0 comments/ 21379 views/ 7 favorites The Trials of Dara Firebird Ch. 01 By: Wulfwinter All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive feedback and frequent "fives". The icy cold seemed to seep deep into her bones, slowly leeching her already sapped strength. Her clothes were in tatters, her peasant blouse ripped at the seams and hanging off of her in grimy brownish grey shreds, her woolen breeches stained and dirty and frayed at the hems. Her once beautiful honey blonde hair was long and stringy and greasy from unwash. The last time she had run a brush through it was lost in her memories. She winced in pain as she ran a finger under the cold iron manacle clamped to her ankle. The thick heavy chain rattled against the icy stone cobblestone floor beneath her, and for the thousandth time she tested the strength of the links by heaving in futility against the bolt set in the middle of the floor. Her cell was small, about ten paces by ten paces, with lank, damp, rat infested straw piled in one corner for her to sleep on. One wall was built entirely of metal strips, spaced about a hand span apart, crisscrossed vertically and horizontally, riveted together like an impenetrable wall of steel latticework. She had spent the better part of a week on her hands and knees scraping and gouging at the base of the wall, trying to find a loose plate. All she got were bloody knees and torn, ragged, bleeding fingernails. She tilted her face up and peered at the slim, feeble ray of moonlight straining through a tiny, barred window high above her head. Although filthy and bedraggled, clothes in shreds, bare feet pale and icy cold to the touch, her startlingly blue eyes were bright and intelligent and blazed with intensity. She surveyed hash marks scraped into the wall next to her. Fifty-eight days she had languished in Baron Olaf's prison. Fifty-eight days of near starvation and other...far worse things. She shuddered and held her knees close to her chest as she huddled in the cold dark. A distant door clanged shut and she heard the sound of heavy boots clomping toward her. She licked her lips in anticipation, and her stomach growled in readiness. As she crawled across the room towards the iron wall, she found herself hoping it was Bruno coming to feed her. He was the gentlest of her gaolers. The boots clomped up to the bars in her iron wall, and Bruno smiled wolfishly down at her. He was huge and hairy, wearing mostly furs hand-stitched to plates of boiled leather. His massive chest was bare and covered in thick, dense fur. Strapped to his waist was a menacing spiked mace, which she had seen him use with ruthless precision. "Roit then, 'ere's your supper, be quick about it, or I give ye me fist." He pushed the waistline of his leather breeches down and shoved his massive, veined cock through a square in the wall. The girl gulped once, then licked her lips and leaned in. His putrid aroma gouged her nostrils; the stench of sweat, garlic and feces almost making her gag. Bruno reached through and roughly grabbed her by her stringy hair, pulling her hot mouth over his rigid manhood. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two Months Previous Dara crouched down behind the apple cart, waiting for her mark. Through the noisy throng of people in the market square she could barely make out the long, pretty blue gown worn by Baron Olaf's current concubine as she wandered aimlessly from cart to cart, purveying the merchants' wares. Fat Olaf had a predilection for only the best apples, and every weekend he sent his slut to pick him enough for cobblers and strudels to last the week. Over her shoulder the mark wore a fashionable leather purse, bulging with copper and silver crowns. Two well-armed burly guardsmen hovered nearby, not paying very close attention to their ward, their thoughts diverted by the sights and sounds of the end-week peasant market. Dara sucked in her breath and waited, her mind wandering as she contemplated what she would buy with her spoils. A bigger knife would probably be her first purchase. Maybe a poniard, or even dual short swords, like the black forest bandits wore. Definitely a bigger weapon was needed. Ever since her sixteenth summer Dara had started to attract unwelcome male attention. In the two years since, her breasts had filled out to almost embarrassing proportions, and her long legs and taut posterior had become the recipient of wolf whistles and coarse propositions. Self defense was a priority for a homeless street urchin and pickpocket. A close flash of vibrant blue brought Dara back to the present, and she realized the concubine was standing in front of the apple cart. Slipping to the side, she reached up around the cart and deftly slit the strap holding the purse. However, before Dara could ease it into her hand, the unaware slut leaned down to pick up a plump, green granny smith. The purse strap slid off her shoulder and the purse crashed to the ground, coins spilling in all directions. For a moment time stood still, then Dara locked eyes with Baron Olaf's whore. The woman's eyes grew wide and she sucked in a great breath to start the hue and cry. In one fluid motion, Dara scooped a fist full of coins off the dirt at her feet and punched up with her other hand into the woman's midsection. With a great "oof" the shout was stifled and Dara sprinted into the alley behind the cart, clutching her handful of coppers and silvers. As she ran, Dara glanced over her shoulder and saw the woman holding her stomach and pointing in her direction. A second later she heard the shrill cry of "stop! thief!, but she was already rounding the corner. As she turned her head back, she slammed face-first into the wide, muscular chainmail clad chest of one of the concubine's burly guardsmen. She crashed to the ground, coins flying in all directions, dazed and on the verge of unconsciousness. The guardsman reached down with one massive, calloused hand, clutched her by the shoulder and punched her right between the eyes. Sparks flew and darkness enveloped her. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Bruno chuckled and groaned as he shoved his meaty prick in and out of Dara's throat. Gaoling was pretty dull business, but having a hot-mouthed wench like this suck his cock a couple times a day was worth the boredom. For her part, Dara sucked like a woman starving, which she was. There was nothing loving about her manipulations; she licked and slobbered over the fat, purple head and ran her tongue up and down the shaft with only one thought in mind – lick up his hot copious seed so that her belly would be almost full. Throating his massive cock had been daunting at first; after all, before Bruno she had never even seen a penis up close. But after several months of practice, she learned to swallow the head and shaft and control her gag reflex. His putrid smell still made her eyes tear up, but the alternative was starvation. Bruno reached both hands through the bars and roughly gripped her by the ears. "That's roit, wenchie, suck it deep, just the way Bruno loiks it." Dara sucked him as deep as she could, her forehead and chin banging painfully on the metal bars of her cell as he pulled her face on and off his cock by her ears. Her eyes fastened on the metal key ring clanking against his thigh, just inches from her nose. Once she had tried to lift it off his belt during her "feeding," but Bruno had an uncanny sixth sense when it came to his keys, and his fist had snaked around her wrist as it crept through the bars. He then had her put her other hand through and fastened them together with a length of leather strapping. Entering the cell to stand behind her he pulled her breeches down to her ankles and mercilessly whipped her naked ass until it was beet red. Afterwards he slathered her nether hole with hot cinnamon butter and fucked her arse until she blacked out. The worse part about the whole ordeal was that when she awoke, his seed had dried on her back and she missed her feeding. Bruno groaned one last time and pulled a hand back through the bars to grip his turgid cock by the base. His other hand still gripped her fiercely by one ear and pulled her mouth deeply over his mushroom head. Grunting, he gushed once, twice, his hot seed fountaining into her mouth and down her throat. He popped his cock out of her mouth and stroked himself a few times; a couple of weak spurts geysered out and splashed across her nose and cheek. He shoved himself back into her mouth as she fervently sucked every drop she could out of his rapidly softening prick. Finally he released her sore ear and fell against the outside of the wall, breath heaving. "Roit snappy job as usual, wenchie. The Baron say he moight come down for a nice spitroasting tonight. 'Ere's some lard to prepare yer arse. 'Is Lordship says last time you chafed 'is holy scepter." Roaring with laughter he dropped a ceramic jar into Dara's hands and turned and clomped back down the hall. A spitroasting. Dara stifled a sob as she pried the cap off the jar in her hands. In her previous life the thought of a spitroasting brought to mind the mouthwatering taste of a coney or piglet cooking slowly over a fire, juices dripping and sizzling. Today, the meaning caused her to shudder in fear, with the realization that she was the coney, and that both ends of her body were to be plugged and spun at the whims of her merciless captors. She stopped, looked down at the jar of lard in her hands. Her icy blue eyes then traveled down her legs to the manacle around her ankle. A plan began to form in her mind. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Later that night she sat in the cold dark, her back propped against the damp stone wall and rubbed her sore ankle, the manacle lying off to the side in the filthy straw. As soon as she had pried it off her lard-slicked foot she had yipped for joy and run circles around her tiny cell. For the first time in two long agonizing months she had a small spark of hope. Far away a door clanged shut and Dara scrambled to slide the manacle back over her foot. Gritting her teeth in agony she pulled it into place and then rubbed lard under the rim of the metal ring for later. She hoped Bruno didn't check the level of lard in the jar, because a good-sized dollop rested beneath the straw in the corner. Steeling herself for the upcoming performance, she knew she somehow had to convince Fat Olaf to let her suck him dry – that way she could lift the prison key she knew he kept in the inside pocket of his tunic. Baron Olaf, unfortunately, preferred his women on their knees facing away from him so that he could wrap his hands in their hair and ride them like a suckling pig. The other problem was that with her mouth on Olaf, it left her arse open for Bruno and his huge bulbous cock to savage her rear. Dara shuddered and wrapped her arms around her knees, shivering in the gloom. Two sets of boots clomped down the hall toward her cell, she heard the sound of a deep bass chuckle followed by a high-pitched girlish giggle as Bruno and the Baron traded ribald jests. "Oy don't see 'ow any bastard seed of ol' King Le'Phoenix could even challenge the Usurper for th' throne, yer Lordship. And at any rate, it don't matter if the bloody usurper sends out a thousand assassins to frag th' boy. Ye can't kill what y'can't foind." The door to her cell clanged open with a loud bang, and Bruno stepped in, menacingly brandishing his spiked mace. "On yer knees wench! 'Is Lordship is ready for the spitroasting. 'Ope ye used the lard, or it's going to be the rack for ye." As Dara got down on her hands and knees, her bare upturned arse pointing towards the door, Baron Olaf's bulk stepped through the opening. Where Bruno was so tall he almost banged his head on the top of the doorframe, Olaf stood just a shade over four and a half feet tall, but was almost as big around. His short stocky legs were encased in bright red tights, his tunic was full and puffy and made of a deep purple silk, trimmed in gold thread, and hung almost to his knees. Under one arm was tucked a plump, pink, tasseled pillow. His beard was matted and thick, his hair long and greasy and unkempt. On his head he wore a gold tiara adorned with a beautiful ruby the size of a robin's egg. Olaf's eyes were small and cruel, and he leered at Dara with a beady intensity. Giggling maniacally and clapping his hands, he reached down and lifted the hem of his gaudy tunic. His diminutive cock poked out through a hole cut in his leggings beneath his pale, fleshy stomach. "Oh goody, Bruno! I do so love to fuck a fair maiden's arse!" Olaf's voice was high- pitched and shrill, and he jumped up and down in excitement, cheeks and chins bouncing and wobbling obscenely. Bruno moved around in front of Dara and fished his massive rod out of his soiled, dirty leathers. "Roit then, wenchie. 