Girls Got Rythm

Maximus surveyed the battlefield, a cold pit drawing in his stomach.

He watched as the enemy forces swept through the civilian crowds with ease. Two dozen linen clad infantry-women slashed and cut mercilessly at the ankles of nobles with gleaming khopeshes.

Bolstering their advance were twenty battle hardened mercenaries. Each of them clad in a skull mask and blackened scale mail betrayed their identity as the Sorority of Mortas, an elite mercenary unit. Their pike wielding infantry crashed down upon another gaggle of escaping civilians. Whomst amongst them weren't initially impaled from their first attack were chased down and had leads thrown around their necks. The screams of the survivors being dragged off echoed off the walls of a church.

Maximus lurched forward, his hand clutching to the gladius at his side.

Bounding over the barricades he lowered his shoulder and charged into the nearest infantry woman. His banded armor collided with their sternum and broke as she tumbled to the ground. Maximus was on her in an instant and finished her off with a decisive stab to her throat.

Looking behind him he roared to his comrades in arms, raising his gladius over his head. In one swift motion he began striding toward the Sorority of Mortas' vanguard.

Four mercenaries wielding spears and round shields had cornered a wounded officer, the red of hid blood comingling with the crimson fabric of his uniform. Behind him, a noble family draped in violet fabric and gold jewelery clutched each other in terror. The matriarchs of the family clutched at their three adolescent offspring. The middlest and stupidest among the children clutched a woodcutter's axe in his hand like it was the holy blade of Artur. Bravado of youth painted his eyes in absolute wonder as he glanced to his attackers.

Maximus knew the look well, the child was about to charge the mercenaries and that his time to act was short. Leaping into the fray a moment too late, he watched as the young man broke free from his mother's arms. Rearing the axehead up he swung for the mercenary's chest but was easily swatted away by her shield. Maximus saw the spear going for the young man's unarmored chest, he turned his back toward the mercenary and intercepted the blow for the noble boy.

Pain raced through his back, he felt something hot lancing its way up to his shoulder and it began to tingle. Clattering to the ground, his right shoulder skidded across cobble streets as armor pieces broke away like tin shingles.

Driving the pain out of his mind, a surge of adrenaline allowed him to quickly bound to his feet. Turning toward his foes with his gladius drawn, he felt his teeth nearly chip and break as he ground them in a rage. Four mercenaries clad in the Sorority's black skull masks and armor sized him up appreciatively. The only part of their faces uncovered, their eyes looked like that of a lion stalking its prey in the tall grass. Hungrily, playfully, each of them sized him up and waited for the other to make their move.

These were the moments Maximus lived for. These showdown moments where you were never sure who was going to move first, the tension mixed with adrenaline, excitement, and what he was definitely sure now was poison.

He dropped low and charged the nearest mercenary. Using his sword to shatter her spear in half he drove the point of the improvised weapon into the back of her knee. She tumbled, trying to steady herself with one hand while bringing the edge of her shield down into maximus' neck. His right shoulder connected with her diaphragm, knocking the wind out of her and allowing him to pick her up into an improvised fireman's carry.

The other three mercenaries reacted, two attacking him simultaneously with exaggerated stabs from their spears to try to drive him toward the third lying in wait behind him.

Maximus leapt up with their comrade still on his shoulder, and threw her still dazed body at the mercenary behind him. Her body made for a fantastic improvised missile as even when blocked with a steel shield, both mercenaries still went tumbling and crashing into an abandoned fishmonger's stall.

Maximus rolled, picked up an abandoned spear and backed against the stone wall of a boarded up potter's shop. He saw the two still standing mercenaries, one was pulling her blood soaked spear from the freshly dead body of the fellow officer, the second stalked toward him with spear and shield raised. Beyond them though he saw a noble family clad in purple running aboard gangplanks to ships with unfurled sails. Tears crept at the corners of his eyes with contentment.

Turning his attention to his two adversaries, he readied himself for the death that awaited him. He knew that he had served the Cult of Mavors well by fighting until his last breath and shedding blood in valorous combat. His muscles tensed as they prepared to strike, but a voice cut each of them off.

