The Clanwife

"So what can you tell me of my husband-to-be?" asked Natalya as her handmaidens fussed with her hair and make-up. "Is he as pathetic as the rest of these western pansies?"

"He is very... beautiful," said Sonya, quickly adding "For a northerner" when Natalya shot her an angry glare.

"Curse the gods! If only my father had insisted on finishing his bloody war..." she trailed off.

"My lady, please don't say such things! The westerners might hear you!"

Natalya barked a bitter laugh. "Don't be so foolish, these dogs would never stoop to learning our "barbarian" tongue."

Several minutes of silence passed, Natalya glaring angrily into the mirror as she saw her face become more and more foreign - the scars over her eye and on her cheeks concealed with caked powder and blush.

"I look a harbour-end whore," she thought bitterly. "Which I may as well be."

Rustling at the door as it was pushed fully open. "It's time," said a court-hand. "My lady, if you'll please follow me?"

He waited patiently, albeit nervously. He knew the northerners to be ferocious warriors, and the immense stature of even their women was known to be incredibly intimidating. Stories abounded of male prisoners being raped endlessly by men and women alike, passed around as clanwives.

"Fine, then," grumbled Natalya as she stood. "Let us finish this misbegotten farce so that I might return to my steading."

The court-hand cocked his head as Natalya realized she had been speaking in her mother tongue. "I am coming," she said in clipped, harsh, but nonetheless passable Common.

At this, the court-hand bowed and gestured for her to follow, which she did, albeit at her own pace.

'No man shall lead you who cannot tame you,' she thought, once again overcome with bitterness. She was her tribe's strongest warrior, yet her father had parceled her off, sold her out for a truce with the western scourge. Damn him! We should have fought to the end.

--

She heard the calamity before she saw it, the lowly court-hand introducing her as Natalya of the great tribe Uzbet'n, wife-to-be of whomever-the-fuck. All she knew is that as the 7th son of King Uthas ker Malian, whatever whelp she was to wed would hold no power, command no respect, and she would be seen as a joke. She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth as she stepped from the corridor to rapturous applause.

She tuned them out, as all her efforts were now devoted to tamping down her fury. She felt ugly and crude in her western garb, some hideous white drape with needless embroidery. She felt naked without her axe and sword; they hadn't even permitted her to wear her knives! She hadn't been totally unarmed since before she could walk.

Not that I would need a weapon against these weaklings, she thought, barely suppressing a chuckle.

She was broken from her thoughts by a change in the air, a hushed silence as her new husband was announced. Despite herself, she was curious to see the man they saw fit to foist upon her, the mockery of her strength and valour that would hold absolute power over her 'til the day she passed.

And from the corridor stepped a woman. She was to be wed to a woman.

She cursed under her breath, her face turning red as the woman strode toward her, her face calm, seemingly resigned. Say this for her, at least: she was beautiful, her face completely unmarked, her figure lithe and petite. She too wore white: white gloves, white overcoat, white vest, white shirt, white pants, white shoes. Even the toy swords she wore at her waist were white! Never blooded a single man, she suspected.

When the woman-in-white stood but a few feet from her, she bowed, as custom dictated, but as curtly as she was able to. The woman took her hand and kissed it, and Natalya thought she might have seen the faintest crook of a smile in her eyes. And then she spoke, and Natalya could hardly suppress a laugh. A man's voice came from the westerner's mouth!

"My lady, you're as beautiful as I'd been told. I will be honoured to call you my wife."

Or you, mine, she thought as a smile spread across her face.

--

The reception was a boring affair, all cake and toasts and booze. The one saving grace was that the westerners preferred a powerful stout, which she grudgingly had to admit was rather good. There seemed an endless procession of lords and ladies who were presented to the new royal couple. She tuned it out and focused entirely on getting as drunk as possible. If she was to be taken against her will tonight, she wanted it to be as unpleasant for "him" as it would be for her.

Her wife, for his part, seemed at ease, though she knew that underneath he had to have been as furious as she was. He was a good actor, though, she would have to give him that much credit: when he spoke to her, his voice betrayed not a hint of resentment. In fact, he seemed quite affectionate. But she wasn't fooled.

Only in public. Behind closed doors he'll surely be as disgusting as the rest of these swine.

