Spoils of War

[Author's Note: Another short story. Please read and review. Once I can figure out how to post multi-chapter stories, I'll post some of my lengthier work.]

The grim fate of my people was sealed the moment our battle began, and now I stand alone in the after-shock of the crippling attack by the roving band of Elvaran warriors. The Elvaran are a warrior-race: the tallest of any human I've yet seen, a head taller than a high-standing man, and they are built with such natural musculature as is unknown to any other. They train with ferocity, but even were they not to do so, their strength would go unparalleled. And they are all of them women: clad in boots that extend to their knees and scanty fur garments covering their breasts and more sensitive regions below. My people stood no chance against this raiding party, but we fought to the last man: me.

I was born, and still am a man not fit for battle. I have some strength, yes, but nary enough to cleave a skull with a single blow or toil for hours in heavy armor, dealing and receiving blows like hammer-falls. Thus, my very presence on the battlefield stands as a testament to the desperation of my people, for I am no warrior but a singer and a scribe, a teller of tales. This year, most fateful of all my years, is the eighteenth of my life, and now I fear that life may end as I stand, unarmored and with my only weapon, a meager dagger, knocked from my hand.

Sweat glistens on my brow, my short black hair is likewise damp with perspiration. I wear simple cloth garb, that affords little protection. Fortunately, my enemy knew of my weakness and hitherto spared me. Now, the whole Elvaran raiding party, not down a single woman, gazes upon me as a lone woman, surely my fated slayer, strides forward.

"Last of your people," she says, "you shed not a drop of our blood, and you stand now defenseless."

"And I will die," I answer, my voice quavering, "where my brothers have died this day."

"You will live." is her response.

Mine is shocked silence.

"You are soft," she says, "pretty, undamaged by war. A pleasure-slave is surely your life's only purpose, and as such we shall take you."

My knowledge of the Elvaran treatment of captured men, learned of by whispered word of mouth, compels me to turn and flee. The thought has scarcely translated to action before I feel a powerful arm snake around my midsection, lifting me bodily and casting me over a broad shoulder. This woman, now my captress, is carrying me from the battlefield as one might carry a sack of flower. I kick at first, but she retorts with a firm slap to my backside, which may seem a spanking to her people, but which sends an aching shock up from the base of my spine. From then on I am still, for never was I meant to take such pain.

The woman carries me back to the waiting ranks of her sisters, and already they have a rope prepared to bind me. My hands and feet are roughly tied such that I cannot move a single inch. But most humiliating of all, my clothes are cut away by the keen edge of an Elvaran dagger, leaving my body naked under their scrutinizing gaze. I begin to wonder how they expect me to walk as their captive, when one of the women lifts me again and casts me over her shoulder. Apparently I am to be passed from one to the other, carried as such for the duration of our day's southwestward march back to a main Elvaran outpost along the shoreline. The outpost is two days walk from here, or so says one of the women to another as they march along the snow-flecked ground, and we will make camp at sunset.

As I am carried away, I glance over the land that I leave behind. My village lies in smoldering ruin, a burning wreckage set incongruously amongst the sweeping winter-scape of the region. Thick trees climb the hillsides, their branches heavy with snow and sweet-scented needles. The sun is dazzling as it shines upon the snow, and reflects from the bodies of those who fought in armor to defend us from Elvaran expansion. I now leave behind my homeland, all that I know and hold dear, helpless. Each step of my current handler makes my body shake slightly as her shoulder presses into my abdomen, but each step does much more. For with every footfall, my world grows smaller and smaller in the distance, fading upon the horizon until all I can see is the black smoke from the burning buildings, etched against the cloudless sky. But in time even that fades into only a memory.

The battle happened so fast that it all still seems a blur to me, as I'm taken away from the site of the slaughter. A hunting party from my village returned in the early morning, having been gone for only a short span of time, and their return was frantic. They had seen Elvaran warriors marching in our direction, armed with their traditional broadswords, hammers, and axes. Our village came to arms, every able-bodied man sent out to fight the invaders. But the slaughter was swift and now my doom was certain. Would death have been a greater mercy than what I may endure?

The sun, having reached its zenith, climbed down from the high dome of the sky, and still we keep our marching pace. When my handler becomes tired, which is strikingly infrequent, I am uncomfortably shifted onto the shoulder of another warrior woman, and the march continues without breaking our speed. But in time, the sun falls below the rim of the horizon, the wind whipping up light flurries of snow, and it becomes clear that a camp would be very beneficial for the night. Yet, though they are my captors, I am astonished with the speed of the Elvaran as they set up their camp.

Women carrying large bundles of long poles arrange them, hammering them into the ground in careful positions, such that they lean at angles and meet at points. These bundles of poles were wrapped in furs, which are then spread out over the poles and hammered into the ground, each having a slit cut in them to serve as a means of entry. These tents are set in a wide circle within a clearing, in the middle of which the Elvaran heap wood for a fire. Whilst the firewood is being arranged, a few of the women go into the tents to sweep the ground within clear of leaves, snow, and debris. When this is done, I am dragged into one of these temporary shelters and thrown to the floor, left bound and alone therein.