'Ow about ye start with me tasty oysters." He proffered his swollen testicles, and she held her breath and began to lathe his balls with long, wet licks of her tongue. Olaf dropped the pillow on the stone floor behind her, and then gingerly knelt down behind her pert, pale rear end. He grabbed his stiff member at the base, lined up the head with her puckered arse hole, roughly grasped her cheek with his other hand, and thrust himself deeply into her, until his greasy pubic hair met pale flesh. "Ohhhhhh Bruno, that's good," Olaf groaned as he sawed in and out of Dara's tight little ass. Dara stifled her cry of pain and tried not to bite down on Bruno's testicles. After a few feeble thrusts from Olaf the pain receded and surprisingly she even began to feel warmth creep into her lower belly. Bruno soon tired of Dara's wet licks, and before long he was cramming his knobby cock down her throat in time with Olaf's thrusts and smacks. Baron Olaf had two handfuls of Dara's honey blonde hair, and was howling and thrusting, tugging so hard that the girl's back arched and Bruno had to stand up to shove his cock in her mouth. Back and forth they sawed Dara's tiny, sweaty body, and to her amazement and disgust, she began to respond. Her sex heated up and started to drip wet fluid down the insides of her thighs. She groaned around Bruno's cock head and tried to spit it out so she could look back at Olaf. Bruno's hand at the back of her head held her mouth over his shaft, and she realized that Olaf might spew his seed at any time now, and she still hadn't been able to lift his key. Dara heaved back and with a loud gasp and moan pulled her mouth off of Bruno's enormous wet, purple head and turned to look at Olaf. "Yer Lordship, it would – gasp – be my honor – ohhh – to drink your holy seed – unhh – straight from it's source," Olaf's beady eyes widened as he looked down at his cock slamming in and out of the girl's tight bunghole. "Yesss, yess! That would please me greatly, wench. Here, suck it clean," Olaf pulled out and dragged Dara around by her hair. She could smell the stench of unwashed body odor mixed with the heady, pungent aroma of her arse coming off his long, thin shaft, but she was used to Bruno's ungodly odor, and she slurped her way down his shaft, taking him all the way to his balls in one long suck. Dara felt Bruno's enormous, knobby head pressing against her anus, and braced herself for what she knew was about to come. He didn't disappoint, and once he had his bulbous head firmly ensconced past her tight sphincter he shoved his girth deeply inside of her. The lard had slickened her chute so that, while it did smart, it soon made her feel very full, and very hot. Olaf grunted and once again the two began sawing the girl back and forth, on and off their hard cocks from both ends. Baron Olaf was the first to explode – with a high pitched yelp he grabbed fistfuls of her hair and fucked her mouth; his fat, flabby hips thrusting while he gushed his hot salty seed down her throat. His slack testicles smacked her chin repeatedly as he hunched her face like a hound in rut. Bruno howled behind her and smacked her bare arse as he too lost control and filled her tight bum with his sperm. Hot seed spilled out the edges of her anus and ran down the insides of her thighs in rivulets to dribble into a sticky puddle on the stone floor beneath her knees. Dara moaned extravagantly and proceeded to slurp and suck Olaf's cock clean; all the while one hand surreptitiously crept into his fancy silk tunic and deftly tugged the skeleton key from its ring. "Bruno, you have taught this wench very well indeed. Another silver crown will be added to your monthly stipend." "Thank ye kindly, yer Lordship," Bruno replied, as he wiped his cock clean on Dara's backside. "Ooooh, the strudels should be ready any moment now! Fucking maidens arses does build up one's appetite, does it not, dear Bruno?" "That it do, yer eminence." The two clomped out of her cell, Bruno locking it behind him. Dara lay on the cold, hard floor, dripping juices from every orifice, waiting to hear the far away door clang shut, skeleton key clutched in one hand. THE END In part two, Dara attempts to make a daring escape from the castle, learns of her heritage, and seeks to join up with the black forest bandits... The Trials of Dara Firebird Ch. 02 All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive feedback and frequent "fives". Please read Part 1, or you might be a bit confused. * After Baron Olaf and Bruno left, Dara forced herself to wait until the sliver of moonlight traveled a good four hands across the far wall. She sat in the damp cold, clutching the skeleton key to her breast, anxiously straining her ears for any sound or commotion that might tell her that Olaf had realized he had been duped. After what seemed an interminable length of time, Dara finally stood up and went to the cell door. Reaching her hand through, she slid the key into the lock and turned it. To her immense relief, the lock clicked and the heavy barred door swung into the cell, squealing on rusty hinges. Dara slipped out the door and silently padded her way down the narrow hall, keeping one hand on the wall to guide her through the near impenetrable darkness. Passing several other cells along the way, she didn't hear or sense any other prisoners, for which she was grateful. She didn't need someone yelling for the guards, or pleading for her to help them. She wanted to make her escape as uncomplicated as possible. At the far end of the long hallway, she stopped at the closed door and listened intently. On the other side, muffled by inches of thick wood and metal, she could hear the sounds of snoring. Any loud noise or squealing of hinges would be sure to wake the sleeping Bruno, and Dara hesitated at the door. Snapping her fingers softly, she turned back around and practically ran back to her cell. Inside, she rooted through the pile of moldy straw until she found the remnants of her glob of lard. Back at the door at the end of the hall, she slathered lard in and around the large rusted metal hinges, working it in for several minutes. She hoped this might soften any sound the door made upon opening. As quietly as possible, Dara eased the passkey into the lock and cranked it around. There was a muffled "clank", and the door swung silently into the hallway an inch or two. Through the crack, she could see Bruno leaned back in a large wooden chair, his immense booted feet propped up on a sturdy plank table in front of him. One hand idly scratched his hairy belly, the other dangled to the side, hairy knuckles almost touching the floor. He sputtered and mumbled, then went back to snoring loudly. Dara slipped through the doorway, eased it quietly shut behind her, and tiptoed past the large table, making for the stairs on the far side of the room. Keeping her eye on Bruno, her heart in her throat, she made the stairs and darted silently up. She dredged her memory for anything she could remember of Olaf's keep. As a child, it always loomed on the hill, casting its baleful shadow on the town below. Never having been inside it, she could only piece together a rough floor plan based on what she could see from the outside. It had a high crenellated stone wall with open towers on the corners. It had a portcullis and a drawbridge, which were usually open after midmorning til dusk. She knew it had a large courtyard, where the men-at-arms practiced during the day, and a large hearth hall for the baron to entertain guests and to preside over legal matters. Other than that, she had no idea how to make her escape. Dara realized she couldn't hardly waltz out the front door and bang on the portcullis, asking for it to be raised. Even if she waited until it was opened for keep business, many of the guardsmen would recognize her at sight; after all, she had serviced most of them during her two month stay. Perhaps in the dark she could climb onto the battlements and scale down the outside into the town below. The thought of falling fifty feet onto sharp rocks below caused her to quickly disregard that plan. Dara shuddered, and swore to herself that if caught, she wouldn't go down without a fight. The top of the stairs opened into a long hall with doors along its length. At the far end was a wide, double door, presumably leading to the great hearth hall. Dara started down the hall, pausing at each door to listen intently. At the third and final door closest the hall's end, she paused and thought she heard a slight scraping sound. Leaning in to the door, pressing an ear against the worn wood, she almost fell in as it abruptly opened. Standing there, one hand on the door handle, the other at her throat in fright, stood a young girl dressed in the uniform of a scullery maid -- long brown skirt, white peasant blouse, and stained apron. For a moment which seemed to last an eternity, they scanned each other up and down. The girl was short and plump, with curves and bumps in all the right places. Her mousy brown hair was done up in a bun at the back of her head, with stray strands and wisps framing her pretty, dumpling-like red-cheeked face. Her ample bosom heaved, her large brown eyes widened as she took in Dara's appearance. "You! You're the prisoner all the guardsmen have been going on about," she exclaimed. "Please don't t-turn me in! I can't go back th-there," Dara implored, choking on her words, her eyes welling up with tears. The maid stuck her head out into the hall, looked up and down, seemed to come to a decision, and motioned Dara inside. "Hurry, before someone comes! Ohh, we better not be caught, or they'll flay me alive -- after they use me like a common wh— Oh, sorry! You probably have more reason not to want to be caught." The room they entered was the kitchen prep area. A huge oaken table, probably fifteen paces long by five paces wide, took up most of the space. On the table were pots and pans and utensils being readied for the keep's morning repast. Dara's mouth began to water as she smelled the delicious aroma of baking bread. On the far side of the room stood another wide door, probably leading into the kitchen. "Here, under here! Go under the big table and hide! I'm supposed to be dicing celery and carrots for guardsmans stew," the maid pointed under the huge table and spun around as a voice yelled through the door. "Martha! Are you not done with the carrots yet? Gods girl, you have to be the slowest woman on the face of the earth!" As Dara dove under the table, a large huge-breasted woman poked her head through the door. Jabbing with a long wooden spoon, the woman continued scolding Martha. "Hurry, girl, or I'll demote you to chamber pots!" Martha sat heavily onto the bench in front of where Dara crouched under the table and made like she was slicing vegetables. Peering down at the bedraggled blonde girl, she wondered to herself what to do. Dara was a mess. Her clothes were torn and dirty, her hair matted and unkempt, her face splotchy with dirt and...other stains. Yet, in spite of her state of uncleanliness, Martha could see a vibrant beauty just beneath the surface. The girl's wide, innocent eyes were a startling blue, like the color of a clear, spring morning sky. Her hair was long and blonde, and if washed, would probably be most fetching. Her legs were long and muscled, her pert bosom high and proud. "Please help me...I'll do anything for you, if you'll just help me get out of here," the girl whispered to Martha, a note of desperation in her voice. Martha paused to consider. All her life she had been a scullery maid -- always the servant. Used and abused by everyone around her, male and female alike, she was near the bottom of the keep's pecking order. For the first time in her life, she had total control over someone else. Someone kneeling at her feet, looking up at her beseechingly. Martha smiled lasciviously, spread her legs and reached down and slowly pulled up the hem of her long skirt. Dara sat back on her haunches, her mouth hanging open as the skirt traveled up Martha's plump thighs. "Tell