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A Fantasy Picaresque Ch. 01

By: TheWorldSpins



***Author's Note: I'm putting this story in sci-fi/fantasy because of the imaginary place/time, the presence of (a few) supernatural elements, and aesthetic similarities to pseudo-medieval sword and sorcery fiction. The series will have some non-consensual sex (usually described critically, though), some stuff that would probably fall under the fetish or BDSM category, and a good deal of material that is at least trying to be funny/satirical. Oh, and the protagonist is going to fuck a lot of married women. Enjoy!***

Chapter One: An Accidental Outlaw

One day I will have to thank my jailer, Antonio, for giving me the paper and pen to write my life's memories down, to provide a warning to men who might follow in my unfortunate footsteps. That day will have to come soon, though. because each morning Antonio kindly reminds me that the day of my execution draws ever closer.

You'll have to forgive me if I sail past that unhappy thought—I don't have much time left to tell the story of my life, and what a long and sordid story it is. Dear reader, if you dre follow my tale, I will show you how I, a simple farmboy, was forced to flee from my village, fell in with bandits, became a slave, a revolutionary, battled dragons, advised wizards, sailed the maiden sea, and finally came to await death in a castle in the clouds.

It may sound as if I am an extraordinary man, but nothing could be further from the truth. I was and remain a simple man, who could neither read nor write for most of his life. I have never been a great warrior, nor a holy man, nor a wizard, nor a man of great charm and wit. In fact, only one personal feature marks me as extraordinary, and it has brought me such grief and unhappiness that I do not hesitate to call it my curse.

I have a colossal cock. A massive member. A prodigious pole. 

I have often longed to be a normal man, with a normal cock, one that would nestle gently inside of a woman. Yet I have been cursed with this enormous dick, which practically drives women mad. At so many points in my unfortunate journey, I might have been able to find happiness and peace, if only I would have possessed an ordinary schlong. Bandit wenches, pirate queens, baronesses, witches, virgins, whores: women who behold my cock become entranced, and then the cycle of calamity begins again.

The tale of my misfortune begins in my eighteenth year. I was born on the estate of Baron Welkenschwanz, the lord of Braunloch Estate. My father and mother were stout, hardy souls, who never complained about their difficult lot in life. I was one of four children who had survived infancy, and all of us were healthy, cheerful, and well-behaved. My three siblings were diligent and hard-working; I, to be honest, was not.

We lived in the countryside, not far from the village of Sameneimer, where we would go to bring in our harvest for threshing and sell what little of our grain remained after setting aside our own stores and paying the Baron our land rents. In eighteen years, I had only set eyes upon the Baron at most once a year. 

In my youth, I had developed the enormous appendage of which I spoke earlier. Naturally, I feared for my future—how would I ever find a wife able to accommodate my unnatural length and girth? I discovered, however, that the village women, kind-hearted as they were, took pity on me. Many of the wives, moved as I believed by sympathy for my plight, took it upon themselves to help initiate me into the ways of love.

It began soon after I turned eighteen, when I was pitching in at a farm near our own, worked by a young couple, Amelie and Brom. It was not uncommon for neighbors to help one another out when work piled up, and I had been repairing the house's masonry when the lady of the house came in to thank me. Her husband was off to market—he was small of stature, and carrying the heavy stones to repair the hearth may have been beyond his capacity.

Dear reader, I swear I had no evil intent when I reached to offer my hand to her. I merely wished, with some courtesy, to bid hr farewell. Somehow, perhaps because of bad luck or perhaps a witch's curse, my hand made contact not with her hand, but instead with her left breast. It felt soft and fleshy in my hand, and Amelie was taken aback. Naturally I was mortified, but it was difficult for me to move my hand, once I had found her firm, supple tit.

She made to scream, but stopped when she looked down. Her eyes were riveted to my pants, and I felt intensely embarrassed to see that my member had come to life in the loose-fitting pants I wore. My secret was now out: Amelie saw my abnormally large and turgid cock, poorly disguised in my trousers.

Amelie bit her lip. In a moment, she had gone from appalled to curious, and she made no effort to move my hand from her breast. Instead, she leaned in closer, before placing her lips upon mine. Our kiss was soft and tentative, almost chaste had my hands not been now cupping both of her breasts. I felt her hand reach down my pants, though, and massage my throbbing, rigid dick.

"Is this even real?" she asked. "I didn't know they could be this big."