The temperature inside the tent is surprisingly comfortable, the thick fur of the walls keeping the chill wind away from my naked flesh. From outside, I hear the sound of a fire crackling to life and coming to a steady roar. Not long after that, I smell the scent of roasting meat, and hear the sound of flasks popping open. The Elvaran are drinking of their much-beloved honey wine and cooking a meat of some sort to sate their hunger. The honey wine, or mead, is strong and will soon have them roaring and singing like any other warrior troop.

Footsteps crunching on the new-fallen snow cause me to tense up, bracing myself for some sort of attack. Perhaps they have decided to execute me after all, perhaps in a way that will grant them some sort of sick entertainment. My heart races, my palms sweat and my breath comes in short gasps as the tent-flap opens and an Elvaran stoops into the tent. Yet, she is not holding a weapon, but a hunk of meat and a flask of water.

"I'll free your hands so you may eat," she says firmly, "but if you try and escape or attack us, the punishment will be swift and painful."

"You're feeding me?" I ask in astonishment.

"Why would we not?" she replies. "If we are to keep you, you must stay fed and healthy, else you will die. Now eat."

With little effort, she pulls free the rope restricting my wrists. I spend a moment massaging the tender skin where the rope dug into it during the day's journey, before taking the meat and flask. I'd not thought of how hungry I was until now that I have food in my grasp. The meat is thick, cooked all the way through, and rich with its natural juices. The water, taken from a stream nearby, is cold but welcome as it courses over my lips and down my throat. I drink it slowly, savoring every sip until the flask is empty. The meat is, by this point, long gone. My current over-seer takes up the rope again and binds my wrists behind my back, easing me down onto the earthen floor of the tent and standing over me.

"The women will be drinking tonight." she says. "In fact, they've already begun, and they will want you."

"Will they?" I answered flatly, feigning a lack of emotion.

"Do not think that the life of an Elvaran pleasure-slave is a paradise." she warns. "Many do not survive our advances, even less so when the joy of mead is upon us. If you last throughout the night, fate alone will have spared you."

"Why are you telling me this?" I stammer, my heartbeat quickening its pace.

"Don't resist us tonight," she continues, "lay still and do as you are told and you should not be hurt much. Rest now, while you can."

With that warning, she exits the tent, taking the flask with her and leaving me in relative silence. I try to heed her words, to rest, but many things fill my mind. The gravity of my situation, as a captive, presses in upon me, like a weight on my chest making it hard to focus or draw a calming breath. Outside the tent, I hear the fire crackling, the women drinking and singing songs and talking amongst themselves in voices raised by the fog of mead. I cannot rest, how could I be expected to do so. What torment will be leveled upon me with such severity that I may not survive this very night?!

The answer to that question is not long in coming. Again, booted footsteps signal an approaching Elvaran, who slips into the tent via its flap. She is, like the others, tall and strong, clad only in fur covering her most sensitive regions, and boots that extend up to her knees. By her movement and the look in her blue eyes, I can see that the mead has done its work upon her. Her tongue moves across her lips as she gazes down at me.

"You're soft," she purrs, hooking her thumbs into her lower garment and sliding it down, "your body is smooth and pale, you are like a little doll, a plaything."

"I uh... I'm not a..." I dumbly stutter as she steps out of her lower garment, still clad in her boots and breast-covering.

"I lead this war-band," she explains, kneeling astride my hips, "so I shall have you first, little boy."

I become, at this point, increasingly aware of my surroundings. The earthen floor under my back is hard, smooth enough, but there are the occasional pebbles that dig slightly into my bare back. The weight of the woman upon me is considerable, as I am of a slender frame and she is of a broad, muscular build. Her thighs are smooth on either side of me, her skin cool and her muscles solid and unyielding as stone. I feel the heat emanating from between her thighs, and the lust that such warmth implies is visible to me in the fiery gaze she fixes upon me.

"You shall know tonight the lust of Alma the Sword-Cleaver." she pants in exuberance, painfully seizing my manhood with her powerful hand and guiding it into her depths.

It is then, in that moment, as if a blaze has been lit within her. She comes alive with ravenous lust and falls upon me, her lips pressing against mine, her arms wrapping around me so that her hands might rake my back with her sharp nails. Pulling me against her, she locks her legs under me, crushing me between her thighs as she presses down upon me. She covers my face and chest in kisses, biting my skin with each caress of her lips. I shudder and moan, crying out sharply as I am clawed, bitten, and ravaged. Her inner walls squeeze tight around the length of my shaft as she gyrates upon me, pumping my manhood in and out of her depths.

"You're hurting me!" I stammer as her nails dig into my back.

"Quiet, whore!" she barks, slapping me twice across the face and silencing my protests.

