A Real Husband

They always told Vika that when she made camp, she should be setting out the cots herself.

The nomadic Traders of the Holy Mother always had their husbands set out their cots for them. It had been that way since the golden age, when trade had run like blood in a vein up and down the world-spanning Road of Honey and Cotton. Of course, the war had ruined that trade route generations ago, and now the Traders of the Holy Mother were scattered to the winds, small-time shadows of their foremothers. But that was no excuse to forsake tradition.

A proper Trader had her husband lay out the cots, and to Viken's mind, Fesri was a husband, so it was only right to have him lay the cots. The rest of the band did not see him that way, but what did they know?

From afar, Fesri looked perfectly human. A lithe, agile body, no taller or broader than Vika's own, topped by a curtain of thick, chin-length hair that waved and shifted fetchingly when he turned his head.

When one got closer, one saw why the Vika's band saw him as less than a husband. A black, furry tail hung behind him, curling and twitching with his every thought, the tip always hovering a few hand-widths off the ground. In his flaxen shock of hair, two dark little cat's ears jutted up from the top of his head.

To the rest of the band, these things made Fesri less than human, and if he was less than human, he could not be her husband. So, went the logic, he had no right to the honor of laying out her cot.

Vika did not care. "Fesri?" she said.

His ears twitched toward her, and he faced her, standing on the balls of his feet, head cocked, eyebrows up.

"Lay out the cots," she ordered.

He leaped to the cots—he would prowl, scamper, lope or leap, but never simply walk—and his hands hovered around the bags until he found the cots. He snatched them as if they were ready to run from him. As he prepared the ground for sleep and staked down the tent, Vika draped a few towels from the low branches of a nearby tree until they surrounded her completely, protecting her nakedness from prying eyes. She soaked a rag in the boiling vat, pressed it to her body and wiped away the day's dust and sweat.

Two of the towels parted, and a pretty green eye peaked through. The first time that had happened, Vika had jumped, hollered, berated poor Fesri and locked him in chastity for a week. But now, whenever the towels parted, she knew it was him. She grinned down at those mischievous eyes, reached out to hook a finger under his collar and pulled him into the towels with her. "You sneaky little thief," she jeered. "Peeping at me again?"

He grinned his cute, fanged grin.

"I'm going to have to punish you."

With her hand still hooked under his collar, she forced him to turn around, and she pressed herself against his back. Her bare breasts against the clean, dark brown leather of his shirt, her thighs hugging his tight, limber ass. She stood on her toes and peered over his shoulders down the front of his body, seeing the outline of a prick holding up the front of his knee-length kilt. She snaked her hands down to the hem of his kilt, eased it down and watched as his cock sprang out. A little drop of precum flicked from the tip.

"Now what were you going to do with this?" she smarmed. "You naughty, naughty male?"

He melted a little as she ran a finger under his cock. His shoulder sagged into her hands, his ass pushing against her lap. She added a little pressure with her hands and folded him down onto his knees. Without losing a moment, she pulled his kilt all the way down, slipping it off his ankles, but then looping it back over. She threaded and pulled the knot tight, tying his ankles together.

She pushed him down, rolled him over, saw him brace his hands on the ground and look up at her with lip-biting anticipation. She found the head of his cock with just her thumb and forefinger, rolled the foreskin between her fingertips, and watched as he winced with pleasure.

This was how she liked him best. From the waist up, he was fully dressed, a sweet, pretty male, as innocent as could be. And from the waist down, engorged, bound and dripping with anticipation.

She eased herself astraddle his lap. His shaft, small but sweet to the touch, brushed against her womanhood, and she shifted her weight to make it brush again. Fesri did not rush her, did not say anything, only waited in simmering anticipation as she worked herself to a sexual frenzy.

Then she took him in. At first, she eased herself over him, but then she rose and fell on him again, and he shifted his thighs that way she loved, and pleasure flourished inside her.

She bucked a few times, falling astraddle him, her wet skin slapping loudly on his, then she leaned forward and grew more intense. She pursed her lips together, turning her moans into growls. She forced her hips up and down on him, but kept her eyes locked on his lovely face. She put her hands on his chest and watched him fight to breathe under her weight. How she adored watching his delicate face twist as he fought!