Her replies were short, curt, kept to as few words as possible at all times. That, when she didn't just ignore him outright, or feign difficulty in understanding his language. At times she responded in her mother tongue, mumbling obscenities that would have given him grounds to have her executed if he knew what she was saying. But he simply laughed, and said that he could provide her with a tutor if she wished.

"My dear," she said, "If you leave me alone with another man I will take him by force and fuck you with his cock."

Again, though, he laughed, and reached for her hand to kiss it. She hadn't noticed before on account of his wearing gloves, but his hands were heavily calloused, as if from a life of combat, or field work, neither of which seemed very likely for such an effeminate fop.

And so she drank, and drank, and only stopped when she started losing time. She knew the evening would be over soon, and then she would never again share her bed with this man. Perhaps she'd pass him around her steading, or simply have him kidnapped and sold as a concubine. She smiled as she closed her eyes, content that she at least had options.

--

Natalya watched as her wife spoke to their attendants, accepting their congratulations with grace and dismissing them for the evening. Which was just as well to her - she did not wish for her debasement at the westerner's hands to be witnessed by anyone. Not that she'd return the favour - his shame would be public and permanent. Just the thought of it made her nethers tingle with anticipation.

She was surprised to feel his touch at her back and jumped - he was either very quiet, or she was very drunk. More than likely a bit of both, leaning towards his being stealthy on account of being so small and frail. She felt his hand trace up and down her back, and she stiffened, awaiting his command. She dared not risk disobeying him while still in his father's lands. She'd play the servile bride as long as necessary, but no longer.

"My dear," he said softly, his voice quiet and low, "I sense you're unhappy. Am I correct?"

With a snort, she turned and looked into his eyes. His, she grudgingly had to admit, beautiful blue eyes. His platinum hair cascaded down past his shoulders, his face betraying his youth. For a moment she felt positively obscene, for to his eyes he knew how she appeared: an uncivilized, brutish beast, body thick with muscle and insulating fat, her bust grotesquely large, her face scarred and angular. She had been told by suitors past that she had a head of fire and a temper to match. She stood a full three inches taller than him, too, and estimated she outweighed him by some 70 lbs.

But if he felt any discomfort, it didn't show. His face was open, concerned, or so he'd like her to think.

"I had too much to drink," she said, and left it at that, turning towards the garish bed situated in the center of the room and starting towards it. "Come to bed."

As she walked she let her dress fall off her shoulders, revealing herself to him all at once; she didn't turn to see how he felt. She didn't care. She climbed into bed and rolled away from him, steeling herself for what was to come.

After a few moments she realized that he hadn't followed her. Instead, she heard him sigh.

"Natalya, I know that I am not what you wanted. I know that the men of your land are harder, heartier - I can't compare. I am sorry that your freedom was the price of our fathers' truce. But please understand, I want to make this work. I will make you as happy as I am able to, however I am able to. All I ask is that you give me the chance."

As he spoke Natalya felt flushed with irritation - who was he to say what she wanted? Were all men in this kingdom so docile? Did he not have the strength to take what he wanted?

"Very well, then," he said when she didn't respond. "I'll be next door if you need me."

With that, he left the chamber, pausing at the door to bid her a good evening, leaving her with her thoughts and a ridiculously large bed.

--

Jelam lay on a couch in his parlour, gazing at the ceiling and replaying the day's events. He sympathized with Natalya and understood her disdain - he was the 7th son and had nothing but his title to offer. A title which would mean little to the people of her land, lacking as it was any real power. He had long since grown used to being the disappointing son - smaller than his brothers, lacking their hardiness, their intensely masculine features. He'd long known that he was pejoratively referred to as the king's first and only daughter, and the prettiest girl in the land.

When his mother was still alive he'd often cry to her, embarrassed by how he was perceived. He was well read, excelling in his learning even from a young age, having a far greater grasp of history, commerce, statecraft, and mathematics than his brothers; he excelled with both blade and bow, easily besting men twice his size in competition. Yet he never garnered the slightest respect, and his father treated him with disdain. He knew that his arranged marriage had been a slight both to Natalya's people and himself, but bore it with the dignity as his station demanded.