"Halt! Leave this one to me." It was cold, firm, and raspy. A feminine voice that followed a member of the Sorority adorned with golden skull medallions and seals upon her armor. She carried an eight foot long spear but a handaxe and shortsword dangled on her belt. Sauntering up between the mercenaries she looked to Maximus.

"Well, well, well, the Eighth Child," she chuckled coyly as her eyes looked him up and down. "I've heard stories of your martial prowess and ferocity in combat, impressive general. If I was the eighth born son to a noble family, I would fight like I had a death wish too." her mocking voice raised several octaves as she cackled. "My name is Ouralia Hedera, Captain of the Sorority of Mortas and I have the pleasure of defeating you in battle." she gloated, eyes alight with pride and joy.

Maximus steeled his nerves, his leg muscles coiled like springs to tamper down the rage burning within him. Despite the anger and adrenaline, he was drawn to the eyes of Ouralia. The coursing, churning blue-green of the ocean that the held was unlike any he'd ever seen. Something behind him transfixed the old soldier.

"Have you any last thing to say before you are slain eighthborn?" she chortled.

He sighed, grunted and looked toward the red sky hanging over evacuation ships sailing into the night.

"Red skies at morning, sailors take warning.."

"Foolish drivel. No matter, Empire mongrels die like mutts in the street. Ladies, please put this cur down." She pointed her finger as she issued the command.

Maximus sprang forward, he drove the point of his spear into one mercenary's body armor so hard that it broke in half. Bringing up his improvised club to intercept the other mercenary's spear, narrowly avoiding the point of her weapon. Pain lanced through his arm once more, a hot burning river causing his muscles to crumple. Both remaining mercenaries attacked, driving their spears at him in a pincer attack. Using his good arm he wrapped up the longer spear underneath his armpit. This left him open to the spearhead that drove itself into the meat of his bad shoulder joint. Poison and piercings caused muscles to spasm and tense rapidly. Maximus could feel his head growing faint. Pivoting on his feet he raised both hands defensively, his vision beginning to blur and multiply.

"Red skies at night, sailors delight." he smirked confidently, dropping himself into a boxing stance.

The mercenary captain tossed her spear shaft to the side, fluidly drawing her sidearms from their places on her belt. Wild slashes cut through the air menacingly. Their sharpened steel edges driven onward by the captain's rage.

Maximus dodged three attacks, watching for her to finally overextend herself. Catching the wrist of the hand wielding her handaxe, he struck definitively to her radium causing it to break cleanly. With herself similarly handicapped, he casually tossed the handaxe into his good hand.

"Imperial cur, why can't you just be an obedient little dog and play dead!" her rage was palpable.

The roar spurred new life into her subordinate, only for the captain to hold them back with a wave of their broken arm. Rather she began using her good arm she began to cut off the leather straps of her armor. The sword's steely blade sliced through supple leather like butter, revealing the Captain's muscled hourglass form.

A tattoo of a pair of wings adjoined by a circle with symbols in a language Maximus did not understand hung just at her pelvic triangle. Up her abdomen and chest were intricate tattoos that ranged from ink weapons that looked to be the culprits of real life scars earned in some far off war and winding phrases in flowery fonts. She left only a strip of heavy pearl colored cloth that it seemed the mercenary used to cover her breasts during combat. Black woolen breeches tucked into heavy riding boots hung low and snugly across her well rounded hips and ample bottom. From beneath the skull clad mask she looked at him with something that bordered between bloodlust and regular lust.

Pointing her shortsword to Maximus' throat she growled intently. "I'll have you testicles adorning my war wagon cur. I'll fix you yet!"

She sprung forward with a dancer's grace to her strikes. Each one came swiftly and precisely, a carefully studied blow that Maximus had to struggle to defend against. He tried once again to knock his foe off her feet by laying his shoulder into her, only for her to easily juke and slice him as if he were a charging bull. Bright red blood weeped from the new wound at his side, staining the cobbles below.

Maximus brought his hands up defensively, knees buckling underneath him. His head swayed back and forth as the bloodloss and poison crept to his mind.

"Look at you cur, the poison's already working." she lowered her blade to gloat.

He staggered, and stumbled to one knee. Try as he might to summon adrenaline and rage to regain control, he saw the corners of his vision begin to go black.