you what. You do what I want for a few minutes, and I'll help you get out of here." Martha pulled the skirt hem up to her waist and spread her legs as wide as she could. Her bush was thick and dark, the wiry hair coarse and untrimmed. "You lick where I point to, and I won't yell for the guards, understand?" Martha whispered. Dara nodded, her eyes tearing up, realizing that once again she was to be forced to pleasure another. Martha pointed to a spot high up on the inside of her thigh. Reluctantly, Dara leaned in and wetly dragged her tongue up, just along the edges of the other girl's mound. "Good, now the other side," Martha whispered, looking down at Dara. Dara sighed in resignation and licked up the inside of her other thigh, causing goose pimples to pop up on Martha's legs. "Perfect, you know where to lick next..." Dara could smell the heady aroma of arousal emanating from the girl's steamy pussy, and moisture beaded on the lips nestled in the dark bush. She had never licked a woman before, but to her surprise and not a little chagrin -- her own body began to respond, and she felt her lower belly begin to heat up. Leaning forward, she sucked in a deep breath and licked her way up, from the plump, juicy lips at the bottom to the hard little nub near the top, Martha's thick snatch tickling her nose. The scullery maid groaned and arched her back, both hands reaching down to grab handfuls of Dara's hair. Dara lapped at her pussy, slurping the girl's lips wetly, darting a sharp, rigid tongue deeply into her vagina every few licks. Both girls were so intent upon their activity, they didn't notice when the kitchen door opened and the cook stepped into the prep room. "MARTHA! What on earth are ye doing girl! Leaning back with yer eyes closed! Are ye trying to nap on my time? Get to slicing, or I'll take a paddle to your arse!" Martha lurched upright, eyes popping open and scrambled for a kitchen knife in front of her, and began slicing carrots. The woman eyed her balefully, then went on, "I'm hearing we're to have visitors this week. The new King's messengers are traveling the countryside, meeting with all the Lords. Rumor has it that old King L'Phoenix squirreled a bastard boy away among us commoners, and the usurper wants the lad dead. They say he'd be about eighteen summers by now, and that he has a birth mark in the shape of a firebird right next to his johnson! Imagine that! King's messengers riding from village to village, demanding all boys to drop their trousers!" Martha crept one hand down and pointed to her still dripping pussy. Dara sighed quietly and leaned in to continue her oral efforts, her tongue working busily up and down, lapping and kissing the maid's distended and juicy lips. The enormous-breasted cook went on, "At any rate, we need to be prepared. After ye finish here, go make the extra rooms ready for our exalted guests. No more goofing off, girl!" She pointed her spoon at Martha, and jabbed for emphasis, "You have until dawn's first light to finish in here, or I'll blister yer bottom!" After the cook retreated back into the kitchen, Martha looked down at Dara. The girl's nose was buried deeply in Martha's hairy mound, her tongue noisily licking and slurping around and around, up and down. She would pause every few moments and wetly kiss the insides of Martha's thighs, then return her tongue to the wet gash before her. Martha could feel herself nearing an explosion, and her sex heated up like a brick-fired oven. Reaching down and gathering Dara's hair in both hands, she pulled the girl's face until her hot, darting tongue was directly over her hard, sensitive clit. "Ohh, that's right! Right there, suck on it...I'm sooo close..." Dara's tongue slurped and swirled around the hard nub, her face dripping in juices. Martha moaned and shuddered, and her legs went stiff. She pulled Dara's mouth onto her clit and hunched her hips up and down on the girl's face as she exploded in fevered climax. "Oh gods, girl...yessssss...yesssss...right there! That's the spot...Unnnnhhhhh." Wet juice coated Dara's face and chin, and dripped down the insides of Martha's thighs. She slowed her licks as Martha came down off her orgasm, and looked up at the other girl's heavy-lidded eyes. "Wow! That was glorious. Lick me clean -- I see drips running down my legs," Martha pointed to a long rivulet of pussy juice running down the inside of one plump leg. Dara started at the girl's knee and licked her way up to her mound, cleaning as she went. When she had licked Martha's legs spotlessly clean, she sat back and exhaled deeply. "Are you going to help me escape now?" Dara pleaded shamelessly, "I did what you asked..." "Help me finish chopping these up, then I have an idea to get you out of here..." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An hour later, Dara stood in the middle of one of the guest chambers, looking at herself in an ornate, floor-to-ceiling mirror. For the first time in months, her beautiful, long blonde, honey-colored hair was washed and clean, and hung in cascades of ringlets and waves over her shoulders and down her back. Gone also were the old shredded rags of clothing, replaced by brown sturdy leather breeches, soft doe-skin knee high boots and a loose cream woolen tunic. "Put your hair in a tail and tuck it into the back of your shirt. Wear this cap, and the guards will think you are a messenger boy, as long as they don't get a close look at you." Martha held out a dark, woolen cap, which Dara took and placed over her head. "These clothes belong to Olaf's brat nephew, Hendrik, who isn't due for another visit in a few months. Hopefully no one will notice they are missing. You are about his size, do they fit to your liking?" "I -- I think so. The boots are a tad roomy, but they'll suffice. Gosh, Martha, I've never worn anything so nice!" Martha stood back and scanned Dara up and down. The gorgeous girl was long and lanky, with a nice, high chest and a pert, tight rear. She reached a hand out and cupped one of her tight cheeks, squeezing gently. "I can see why the guards all loved you, dear. Put a little meat on these bones, and you'd be a stunner, that's for sure." Dara blushed deeply, then a tear dripped down one rosy cheek. "I can't thank you enough, Martha...for the first time in a long time, I have hope." Martha turned and rummaged in a large iron-banded trunk for a few moments. She straightened up with a long slim glittering blade in one hand, and a worn leather scabbard in the other. "Hendrik has most likely outgrown this, so he probably won't be looking for it. It looks like it would be a perfect fit for you, however." Dara's piercing blue eyes blazed as she gazed in wonder at the blade before her. With reverence she reached out and took it from Martha's hands. It was about three feet in length, but felt light as a feather. She ran a thumb down its edge and felt its sharpness. Nodding in approval she wrapped her hand around the pommel and swiped the air a few times. It felt like an extension of her arm, and she could feel something click into place, as if the gods themselves had set circumstances in motion, allowing her to reach this one point in time. It was smithed from some strange, silvery metal, and foreign symbols decorated the base of the blade and the solid hilt. With her brow furrowed in determination and her jaw set with purpose, Dara belted the scabbard to her waist and slid the glittering blade home with a soft snick and a light clang. "Well then, I guess it's time for me to make my escape." Martha gaped wide-eyed at the girl in front of her. The light from the open window glinted in her golden hair, creating an almost otherworldly effect. Standing there tall and proud in her leathers, glittering longsword belted to her hip, Dara was the epitome of the warrior princess. Her blue eyes flashed, and she strode across the room and out the door. THE END In part 3, Dara seeks to join up with the black forest bandits. The Trials of Dara Firebird Ch. 03 All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive feedback and frequent "fives". Please read parts 1 and 2 first, or you will be extremely confused...no sex in this one, just action and plot groundwork. The sun had burned off most of the morning mist by the time Dara reached the outskirts of town. Her exit from the keep had been rather anticlimactic, as she had simply waited until the portcullis and drawbridge had been raised, and then sauntered out, playing the part of messenger boy. By hunching her shoulders to hide her bosom, adding a typically boy-like bowlegged, elbows out gait to her stride, no one had looked twice at her. The beautiful silver blade was wrapped in a blanket and strung over her back, attached to a light travel pack filled with bread, cheese, strips of salted bacon and pork, and other traveling necessities. She stopped and gazed back at the keep and the surrounding city, ruminating on her life and especially her difficult childhood. Her memories of her father were dim and clouded with fear. She remembered him as a large, fierce man, who almost seemed uncomfortable in Dara's small presence. When she was just a wee child he had been conscripted into the king's army, and died in battle far away. Her mother used the death stipend to start a small chandlery, which they both ran for several years and even prospered. When Dara reached her twelfth summer, her mother contracted the consumption and died a slow, lingering death. Their entire savings was spent trying to save her, but every attempt, including leeches, prayer, holy water, and many others was in vain. Dara's mother died in her bed, with her daughter at her side, holding her by the hand. She could still remember her mother's last dying words – "Dara, child. You must be strong! Your destiny is to be more than a chandler's daughter -- much, much more. When you are strong enough, old enough, you must seek the help of someone. Far away, in High Reach, you must find Father Remarkus, he will help you. Tell him who you are, and that you are from Castle Olafson. He will recognize you...tell me you will do this. TELL ME!" Weeping, Dara had promised her mother with all her heart that she would embark upon this quest, but inside she believed her mother to be hallucinating from her sickness. She cried for days after her mother passed, but then cruel fate dealt her another spade. The chandlery was seized by the merchant's guild and sold to a horrible, disgusting man. Dara's first night as his ward he tried to rape her. She fought back and cracked a crockery pot over his head and fled into the streets. For six long years she survived on her wits and daring, living in alleys and flophouses, just one of many homeless street urchins. Dara raised a hand as if to wave goodbye to all the harsh memories, her eyes dry and clear, and blazing with purpose. In the far distance she caught the wail of baying hounds, and motion at the castle drawbridge drew her attention. Miles away, guardsmen thundered out of the keep riding huge, black stallions. At their lead she could make out the hulking shape of Bruno, waving his great spiked mace over his head as he rode. Dara gasped and turned. The tree line of the black forest stood across several fields of crops, a good two miles away. Looking back at the keep, the guardsmen had scattered, but Bruno came on, led by massive wolfhounds foaming at the mouth. The city was awake and bustling, with merchants heading to the market, many pulling handcarts, some with baskets on their shoulders. Few were heading out of the city, so Dara knew she might look a bit conspicuous if she sprinted down the lane, towards the trees. She checked to make sure her fiery golden hair was safely tucked under her cap and shirt, and strode quickly away from the city, trying to keep herself from running. Casting worried glances over her shoulder every few steps, she cut the distance to the trees to about a mile. The baying and snapping of the hounds grew louder, and she could tell by their excitement that they had caught her scent. Ahead she saw a small farmhouse built just outside the tree line. Behind it was a fenced in paddock which ran the length of the trees for a good fifty yards or so. Dara threw caution to the wind and put her head down and sprinted as fast as her long legs would take her. A few yards from the paddock gate she heard the snarling of the wolfhounds close behind her; she spared a quick look and saw the hounds coming on fast, free from their chains, with Bruno thundering on his warhorse several hundred yards behind. She hit the paddock gate at a run, swung it open and bolted through. Seconds later the hounds, jaws snapping and snarling, leaped at her throat, barely slowing down. Dara fell flat to her belly, hounds flying past her, and rolled back outside the gate. With a loud clang she banged it shut. The giant wolfhounds threw themselves at the fencing, trying to snap and chew their way through the boards to get to her. Dara turned and sprinted for the trees, hoping that Bruno would leave the dogs and come for her himself. As she hit the tree line at a full sprint she looked for fallen trees, thistles, anything that might slow Bruno down. Thirty yards into the forest she heard a crash behind her, followed by curses and grunts. "When I catch ye, wenchie, I'm gonna tie ye down and fuck every hole in yer miserable cold, dead BODY!" roared Bruno, as he thrashed and crashed his way through the trees. Dara leaped across a small brook and scrambled up the other side. