, and Raven slid into Tirnal to the hilt,
and the mage actually screamed as his hips pressed against
his sweat-slick buttocks.
Raven held still a few breaths -- not to permit his victim
to get used to the intrusion, but to savor that inner heat
and his own anticipation. Algarn and Zhourn were eagerly
stripping naked; he could hear the rustlings of clothes
being removed, the soft thump of a boot being dropped to
the floor. He ignored them.
He lay down on top of the mage, his chest and belly
pressing into that sweat-drenched back, slipping his arms
around the other in an embrace that had nothing of
tenderness in it, only lust. His head rested on Tirnal's
neck; he felt the hard coldness of the rune collar against
his cheek. His own long blond hair mingled with the other's
silver-streaked dark mane. The other man's scent was
mingled male musk and anguish, filling his nostrils with
each deep breath.
His first few thrusts were slow, shallow, getting his flesh
used to the tightness of that passage. Tirnal's exhalation
was a near-whimper through gritted teeth, his entire body
one pain-tensed muscle.
The thought of taunting his victim further came to him, but
Raven spoke not a word. The act was enough; it said
everything that was necessary.
*You are mine now. My property. Something to be violated
and to slake my lust in, nothing more.*
Cruel ecstasy filled him, so strong it was almost painful.
He found himself kissing the back of Tirnal's neck.
He had sodomized other captives before -- in private, in
the torture chamber, in public spectacles before his own
soldiers and cowed townspeople. There was no better way to
bring home, both to himself and to others, the utter defeat
of his foes -- not even the altar of sacrifice.
But seldom had it been as satisfying as this, as powerful,
as intense.
The tightness holding his hungry organ eased as Tirnal's
painfully stretched inner passage relaxed, submitting to
the inevitable.
Raven was breathing harshly through gritted teeth now, his
thrusts deeper, more insistent. He gave up his embrace of
the dark-haired man to clench his own fingers in the
coverlet, simply lying on top of him as his passion
mounted.
He would never know how long it took; he didn't care. He
enjoyed every moment of rising pleasure until once again
his body tightened with impending climax, and then he threw
back his head, crying out with ecstasy as his seed flowed
into those helplessly accepting guts in one of the most
powerful orgasms of his life.
And then he sank down, relaxing onto Tirnal's back, every
muscle limp.
For long moments, he refused to move, his fists slowly
unclenching. There was no need to forsake this delicious
languor; his companions would have to wait until he chose
to step aside.
*For that matter, I could order them out, and have him to
myself for the rest of the day and night.* Raven smiled at
the thought, and pressed his mouth against the mage's neck
again.
At long last he withdrew, pulled himself off Tirnal, then
stretching with the shameless sensuality of a panther. He
stepped back, nodded at Algarn to take his turn.
Zhourn stepped out of his way with a wry smile as he padded
toward the nightstand and its pitcher of wine.
After cleaning himself, and pouring another goblet, he sat
down once again and watched his cohorts sate themselves.
Tirnal didn't cry out again, but his fists were clenched
tightly in the covers and he kept his face hidden in them.
He might have been weeping. His assailants' clutching hands
left visible marks on his hips and his flanks.
Raven wondered idly if he would be able to use him yet a
third time.
*And in any case,* he mused, *we could gain much pleasure
simply by binding and teasing him.*
In the end, that was what broke Tirnal. Not the rapes,
although he was used repeatedly, but the gentle torment of
their hands on his swollen organ, teasing him toward a
climax he was never quite permitted to reach.
As he stood bound to one of the sturdy bedposts with his
hands over his head, he burst into tears, literally sobbing
with need, as Raven gently stroked his manhood into yet
another futile erection.
He pleaded with him to stop -- and then he pleaded to be
fulfilled. No longer a man, only an animal in helpless,
hopeless need, an animal in heat begging to be bred.
Both pleas were useless. Raven caressed his dark hair and
laughed gently in his face.
Algarn and Zhourn joined in his laughter -- and later, in
the teasing.
Raven called a halt to their sport as the candle showed it
was dawn. He stretched again, eyeing the exhausted, sweat-
drenched mage sagging in his bonds.
"Enough," he ordered his cohorts. "Let him recover himself
a little."
Algarn ceased his fondling of Tirnal's swollen member and
straightened up, a resigned but sated smile on his face, a
smile that was echoed by Zhourn standing nearby.
Head hanging, Tirnal continued to sob, still thrusting his
hips in helpless craving. Perhaps he had not even
understood the words.
