Winter Nights

This is the first part of my first fantasy erotica. I hope to get each chapter out within a month of each other. I've got a clear idea where this story is going, but I'll always welcome suggestions for what readers would like to see in the meantime.

Enjoy,

The_Wagonmaker

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Marlon groaned in pleasure as Bathsheba practically screamed in it, rubbing up and down his cock. He laid lazily on Champion Inn's comfortable cot, a hand touching lightly on the blonde's firm-but-bountiful buttocks as she faced away from him and bounced repeatedly, sinking her cunt all the way to his balls. Her pace quickened, bringing Marlon to the edge of cumming. So, taking control, he grabbed Bathsheba's hips and rammed her against his rod, using her like an object whose sole purpose was his own gratifying pleasure.

She moaned with him, but his grunts overtook hers in volume now as a hot stream of white semen shot from his dick and into the busty whore's vagina.

Breathing heavily, he heaved her off of him and she stumbled up against the wooden wall. Marlon sat up and used an oil-soaked cloth to wipe up what little mess remained on his deflating penis.

"Hey," Bathsheba complained, "I didn't get to finish."

Marlon looked at her skeptically. "You wanna jump back on?" He took a long sip from the glass of vodka that awaited him on the oak barrel beside the bed. Already his cock began to grow at the prospect of another round—a free round if he could negotiate it.

Bathsheba looked longingly at it. "How about a discount?"

Marlon scoffed and stood up, reaching for his trousers.

"Wait!" the harlot cried out, reaching to his arm, catching it in her soft grasp. "Fine. A free ride." She looked at his unwavering, stone cold face. His dark hair helped with the brooding, contemplative look as he mulled over her offer. "For me?"

He smiled, breaking the illusion of the hardened negotiator. Truthfully, for a dull moment he had considered trying to barter an exchange that would leave his pockets fuller (or rather less empty) than they were now, but he could never have managed that and he knew it fully well; don't look a free fuck in the ass... or something like that.

Bathsheba smiled back at him, alarmed at how this rugged warrior, early-retired champion of the Melville Arena could be both intimidating, scary, rugged, and boyishly charming at the same time.

"Bend over," Marlon commanded gruffly, taking on that previously worn persona; it did wonders for the ladies. For whatever reason, protest as they did outside the bedroom, every woman wanted a man to tell her what to do, and give no leeway. This applied even when dealing with whores; especially when dealing with whores.

Bathsheba complied with a smile, shaking her hips alluringly at Marlon as she braced herself against the Inn's lone cabinet. Marlon traced a finger over her round asscheek, then teasingly, in an instant, lifted it free. The whore's hips bucked upward, eager to find that missing touch.

He complied.

Marlon's hand slapped back down forcefully on the bimbo's ass. She screamed in surprise and desire and Marlon, deciding he'd tortured her enough, positioned his cockhead against her sopping slit. Bathsheba tried—oh how she tried, desperately, lustfully tried—to push back against that ready member; Marlon held her back for one more second.

"This is free, right? I don't want any tricks after I'm already inside you," he said, eyeing her as she looked back at him. In her eyes he saw that insanity that overtook a woman in heat.

"Yes," she practically pleaded, "no tricks, I promise."

"Free, because you want this cock, don't you?"

"Yes," she said again, turning away and breathing heavily. Her hips bucked again, but Marlon stopped her just as his head brushed her lips. "Yes! I want it so bad. Please, please fuck me."

That was it. Marlon bottomed out; no more teasing, no more playing: All in. Bathsheba, her body wanting more than he could possibly give and more than she could possibly take, pushed against him, gaining her an extra centimeter of cock.

"Yes!" she screamed. And then again, and again, as she rocked back and forth, propelled by her own lust and a firm hand on her backside.

"Yes!"

The whore reached down to her clit and started rubbing it, one hand pressed to the nub, the other circling within the folds beside it.

"Yes! Fuck!"

Marlon pulled out; Bathsheba groaned in disappointment.

"Ride me," the warrior whispered huskily in her ear as he bent over her naked back and stuck a finger half into her pussy. As shivers made their way down Bathsheba's back, and goosebumps spread across her bare arms, Marlon moved his finger up to lightly touch her asshole.

"Yes," she said, passionately complacent.