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Bruno, on foot, crashing and flattening saplings and bushes as he ran after her. Their eyes met, and Bruno grinned a black toothed, evil smile. "There ye be, wenchie. Come now, why make me run? It's just gonna make it far worse when I get me hands on ye!" Dara knew this was her moment. She was not going to risk being captured again and held in the dungeon for the guards and Olaf to abuse. Turning to face Bruno, she reached over her shoulder and drew the glittering blade. His eyes widened for a second, then he let out a grunt and a laugh. "Whuh's that, wenchie? You going to clean me fingernails with that little twig?" He raised his heavy iron, spiked mace and swung it at her head. Dara set her feet and with a two-handed grip attempted to parry his vicious strike. She knew she was no match for his brutish strength, but if she could just get inside his swing, she might be able to run him through. His weakness was his overconfidence. When the haft of the mace met her glittering blade, a strange thing happened. Sparks flew, and the silver blade sliced right through the thick black shaft, the mace head bouncing off into the bushes. Suddenly off balance, Bruno's momentum spun him around and he stood, mouth agape, looking down on the severed handle in his hand. Regaining his composure and turning to face her, he grinned wickedly and chuckled, "Roit then, I guess I snap you in two with me bare hands." Dara lunged forward, stabbing with the point of her blade, aiming for his stomach. Stepping aside with a feral quickness that belied his enormous size, he trapped the longsword between his ribs and the inside of his arm. With a grunt and a pivot, the blade yanked out of Dara's hands and flipped to the ground. "Now then, wenchie. 'Ow bout we pick up where we left off?" Bruno reached for his belt. Dara heard a hissing sound, and suddenly an arrow sprouted from Bruno's wide chest. Another hiss, and a shaft pierced his throat. With a puzzled expression Bruno looked down at the fletchings poking out, then realization dawned on him. Blood gushed from the horrific wounds, and he crashed to his knees, choking and gasping raggedly. Dara reached down, plucked up her blade and swung it like an axe. The edge sliced cleanly though his neck and his massive, cruel head leapt from his shoulders, blood fountaining. His lifeless body pitched one way, and his bloody head rolled the other. She kicked it disdainfully into the trees and turned to face the bowman. A mailed fist punched her square between the eyes, and for the second time in as many months, sparks flew and darkness enveloped her. THE END Part 4 – Dara's suffering at the hands of the black forest bandits... The Trials of Dara Firebird Ch. 04 All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive feedback and frequent "fives". * Dara groaned as she awoke. The last thing she remembered was kicking Bruno's bloody head into the bushes. After that…nothing. Her memory slowly came back to her, while at the same time she became aware of her surroundings. Her head and face throbbed painfully as she slowly rolled and bounced, the motion causing her to feel slightly nauseous. Opening her eyes, all she saw was the side of a horse's neck and the edge of a well-oiled saddle. The pungent smell of horse and leather assaulted her senses, and she held back a retch. Cool air wafted across her posterior, and in horror, she realized she was naked and bound face down over a saddle. A rough, calloused hand stroked one of her pert cheeks, and behind her she heard a deep, bass chuckle. "Awake now, my sweet? I'm sorry I had to knock you out, but it made throwing you over my saddle and tying you up so much easier." The voice was rich and deep and educated, yet spoke with a lethal knife edge that warned her that this was a dangerous man. The hand continued its soft stroking, and Dara gasped as he slid a couple fingers down between her legs. To her horror and chagrin, she was already sopping wet. Apparently he had been playing with her for quite some time before she had awakened. His light but demanding touch sent shivers cascading up and down her nude body. "You are most responsive. Your body quivers at my touch, even while you are asleep. If you show this much promise while tied over my saddle, you should be quite the hot vixen in my bedroll tonight." Dara groaned in resignation. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Although this fire seemed a bit more…intriguing…than Bruno or Olaf ever hoped to be. Trying unsuccessfully to keep his deliciously probing fingers at the back of her mind, she craned her neck to try to see her captor's face. Dara pleaded, "Please sir, if you are any kind of gentleman, you will untie me and let me go," she went on, a plan hatching in her thoughts, "I am on my way with a message to Father Remarkus at High Reach, and must not be delayed any further." At the words High Reach, the man stiffened, and the stroking hand stopped its damnable action. Behind her, the words came out as a soft hiss, "What message to Father Remarkus?" "That is between me, and the Father himself, and none of your concern, ruffian." "Ruffian?" he chuckled, "I haven't been called a ruffian since I was eight years old and caught stealing sweetmeats from the kitchen staff…but that is a story for another day. Do you know Father Remarkus, young lady?" The hand once again began its soft, agonizingly pleasurable stroking. "May I at least see the face of my savior" Dara asked, sarcastically accenting the last word. "Tell you what. If you take an oath that you will not try to escape my evil clutches, I will untie you and allow you to ride sitting upright." Dara paused. Oaths were terrible and mysterious, and oathbreakers often lived to rue their actions. With a deep sigh, Dara whispered, "I swear on the grave of my mother that I will not attempt to escape. Now please, ruffian, untie me and let me sit up before I spew!" With two deft slices of a sharp, glittering dagger, the man cut through the bonds holding her hands and feet. He then effortlessly lifted her up and spun her around so that she was sitting on the saddle facing him, her long naked legs straddling his muscular thighs. Her eyes widened and she gasped as she gazed upon his face. He was ruggedly handsome in a roguish, careworn sort of way. His hair was black as night, and hung down across his forehead, with the back pulled into a short swordsman's tail. His deep set eyes were as black as his raven hair and burned into her soul. His face was lined and craggy and deeply tanned, his lips thin and cruel. His sharp, patrician nose was slightly crooked, as though it had been broken in the past and never set correctly. He had shaven recently, but was still scruffy, his strong jaw line dark with shadow. Over one eye a nasty, puckered scar sliced through an eyebrow, giving him a scowling demeanor. He slowly looked her up and down, salaciously taking in her beautiful slim figure, pert, rosy-tipped breasts, long golden locks, and finally, her wet, moist pussy surrounded by a tuft of thick golden hair. He was impossibly broad, clad in a black leather hauberk and leather studded shoulder braces. Looking down, Dara stifled a scream as she saw his breeches were unlaced, and his manhood stood tall and proud and impossibly stiff, and lustfully pointed at her wet loins. He cupped both her cheeks and lifted her up, "There, there, my dear. You took an oath not to escape." His long, thick cock slid into her like a hot knife into butter. He slipped into her deeply, their coarse pubic hair mingling; for a few moments he just held her down, his cock nestled deep in her womanhood. The gentle rolling of the horse's gait jounced her slowly up and down on his shaft, making her gasp and shudder. His rough, calloused hands reached around and cupped her cheeks, stroking and kneading. She groaned into the crook of his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. She could feel his thick, hard manhood sliding in and out, up and down, reaching places she never knew existed. "That's it, lass, just ride it out, ride it out. You're safe with me, I won't let anything happen to you." His voice was deep and soothing, the words softly whispered into her ear. His arms pulled her into his broad, strong chest, strong hands still roughly clutching her cheeks, helping to slide her up and down on his hot, hard manhood. With a heavy sigh of resignation, Dara circled her arms behind his head and sobbed into his neck. For several minutes they rode along, their bodies pressed against each other, her steamy sex freely dripping juices as she slowly slid up and down. She felt a strange sensation from deep in the core of her being, and as her first ever climax thunderously poured through her, all worries momentarily washed away. She shuddered and twitched and gasped as she came, and felt his fat cock head throb inside her. "Oh, you are amazing, lass. Your pussy is like a molten vice on me. I can't…hold…on…much…longer," he groaned through clenched teeth. Dara softly kissed his scratchy cheek and trailed her tongue up his face and gently licked his earlobe. "Come for me! Come for me now…yessssss, don't hold back!" Dara felt a heady rush again as another, deeper, longer climax crashed through her. She felt his cock impossibly expand inside her, and his hot come gushed into her womb. They both moaned long and hard as the soft bouncing of the horse's casual saunter thrust their hot sexes against each other. Dara snuggled into his chest, breathing in the heady aroma of leather and the intoxicating scent of male sweat. She sighed and fell asleep, feeling safe for the first time in over six long years, his manhood still firmly ensconced in her tight, wet sheath. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She awoke much later next to a roaring fire, curled up in a tight ball, wrapped in thick blankets. Night had fallen, and a cold breeze nipped at her exposed nose. Humming a deep, melodious tune, her captor/savior sat on an upturned log and held two stick-speared coneys hissing and sizzling over the blaze. Her mouth watered and she sat up in the blankets. "Why am I still naked?" she asked quietly. "Because I plan to sheath my sword in that glorious cunny of yours again, my sweetling," he replied matter-of-factly. "Oh." Dara cast her eyes to the ground. She should have been planning her next escape, figuring out how to slip away from this ruffian, yet part of her yearned for his soft touch. Instead she asked, "Where is my blade? And my leathers?" He thrust his chin toward the edge of camp, "over there. Don't worry, I'm not a thief. A ruffian perhaps, but no thief." He smirked impishly as he said this, and she recalled her words before they…made love. He laid a seared coney on a plate before her, and placed a jar of hot spiced honey mead on the ground beside it. "Eat up. We need to talk. Tell me about this message to Father Remarkus in High Reach." Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, Dara sat up and began to eat ravenously, using her hunger to give her time to think about her answer. She took a long pull of mead, and smiled inwardly as it warmed her from the inside. Perhaps it was the delicious food, or possibly the strong mead, but she decided to give him her tale, holding back nothing. "I was born the daughter of a mercenary and a chandler. My father died fighting for the king – the new one, the usurper. After his death my mother started a chandlery. We did well for a time, but then she fell ill and died." Dara paused to collect herself. "Her dying words to me were to go to High Reach and seek out someone named Father Remarkus. She said he would recognize me, and that he would help me." She said these last words with disdain, as if it were a cruel joke. "Until I met you, I didn't even know if there really was a Father Remarkus. I just figured my mother was hallucinating in her last dying moments." The man's eyes narrowed, and then widened. He leaned back and looked at her with his piercing eyes – really looked at her. He took in her long, beautiful golden hair, her heart-shaped impish face and upturned pug nose, and then he sat back against the tree stump. "There really was a Father Remarkus. He was Cardinal during King Le'Pheonix's reign. He and Daggar were thick as thieves, the two of them plotting together on how to expand the kingdom. Unfortunately, Le'Phoenix's wife was unable to give him children. Daggar spread his seed far and wide, hoping to sire a bastard son or daughter. The latest rumor is that he did father a babe – a son – and that Remarkus hid the child among the commoners. Rolf the Red will stop at nothing to find the boy and have him flayed alive." He paused in thought for a moment, then went on with his story. "Remarkus went into hiding; it is said that he became a mountaintop hermit, giving up all of his former life to live a simple existence – just he and the gods. Last I heard, Rolf found him, and even now is torturing him for information about the mysterious bastard." He stopped and stroked his chin pensively. "A child of Daggar Le'Phoenix could lay claim to the throne, upsetting the usurper and his cronies." Dara's wide piercing blue eyes flashed and her delicate brow furrowed. "How do you know so much about the old king and his court?" "Because I was there, girl. I was captain of Daggar's honor guard. The day Rolf had him killed was my last day as a man of honor. I failed my king that day. Back then I was known as Captain Straticus. Today I am simply known as Black Jack." He held his hands out wide in front of him and smiled viciously, "Welcome to the black forest bandits, my dear." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Far away in cold, dark High Reach, a man sat astride a huge stone throne. On his cruel brow perched a heavy crown of bejeweled gold. A plump, young, short-haired blonde girl rode his turgid cock, facing away from him, panting as she bounced up and down on his hardness, her sweaty naked body glistening with sweat. Between their spread legs kneeled another naked young girl, this one with long shiny brunette hair, her mouth and tongue fervently trying to keep up with their movement. "Lick me balls, wench. Get em nice and wet." His voice was deep and gravelly, and commanded her with an edge that bespoke power and dire consequences if he was not pleased. She frantically licked his hanging scrotum, sucking first one, then the other into her hot mouth. The blonde girl squealed as she bounced, her heavy breasts jiggling up and down. He reached a mailed hand around and pinched one, hard, tweaking her nipple with strong, swordman's fingers. "Keep bouncing wench – I'm almost there. Fuck me through to the end now – don't stop. You there, down on yer knees – lick up all my seed, you hear?" The girl looked up, juices dripping off her chin. "Yes, Milordship, I will." She resumed her frantic licking, this time her tongue lapped up along the man's bobbing shaft and into the blonde girl's wet folds, lingering and dancing wetly on her hard, engorged clitty. With an animal grunt and a slap to the blonde girl's ample arse, the man thrust upwards, humping wildly. The blonde girl whimpered and sped up her bounces, feeling his hot seed pumping and gushing up into her. Between their legs, the brunette lapped eagerly at the steamy pussy lips. Hot come poured out the sides and dripped down his prick. She licked and slurped it up, lathing his balls with her hot tongue. He shuddered and twitched, his cock plopping out of the blonde girl. The brunette eagerly sucked it deeply into her throat and drained it of any remaining seed, then ran her tongue up into the wet, come-streaked folds of pussy. With a loud smack, he pushed the blonde off his lap and called for his flagon of wine. "Damnation, that was good. Go get yerselves some food, and come back later this evening." The two girls scurried off, their naked asses jiggling merrily. As they left the throne room, they screamed in fear at the sight of someone else entering. A man stepped into the room and bowed deeply. He was small, dark and wiry, his head shaven completely bald, and covered in dark, mysterious tattoos. His eyes were cold and cruel and stared balefully out from under thick, shaggy eyebrows. He wore a leather apron, stained with blood and spattered with wet chunks of gore. In his right hand he held a blood-soaked corkscrew. "Mi Lord, Remarkus has finally seen the error of his ways…" Rolf blanched and held a mailed fist up to his nose. "Get on with it then, Spector. What did he say?" Spector's voice was a soft rattling hiss, like a viper slithering across a pile of human skulls. "He wishes me to let you know that Le'Phoenix's bastard is…a girl. And that she lives with her adopted mother and father near Castle Olafson." Rolf pounded his fist down on the throne's great stone arm. "Ah-HA. A frigging girl. All this time we've been looking fer a miserable male child. Go. Take captain Bale and some of me blood guard and find this wench. I don't care what it takes. Torch the whole miserable town and string up Olaf if ye need to. Find this girl and bring her to me." His voice was soft and edged with malice. "I'm going to spear this loathsome bastard girl's arse with me kingly cock and spin her like a fool's top on me lap." Spector smiled evilly and backed out the door, his fingers absentmindedly smearing bloody circles on his leather gore-spattered apron. THE END Part 5 coming soon… The Trials of Dara Firebird Ch. 05 All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive feedback and frequent "fives". This chapter contains some aspects of medieval torture – if this offends you, or you have a weak stomach, please skip the last part. Dara smiled as she surreptitiously rubbed her pert naked arse cheeks wantonly up and down his hard crotch. The last several days had been surprisingly enjoyable, with her riding in front of the dashing rogue Black Jack Straticus, leader of the black forest bandits. After their first coupling, with her riding backwards and forcefully impaled on his manhood, Jack had allowed her to turn around and ride facing forward in front of him. He still kept her mostly naked, with her hands tied to the pommel before her, but as they worked their way up through the hills in elevation, the temperature had dropped, and Jack now allowed her to wear a woolen blanket over her shoulders. Still mostly naked, she began to delight in torturing him by rubbing against him as the long-legged stallion plodded along on their journey. "Well then, you've gone and done it again, wench," Jack lustily groaned behind her. She could feel him unlacing his breeches and she grinned as he reached beneath her thighs and lifted her up, only to set her down on his turgid hardness. Dara moaned as her tight, wet young pussy slid over his thick shaft, and once again they jounced along, the up and down motion of the horse's gait eliciting choruses of moans and sighs. She gripped the pommel and pressed back against him, squeezing with her inner muscles, causing him to groan and grab two handfuls of her long golden mane. She arched her back until her shoulder blades pressed against his broad, leather hauberk-covered chest and whimpered as yet another orgasm rippled through her body. "Twelve," she counted to herself, smiling wantonly as she felt his cock swell inside her. She swore she could feel every throbbing vein, every ridge on his swollen shaft. He grunted and slapped her arse cheek with one large, calloused hand, pulled her long flowing ringlets with the other, and then exploded inside of her. She felt his molten seed gush into her womb as she fell face forward, burying her face into the stallion's thick mane. He reached out and pulled her to his chest and wrapped his strong muscular arms around her. She nestled back against him and sighed contentedly. Black Jack was definitely different than the village tales described him. Growing up, the mothers and grandmothers would tell woeful tales of the black forest bandits stealing babies and eating them raw. The bandits were blamed for every bad thing that ever happened; whether it be drought or sickness, it was always a result of those dreadful "forest hooligans" bringing down the wrath of the gods. At one time Olaf sent a platoon of twenty of his best trained fighting men into the forest to root out the bandits. Their exit from town was heralded with festivals and dancing, and pretty maidens festooned the lane with flower petals, waving pretty handkerchiefs at the men-at-arms as they proudly rode off. Three days later a lone horse rode into town, tied to its back was what was left of one of the soldiers. His tongue had been cut out of his mouth, and his thumbs broken in several places – on his back was a note from Black Jack to Baron Olaf, thanking him for the fresh mounts and armor and weaponry. Dara found Jack to be rather taciturn, a direct counterpoint to her newfound garrulousness. Nevertheless, she learned a few things about his band of outlaws: they were comprised originally of most of Daggar Le'Phoenix's house guard, but had added men to their ranks as soldiers grew discontent with Rolf the Red's tyrannical rule. They rarely, if ever, stole from average, every day peasants – they preyed on the rich merchants who traveled the roads through the great forest; and finally, they wanted nothing less than for Rolf to be jerked from his ill-gotten throne and drawn-and-quartered in the streets of High Reach for what he had done to their great King. Dara smiled as she snuggled back against Jack's wide, warm chest. She shivered in the chill, causing Jack to pull the edges of his thick woolen cloak snugly around the both of them. It was drawing close to the end of the day, and fading sunlight streaked across an orange and red sky high above the tree tops. "So, ruffian, when will we reach your band of bloodthirsty hooligans," she asked with a grin. "Tomorrow, wench, but tonight I have a special surprise for you," Jack replied in his deep, gravelly bass voice. They traveled for a few hundred paces further, then Jack drew back on the reins to bring the stallion to a halt. He studied the right side of the trail until he spotted something that looked familiar, and turned uphill. After another five hundred paces or so, they topped a ridge and there, nestled against a cliff face, surrounded by a grove of massive evergreens, stood a sturdy log cabin with a stone chimney and a simple thatch roof. After pulling up in front of the cabin, Jack reached around and untied Dara's hands from the pommel. "We stop here for the night. I'll be back shortly with fresh game. Use the bucket inside the cabin and get us some fresh water from the creek through the trees over there," Jack pointed off to the right, then narrowed his eyes at Dara. "Don't try to run off. You won't get far way out here, and the mountains are full of hungry wolves and bear." Dara slid off the stallion and landed lightly on the balls of her feet. Turning up to look at him, her wide innocent blue eyes practically glowing in the dying light, she asked, "What about my clothes? Are you going to leave me here naked?" He smiled and replied, "You might as well get used to being naked. Also, it's a pretty good deterrent to running away, don't you think?" With that, he wheeled his mount around and rode off into the forest, a lascivious grin on his handsome craggy face. Dara entered the cabin and was pleasantly surprised. It was neat and tidy, composed of one good-sized room, complete with a large bed handmade from thick birch and elm, and a sturdy oak plank table and chair in the corner. The stone fireplace was large, with a high, wide mantle. Hanging inside it was an iron cooking pot, and off to the side was a cabinet filled with spices and seasoning. Dara dutifully picked up a bucket sitting on the hearth and stepped