He grew tense inside of her. Vika knew what this meant. She slowed down, moaned a little louder and drew out Fesri's orgasm. A thin, powerful rush of seed warmed her, and she tipped back her head to enjoy it.

Then she looked down at her male. He massaged her wrists, still breathing heavily, waiting patiently for her to take her weight off of him.

She sat up to let him breathe again. But with her evil smile, she told him she was not done. As soon as he found himself again, she crawled forward, sliding her sex along his thin, tight stomach and his smooth, flat chest, until she was right at his chin. With her right hand, she took the crown of his head and guided him up to her sex.

He still owed her an orgasm, and he knew it. A human would have thought twice about cleaning his own cum from her, but Fesri was better than human. He applied himself with zeal, flourishing his tongue on her lips, within her walls, up to her clit but not quite there. Then he drew closer.

His performance before had already drawn Vika close to climax, and now he slowed almost to nothing. She stayed at the height of pleasure for as long as he could keep her there.

His big wet eyes gazed up at her for approval as he cleaned her out. She flicked his tongue in the air at the end of each stroke, just to show her what she was getting. Then, just when Vika could not hold herself together, he kissed her in just the right place, and she erupted. She pulled every muscle tense, drew her moan into a shriek and then a silent gasp. Energy roiled under her stomach, through her thighs, coursing from that beautiful male and his soft, wet lips.

She gazed down at him, letting him take in her muzzy smile. He basked in his performance. He lived to please.

Vika eased herself down onto his chest, into his thin arms, and kissed him on the cheek. "You got me all dirty again," she said. "We'll just have to wash me a second time." He moved to get up, and she stopped him with a hand on his collar. "Not yet. No, not yet."

She lay with him for long, sweet hours. Later, she would not remember if she dozed off or simply waited the night away. Such was the luxury of having Fesri as her own. And if the other women couldn't see that, that was their loss.

*

"Not yet," said Mrs. Hetevan, Vika's older sister, as Vika prepared to mount her horse. "We're not leaving until we have secured guardianship."

"What?" Vika peered into her sister's impatient eyes. "When was this decided?"

"While you were asleep in the towels," said Vika. "Don't act surprised. You know when the mothers hold council."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Are you a mother? Are you Mrs. Vika?"

Vika flushed. She had known she'd get that answer. In an effort not to look Hetevan in the eye, she cast her gaze about and saw Fesri idly tying a piece of string into a knot, oblivious to the conversation.

"That man is not a man." said Mrs. Hetevan. "It may feel like it when you lay with him, but he can never give you children, and you know it. You'll never be Mrs. with him."

It was true. His seed could not quicken life in a human woman. He could not fight, either, or understand complex ideas. But it wasn't fair! There were men who could do none of those things, and they were still men!

Then again, they couldn't be husbands either.

"The Matriarch has decreed," said Mrs. Hetevan, "that we will need five mercenaries to be safe. The unmarried girls are to help us find them." She put no cruel emphasis on the word 'unmarried.' She said it coldly, flatly, matter-of-factly. And yet still Vika felt that Hetevan was lording her status over her. But there was nothing Vika could say against it.

The Matriarch was right about needing protection. Out in the plains, where they had been for the last fortnight, there was neither hill nor tree to be found except in the towns. There was nowhere for bandits to hide. The Traders' horse archers could range far from the wagons and keep them completely safe. But the Traders had finished crossing the plains. Ahead, Vika saw the grassy hills rise from the flatness and give away to mesas, with stands of prickly trees and bushes growing on the windswept ridges between them. A thin, deep river cut through the increasingly rocky-looking ground. It meant water for the horses, but it also meant a barrier against which bandits could corner the caravan and trap them. And there were plenty of places for those bandits to hide in ambush. Among the mesas, trouble could come from anywhere.

So Vika set out to town to find the guards they required. The guild of caravan guards had an outpost here. Generally, the Guild was an impeccable source of reliable men and women, trained by the guild itself and all put through identical tests, not permitted to serve unless they were fully equipped. It would have been perfect, but these lands were the very edge of guild territory. The outposts here would be new, run by disgraced veterans out of favor with the guild, consigned to this remote post that no guild member wanted. The guild's good reputation did not extend to these new borderland outposts; the band had learned the hard way that such posts would either hire out untested thugs as certified guards, or they would hire out certified guards for the price of a queen's retinue.