The pair moved to the bed and once again marlon resumed his lazy position. Only this time, Bathsheba faced him as she positioned her cunt over his cock. Her fingers still rubbed at her clit and she looked into his eyes, biting her lip as she smiled coyly.

Now—she knew he knew—was her turn to tease him.

Yes, every woman loves a man taking charge, reminding them that they belong to someone, that their entire world shrinks to just one thing whenever he decides. But, almost equally enjoyed, is the knowledge that a woman holds the exact same power.

Bathsheba moved her pussy down to his cock, trapping the bulging member between her lips and his stomach. She rubbed up and down, not fast enough to make either of them cum, but with enough friction to wear away at Marlon's patience.

She opened her mouth and moaned, looking down lustfully at the man's penis before resuming her smile and moving down to kiss him.

It was never in Marlon's practice to lock lips with ladies for hire, but in this rare instance he found himself wanting to know the taste of her tongue. However, as he readied his lips for hers, Bathsheba stopped her mouth just above him. As her hips had once cried out for his cock, so his lips screamed for hers; however, she dodged his mouth, moving her head past him and to the side.

She removed her hand from her pussy and instead grabbed his dick, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. Skillfully, without looking—and with a tantalizing moan right beside his ear—she positioned his penis once again directly against her vagina.

Finally, after a subtle laugh in his ear, she faced him again and ran her tongue lightly around his lips. He opened his mouth and dumbly chased it. She moved back up and let a small drop of saliva fall into his mouth.

He lay stunned, but he didn't protest. In fact, the odd act only made him grow harder and he decided he was done with games. He reached down to her ass and forced his way inside of her, earning another cry of lust. Bathsheba sat back and played with her pussy again.

They both moaned in harmony as she rubbed back and forth on his cock, tracing maddening circles on her clit. Marlon grabbed her waist roughly and helped her along, increasing her pace as he rocked her against him; this fuck was for her.

Her breaths, her moans, grew quicker and quicker.

"Oh yes," she said, Marlon bringing her to the same edge which she'd escorted him earlier. "Make me cum; make me cum."

Though he was tired, his arms weak from assisting her, Marlon continued his furious pace, continued rubbing her against him.

Bathsheba shuddered suddenly and her wide open mouth dropped down next to his again, her only support being her free hand that held against the cot. There she stayed, still rubbing her clit, while her body quivered several times and her eyes squeezed shut.

Then, just like that, she let herself go, falling to find a strange comfort against Marlon's unwaxed chest.

She giggled between shallow breaths, slowly removing his dick from her. Though he hadn't cum this round, his member was quickly shrinking. Once the two were separated, she flopped over onto the other side of the cot. Normally—and this spoke to the sheer exertion they both felt—whores left immediately after payment and pleasure. Now, however, she lay still with only heavy breathing from both of them evidencing occupation.

Marlon stood and looked down at Bathsheba. Her eyes were still closed and her hand still idly touched her wet pussy.

Some women were easy; they came quickly—almost as quickly as a lot of men he'd known. Others took some work, but it was always worth it to see that satisfied smile as they stretched out on sweat-stained sheets.

Unfortunately, a knock ruined the blissful moment of raw nakedness shared between the patron and the whore.

Marlon's head snapped to the rough oak door and Bathsheba moved to find her simple dress that had been lost to a passionate undressing. Not another drop of cum had time to drip before the door was pushed open and Torim entered.

Marlon's brother held his shaved head high and dully noted both his brother's nakedness and that of Bathsheba the harlot. He didn't seem to show any emotion as he regarded the two. That was how he had always been, dating back to a dichotomous upbringing of royal leisure and rigorous training. His high cheekbones, square jaw, and solid eyes seemed natural on the muscular body that hid beneath a captain's pristinely pressed uniform, but Marlon could remember a time when a boyish frame ruined the otherwise proud and unmoving face.

"Out," he said tersely, in the way of a commander. He held his hands behind his back as Bathsheba finally found her dress and, not bothering to put it on, ran from the room with it clutched to her breasts.

Marlon waited for Bathsheba to make her exit before routing around for his own clothing. In normal company Marlon didn't care to hide his nakedness, but in the presence of such a statue as his brother, the nakedness seemed at pathetic odds with Torim's brass-buttoned and high collared uniform.