back outside. Still a bit unaccustomed to her constant nudity, she shivered and walked briskly through the trees towards the sounds of a babbling brook. By nightfall, Dara had started a fire, swept out the musty cabin, and had washed herself with hot, soapy water. Her beautiful golden tresses cascaded in playful ringlets over her shoulders and down to her waist. She heard the soft wicker of a horse outside the cabin, and she couldn't help herself, her nipples hardened and she felt a tingling in her cunny. She knew she shouldn't feel this way towards the outlaw, but she couldn't help it. Every waking moment she found herself wanting his thick manhood buried in her to the hilt. The door swung open and Jack stepped into the room, a fat grey goose in one hand and a plump jackrabbit in the other. He unceremoniously dumped them on the table in the corner and turned to look at Dara. His eyes widened as he took in her appearance. She stood, legs wide apart, hands on her hips, chin thrust forward. Her rosy nipples jutted out enticingly and her eyes glittered in the firelight. Her mouth was open slightly and her chest heaved as she panted in wanton lust. He gruffly directed her to lie down, arms and legs spread akimbo, sideways on the bed with her feet on the plank floor. Dara complied, and then gasped as he securely tied her hands and ankles to the bed frame. Jack turned to the fire and lifted the heavy cooking pot of hot water off its hook and brought it over next to the bed, between her feet. Dara's crystal blue eyes widened in sudden alarm. "Wh-what are you going to do?" she asked, her voice thick with fear. Jack ran a hand up the inside of Dara's long, sinewy leg, his knuckles brushing her thatch of thick coarse hair. Dara shuddered and goose-pimples spread across her slim thighs. "I like my women bare, like a young girl," he absently stroked her distended nether lips with a thumb, and went on, "it's about time we shaved this off." After unscrewing the cap off a jar, he slowly began spreading warm cream over her overheated mons, eliciting moans and cries of pleasure. She gyrated her hips, trying to force contact between his strong fingers and her sensitive clit. "Hold still, wench," he warned, then she felt warm steel scrape her mound from the top down. Looking through half-lidded eyes, she watched as he slowly, tenderly scraped the coarse blondish-brown hair off her pudenda. Stopping every now and then to run his thumb up and down her wet, dripping cleft, he leered at the panting, heaving girl tied to the bed. "Almost done now...just about...done." With one final scrape he leaned back and surveyed the beautiful pussy before him. It glistened wetly in the firelight, lips fully distended and plumply red. Her clit thrust out, begging to be stroked, her hips uncontrollably rolling and thrusting. Jack leaned in and tenderly kissed her on the inside of one thigh, high up near her mound. Dara groaned and pulled at her restraints. Trailing his tongue wetly up, he dragged it across her lips and lightly tickled her distended clitty. Dara was in heaven. Something about the lack of hair caused his tongue to send jolts of lightning through her loins. She moaned in ecstasy and spread her legs as far as the restraints would let her. His constantly moving tongue ran up through her cleft, delving deeply into her vagina, tasting her honey sweet nectar. He lapped her mons with broad, wet licks and relished the feel of bare pussy on his hot mouth. Standing up, he went to the fire and lit a candle. Bringing it back towards her, he leaned over her and dripped hot wax on her lower belly, just above her cunny. Before it could burn her, he scraped it off with the nails of his free hand. She stifled a scream as the heat spread through her and the feeling of his nails scratching down past her clit brought her close to her first climax of the night. He crouched down and held the candle close to her mound, eyes searching. Suddenly his breath caught and his jaw set in consternation. "What is it?" She whispered. "A mark. High on the inside of your thigh, right next to this beautiful wet pussy." He lightly spanked her cleft. "You really don't know, do you?" "All I know is that my loins burn for you. If you don't take me now I might die..." Dara couldn't believe the words coming from her mouth. In the last few days she'd gone from innocent street urchin to over-sexed tavern harlot. With that he stood up and unlaced his breeches. Fisting his long, knobby, hard cock he rubbed the fat mushroom head up and down her steamy cleft, getting it wet with her copious juices. Setting the head just inside, he reached up and roughly tweaked a nipple. "You have a birthmark, my dear. In the shape of a phoenix." "I...have...a...what...?" Dara gasped as she felt his hand roam over her naked breasts, and his turgid cock nestled at the entrance to her opening. "Daggar didn't sire a boy – he sired a girl, a bastard daughter, and hid her far away from High Reach. You are that girl, Dara. Your rightful name is Dara Le'Phoenix, daughter of Daggar Le'Phoenix, and rightful heir to the throne!" With his final words he plowed into her to the hilt, his pelvic bone slapping her thighs. He held her tightly by the waist, his manhood buried deeply inside her. She arched her back in ecstasy as he filled her up, and a lustful cry burst from her lips. "From...this...day...forward," he accentuated each word with a hard, vicious thrust, "you will be known as. Ugh...Dara Firebird!" Dara felt the heat building with each thrust; she pulled on the ropes binding her and writhed and arched her back with each plunge of his hard manhood. Panting in lust, she moaned as he pulled out and squatted down to lick her from bottom to top, lathing her bare cunny with the flat of his broad, wet, hot tongue. He continued this torturous pattern of thrusting, pulling out and licking until she could take no more. Finally he drove himself into her like a madman, thrusting deeply over and over, his brow dripping sweat onto her pert, rock hard nipples. It was when he rubbed his rough, calloused thumb over her swollen, hyper-sensitive clit that she lost it. Something about not being able to stop him, tied as she was, added to her sensations. Her pussy sparked and wave after wave of orgasm crashed through her entire body, centering in her loins. He cried out and exploded into her, she could actually feel his hot seed spreading through her womb. She climaxed again, and her body rocked and shivered uncontrollably under him. Spent, he fell onto her chest in a heap, his face nestled between her pert breasts, his hands tangling in her long golden tresses. "We will teach you how to fight, how to lead men into battle. You will become a warrior princess for all to follow; and when the time is right, we will cast Rolf down from the throne." His deep gravelly voice was dark and choked with emotion. "Are you with me, wench?" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Spector ran his tongue over the tips of his sharp, pointed teeth and tasted the tart, delicious flavor of tangy blood. In the corner, chained securely to a sturdy chair and bleeding profusely, sat a weeping fat Olaf, count of castle olafson. His face was covered in seeping bite marks and tears streamed down his face. A pitiful groan drew Spector's attention to the other side of the room. Countess Olafson wailed miserably as she was bent over obscenely with her hands and head poking out the far side of the heavy wooden pillory holding her in place. Her once beautiful deep indigo ladies gown was hanging in shreds, her bounteous breasts swaying back and forth. Her skirt was pushed up over her waist and huge Slade stood behind her, fucking madly, a huge half-eaten turkey leg in one hand, and a thick two foot-long wooden spoon in the other. Once considered beautiful, the countess had grown rather plump in recent years. Her arse cheeks jiggled merrily as Slade pumped his hips and smacked her with the spoon. Slade still wore the majority of his armor, with the exception of his breeches. His leather pants were gathered around his feet in a heap, next to his hand-and-a-half bastard sword and poniard. Spector tuned out the joyful sounds of Slade's animal lust, and turned his attention back to fat Olaf. "Well, Olaf...Rolf sendsss his regardssss," he hissed. "Now, back to the quesssstion...we are looking for a girl – Daggar's girl, to be exact. Remarkusss says he placed her in the care of a mercenary and chandler here in your town. Unfortunately, the chandler didn't know her whereabouts. At least he didn't tell usss while I was stripping the skin off his chessssst." Spector's feral eyes blazed with crazed intensity, his crimson nailed hands clenching and unclenching as she spoke with his soft, yet penetrating voice. He was dressed all in black, the sinister black tattoos of unfamiliar and arcane markings standing out clearly on his completely shaven head. Olaf's eyes bugged out and he began to blubber in his high-pitched girlish voice. "MiLord, I swear to you on the grave of my dead mother – I had no idea the girl was here – you have to believe me!" Spector looked down at his leather apron, and absently ran a finger through a droplet of blood dripping down. Licking his hand clean, he looked up at Olaf and leered. "Mmmm, you tasssste deliciousssss, Olaf." He then reached for a pair of wickedly bent pliers and a small handsaw and stepped towards the terrified fat man. "She would be about eighteen summersss right now. Knowing Daggar's tassste in misstresssses, she is probably blonde and quite beautiful. How many blonde, beautiful girlsss can there be in this cessspool of a town, Olaf? Think clearly, your life definitely dependssss on it." Olaf's eyes grew wide, and he screamed in terror, "Wait! I do know of one such girl. She was caught stealing in the market! We had her here in our dungeons!" Then Olaf's face fell, as he realized what was coming next. "Excellent, Olaf. Take me to her now. We'll sssee if shhheee is the one we are looking for..." "Uhhh, MiLord, I'm afraid she is gone...we had her executed..." Olaf turned his eyes away from Spector's riveting gaze and studied the ceiling. "Did you now? Somehow I don't think you are telling me the truth, Olaf," Spector hissed menacingly. "Shhhhall we cut off a nipple...I love the texture – spongy yet crunchy at the sssame time..." "NOOooo! Please, I beg of you! She escaped! She somehow got out of her cell and made it to the black forest. My gaoler, Bruno, caught her there, but he was found dead with arrows in his throat and chest! You have to believe me!" Olaf sobbed uncontrollably, his eyes rolling at the saw in Spector's hand. "The fletchings were black! The black forest bandits have her now! You have to believe me!" "That issss very unfortunate, Olaf. Countessss, your nephew Hendrik will inherit Olafssson upon fat Olaf's untimely death, issss that correct?" The Countess looked up through matted tangles of raven hair and grunted as Slade pumped her mercilessly. "Ye-ye-yes. Hendrik is next in line, MiLord Spector." Drool leaked out the side of her mouth and she groaned as Slade stopped his thrusting and simply stood behind her, his manhood embedded deep in her cunt. Slade pulled his thick manhood out and Olaf's eyes widened. The big man's cock was massive – long and thick, with a huge plum-sized purple head, dripping juice down across his gauntleted knuckles. The huge man-at-arms then did something strange. He thrust the hot, glistening turkey leg between the countess' arse cheeks and ran it slowly up and down, wetting her backside with drippings. Pitching the meat back over his shoulder, he stripped off a gauntlet and ran his thumb up and down over the plump woman's brown crinkly anus. His thumb slipped inside up to the third knuckle, eliciting a whimper from the countess. "Roit then, brace yerself, milady." He pulled his thumb out and replaced it with the knobby purple head of his massive veined cock. With one deep thrust, he plunged it in, hilting himself in her ass. The countess grunted as she stifled a scream and her eyes bulged as she locked her gaze with that of her hapless husband. Slade gripped her hips with both hands and thrust himself in and out, his pelvis slapping her plump cheeks with every forceful plunge. After ten or so thrusts, he groaned and arched his back and with one final flex if his hips, exploded into her ass. The countess' head lolled, and her hands hung limp from the