Panting wildly, throwing her head back and crying out, Alma shuts her eyes and comes to a shuddering climax, falling upon me and burying my face in her heaving bosom. I gasp for air, unable to breathe as she smothers me against her breasts. My struggling is like that of a tiny insect caught in a whirlpool, I cannot move and am at the mercy of her overwhelming passion. Her thighs threaten to crush the life out of me even as her breasts block my airways. My vision swims, my body goes limp, I no longer feel the sting of her scratches and bites, for I cannot feel anything but adrenaline and fear.

Then, when all is going black, Alma rises from me, standing over me, unclear in my hazy vision. The ringing in my ears subsides as she walks from the tent, having first stepped back into and pulled up her lower garment. I am in silence again, drenched in the moisture of her kisses and the nectar of her climax. My hips are sore from the weight that bore down upon them, my skin raw from the friction between us, and my torso stinging from the numerous lacerations with which I was left. I lay still, staring out through the tent-flap, which hangs slightly open in Alma's wake.

Outside, under the darkened sky, I see the curvaceous Elvaran figures moving in the fire light. Many have cast off their boots, some have stripped off their garb altogether, and they are carrying on like any band of raiders. They drink and sing songs, some sit in discussion, some are wrestling as a show of strength and skill. A silence falls over them though when their leader strides back into the firelight, looking content and satisfied. I know, without hearing any words spoken, what thoughts now pass between them. I have been had by this party's leader, and I am now open, free for the taking.

One after the other, the women rise and come into my tent, undressing as they come and redressing as they return to the light and warmth of the fire. None is more gentle than Alma, and my screams fill the night air as they each in turn have their way with me. I become intimately familiar with their bodies as they crush down upon me, the weight of their powerful muscles devastating my slight form. I cannot move, I cannot protest without being punched or slapped, and my breath comes in ragged gasps as they press down on me in the throes of lust.

Again and again as the night goes on, I am ravaged by the warrior women. Their orgasmic wailing mingles with my cries of agony. When my manhood can no longer come erect, a rope is tied around its base to force it to a standing position. Thus, the ravishing persists well beyond what I might have ordinarily been able to stand. Until at last, each woman has had her satisfaction, many having taken more than one turn upon me. They rode my hips painfully, though some of them opted to move astride my head, crushing my skull between their thighs and demanding that I use my tongue to please them, working them to a climax by probing and flicking my tongue within their warm depths, then drinking in their sweet, climactic juices.

When at last they settle down for the night, I am left alone, drenched in the nectar of Elvaran lust. My flesh is scored with scratches and bites, many of which will surely scar. My hips are raw from friction burn, my bones aching and weak. I am alone in silence, in miserable silence as the Elvaran slumber in satisfaction. I make up my mind in that stillness of night that I shall escape from this hellish place, before I am returned to their outpost proper and forced into much worse subjugation.

Working carefully, I tuck my legs up to my chest and slide my wrists under my feet so that my bound hands are now in front of me. Raising the rope to my teeth, I begin to tear at it with the ferocity born of terror, like an animal backed into a corner and fighting for its life. The rope falls away after twenty minutes of frantic ripping, which is fortunate since my jaw is tired from this desperate work. With my hands free, I set to work untying my ankles. This takes much less time, with the use of my hands speeding along the process. And just like that, I am free. Sore, shameful, and naked, but free.

Rising, I take a few cautious steps, my legs trembling with disuse. I stagger from the tent, looking about frantically, like a rabbit running from one source of cover to another, ever watchful for a bird of prey. The fire has died down, leaving only smoldering embers that, along with the light of the full moon, illuminate the clearing. The tents loom in shadow, like ominous beasts waiting to spring upon me. A few of the Elvaran have fallen asleep, knocked cold by the mead, lying on their backs in the snow. I move on the balls of my feet, trying to make as little noise as possible, padding across the snow-strewn earth.

My eyes scan the ground in front of me, choosing every step for me, avoiding sharp rocks and branches that might crack and make a waking noise. I move with care, but quickly, eager to put the campsite behind me, in favor of whatever else I may find. So carefully I watch the land ahead of me that I do not sense the presence behind me, until it is far too late. I hear a loud ululation: a warbling, high-pitched war-cry that chills me to the bone. I should have run, charging into the woods and losing myself in the darkness.

But instead, I turn toward the war-cry, throwing my hands up in fear. Just in time to see Alma charging at me, still screeching her ancestral battle scream. With a flying leap, she is upon me. I catch her right knee in my groin and she drives me to my back, her powerful right leg pressing into my testicles. I think I'm going to be sick from the force of the crushing to my most sensitive extremities, and the beating that Alma then delivers only exacerbates the sheer discomfort. She slaps my face with her palm, causing my head to tilt to one side, only to be struck by the back of her same hand as it returns along its path. Again and again she slaps me, and then the slaps turn to punches. Light at first, torturously painful, but too light to knock me out. It is the mercy of a blow to the temple that at last grants me a reprieve from my agony.