"Brother," he said dimly, as he threw on a loose brown shirt, not bothering with the leather laces running up from the chest. "What do you need this time?" The question was facetious. A visit from Torim was rarer than a free fuck from a whore. Then again...

Once Marlon's trousers were done up and cinched against his waist with a rope, Torim finally released his commanding air and took a seat on the bed. The younger brother grimaced as his hand found a patch of sweat.

"Is this...?"

"Sweat," Marlon replied simply.

"Of course." Torim looked up to the still-open door, shaking his hand in a manner that was surprisingly both limp and regal. "Rahab! You can enter now."

She was always a surprise, her entrance to every room stealing glances and heartbeats. Marlon could see that face every day of his life and still be struck stupid by it's inherent beauty. Torib's wife entered the sloppy inn room like a gentle wind that prefaced an emotional hurricane.

Marlon had never been one to settle for a single woman, but he could see why his brother—happening upon such a rare thing as Rahab—had immediately wed the first woman he'd ever been with. The two hadn't even fucked before joining in matrimony, a fact that Torim had drunkenly confessed on the very night of their wedding.

In presence, Rahab was everything Marlon looked for in a whore: Well-rounded tits, a great ass, dark hair and fair skin. But in personality, the woman couldn't be further from the ideal. Instead of relishing in sexual victories, the woman hid them behind blushes and propriety; instead of embracing whomever she wanted, she saved herself for only one; and instead of baring the slightest amount of skin, Rahab was always hidden from feet to neck in ornate dress (though she failed to realize how tightly her outfits tended to cling to her curves). No, though taken by her beauty, this was one woman Marlon was content to leave alone.

And, though he would never say it, he thought Torim would have been wiser to leave her in Lynport where he found her.

"Marlon," she said sweetly, though she looked disapprovingly at his undone shirt. "Things are... well?"

She had obviously seen half-naked Bathsheba run from his room and Marlon regretted he had not poked his head into the hallway just to witness the deep blush that was a familiar friend to her upon such sights.

"Rahab," he sight with a smile. He stood up a little straighter. "I would have let you join if I had known you were here."

Torim's wife lost all color to her face, making her black hair seem even darker than normal. Between her two pigments at any mention of sex (stark white or bright red), this was Marlon's favorite, if only because it brought out her deep brown eyes and the slight freckles that normally hid in plain view.

"Marlon!" barked Torim, but the older brother could see the smile beneath the facade. The pair were brothers, after all, and though Torim loved his wife besides all her faults, he knew that there were slightly clashing traits between the pair.

"We don't have time for the usual pleasantries." Torim said the word with trepidation, eyeing his wife and stepping lightly on these egg-shells. "We're here to ask for your help."

Marlon stood up straight. In nearly thirty-years—even when they were both just boys, even being two years older than him—Torim had never, not once, come to him for help. Suddenly he saw the slump in Torim's posture, a posture that was never broken, a posture that lead armies and conquered kingdoms, a posture that upheld Melville as a country, and—most vitally—a posture that had driven Marlon to be something greater than himself. Torim, young Torim, virtuous and rock-steady Torim, was desperate.

Surprisingly, Marlon found his own body language picking up the slack that Torim let loose. "Anything," he said.

Rahab had already overcome her initial paleness and moved beside her husband, sitting on the thin cot. Torim leaned down, resting elbows on knees and chin on hands; Rahab ran a comforting hand over his spine.

"What is this?" Rahab asked, slightly raising her beautiful bottom from the same spot Torim had initially rested his hand.

"Cum," Marlon answered.

Rahab jumped up—the blush overtaking her this time—scrubbing furiously at her ass and stretching her already tight dress against her frame in what was probably the most alluring thing Marlon had seen all day.

Unfortunately, this jab at her earned Marlon a tired and scornful look as Torim slowly stood and calmed his wife. "It's sweat, my dear." He kissed her cheek.

"Sex sweat," Marlon added.

"Marlon!" Torim shouted for the second time. Then, he turned his attention back to his wife, instantly softening. "Maybe you should wait in the hall."

"No." Marlon started at Rahab's denial. This... this was no time for joking if the gentle woman was refusing the safety of a non-sexual hallway. "If we are to face this threat, I have to be stronger."

Marlon stood quietly, shamefully, as the two once again sat at his bed.