stocks. Drool ran down her chin and dripped onto the floor, and she mewled pitifully. Slade's gauntleted hands kneaded her red, ravaged arse cheeks as he continued to pump her full of his hot seed. Finally he fell back and into a chair, his massive cock half limp and hanging down between his knees, juices dripping off the tip. Reaching down, he found his half-eaten turkey leg and brought it to his mouth, tearing a large chunk out in one massive bite. Spector turned back to Olaf. "By order of Rolf the Red, following Olaf's unfortunate and untimely demise, young Hendrik shall take his place asss Count, with his loving and trusssting aunt as regent until he reachesss adulthood." The Trials of Dara Firebird Ch. 05 Olaf's bloodcurdling shrieks could be heard from as far away as the river, and many in town shuttered their windows, locked their doors and huddled in their homes in abject terror. THE END Part 6 forthcoming... The Trials of Dara Firebird Ch. 06 All names and characters contained herein are fictitious and do not intentionally relate to any person, either living or dead. This story is a work of fiction, a fantasy -- so read it with a grain of salt and an open mind. All characters are at least 18 years of age. Voting and feedback is greatly appreciated, especially positive feedback and frequent "fives". * * * * * Dara knelt behind the broad trunk of the gnarled, old oak tree and peered down at the covered wagon rattling down the grassy lane. Her icy blue eyes narrowed in determination, and her strong hands readied themselves on the stout longbow and nocked arrow in her grasp. Around her the thick, musty forest seemed to suck in its breath in readiness; even the trees above stopped their seemingly constant sussuration in preparation for the presumed carnage about to transpire. Across the narrow road she heard the unmistakable sound of a whippoorwill trilling softly. She readied herself for action, drawing back the bowstring and setting her sight on the heavily mailed armsman holding the reins. Ahead of the large, armored wagon three other men rode on long-legged steeds, two with axes and swords belted to their waists. Their strangely-garbed black-robed leader, a dark-skinned man with a tattooed shaven head and alert eyes raised a fist and called for the procession to halt. Still several hundred paces from the ambush point, he raised a massive rune-etched crossbow and peered into the forest gloom. The girl slowly eased herself back behind the oak. She was dressed in her leathers and soft doeskin knee high boots. A deep green hooded cloak fell across her shoulders and head to hide her golden hair and help her blend in with her lush forest surroundings. Dara knew it was not she that the dark-skinned man sensed, but she slowed her breathing and knelt on one knee stock-still just the same. Dara smiled to herself as she thought back on how far she had come. A little less than a summer ago she had been a street urchin, a common thief living off of stolen bread and scraps of meat. For the last several months she had been living with the black forest bandits, learning how to hunt and shoot with a bow and fight with her gleaming blade. Gone was the wide-eyed innocent girl eking out a meager existence, now she was Dara Firebird, last great hope for the Le'Phoenix bloodline, and personal attendant to Jack Straticus. In spite of her lineage and lofty new moniker, she still felt like a lost little girl in Black Jack's presence. Every night she shared his tent in the bandits' elaborate underground cave system. Each night she went to him, naked and docile, and each night he speared her with his knobbed manhood, sometimes taking her forcefully, sometimes not. Just thinking of his craggy, scarred face caused her heart to beat in her chest, and her breath grew ragged. Early this morn, Jack had left the hideout to go on a secret mission, leaving her with his second-in-command, a crusty old veteran named Ornn, to lead this merchant ambush. As Dara studied the men below, a look of consternation passed across her pretty face. The black-robed leader did not look like a typical merchant, and his men-at-arms looked suspicious as well. Usually during these raids, the guardsmen were...noncommittal, almost to the point of laziness. These guardsmen looked...twitchy. Their fingers never strayed far from their weapons; their eyes never stopped moving and constantly made furtive glances into the trees lining the roadside. A feeling of dread foreboding welled up in Dara's chest, and for the first time in a long time she could almost taste fear. Fifteen longbow-trained bandits versus three ambushed men-at-arms and one measly merchant should be over quickly, and always had been in past raids, but Dara's heart skipped a beat none-the-less. The whippoorwill whistled again -- the signal for the bandits to begin firing. Dara drew her bow and sighted on the wagon driver's throat, and let loose, just as fourteen others did the same. At almost the same instant, the dark-skinned man barked something guttural in an arcane tongue. Dara sensed a shift in the air, and felt a strange crackling energy that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The bandits' arrows, instead of piercing mail and flesh and bone, sparked and cracked and snapped several feet from their targets, as if they had struck an invisible stone wall. The heavy wooden roof of the wagon burst off, and suddenly deadly red crossbow bolts were streaking through the air. Dara saw Ornn take a bolt in the eye, and he fell to the forest floor with a crash and a thud. All around her, Dara saw her fellow bandits fall, blood red shafts protruding from throats, chests, and guts. A bolt smacked into the tree trunk next to her head, and Dara ducked aside, trying to hide from view. Within seconds, all in her party lay dead and bleeding on the forest floor except Dara. Moans of pain and agony from her fellow crew filled the heavy forest air. The guardsmen strode through the trees, silencing the wounded with deft cuts and chops from their axes. The dark-skinned sorcerer looked up into the trees and his piercing eyes homed in on Dara. "Sssset down your weaponsss, girl, and come down here at once," he hissed, his evil serpent-like voice causing her to shudder in abject terror. Dara stood and turned as if to run into the trees. She knew if she could get even a small lead she could outrun these heavily-armored men-at-arms. The forest had become her haven; she knew every hillock, every stream, every deer path within leagues. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the black-robed man make a twisting gesture with his hand, and Dara's feet tangled. She fell, banging her skull hard on a knotted, gnarled oak root, and stars swam in her head. She attempted to scramble to her feet and run, but lurched head first into two massive, leather-studded thighs. A huge mailed hand, easily the size of a dinner plate, wrapped itself in her long hair and pulled her face back. She looked up into the visage of death itself. The man was easily seven feet tall, and as wide as a barn door. His impossibly wide chest and shoulders were covered in black-enameled spiked plate mail, and in one hand he held a huge hand-and-a-half bastard sword, dripping in blood and gore. His hair was long and black and stringy, his beard equally matted with grime and dirt. Deepset black eyes glittered down at her with a malignant ferocity, causing Dara to quake in fear. Grinning a black-toothed evil grin he motioned with his sword hilt toward his bulging crotch. "Loik what ye see, wench?" His monstrous cock traveled down the inside of one leg of his leather-studded pants and ended almost halfway to his knee. He chuckled and tugged her head back painfully. "Mebbe later ye can have some 'o that," he winked and proceeded to lead her down the hill towards the wagon. Dragging her by the hair, he pulled her in front of the dark-skinned man on the horse and threw her to the ground. The black-robed man was small and wiry, his skin almost stretched over his skull, as if he were a walking skeleton using borrowed flesh. Black arcane symbols and letters tattooed his face and pate, several of them glowing in the forest gloom. His eyes were completely red, with no discernable pupil. Dara's throat clenched with fear as he looked balefully down on her from his mounted perch. "Allow me to introduce myssself. I am known as Spector, persssonal sssorcerer to his eminence Rolf the Red. The greassssy giant is Captain Slade, Rolf'ssss personal enforcer. King Rolf requestsss your presence in High Reach. I believe he hasss planssss for you, young lady. He has planssss indeed." Spector ran his tongue over sharp, pointed teeth. Dara shuddered, feeling queasy. "Ssstrip her down and chain her inssside the wagon," Spector ordered. Within moments, Dara was naked and shivering, her hands manacled behind her. The men leered and made catcalls, and several ran their hands over her, pinching and prodding. One man ran a hand down the crack of her arse and thrust a saliva-wetted finger painfully into her anus. Slade pushed the men away roughly and bellowed, "All roight, then -- 'ands to yerselves. At camp tonoight she'll do 'er best to service yer needs. Fer now we 'ave a job to do." The men grumbled, but acquiesced. In all, Dara now counted seven men, including Spector and Slade. Seven men had just wiped out fourteen bandits in a reverse ambush. Dara was forced to acknowledge that these grizzled veterans were highly trained professionals -- not your run-of-the-mill rented guardsmen. "Danner, Grist, go get yer horses and fly to High Reach -- stop only to water yer mounts. Let Rolf know we 'ave the wench and are bringing 'er to him," Slade ordered, and two of the men hustled back down the lane. That left five men -- three armsmen and Slade and Spector. Dara gritted her teeth and pondered her predicament. Maybe she would find a chance to escape after she "serviced" the men... ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hours later, as night fell, Dara found herself sitting at the base of a great elm, her hands stretched around the trunk behind her, tied at the wrists. Impossibly sore and stiff and still naked, sharp bark scraped her tender back and her bum was aching from being rattled and bounced inside the wagon all day. She still looked as beautiful as ever, however, her golden hair cascading down in ringlets, partially obscuring her pert, rosy-nippled breasts. Her intent blue eyes shifted around camp, constantly observing, trying to find a weakness. The men were well-trained, unfortunately. They left no opportunity for escape, transferring her from wagon to campsite efficiently, albeit a bit roughly. The three guardsmen were called Gandling, Hamish, and Burly Snead. Each of them kept stealing glances at her while they set up camp, Snead even stopped to lift her chin and whisper threats. Casting a sidelong glance in the direction of Spector, he pinched Dara's nipple, hard. "Hungry wenchie? You'll get fed soon enough." He leered and grabbed his crotch and moved off to prepare some stew. After the men ate their fill, they crouched around the campfire and traded ribald jests in deep, hushed tones. Spector had disappeared into the forest soon after nightfall, leaving Slade in charge of the group. "Bout time to 'ave some fun, aren't it?" Slade called across the camp, motioning towards the naked, trussed girl. The three guardsmen got up and sauntered over, unlacing their breeches as they walked. "Can I lick her?" Gandling asked, his eyes traveling lasciviously up and down her nude form. "Aye, get her nice and wet for me," Slade growled from deep in the shadows across the camp. They untied her wrists from the back of the tree, and retied them tightly behind her back, allowing her just a bit more freedom. Gandling laid a thick, worn blanket down on the ground and laid down, his hands busying themselves in his trousers. Hamish and Burly Snead lifted her up effortlessly and set her down, her knees on either side of Gandling's face. She felt his hot tongue begin lapping at her folds, and she squirmed at his touch, already feeling herself go slick and wet. His tongue licked up and down, back and forth over her hairless cunny, and he slobbered and grunted with animal passion. Snead and Hamish presented her with their knobbed, veined cocks, and each grabbed a handful of her beautiful, golden hair. "Suck it, bitch," Hamish rasped, pulling her mouth over to his