I had no idea what I was doing, of course, and Amelie was a married woman. I hoped she would guide me in what to do, and I wanted her to feel free to take the lead.

"You can take it out," I offered helpfully. "If you want to see it."

She broke our kiss and unceremoniously pulled my pants down. Her eyes never once left my stiff cock as she spoke.

"I shouldn't do this," she said, as she begun to stroke me. "But my husband's is so small. Promise you won't come inside me?"

I hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about, but I also didn't want this to end. I swore to her that I wouldn't, only asking that she tell me first if she thought I was about to. That way, I reasoned, I'd know to stop whatever I was doing.

I stood frozen, hoping I wouldn't be expected to take much initiative of my own. Amelie got down onto her knees and began to lick the shaft and head of my cock. The image of this older woman, on her knees and worshiping my cock with her mouth was captivating.

"I hope this thing will fit," she said, her voice betraying not uncertainty but a playful kind of desire. "Because I read somewhere that big ones feel better."

"You can read?" I asked incredulously. "How?"

"My father," she said in between licks, "isn't, you know, my father. I'm really the Baron's bastard daughter, and he taught my mother to read love manuals. I learned that way, too—from the Baron's tutor."

Of course, I could only faintly intuit what a "love manual" might be. Stories about me appear in more than a few of the newer ones passed under the bookseller's counter in far flung towns and cities today.

My lover, though, had clearly learned much from the love manual. Amelie took me into her mouth, as much as she could manage, and I could feel her spit running down my cock. Apparently satisfied that my cock was wet enough, she disrobed, and I was greeted with the sight of her full, pendulous tits, crowned with dark, hard nipples. Her sex hidden with dark hair, I had a sudden, powerful urge to throw her down and explore her, though I knew not where to look. Fortunately, she led me by the hand and laid me down in her marital bed. 

With my cock pointing towards the sky in her dainty hand, she cooed into my ear: "Just lay back and let me do everything. You don't even have to move."

For a moment, I saw a wince of pain mar her face as she climbed onto my prick and sank her wet pussy down onto it. I feared that I had done something wrong, but she let loose a low, satisfied moan as she descended onto me.

"I've never taken it this deep," she said, her voice an octave lower than normal. "You're filling me up."

Though I've since learned that women love a man to speak to them during sex, to tell them all the nasty, forbidden things he wants to do to them, I was just a beginner, and I was afraid of saying something wrong.

I lay, motionless, as Amelie rode me to her own orgasm, her body shuddering over mine as she collapsed against my chest.

"Are you about to come?" she asked me, and I struggled to find the right answer.

"No," I said, since I couldn't feel anything particularly dramatic happening to me.

Amelie's cunt felt like a warm, wet glove. She resumed riding me, her orgasm more a spur to greater effort than a true climax. I must have been filling her in a way she'd never felt before, because it wasn't long before the came again, only this time, I began to feel a startling feeling, one I'd never felt before. I had no way to describe it, but I gambled on assuming that this was what it meant to "come."

"I'm..." I stammered, "about to...come..."

Amelie leapt off me and fastened her mouth onto my cock, stroking it furiously. I felt my entire body pulse, and my balls tingled with anticipation. My eyes closed, and I unloaded, spurting my seed uncontrollably into her waiting mouth. I watched her throat contract as she swallowed my semen, and she continued to suckle the head of my cock long after it had stopped erupting in her mouth, as if she hoped to find a drop of precious honey.

Needless to say, I hadn't expected for things to end like that; when I came back months later to fuck Amelie again, she explained that she didn't want my semen staining her marital bed, making her husband suspicious. I always finished in her mouth, and not one drop of my fluids ever went to waste.

When I saw her husband Brom again, I couldn't help but feel a strange feeling of superiority over the diminutive man. Though he was a married householder and I a mere boy of eighteen, I knew that I'd had his wife and touched her in places he never could. For the first time, I wondered if there might not be some positive side to possessing a huge phallus, for I felt a kind of perverse joy in imagining his wife kissing him with the same mouth that I had filled with sticky cream. These kinds of thoughts, I know now, bred a dangerous overconfidence in me, naturally stoked by what happened after my first time with Amelie.