Raven walked over to his clothes and began getting dressed
again.
Algarn and Zhourn followed suit. By the time they were
finished, Tirnal had come to some awareness of his
surroundings, lifting his head, his sobs easing.
Raven walked over to his side, looked at him. The Archmage
looked back, licked his dry lips, seemingly unable to
speak. His eyes were haunted.
"Zhourn, give him some wine."
Zhourn fetched a goblet from the dresser, filled it. He
walked over to the captive and lifted it to his lips.
"Drink," he ordered.
The command seemed to bring Tirnal further out of his daze.
His hazel eyes cleared a little. He gulped thirstily,
throat moving with each grateful swallow.
When the glass was drained dry, and Zhourn was returning it
to the bedstand, Raven stroked the mage's sweat-soaked
hair. Once again he felt that pang of regret.
"It is time to take you to the torturers, Tirnal," he said
quietly.
The mage closed his eyes, swallowed, nodded. He shivered.
"Algarn, unbind his hands."
As this was done, Zhourn stood before the mage, ready to
catch him if he fell, but he found his feet immediately.
Algarn moved quickly to pin his wrists behind his back, the
black-haired man helping him bind them.
Tirnal's member was still swollen hard. His eyes turned to
Raven's, filled with shameless begging.
Raven shook his head slowly, refusing that silent plea for
a last fulfillment.
"No," he whispered almost tenderly, and wondered at the
regret he felt. "Your apprentice will be set free tomorrow,
as I promised. You have fulfilled your part of the bargain.
I will hold to mine."
A tear ran down Tirnal's cheek, but he nodded, swallowing
hard. There was gratitude in his eyes beneath the shame and
need.
Jahl roused from her lethargy to the sounds of multiple
footsteps approaching, stopping outside the door. At the
sound of the key turning in the lock, she raised herself
up, pulse hammering in her throat as her shackles jangled.
The gaoler entered first, holding the key ring. Her worst
fears seemed confirmed when he was followed by the two
saber-clutching orcs and the blond man in black leather
armor behind them.
*They're taking me to the torture chamber, or the altar of
sacrifice --*
No one spoke as the impassive gaoler opened the iron grille
and stepped into the cell. He seized her right arm and
hauled her upright, and then he bent down to unlock the
shackles on her ankles. She found herself shaking, and
tried in vain to suppress it.
The Dark Warrior watched, his handsome face a mask, as she
was hauled out of the cell.
Her wrists were unshackled, then shackled again behind her
back. The gaoler didn't wait for her to get her fear-numbed
legs working; he just shoved her past the others into the
corridor, and then both orcs were behind her, making her
skin crawl from their nearness.
The tall blond man fell into step with them, walking a
little ahead of her, on her left.
She struggled with the panic that threatened to choke her,
finally regaining enough control so that she could walk on
her own, and the gaoler's shoves ceased; he merely led her
with one hand on her arm, behind the Dark Warrior. They
forced her down the narrow corridor, past the closed wooden
doors of other cells.
Twice she heard terrified voices behind those doors, other
prisoners calling out; mercifully, she didn't recognize
them. Her captors ignored the calls.
They took her past the hallway that she thought led to the
torture chamber, and relief brought her near tears for a
moment. They would not torture her . . . at least, not
there.
Instead, they went on to the main doors of the gaol. The
gaoler turned back, but the tall man and his orcs passed
through, leading her out, into the blinding morning light
of a cloudless day. She blinked.
The mail-clad guards at the entrance looked curiously at
them, then went into stances of rigid attention as they saw
their blond commander.
"I need four of you to accompany me to the North Gate," he
ordered.
There was no discussion, apparently no need to choose who
the escort would be; four men stepped forward and quickly,
smoothly fell into formation around him and the two orcs.
If they were curious about Jahl, they didn't show it; they
wasted no time looking at her.
The North Gate? Why was she being taken there?
But now they were walking again, down the cobblestoned
street.
One orc placed a clawed hand on her shoulder to push her
along or guide her down the correct turn every now and
then; she was too afraid to dawdle. They kept a steady
pace, but slow enough to avoid tiring her. She was even
able to look around now and then.
No one else was in sight; the streets looked utterly
deserted. She wondered fearfully if anyone was even alive.
A faint smell of old burning still hung in the air, and she
understood its source when they passed what must have once
been shops, now piles of ash and charred logs.