In these lands, hiring good guards meant judging for yourself.

There was a commotion around the corner ahead of Vika. More out of curiosity than anything, she trotted to the edge of the house ahead and peeked around.

A man was thrown from the door of the house. He flew face-first, but landed on his shoulders and played it into a painful-looking roll. In the time it took him to roll to his feet, he whipped out a flintlock pistol and aimed at whatever had thrown him.

Three men burst out through the door, but not the door the first man had flown through.

Vika corrected herself. That man had flown out through the window.

These three new men were natives, judging by their hoods and dark skin, and the drawl accents in which they cursed the third man. They hissed and spat as if spoiling for a fight, but Vika noticed that they crowded together, pressing against each other, side by side. They were jockeying to get behind each other. Typical males, their courage came only from the men at their sides.

Their anger died down, and they ducked inside, slamming the door behind them. For ten heartbeats, the man they'd thrown out stood in the exact pose he had been in when he'd drawn his gun: legs braced on the ground as if ready to wrestle, gun in both hands, head tucked behind it to peer down the sights. His conical straw hat shaded his eyes, strapped under his chin by what looked like silk ribbon, and all the rest of his clothing was leather chaps and pads over thin, breezy tan cloth. The pads looked hideous on him, but she Vika could see a fit, compact build underneath them. And his face captivated her. Those eyes looked like they could see through solid rock.

But he still wasn't moving.

Vika laughed. "Boy? I think you can put that down now."

He did not startle at her voice. He only gently lowered the gun and holstered it. "Didn't think that would happen in a way-station town," he murmured. His voice had a slight, dry rumble, the kind one got from going too long without water. He pronounced his words deep in his throat, saying each one with care. It was an accent Vika had never heard before.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"I walked in alone." He folded his arms at the door and fell silent for a minute. Then he looked at her and saw her expecting more details, so he went on, "That's the inn. The only place in town you'll find a fresh meal. I was the only outlander there. So the cook accused me of thieving, and nobody questioned it. Suddenly, every hood in the room was cracking his knuckles to teach me a lesson." He dusted himself off. "I'm lucky they just threw me out the window."

"Why are you alone?" If he had been a Trader, that question would have been grievously taboo, because a Trader only ever came to be alone by personal catastrophe. But other peoples were more willing to sever their roots and stray from the clan.

"I ran with the mountain men," he said. "I thought I could earn their trust. They said they trusted me, but it was a ruse. They robbed me of everything except my hat and my gun." He said it without a hint of bitterness.

"They left your gun?"

"Their honor wouldn't let them take it," he said. "If they had, I'd be a dead man."

"What are you going to do now?"

He patted a pouch that hung on a rope sash. "I could buy another meal. But it would cut into my supply money. I'm going to go and try my luck in the next town. Spirits be thanked, I can get there."

"Have you ever heard of the Traders of the Holy Mother?"

For the first time, he looked straight at her. He opened his mouth to answer her, then stopped and considered something. "Heard of them," he said guardedly.

"What do you think of them?" she tried.

"I thought they went extinct when the iron men cut them off." He raised the brim of his hat. "But I'm wrong, aren't I? You're one of them."

"And there's more," she said. She skipped up to him, took his hand and pulled him along. "Come on, I'll take you to meet them."

On the way back to the Trader camp, they exchanged introductions, but Vika was too full of herself to listen- finally, she had done something useful! She brought back a guard, probably sooner than anyone else. This, at least, would force Hetevan to treat her like an adult for the next few hours.

"Vika, back already?" said her mother. She looked at the warrior she'd brought, and her eyebrows jumped and her lips clamped shut. "Oh." That was her way of saying she approved.

Behind Vika's mother stood a few of the older, higher-status women, the ones important enough that they had one or even two consorts in addition to their husbands. They stood in a circle, heads craned forward to whisper to each other. When one of them noticed the stranger with the gun, she peeked at him, and all the matriarchs turned and looked. They saw the stranger, did not register disapproval, and looked away again. That was their of saying he looked perfect.