Of that, I will be brief: Amelie was not the last married woman whom I would fuck in the coming weeks and months. First, it was her friend Anna, a village woman whose husband was a cobbler. When he went to ply his wares in a distant town, I brought his wife, sweet, demure Anna, to ecstasy. She must have told her sister Iris, because within a week I was covering her cute, dimpled face with a healthy load of my sperm. From there, my reputation must have spread among the women in the countryside, because I frequently found myself acting as a spare hand on the farms and in the workshops of many men in the area. When the men were out of sight, though, my work was of a different nature.

I must admit, I enjoyed all of these trysts, perhaps too much. I learned to love the feeling of a warm, wet pussy around my prick, the sight of full jiggling breasts before my eyes as a woman writhed on me, and the feeling of releasing my aching balls into the mouths of my lovers. Dear reader, I know you must be asking the obvious question: is fornication not a disgusting, unpleasant experience? I too had always believed what my elders taught me, but I could not deny the plain facts: I loved to fuck.

What I didn't love was that I couldn't have the women all to myself. We had to keep our assignations secret, never easy in a small village, and afterwards, I had to leave them to their husbands. What was worse was that I could never fill their wombs with my seed; always I had to pull out and either cum on them or in their mouths. While watching a woman swallow my sperm was a tantalizing sight, I still longed to fill a woman up, to lock eyes with her as she felt my warm semen coating her fertile womb.

Despite the joys I felt fucking other men's wives, I decided I ought to find a girl my own age, who I could make my wife. I was old enough to marry, to receive a parcel of my own land, and to start my own family. When I told one of my lovers, Evelyn, about my plans, she laughed.

"So what, now you want to see how my husband feels?" she asked cruelly. "You get a wife and then you'll be the one waiting at home for a used woman."

Evelyn, a favorite of mine, had always been the picture of sweetness. At age thirty, she was a flaxen-haired beauty, whose feminine curves always stirred my cock. I loved to suck and to fondle her ravishing breasts, to bring her to the brink of bliss with my fingers only to make her beg for release, to stretch her tight box with my straining member. She was not one of the first women to comfort me when I confessed the terrible secret of my unusually large tool, though she was perhaps the most insatiable for my meaty cock. She had even put it all the way into her throat, to prove to me that it wasn't too big. It was out of character for her to be so harsh.

"Evie, honey, you know I want a family of my own," I said soothingly. "Why are you so angry?"

True to form, she began to cry and admitted that she was afraid I would no longer want to spend time with her. I took her into my arms and promised that I would never forget her and that I would never get tired of the feeling of her impaled on my throbbing dick.

Her fears of replacement assuaged, she began to tease me about the girls in the village and the surrounding countryside.

"Well, there's always little Rosalyn," she said with a devilish grin. "She beautiful, though I fear you'd split the poor girl in half."

"What about Magdalene?" I proffered. "She's got wide hips, and, well...you know?"

"True," Evelyn said smirking, "the girl's got a plump, round ass—one that every stable boy and farmhand in the village has stuffed with his cock. The last thing you need is to raise some bastard baby. What about Leona?"

I crinkled my nose at the suggestion.

"You call Magdalene a whore, but I've seen Leona stumbling home from behind the old mill with her face covered in sticky goo. There must have been seven—"

"Poor boy," Evelyn interjected, "don't you see? A beautiful girl like Leona must be careful to protect her virginity. Her father hopes to marry her to a townsman, not some poor farmboy like you. A girl caught out alone sometimes has to use her mouth when she wants to stay pure."

I had never thought of such things before. Though indeed I had bedded many women, all had been willing—indeed, it is fair to say that I was the one seduced, and not they. I felt a pang of regret for thinking of Leona as a wanton slut.

"Oh, I've got it!" Evelyn said, with excitement in her voice. "My cousin has a step-daughter, a sweet, gentle girl. She's perhaps less beautiful than Leona, but her father isn't expecting to marry her off to some rich man, and she'd no doubt be happy to wed you once she's seen your equipment."

Evelyn was always so sweet, though I at times felt a bit patronized when she tried to convince me of the ludicrous notion that women actually prefer an elephantine cock such as mine.

"What's her name?" I asked. "It's not Vera, is it?"

"The frog-eyed girl?" she replied giggling. "Certainly not! No, I'm talking about Ottilie. I can arrange for you two to meet."

In a village as small as ours, everyone knew everyone else, at least a little. Yet I had never spent much time with Ottilie and was eager to learn if she might be the one for me. Naturally, the most important arrangements would be concluded between our parents, but making a good match always in my experience required the marital couple getting to know one another first.