groin. He was relatively small in comparison to Bruno and Black Jack, measuring perhaps five digits in length. For a moment of wild-eyed desperation, Dara pondered her situation. If she resisted, she would probably be beaten and bloodied by her captors. If she relented and gave them what they wanted, perhaps later she could find some way to escape after they were sated. With a sigh of resignation she looked up into the one called Hamish's bearded face and slurped his steel-like cock into her mouth. Causing him to groan in appreciation, she lustily sucked his length down her throat, until his scratchy pubic hair pressed against her nose, his hairy balls tight against her chin. Using her tongue and throat muscles, she milked him until he gasped and forcefully pulled her tightly sucking mouth off his turgid knob. "Gods, she's good at that," he moaned, stroking his veined cock up and down. "Let me try," Burly Snead snarled, tugging her mouth over to his manhood. He too was shorter in length than Bruno or Jack, but what he lacked in length he more than made up in girth. His fat mushroom head was the size of a small apple, and pre cum poured out the end and down to his fat, hairy balls. Dara licked her way up his shaft, cleaning the salty treasure as she went, and swirled her tongue over the bulbous purple tip. Smacking her lips in feigned appreciation she attempted to swallow his girth and was able to get nearly half his length down her throat before gagging and retching. Making things even worse, Gandling's ever slurping tongue had found her sensitive anus and he was now thrusting it like a small stiff dagger in and out of her ass, causing her to squeal and shiver uncontrollably. Hamish and Snead began passing her mouth back and forth, from one cock to another, each one gripping her hair tightly in a fist, barely giving her time to breathe between sucks. They speeded up her slurping and she could feel the tension rising; Hamish's cock twitched several times in her mouth as she sucked him down to the root. After a few interminable moments he bellowed and held her down over his rock hard shaft and pumped her mouth with salty hot come. She swallowed as fast as she could, but some seeped out and dripped down onto her pert breasts. Gripping her painfully by the hair, he pulled her hot mouth up and down his shaft, all the while spurting wave after wave of endless hot sperm. Finally he was spent and staggered back toward the campfire and his bedroll. Snead leered down at her and pulled her mouth back to his enormous purple head. "My turn! Lick it, wench...swirl your tongue around the tip while I stroke it." "Don't you want me to stroke it for you," Dara asked between licks, her eyes narrowing. "I don't think so, wenchie, you just keep that tongue of yours moving." The salty taste of Hamish's thick come still in her mouth brought back memories of her captivity in Castle Olafson. Despite her revulsion in being forced to service the men, she couldn't help becoming intensely aroused, as some deep down animalistic part of her enjoyed the power of sucking cocks until her belly was full to bursting. Succumbing to her wanton lust, Dara's tongue flickered wetly over Snead's cock, and every so often she would steal a quick suck of the huge mushroom head, until it shined in the firelight. Snead pumped his fist up and down, his glittery eyes locked on Dara's licking tongue. Gandling, in the meantime, was lathing his own thick tongue up and down her steamy cleft, stopping every lick to focus his attention on her hard, engorged nub. Dara felt her first orgasm rising just about the time that Burly Snead exploded in her face. Hot come flew in all directions before she could get her mouth over his fat crown, and sperm splashed across her forehead and into her beautiful hair. She slurped and sucked him as he came, swallowing as much of his seed as she could. She groaned over the fat spurting head stuffed in her mouth as a powerful orgasm crashed through her, causing her to tremble and quake on Gandling's wet, sticky face. She thoroughly licked Snead's cock clean of any trace of seed, and finished by lapping at his spent, hanging balls. Finally he gasped and lurched back to his bedroll, collapsing in a heap. Gandling pulled himself out from under her and stood up, stroking his stiff manhood. His cock was about average, maybe a handspan in length, and curved sharply upward like a ripe banana. "Is she nice and wet for me?" Slade growled from across the campsite. "Yes, Cap'n, she's slicker than hot butter, thanks to me." Gandling puffed out his chest and ran his sleeve across his wet chin, which was dripping in nectar. Slade eased across the campsite, moving with a feline fighter's grace belied by his great bulk. He stopped a few feet from her and slowly unlaced his breeches. Reaching down into his pants, he pulled out the biggest, knobbiest cock Dara had ever seen. It was relatively narrow at the head, with a plumb-sized purple crown, but the shaft was long and thick with great red veins running down the sides. His massive balls hung low and swayed back and forth as he slowly stroked his great length. "Gand, grab me some 'o that suckling pig fat. I think we're gonna need it." Dara's eyes widened as she stared at the monster before her. She'd seen numerous cocks during her time in Olaf's prison, servicing men through the bars of her dank cell, but she'd never seen anything close to this size before. Even her gaoler Bruno's girth paled in comparison. She gulped in fear and felt her blood run cold. Slade slathered the pig fat up and down his massive cock, until he was shiny and wet and hard as granite. He then lay down on his back, his erection pointed obscenely up to the stars. "Roight then, climb on, wench." Dara froze in fear and cut her eyes toward the darkness around the camp, like a scared rabbit looking for an escape route. Cruel Gandling grabbed her by the hair and roughly pulled her up and kicked her feet apart. He positioned her until she was standing over Slade's massive cock, then pushed her down by the shoulders. Slade guided the fat, purple head to the comparatively tiny entrance of her slick, dripping cunt and pulled her down gently by the thighs. "I'll go slow fer ye, wench. We 'ave dozens of camps to go before we reach High Reach. Don't want to break ye on our first night out, do I." Slade slowly but firmly began to pull her up and down his manhood, his fat head plowing into her tight canal insistently. It hurt at first, but after a few additional generous dollops of pig fat and some time to get accustomed to his massive girth, she was finally able to slide most of him inside her. He slowly pounded her, his big, hairy balls slapping her pert little rear with every thrust. They got into a slow rhythm, and Dara could feel heat bloom in her lower stomach. Slade grunted with each upward thrust, and his hands pinched and pulled her nipples until they burned and throbbed. Gandling was forgotten until she felt his hand stroking up and down the crack of her arse. She felt something warm and slick brush her sensitive anus, and she clenched down as he thrust a finger into her rectum. She bit down on her lip and stifled back a groan and focused her attention on Slade's massive cock coursing in and out of her dripping snatch. Gandling's hands went to her shoulders, and his hot breath wafted across the back of her neck; seconds later she felt his sharp, hard cockhead nestle against her nether hole. "Don't try to run away, wench. Spector's out there, and if he gets you alone he might try to eat part of this delicious body," Gandling whispered in her ear as he cut the bonds tying her wrists. Dara collapsed on Slade's chest, her arms and hands tingling and numb. Slade stopped thrusting and waited while his cohort slowly but insistently thrust his sharp, rigid cock into her tight little anus. Dara flinched and whimpered and tried to relax her muscles, but it was hard to do with Slade's massive bulk filling her cunt. Finally, after a few moments of grunting and straining, Gandling was sheathed completely inside her, his strong hands gripping her shoulders roughly and pulling her back onto his cock. He leaned forward and whispered into her ear, his putrid breath almost making her gag. The Trials of Dara Firebird Ch. 06 "Nice and tight, just the way I likes it..." With that, they both began thrusting in earnest. Every time Slade would pull down, Gandling would thrust up, and vice versa, until she felt like a child's rag doll being tossed back and forth. They roughly pushed her and pulled her between them, building up speed and intensity. As if from far away, Dara could hear herself wailing and keening while the two men took their animal pleasure. Dara's hands each clutched a fistful of Slade's thick matted chest hair as she rode him, and sweat poured off her brow and into her eyes. Gandling grunted and thrust into her from behind and at one point he leaned forward and bit her fiercely on the shoulder, drawing blood. The pain had eased into a far corner of her mind, to be replaced with a hot, steady buildup in the center of her being. The tiny spark bloomed into another full blown crashing orgasm when Slade slurped her entire breast into his mouth. His scratchy, matted beard and hot flicking tongue and nipping teeth pushed her over the edge of the precipice and massive wave after wave of climax arced through her. Her nipples were on fire as Slade slurped wetly from one to another, causing her to lurch and spasm on both their cocks at once. Gandling was the first to lose it, as he bellowed and wrapped one fist in her golden tresses and pulled her back, hard, onto his twitching shaft. Smacking her pert, sinewy rear with his free hand she felt him explode into her arse, wave after wave of hot come filling her up. With Slade's massive bulk filling her up in front, the seed had nowhere to go, and spurted out the edges of her brown anus and ran down to coat the giant's huge, furry balls. Gandling thrust once, twice, three times, each one accentuated by a tug on her hair and a fierce smack to her rear. Finally he fell back and collapsed in a heap on the ground. "Great gods! She's a hellcat, she is, Cap'n," he gasped where he lay. At that very moment Slade grunted and she felt his massive bulk throb and grow impossibly bigger. He pulled her down onto his shaft, until his enormous balls pressed up against her arse and she felt him spasm once, then twice, and finally he exploded inside her. Another orgasm poured through her as his seed gushed into her womb in spurt after unending spurt. She had never felt anything like it, and his molten seed gushed out the edges of her ragged lips and cascaded down onto his muscular stomach and broad pelvis. She lay on his immense, wide, matted chest gasping for a moment while her entire body throbbed in ecstasy. Finally, she rolled off him onto the blanket and curled herself into a quivering sticky ball. She felt a hand grasp a fistful of her hair and pull her head up. She looked up into Slade's glittering black eyes and he smiled at her, showing a mouthful of missing and blackened teeath. "Yer not done yet, wench. You've got a roight big mess t' clean up 'ere." He gestured toward his groin and Dara saw that he was coated with sticky, warm come. Stomach in knots, she clambered to her knees and leaned down and obediently began licking him clean. Like a kitten at a saucer of milk, her tongue flickered in and out and she busily worked her way around his hirsute torso. Spending a liberal amount of time on his still half turgid cock, she slurped her way up and down his shaft until he gleamed in the firelight. Finally, she nuzzled his coated balls and using her mouth, tenderly sucked them dry of all of Gandling's dripping seed. "Well done, wench. King Rolf will be very pleased with you, indeed." With that, they manacled her wrists behind her back and threw her roughly into the back of the wagon, bolting her to the floorboards once again. Several hours later, she felt the wagon lurch slightly, and someone placed a warm blanket gently over her. A massive hand stroked her golden hair and Slade held one meaty finger up to his mouth. "Shhhhh..." he whispered, and just as quietly slipped out the back of the wagon. Dara's blue eyes glittered intently as she pondered this new twist. Stringing Slade along could prove useful -- or deadly -- in the long run. But it was a risk she'd have to take. THE END Part 7, coming eventually...