Yet for the intended slight, he was not the least bit disappointed. The women of his land were bland and boring, obsessed with petty gossips and fashion. They were frail and pale, their skin unmarked by sun or stress - they had never appealed to him at all. He had always dreamed of a woman who had earned her place, not merely been born into it. One who could read, and ride, drink and eat, fight and fuck, and not be afraid to challenge him, to assert herself.

To his mind, Natalya fit the bill, but he knew she did not return his affections. Perhaps one day, but not now. Perhaps there might be a way to prove his devotion to her? His desire to be what she wanted? He prayed for a sign, any sign, that his efforts would not be in vain.

--

After an hour of tossing and turning, Natalya rolled out of bed, feeling the cool evening breeze across her naked skin. Padding over to the window, she figured it was still several hours until daybreak. The night sky was clear and bright, the moon high overhead casting pale light across the land. She was momentarily struck with intense yearning for her homeland - she couldn't wait to be free of the mortared cage that these weaklings called home.

Wearily, she turned from the window and walked towards her maiden's quarters. She pressed her ear to the door and heard only the soft sounds of Sonya's respite, inhaling and exhaling with the regularity of blissful slumber. She was struck with longing for her maiden's touch once more, but knew that the "civilized" took a dim view of their coupling.

However...

As quietly as she could, she opened the door, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, sensing so much as seeing her way to her maiden's bed. She knelt down and caressed her face, and though Sonya's eyes remained closed, she smiled, then met her lady's hand with her own.

"Shhh, Sonya. Come with me," she said, pulling the sheets back from her maiden's chest, brushing her nipples teasingly as she did so. A soft moan escaped Sonya's lips before she slid out of bed, nude, standing in front of her kneeling lady.

Natalya moved her face towards Sonya's bush, breathing deep her scent. It was, as ever, intoxicating, and for the briefest time Natalya was transported back to a simpler time, before the war, when her life seemed so much simpler. She had found Sonya weak and bloodied, having been exiled by her tribe for being terceri, "In Between." Natalya had taken her back to her village, nursing her back to health, coupling freely. They were lovers, forever intertwined, and they had been happy.

Of course, then came the years of war, and the truce, and her summons to this godforsaken land; her freedom, her hard-won status as chieftain of her tribe ripped apart to settle the disputes of lesser men. She'd show them the lesser man.

--

Jelam was just drifting off when he heard the handle turn and the door to the parlour open. He sat up, gathering the fur-lined coat he'd been using as a makeshift blanket over his chest, and blinked into the darkness. From the light of the moon he could make out two figures standing in the doorway, though in the fog of near-sleep he couldn't discern who they were.

"Hello?" he said softly. "Who goes there?"

He heard a whispered response, though he couldn't make out individual words, then saw the door close as the figures approached. As they stepped into the light of the window he could see his wife and her maiden, and he stood to greet them, bowing to each in turn.

"Ladies, is everything OK? Can I get you something?"

"We are fine, thank you," said Natalya, as she gently pushed Sonya towards him. "She needs... your warmth."

Sonya's lips quirked in the corners as she approached the naked man, appraising him with her eyes. Smooth skin, completely hairless; soft, feminine hips, contrasting pleasingly with large, muscular thighs.

Jelam gulped, unsure of what his wife meant as he ran his eyes up and down the length of Sonya - pausing for a long, pregnant moment on the length of Sonya. Though he couldn't see it in the dark, Natalya smiled. She would see just how far he was willing to go to please her.

"My warmth? Do you mean..." he asked meekly, dreading the answer.

Sonya took his arm and led him back to the bedroom, Natalya following at a distance, smirking at the sight of her lover leading her wife to what should have been their marital bed. She quivered at what was to come, claiming her place at the foot of the bed as Sonya shoved her wife over the mattress, her cock in one hand, his hair in the other. She leaned over and whispered in his ear; Natalya didn't know what Sonya said, but saw Jelam nod slightly.