"How could I ever repay you?" I asked in mock deference to Evelyn, yet she evidently took my faux humility as an invitation.

"Do you remember that thing you did with your tongue? Well..."

***

Ottilie was, as promised, a sweet and delicate girl, and not unpleasant to the eye as well. She looked like a younger version of my first lover, Amelie, with brown, long hair and smooth, milky skin. Where the two women differed was, perhaps, in their figures: Amelie had larger, fuller breasts but was heavier everywhere else too, while Ottilie was of a slight build. To be honest, I had little preference between the two, as I had discovered the charm and pleasure to be found in women of a variety of shapes and sizes.

Ottilie professed to be a virgin, and throughout our courtship, I pledged to help her remain that way. Though we never rutted, she did learn to love the feeling of my tongue, as I'd become quite experienced with it. Despite her own inexperience, she quickly became adept at inhaling my member, and could take it almost as deep as the more experienced women who had come to love the feeling of my throbbing cock in their throats.

Perhaps, dear reader, you expect me to profess my true love for this delicate flower, but, to be honest, I could not muster any such feeling. In fact, in my lifetime I've come to a hard conclusion: love is an invention of romance stories. Since I could not read, and since I had never been raised on treacly stories of true love, I lacked the capacity for this great and noble feeling. Instead, I began to look upon Ottilie as a future wife and mother, and not in the way I felt about my married lovers. Though I was inflamed by passion for them, for ravishing their willing bodies and sating my lust in their flesh, my feelings for Ottilie were more protective and proprietary. 

In short, I saw her as a possession to be managed, and not a woman to love or even lust after. Before you condemn me, dear reader, recall that I was forced by concern for Ottilie's reputation never to fuck her. In another life, I would have made her a woman and become enchanted with her, living in bliss the rest of our days.

Instead, this waiting period only intensified my lust for the stable of village wives that I fucked. Had I the opportunity to make my way into the village, perhaps that lust would have been sated, and my boiling blood cooled. Unfortunately, it was harvest time, and my days and nights were filled with toil. True as always to the pledge every young boy makes when he kneels before the statue of the Holy Father—never to touch himself in an unclean manner—I was going mad. The relief I received from sweet Ottilie and her delectable mouth was enough to keep me from becoming truly desperate, but still did not suffice.

Though the marriage season was still a month away, I resolved to ask Ottilie to be my bride at the Harvest Festival, when the Baron set out an elaborate feast for all the peasants and artisans of the village. There would be food and wine, displays of faerie fire and smoke dragons, and the crowning jewel of it all, the Procession of Chronicles, when the Baron would spell out the momentous events of the year throughout the known world. The deeds of great and magnificent rulers, terrible calamities, and glorious military victories would all be recounted with great pageantry to the awestruck villagers, for whom the stories in the Procession might be the only knowledge of the wider world.

It was rare for everyone in the village and the countryside to come together at once, even rarer for outsiders to grace us with their presence. I saw faces that I did not recognize, men clad in unfamiliar clothing, bearing crests that signaled their residence in a town. I had never set foot within the walls of a town, though I'd often dreamed of breathing the free town air and seeing what wonders must lay within the stone walls of such a place. Undoubtedly, the townsmen must have come to pay homage to the Baron, who used the Harvest festival to make his presence felt in Sameneimer. At the time, I had no sense of how far the Baron's estates extended, though I later learned through hard experience that every inch of ground within a two days' walk of my village belonged in whole to him.

The one face I couldn't find belonged to my Ottilie. I saw her brother and asked him, as tactfully as possible, where his sister was, but he pled ignorance. I searched the throng, but after much effort, decided to widen my search. I tore through the narrow alleys of the village, looking for my girl, but to no avail. I had broken off the search in despair, when I heard a faint cry from the direction of the stables. Had I only dismissed this sound as the wind, perhaps I would be married, at home, as my wife and I cared for our children. Only at least one of them likely would not be mine.


A Fantasy Picaresque Ch. 01



I followed the cries to the stables, and discovered a horrifying sight: my Ottilie, flat on her back, with a flabby, hairy beast between her milky white thighs, thrusting away brutally. Assuming that a delicate creature like her could never have consented to such a violation, I grabbed the brute and flung him from my girl. Had he been some simple villager, I feel certain he might have crashed into the stable floor into a heap, bruised but more or less unhurt. This shabby creature, however, crumpled into a ball and seemed to be unconscious. In the moment after, I locked eyes with Ottilie, who had a look of fear and horror that I mistook at the time as stemming from her assault.