Uncle Denov stepped in and shook the stranger's hand. "Thank you for agreeing to join us, young man. I think you'll be glad you chose us."

The stranger looked uncomfortable. "Never met Traders before. I'm still not sure what I've chosen you for."

"Of course." Uncle Denov stopped and faced him, a picture of hospitality. "Has my niece neglected to explain it?"

The stranger gave Vika a wry glance. "Can't say I remember."

Uncle Denov was too diplomatic to glare at Vika for her negligence, but Vika colored with embarrassment anyway.

"Well, then," said Denov, "I'll explain it. Of course, we wouldn't dream of pushing you to something you do not wish to do. Our caravan is just preparing to cross the God's Knife River..." His voice trailed off as he walked off with the stranger.

Vika watched the two men go. She took note of the stranger's uneasy body language slowly evening out. He started walking straighter, with a more even pace. Vika noted with approval the way his ass flexed underneath his chaps.

Mrs. Hetevan materialized next to her. "Where did you find a man like that?"

"On the ground."

Hetevan clutched her forehead. "That is exactly the sort of thing you would say, isn't it, sister? What's his name?"

"I..." she had asked, but when she reached for his name in her memory, it wasn't there. "I don't know."

"You didn't ask?"

Vika faced Hetevan. "I did ask, thank you very much! Why are you so surprised, anyway?"

"You were gazing at him as if you were just about to say your marriage vows."

Vika considered it. "I guess he is... interesting. I mean, he's exotic. He's pretty, and he's pretty in a way I've never seen before."

"Pretty is right. During the golden age, he wouldn't have had to fight. He could have turned a living on his tongue alone."

For a moment, Vika pictured him as a Traskan coffee server, the kind you could pay a few extra gold pieces and he'd take you to the back room, to the bed where secret things happened. The idea was disturbingly enticing.

"It seems you brought back an excellent warrior," said Hetevan. "Maybe you didn't do it on purpose, but good job anyway."

"Vika?" came a familiar, sweet-and-scratchy voice. She turned to see Fesri sauntering up to her. "You're back!"

She laughed warmly as he wrapped his arms around her. His fingers fondled her hips. He kissed her on her right breast and looked up at her, a sexual question in his big, expressive eyes.

"You are insatiable!" she laughed, moving his hands gently off her. "We'll find time later tonight if we can, but now is not the time. Alright?" His hands moved from her hips, and he held her with pure affection. She tousled his hair, and all thoughts of the mysterious new stranger fled her mind.

*

Mustafa. Vika had asked Uncle Denov, and the male stranger was named Mustafa.

Now the caravan was on the move. The women and children were piled in the shaded wagons. The most important women were up front, riding their own horses, talking about weather and trade and all the things the Traders contended with. The horse archers, male and female, lazily orbited the carts, not expecting trouble, while the men and the hired guards walked on foot.

Vika had contrived to ride on the shaded cart that was least crowded. Only a half-dozen people rode on the ten-by-twenty foot vehicle, and most of them were children, clustered in the back, playing a game with jacks and sticks. Vika had the front to herself. She had spoken to Vanya, the driver, and requested that their cart ride alongside where Mustafa happened to be walking. Like the good friend she was, Vanya had found a way to make it so, and now Vika was close enough that she could reach out and touch him.

"Mustafa?" she said.

He looked up at her, adjusting his hat so they could see each other. "Vika. Feeling well?" His face was full of interest but not worry. Manly concern.

"I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"

"This isn't so hard. The mountain men used to make twice this pace, because they didn't have cargo to haul."

"Do you know where we're going?"

"Carvayda."

"You don't call it 'Carvayda,' silly! Anyone who knows about the place called it 'Car-VAH-da.'"

"I confess I've never been."

Vika was mildly surprised, and she feigned severe shock. "Then you won't know the language!"

"Do I need to?"

"Why, yes, of course! Let me teach you! I'll teach you to speak Carvadan."

"You know it?"

"What a silly question! I know a dozen languages. Did you think a Trader didn't know how to talk to anyone?"

He clammed up.

"But let's start out, let's start out. You know Alken, right?"