Natalya started playing with herself as Sonya met her eyes, her lust evident. The two exchanged a prolonged, loving look, savouring the whimpering noises Jelam was making on the bed before them. Natalya would later wonder why Jelam didn't struggle, but for now he went unnoticed - she had eyes only for Sonya, who, with sudden zeal, spat in her hand and rubbed it into her engorged dick, rubbing it between Jelam's cheeks. He swallowed, hard, and gripped the sheets with both hands as she turned her attentions to his virginal asshole, the thick tip of her cock pressing against it, as if probing for weaknesses to exploit. Natalya looked on in a mix of envy and amusement - the westerner hadn't even fought! He'd submitted immediately, not even needing to be broken. The thought disappointed her somewhat, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that at least Sonya would enjoy Natalya's wedding night, and for better or worse, her marriage would be consummated.

--

Jelam groaned as he felt Sonya's cock press into his ass, then felt the "pop" as the head passed the sphincter and started plumbing his depths. Off to his left he saw Natalya masturbating, seemingly in unison with Sonya's thrusts and his grunts, and though he knew he should have felt ashamed, or violated, no small part of him was aroused by the sight. He felt himself hardening as the reaming continued, gripping the sheets in winding fistfulls, rocking his hips back and forth with Sonya's thrusting. He heard Sonya gasp and her tempo increased to match his, and somewhere in the distance he heard Natalya mumble something he would later learn to be quite sacrilegious.

He felt a hand on the side of his face as Sonya pulled him to the side; Natalya had moved up the bed to wrap her legs around his head, forcing his face down into her cunt. He felt, rather than saw, how wet she had become by the sight of the two of them, sent out a preliminary lick to test the waters. Finding her taste pleasing, he fully committed to the task, licking and flicking with his tongue up and down her womanhood, changing his pace and varying his technique as he got a feeling for what Natalya seemed to enjoy. He felt her grip relax as he went, her fingers starting to run through his hair, as her and Sonya's moans and voices started to intermingle and echo each other. Though the literal pain in his ass was no small discomfort, it was outweighed and then some by the building heat he felt at both ends of his person.

Sonya's pace shifted again as he felt her cock throb in his bowels; she was nearing climax. His own cock had likewise hardened and he reached back to stroke himself to completion. He was surprised when Sonya's hand removed his and took over, so he devoted himself fully to pleasuring Natalya, wrapping his arms fully around her legs and pulling her hips into his face. He felt a hot squirt from Natalya's cunt, then, as Sonya's dam finally burst, sending rope after rope of her essence into his ass, his stomach burning with the sensation. As she climaxed, her grip tightened around his shaft, and with her other hand she started massaging his balls, coaxing them to spill their seed across the sheets. As he did he felt Natalya shudder and her breathing catch as she came over and over again. He felt Sonya pop out and collapse onto the sheets beside him, exhausted, but she wasn't his concern anymore.

--

"Sonya could learn a thing or two from my wife," thought Natalya as Jelam continued working his magic between her legs. She had lost track of how many times she'd came; all she knew was that her muscles had run out of juice, seemingly drained right out of her squirting cunt. Weakly, she pawed at Jelam's head, whispering "stop, stop, no more" in an effort to get him to relent.

But she hadn't counted on his resistance. He paused only to look her in the eyes and tell her, "you're finished when I say you're finished," before plunging back in, burying his tongue in her twat, flicking the spots he knew got a reaction over and over again. When he finally relented, he fell back into Sonya, panting, his head resting on her hips as she lovingly stroked his hair. Natalya made eye contact with Sonya then, and knew instantly that she had underestimated him. She had underestimated her husband. There was something else, too, but it would be several days before it occurred to her: when he spoke, he was speaking her tongue.

Perfectly.

--

The three of them lay in bed for hours, saying nothing, simply sharing the moments in peace. Each knew that, ultimately, it wouldn't - couldn't last, that their lives were not fairy tales. Sonya knew that her relationship with Natalya had irrevocably changed thanks to the introduction of a third party - even in the best possible scenario she could imagine, she would no longer be able to spend her time solely with her lover.

Natalya, too, knew that once she returned to her land with her new husband there would be more violence, and more bloodshed - Jelam would never be fully accepted among her people, and there would be those among her clan who would hate her for allying with the outsiders. She was conflicted, knowing that while she had perhaps misjudged the man forced upon her, what they had shared this evening wasn't love, not really. Lust, perhaps. A bud from which trust and respect might blossom. And, in time, she might even come to love him.