"What have you done?" she asked breathlessly.

I was angered—I thought I'd been rescuing her, of course. I looked at the man I'd tossed aside, laying in a heap several feet away. He was motionless, and when I turned him over, blood streamed from a cut on his forehead. He was badly hurt, though I assumed he would live. He was also dressed unusually well.

"Do you know who that is?" she asked me hysterically. "It's the heir to Braunloch! Baron Welkenschwanz's son! He'll have your head for this!"

Her words rang true immediately, and I knew my life was over. Yet I couldn't conceal my disappointment, that Ottilie would not offer any appreciation for my act of heroism.

"Well, if I'm dead," I huffed, "I'd at least like a 'thank you' for rescuing you from this beast."

She looked at me with narrowed eyes. She seemed to think for a moment before speaking.

"I suppose it doesn't matter now that you're a dead man," she said, in a voice that sounded as if it came from someone else. "I'm no virgin. Pavel has been plowing me since the day I turned eighteen. He may not have your tool, but he has...other things to offer."

At this moment, I felt a sick kind of relief that I had never truly fallen for Ottilie. That did little to lessen the sting I felt, knowing she'd strung me along only to sleep with the Baron's son behind my back.

"So you would marry me and have me care for this fat sack of manure's bastards, eh?" I asked bitterly. "You're quite the whore, Ottilie."

"Says the man feeding his donkey cock to half the village wives," she replied. "Women talk, you know. I would have happily been your wife and let you have your fun, if only you would have let me have mine. Pavel's money could have helped us, and all I needed to do to get it was let him stick his puny member in me whenever he wanted. Once you'd stuffed me with that monster, I doubt I could have even felt Pavel's little thing any longer."

I was dumbstruck by the cynical, but undeniable logic of Ottilie's diatribe. She had never been the delicate flower I'd assumed. Had Evelyn known that all along? I hadn't the time to consider such matters—my life was all but forfeit if I couldn't escape the village while I had time. The fat man, his pants still bunched around his ankles, began to moan.

"Ottilie, I'm a dead man if I don't run. If you have any sympathy for me at all, help me to escape."

Though her mercenary good sense should have told her to leave me to my fate, she must have harbored some residual affection for me, her erstwhile husband to be.

"Take his horse and flee. Stay off the roads and head over the heath towards Sicherburg. You'll be safest in a town, if you can find a way to get inside the walls."

"What should I do for food?" I asked.

As a farmer, I had always occupied my time tilling and harvesting. I'd never touched a bow or blade, and had no capacity for hunting or knowledge of which foods in the wild were safe and which harmful. Ottilie rose, straightening her rumpled skirts, and strode purposefully towards the quivering heap beside me. Rolling Pavel onto his back, she pulled off his signet ring and handed it to me.

"No honest man will accept such a thing as payment," she told me ominously, "but most men you meet out in the wild won't be honest. Take his dagger, too. Oh, and one last thing—never come back here."

My pride was wounded, though in truth Ottilie's quick thinking did indeed save my life. I seized Pavel's dagger and set out on his horse, leaving behind everything I'd ever known to flee for my life into the unknown. I had a pang of regret—what if he couldn't identify me? Could I have stolen back into the crowd, watched the displays of magic and feasted, hoping that the Baron's son would never speak of the incident out of embarrassment? 

I'll never know how that would have turned out. Because I ran, I betrayed my guilt in the assault on the Baron's son. Such a crime against a noble would have undoubtedly been punished with death. Yet death still hovered over me, as I fled on horseback, unsteady in the saddle. As I bore down, ever westward on the way towards Sicherburg, my mind raced. 

I had become, quite by accident, an outlaw. I knew not what fate would have in store for me now.



A Fantasy Picaresque Ch. 02



***Author's note: This chapter doesn't have a ton of sex, but it sets up a crazy chapter to come. Here, there's only voyeur/masturbation. Hope you enjoy our hero's new companion and stick with the series as it progresses. Votes and comments are always read and appreciated. Oh, and everyone in this fantastical pseudo-middle ages tale would be of age in our world, naturally.***

Chapter Two: The Horse Thief

Clutching the chestnut brown steed with white-knuckled hand, I careened through the village streets and alleys until I reached the open road. After following it for a moment, I broke off the path, following Ottilie's instructions to avoid the byways and follow less traveled baths on the route to Sicherburg. The thundering sound of hooves against the damp earth blended with the beating of my heart, like two drummers competing to outdo one another.