She sauntered up to him, his head at her mid thigh with him on his knees. "Don't worry, cur. We'll be certain to treat any prisoners of war we capture as justly and humanely as you've treated our employers." She threw back her head and cackled, hand atop his head to force him to look up at her.

With his vision fading fast, he could only see powerful and toned form of the mercenary captain cackling over him, with the last vestments of red sunlight leaving the twilight for dusk Maximus passed out.

He awakened with cold dirt beneath him. The smell of pigshit and soiled hay clung heavily in his darkened surroundings. His eyes adjusted to what pinpricks of light the stars above him gave, focusing in on the piles of wounded and defeated soldiers around him. All distraught and stripped of their wargear they lay sleeping, crying, and chattering. All chained together by foot and arm in a pig pen turned impromptu prison. Maximus gazed beyond them to a small town square where the mercenaries had built a rolling fire. Several of them dance and drank around it while others were seated around, eating roast chicken. Eyes moved away from the fire to a patch of shadows deeper than his eyes could penetrate. Something in that shadow stared back at him silently, studying his every move. He kept his eyes on the thing he wasn't sure was even there until it unfolded itself from the wooden post it had been sitting on.

He scurried back startled, the chains rattling around him as he did. Instinctively he reached for a weapon, only to find that his hands were bound together.

The figure stepped into the light, revealing the familiar visage of a woman with a pair of wings tattooed to her pelvic V. She still wore her black woolen trousers from earlier, but had since changed into a sleeveless linen shirt that strained itself taught across her chest and stopped just a little too high of her bellybutton. Her feet were bare, but oddly so was her face. Rather than the grim skeletal visage, a pleasant and wide eyed young woman's face looked back at him. Her hair was a shaggy auburn curtain, neatly pinned back with a length of pink ribbon. Revelrous sweat dripped down her forehead and neck, rolling down and disappearing beneath her shirt. In her left hand she held a massive ram's horn adorned with iron bands and strange runes. She took a deep pull from the horn as she stepped toward him.

Slowly rising to his feet, Maximus hobbled to meet at the edge of the bars.He looked at her through the wooden slats in rapt anticipation. Eyes tracing the long pale scar that ran from above her eyebrow to just past her cheekbones. Something stirred within him and he tried to tamp down his obvious arousal.

"Oh good you're still alive cur." He could still see the red stains and smell the fermented honey on her breath.

She made a wide and sweeping gesture that encompassed what had been a farming village on the outskirts of the colony.

"My soldiers enjoy food, drink, and the pleasures of the flesh from their victory on the battlefield. Several of my officers have chosen the choicest of captured prisoners to serve as their battle thralls, warming their beds tonight." She took a pull of her wine and her eyes became very interested in its alluring color.

"You...impressed me today cur. On the battlefield I mean. Your stamina and ferocity are above average for someone of your disadvantaged gender." She motions toward his pendulous genitals while chuckling about them.

"I am going to give you a choice cur, come with me where it's warm and there's a proper bed or stay out here with the pigs and there's cold shit. If you come with me certain things will be expected of you, and your absolute obedience will be required." She finished the ram's horn with two large gulps and wiped the sweet red liquid from her upper lip.

"What do you say cur?"

Maximus nodded gravely and went to the door of the prison cell. She swaggered up and unlocked both the door and then his manacles. Iron restraints fell away revealing red raw skin to the cool open air. He rubbed at it absently, only for her to slip a rope over his wrists. His black eyes shot to her with accusation, he felt corded muscles in his arms tense.

"A simple formality cur, you understand." Her gravelly voice slurred. "Can't well walk a dog without a leash." She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him toward the camp.

Stumbling forward, the first thing Maximus noticed was the smell of burning chicken fat and wood fires. He passed by three brightly colored pitched tents with multiple drunken mercenaries inside. He recognized two or three of his own officers, entwined with a lithe woman with long toned legs. One had his tongue deep inside her mouth and his fingers playing with a nipple, the second was taking steaming spoonfulls of a chocolate sauce and spreading it across her abdomen, it was then the duty of the third one to lap up the chocolate off of her body lest he be beaten by a woman armed with a leather flogger that stood behind him.

Maximus' mind flashed to previous campaigns fought and won with those men. Strongholds stormed and villages burned seemed to become long forgotten hot air as they shambled on their knees for their new mistress.