"Treyst has fallen;" Torim said. "and the Velve Isles; and Lynport. All fallen, taken by those Larky bastards. And you know what's next?"

Marlon didn't react. Truthfully, he'd known about the kingdom of Treyst being annexed to Larkton's king. However, he hadn't known about the Isles or Lynport, both neighbors to Melville. It must have been a new development, achieved in just a matter of weeks.

"Us," Torim said, finishing his thought and looking forlornly at the floorboards

"So?"

Both his guests looked sharply at him.

"Sorry," he said, "but you are the king's captain; you are the strategist, the general. I'm just a duelist, a champion. A retired one, at that."

"This is more than just a war." Oddly enough, it was Rahab who now piped up. She removed her hand from her husband's back and laced her fingers before her, staring intently at some spot beyond Marlon's head. "This is complete domination. In no time at all, an impossible lack of time, Larkton has toppled two empires. The Larkies have more people, more weapons, and more power than any of the Western kingdoms combined. In short, they're victory will be swift and it will be brutal. Unless we do something about it, something unexpected."

Marlon leaned against the wooden dresser and watched in stunned admiration as Rahab spoke with passion. "Something unexpected? Like what?"

Rahab shifted her gaze subtly, but powerfully, to Marlon's eyes. "King Hammond's lost blade: Coitus."

Marlon held back a laugh; Rahab's dead serious expression helped him in that endeavor. The blade was a rumor, a joke. Everyone knew of King Hammond, conqueror of Melville and all that it used to encompass. Of course, that was the less impressive, less talked about exploit of King Hammond. Usually, when someone referred to the ancient ruler, they referred to his legendary sexual stamina and the women (and men) that flocked to him just to taste of his golden cock. That, mostly, was why he (or maybe those who retold the stories) named his sword "coitus."

Personally, Marlon had never put much stock in either tale, and generally regarded the yarn of King Hammond to be one fabricated by arena fighters and arena whores to pass the time and give justification to their unending sexual appetite. It was straight bullshit.

"No," he said.

Rahab didn't looked surprised. Neither did Torim. In fact, not another word was said until Torim was halfway out the door following his wife.

"Here," he said simply, slipping a sheet of paper in Marlon's hand. "If you change your mind—and brother, I earnestly hope that you do—you can use that to find us."

He put his hand on Marlon's shoulder and squeezed tightly. Their eyes met and Marlon saw regret and disappointment. But he also saw understanding. Torim patted his brother's arm before turning and walking down the Inn's hallway, joining Rahab at the top of the short flight of stairs that led to the main floor tavern.

Marlon shut the door and locked it, wary of any more interruptions to his evening. This whole thing, Torim's unexpected visit, Rahab's sudden confidence, was bullshit. Torim, the soldier, the logical commander. Why would he put such faith in a myth? And Rahab... Seeking a treasure of a sex god?

He shook his head and tried to laugh it out of his mind.

He respected the pair, but respect was far different from devotion. After all, when was the last time Torim had come to visit? And now, to show up in his room and expect Marlon to just drop everything to chase his delusions.

Fuck that; Marlon was retired, as Torim should be at this point. Yeah, they were both young, but a career of battle aged you more. Torim had taken more wounds and accrued more wrinkles than most of the village elders. Not to mention, he was well off; it's not as if he needed the financial support anymore.

Marlon continued seething in this manner as he reached for his almost forgotten glass of vodka.

Then, from out his wide window, he heard glass shattering, followed quickly by the distinct sound of flames devouring wood. The screams came next, though they manifested as a backdrop, as common to him as creaking trees in the wind and singing birds at dawn. Still, at this time of night, in this section of the city warranted concern.

Peeking out the maroon curtains of his upstairs room, Marlon blankly regarded the scene of horror beneath him.

Torim had been right.

Armored soldiers on horses rode through the Melville streets. The men and women of the town fled before them, most not making it twenty paces outside their own front doors before being cut down by longswords and pikes. Fire raged in one corner of the city, not terribly far from where Marlon stayed in his retirement.

The gladiator's mouth stood slightly agape, though truthfully he had known all along his attempts to rid his mind of the fear that Torim placed there had been self-delusional.

Goddammit, he thought taking another sip of alcohol. Fuck Torim; Fuck this.