I had never before ridden, though of course I had seen it done. Fortunately, my purloined horse was a gelding and calmer than most stallions. As much as my life has been ill-fated, I must confess that I have at the very least been granted one lucky trait, a certain knack for quickly picking up skills and abilities. Without this innate aptitude, I would have been thrown from the beast for certain; moreover, had I not learned to read and write quickly, I would never been able to write the chronicle before you, dear reader.

As I sped past empty farms, their inhabitants still at the Harvest revels, I could not help but feel, intermingled with terror, a certain kind of unexpected joy. I had never nourished any hope of leaving the countryside. Now fate had led me to flee for refuge from the swift and savage punishment I could expect from the Baron for assaulting his son. Though my emotions were boiling over, I can confess a certain thoughtlessness; perhaps my horse was galloping too quickly for my brain to keep up.

I had no idea of how long it would take me to reach Sicherburg; I knew that, taking the byways, a laden oxcart took three days to reach the city gates. I had yet to devise a plan to get through those gates, either. The Baron's signet ring certainly wouldn't buy my way inside—I would need to seek out dishonorable men and make a trade first. Hopefully, I could find men with enough honor to trade with me fairly, but not so much that they would be above accepting goods stolen from the Baron's family.

After riding for hours without seeing a single soul, I was exhausted and finally pulled the reins and clambered off Pavel's horse. Though I was, as I said, not an experienced horseman, I certainly knew enough to find it funny that the Baron's son, who should have been born in the saddle, rode a mild-tempered, castrated horse. 

I was, by then, powerfully hungry, and feared that it may be some time before I would see food again. I contemplated chasing down some wild creature in the forest and pouncing on it with my dagger, but the prospects of success seemed so remote and the risks of tangling with a wild beast too dire to follow through with such a desperate plan. Once my horse was tied up, I decided that, at the very least, I ought to search for a stream with fresh water. If I was lucky, I might even find wild berries growing along the creekside. Though I knew the danger of eating poison berries in the wild, I had, as a young boy, once run off with a small gang of other children to escape work and to drink some of the apple wine that we made in secret with apples snatched from the Baron's orchards. For a boy of seven, apple wine was quite powerful, and thus my memories were suspect where they were not altogether absent. Nevertheless, I recalled how the little blackberries looked that we ate, and hoped that memory would be enough to help me find something to eat.

It took me twenty minutes or more to find a stream, and, like a man finding an oasis in the desert, I leapt head first towards the clear, swift-moving water to drink. The cool, refreshing water reinvigorated me, and I felt a sudden rush of confidence. I even let myself daydream for a moment about life in the town. Perhaps I could find an apprenticeship and make a life for myself in the town. With so many people so close together, I might even find new women to bed and a wife of my own.

Thinking back on Ottilie, I tried to conjure happy memories of her. Yet all my good memories of her were...similar.

I tried to recall her smile, but in my mind her mouth was stretched around my hard cock. I couldn't recall her laugh, but I remember her moaning as she swallowed my cum. I remembered her crying out as I spanked her bare ass, and I remembered the look of fear mingled with lust when she first laid eyes on my prick. While I was with her, I thought of her as a future wife and piece of property; now that I was away from her, I could only think back on her as a fantastic cocksucker and a wild flower that I never had the chance to pluck. 

Missing out on fucking her was ironically made less painful by the knowledge that she wouldn't have been a virgin anyway. Perhaps I should have felt betrayed, but in fact I couldn't begrudge Ottilie for her dalliances. Had I known, we may have even become true friends; in my journeys, one truth I have learned beyond the shadow of a doubt is that men and women can indeed become friends and companions, provided they are fucking other people as well.

Once I had my fill of water, I rose to return to my stolen horse. I had no supplies to make camp, no food, not even a canteen to fill with water. I would have to get by with hopes, memories, and dreams that night, until I could find the scoundrels I desperately needed. I took a long, winding route home, hoping to spot berries I could eat. Unsuccessful and hungry, I was almost back to my horse when I heard rustling that was louder than the sounds of birds or insects. I crouched down and crept towards the clearing. 