As they passed an alley between two surviving but
unoccupied shops, she caught a glimpse of motion -- a
beggar, from what little she saw of his ragged clothes,
scurrying out of sight behind some trash barrels.
Now that she was looking for it, she also spotted
occasional pale faces peering through the windows of the
still-standing houses, then vanishing.
So everyone was not dead after all, only hiding.
She had never been in this district before, but she knew
this was not the way to the Temple. Did they not mean to
sacrifice her?
On and on they walked, passing three more detachments of
human soldiers. They responded to the sight of their
commander the way the ones at the gaol had, stiffening to
attention. With the Dark Warrior just behind her, she
couldn't see if he nodded to them or not, but he spoke not
a word to them.
When they turned a last corner and she saw the North Gate
two blocks away, her breath caught in her throat. She did
not dare let herself hope as they walked her toward it.
A dozen or so soldiers stood guard. As they drew up to
them, the Dark Warrior stepped forward, saying simply "Open
the gate."
One man quickly unlocked and opened the gate as the others
stepped aside, and Jahl was guided through onto the hard-
packed dirt of the road beyond, her guards following.
When they had gotten just outside the gate, the orcish hand
on her shoulder yanked her to a halt. She heard the tall
blond man's voice again, ordering the four human soldiers
to return to their posts. She craned her neck to look back
as they muttered acknowledgements and turned around,
walking back through the gate, and she was left with only
the Dark Warrior and his two orcs.
She was pushed only a little ways down the road -- still
within easy sight of the soldiers if not their hearing.
Then they stepped off into the rank grass beside the dusty
path, and halted again.
She hadn't noticed that one of the orcs had a key ring like
the one the gaoler wore, but now he handed it to the tall
man.
He stepped behind her and unlocked the shackles on her
wrists. They fell away with a jingle of metal.
And then he stepped to her left, laying one hand on the
side of her neck -- over the rune collar, in fact. She felt
a thrill of fear again, wanting to wince away from his
touch . . . but then the heavy collar loosened, and fell
from her neck.
He caught it one-handed as it fell, and stepped back, his
dark eyes unfathomable.
"I'm letting you go," he said simply. "You're free."
It was so hard to grasp that Jahl found a small store of
courage and looked directly up into his face, but she could
gain no answers there.
"Why?" she finally asked.
And then, unexpectedly, the stone was broken by an odd,
almost embarrassed smile. Those brooding eyes warmed ever
so little.
"I am asking myself that right now," he said. "Some of the
answers I know. Others -- I'm not certain of. Your teacher
was a brave man. I hope you appreciated him."
*He killed Tirnal*, she thought. Later she never knew why
she risked her next words, but they were out without her
thinking.
"I thought you without honor."
His smile turned rueful. There seemed no anger in it at
all.
"I have thought the same of those of the Light. I wish I
could have spared him."
He nodded quickly at the two bodyguard orcs.
A clawed hand seized her arm, and pushed her back toward
the road, away from Dorgeyzhim. She looked back one last
time at the Dark Warrior, but the smile was gone now, even
from his eyes.
"Go," he told her. "Before I change my mind."
EPILOGUE -- RAVEN'S RITUAL CHAMBER, TWELVE DAYS LATER
The Gate was open, a great circle the height of a tall man
hanging in midair, revealing the demon on the other side.
With its white-feathered wings, its beautiful face and
perfect body, the Phlegazeum looked not unlike an angel
from the Bright Realm. Its voice was smoother, more
melodious, than a man's could possibly be.
Only its strange violet eyes revealed its suppressed fury.
It took all Raven's formidable will not to shiver at that
inhuman gaze.
When he had cast the Gate spell, he had expected to face
the anger of the demons about what he had done.
He had not expected to face a Phlegazeum -- a Chehezrim,
perhaps, but not a Phlegazeum.
"What foolishness possessed you to do this?"
He licked dry lips, felt the hammer of his pulse in his
throat and chest.
"You know that I mind-probed both the Archmage and the
girl," he said carefully, his voice betraying none of his
fear. "I see no way there could have been any deception or
trick. Do you?"
The demon blinked.
"We do not," it confessed after a moment. "But this could
still have been a trick. You did not merely snatch a morsel
from our plate; you took a grave risk.
"Now, answer the question. I will not ask a second time,
mortal."
Raven drew a long breath, feeling a trickle of sweat run
down the back of his neck. The demon expected a reply, and
he did not really have one. Only the knowledge that he
would not have changed his decision if he could.