"Keep moving, battle thrall!" Captain Ouralia's push broke the nostalgic spell for him. His black eyes turned forward and looked down at his hands. He began walking forward, using his peripheral vision to scan his debaucherous surroundings. She walked him into the center of the camp where several lower ranking mercenaries were tearing chunks of chicken off the bone while captured civilians performed cunnilingus on them. A bard dressed in motley colors and armed with a lute capered nimbly about the camp. Her honeyed voice sang of battles won and corpses impaled on poles.

"Left here," she directed him. Her voice was calmer, even toned, and firm. He felt her catch up to him to walk in lock step as they made a left toward a still intact single story farmhouse. To his left he saw four horses tied up outside the house's stables drinking at a trough of fresh water. She moved forward and opened the red wooden door into the farmhouse. The kitchen and common area was a textbook case in the casualties of house to house fighting. Dubious red stains splattered a shattered kitchen table, cold ashes from the cookfire were scattered around, and where family valuables once hung on the wall now there were but bare stone walls.

Despite this, the farmhouse was alive with the grunts, squeals, and giddy laughter of several people making use of its many living quarters. She pulled him firmly as a reminder to keep going. His eyes fixed forward as she led him down a hallway. He couldn't help but admire the way her woolen trousers clung low to her voluptuous hips. She looked back at him curiously, then gave him a tauntingly critical look.

"Naughty boy." Her eyes flitted to his own wool braccae and the tent he was already pitching in preparation of bedding down.

"You're an eager one aren't you cur?" She pulled him forward again, catching him off guard. He stumbled forward and fell to his knees inches away from her. "Are all mutts as lustful as you?"

He looked down and away, contemplating his next move. She towered over him, swaying with reddened cheeks from too much drink. An intoxicated lust shone heavily in her eyes as her other hand pressed her drinking horn into his face.

"Take it, cur."

He held the thing gently in his hands. Close up he could now see the cold blued iron bands adorned with sacred runes from the southern lands that adorned it. Her now free hand slid down over the circle above her pubic mound. It disappeared beneath black wool as she began to stroke herself.

"You are now my hornbearer, you shall remain at my side to ensure that my horn is never empty. If it ever is, I shall swiftly and sharply punish you." She growled, looking down at him. "Look at me when I'm talking to you mutt!" she roared in a lustful, drunken fury. She was all white hot anger, sex appeal seemed from her every pore.

Maximus looked her dead in the eye, put his hands onto the hem of her woolen pants and pulled down. Strong determined fingers move the pink fabric of her smallclothes aside. Before she can react, his tongue is at her cunt. Lapping in concert with her caressing hands. She inhaled sharply in surprise, her reddened cheeks turning even redder at his action. She felt as she positioned himself beneath her, creating a loop with his bound arms.

Stepping into the loop, she felt as his bound fists moved beneath her muscular butt and the corded muscle of his forearms beneath her thighs. Standing to nearly his full height, she felt her head almost touch the ceiling of the farmhouse. Crouch walking forward he moved the two of them toward the master bedroom where an empty goose down mattress was waiting for them. Angling her nimbly beneath the wooden doorframe, he set her face up onto the bed gently. Laying her down so that everything beneath her lower abdomen hangs over the side of the bed, he finally removes his tongue from her pussy.

In the entire time that he carried her, not once did his tongue leave her pussy nor did it ever stop moving.

She lays back, cooing in orgasmic delight. Fingers clutch to her nipples, stoking them to pointed excitement. He joins her on the bed, his head slightly lower and inches away from hers. He begins nibbling and licking the flesh of her neck in a feral lust that overtakes him.

She stops him with a strong hand on his chest, fingers fanned out across the sternum in a warding gesture.

"Settle down, pet." her voice is calm, she's regained her composure and strives to regain her dominance.

"Your exuberance is enticing pet, but do not forget that you are mine tonight reman cur. You are my battle thrall here to facilitate my pleasure, you will not get farther tonight without my explicit commands." One hand wraps him up, and smushes his face into hers. He tastes like her and it tastes good, like fermented pineapples and coconuts. He loses himself in her, a universally masculine subservient desire to fulfill her every wish overcomes him, his head begins to spin.