"He was a courageous man," he said. "He earned my respect."
"You offer that as an excuse?" The very flatness of its
tone was frightening.
"No. I offer no excuse."
And then he lifted his head, defiance mingle with his fear.
"I will not beg your forgiveness, V'lakhadrael. I did as I
saw fit. And what of his torment at my hands? The way in
which I toyed with him? Did it give your lords no delight?"
The Phlegazeum paused and actually seemed to consider that
for several long moments. Then it smiled, the sweet, cold
smile that had so often sent shivers down Raven's back.
"You are as insolent as you are beautiful, Dark Warrior.
But yes, that was indeed unexpectedly and delightfully
original. You deserve praise for your ingenuity there."
Then its smile faded.
"Nevertheless, I and my kin will punish you for your error.
You will submit yourself to us, now, and you will make up
with your own suffering for what you deprived us of when
you let the apprentice go. You will make up for it
threefold, mortal. I have merely played with you before;
this time, I will punish you. You will beg for mercy before
we are done."
Raven believed it.
"As my masters wish," he replied, his voice still steady.
"I will submit."
And he stepped through the Gate into the Dark Realm.
He had warned his generals and his servants not to expect
him to emerge from the room for the next two days. He would
need every turning of that time.
EPILOGUE TWO -- THE ROAD TO TERISKOR
"Shh. It's safe. It was just a dream." A strong but gentle
hand was shaking Jahl's shoulder. "Just a dream, that's
all."
Jahl opened her eyes to the lingering darkness of pre-dawn,
realizing she must have woken up screaming again. The man
loomed over her, visible only in silhouette against the
stars, and for a moment her heart froze before she realized
it was only the farmer whose family she had been traveling
with.
Tirnal's face, his voice, had haunted her dreams every one
of the six nights she'd spent on the road to Teriskor so
far, leaving her feeling all the more desolate when she
awoke. Sometimes his dreamtime presence was joined by those
of others she'd known at the Chantry -- fellow students,
other mages, those who had died when she had somehow been
spared.
Often, before the family awoke, she would give way to a
spate of quiet weeping that never brought true relief. Her
sorrow was too great to be exorcised so easily.
This time, the dream had not been of Tirnal. Instead, she'd
relived the mind-probe -- the Dark Warrior standing over
her, his blackness filling her mind, raping it.
Her vision cleared, and the dark shadow looming over her
was only that of the farmer.
Pazen, she remembered. His name was Pazen.
Jahl smiled weakly as she pushed down her remembered
terror, her brimming grief.
"I'm sorry, Pazen," she mumbled, and then her voice became
clearer as her mind did. "Did I wake you up?"
He smiled -- a brief little smile, but a smile
nonetheless. "It's time to get moving anyway. Daybreak
comes." The sky was paling, from blackness to that washed-
out colorless note it gets just before true dawn begins.
She rose slowly, stretching stiff muscles. The blanket had
been little comfort on the hard ground. She rolled it up
and went to put it back in the cart.
Though they surely noticed the marks of tears on her face,
Pazen, his wife Reis and their three thin, weary children
had too much tact and kindness to say anything about it. In
any case, they had their own troubles. It was too late in
the summer to replant, and the pathetic sum of money they
had would not be enough to see them through the winter.
What awaited them at the end of their journey in Teriskor
was most likely not fresh farmland but slavery.
Nevertheless, they shared what little food they had with
her, a generosity that sometimes almost moved her to tears
even past her own overwhelming grief.
There was nothing she could do to return the favor, other
than her share of the work. Just as there was nothing she
could do for the dead. She tried to focus her mind the way
she'd been taught, thinking only of what lay ahead.
Teriskor. Tirnal had told her of a friend and colleague of
his who lived there, Jovhis. Perhaps she could find shelter
with him -- if not as an apprentice, at least as a servant.
As she put the blanket back into the cart, she heard a
small cry from one of the children as Reis awoke them.
Pazen had gone to fetch the hobbled mule.
It was already warm. The road to Teriskor would be dusty
and hot today.
Address comments and criticism to: maureen_lcn@yahoo.com .
More of my work may be found at Maureen Lycaon's Velan
Archive of Erotica at:
http://velar.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/
------------------------------------------------------------
Forget Logic sometimes, listen to the logic of Nature.
A thought is dull without an instinct.
-- Fernando Ribeiro
------------------------------------------------------------
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+