Shrouded by trees, I could see a small, shadowy figure beside my horse, and I feared the worst: someone was looking for me. I faced a difficult choice: flee now, cry out at the figure, or ready to attack with my dagger drawn. I inched forward, dreading the moment of truth that was soon to come. Needless to say, I had never killed before; it was as likely, I thought, that I would be disarmed and run through with my own dagger as anything else. Fleeing would mean my journey would be even slower, and I was already facing the forbidding prospects of foraging for food on my own. I knew my choice.

"You, over there!" I cried out. "Who are you?"

The figure turned towards me, and for the first time I could see that it was in fact a girl, probably no more than twenty. She froze, and turned to run, though she had barely proceeded twenty paces before her foot caught in a knotty root and she tumbled to the ground. By that time, I had sprung into a race and was on her in only a moment.

"Who are you?" I repeated, towering over the prone girl.

I felt much safer seeing the slight, feminine figure beneath me. There was no chance she could best me in a straightforward physical brawl, and she appeared unarmed.

"Stay back!" she cried out. "You won't take me back to them!"

"Who are you?" I demanded.

The girl, whose hands had been raised in defense, lowered them slowly. With icy blue eyes as large as saucers, she looked into my eyes intensely, as if she was searching for my true nature inside. For a moment, I feared that I had stumbled upon a witch, bent on enthralling me to her nefarious will. Fortunately, she was but an ordinary girl.

"Kali—that's my name. I was taken by bandits. They killed my father and kept me."

"Where are these bandits?"

Kali hesitated.

"I'm not going back! They'll never own me."

Naturally, I had no intention of returning her to the bandits. I was on the hunt for dishonorable men, but bandits were beyond dishonorable. The heart of a thief may yet be red, but a bandit's heart is blacker than coal. I was certain that murder, not trade, would be the result of my coming into contact with such men.

"I don't want to take you anywhere," I told her, "but I can't have you stealing my horse either."

Kali continued to search my face, hoping for signs, I assumed, of my trustworthiness.

"This isn't your horse, farmboy," she replied. "You're as much a thief as they are—but maybe not a killer? Could we deal?"

My spirits rose. While she was occupied trying to determine if I was trustworthy, I elected, perhaps foolishly, to trust Kali implicitly. To be honest, I was trusting my stomach as much as my heart—she seemed to know her way around the forest, and I prayed she might have food with her.

"Let's talk, then. Is it safe to remain here?" I asked her.

She shook her head.

"They move throughout the forest, sometimes at night. They camp near crossroads and wait for travelers to spring their traps. There's a village not far from here, Sameneimer. If we—"

"We can't go there," I interjected. "It's...not safe either."

She scrutinized me further, as if reading my thoughts.

"You know who I am—who are you?"

Of course I couldn't tell her what brought me here. I stalled.

"A name isn't much. Maybe nothing at all. Tell me who you are, not just your name, and I'll tell you my story," I said.

"Like I said," she hissed, "it's not safe here. We should ride away from their camp. They'll be looking for me."

I suddenly regretted the way in which I'd inadvertently agreed to accompany her. Now she was hitching a ride on my horse, while I exposed myself to the risk of bandits. As we swiftly rode off, Kali fell silent. It wasn't until almost an hour later, when we stopped to rest, that we resumed our conversation.

"I've changed my mind," she said. "Your story first, before I tell you more of mine. You're the thief after all."

I wasn't happy about that, but I decided a few helpful lies might gain me sympathy.

"I'm an outlaw from the village—the one you wanted to flee to. The Baron...murdered my wife and I...killed his son in revenge. I'm fleeing to Sicherburg. My...uncle has promised me safe harbor there."

Kali drew her shoulders in close.

"You're lying," she said, almost in a whisper, before her brow furrowed. "But we can go to Sicherburg all the same."

She was quiet for a moment before speaking again, with great intent.

"You've never killed anyone," she said with certainty, "but you've got quite a dagger. You robbed the Baron—are you trying to join a Bandit clan?"

I knew nothing of joining bandits; for all I knew, bandits were born and not made. I swore I had no intentions of the sort, and Kali seemed to accept that. The longer she spent in my presence, the more relaxed she appeared to be. I must have seemed so lost and naïve that I wasn't a threat. Now it was my turn to determine what help she might be.

"Kali? Do you...ummm...know how to get there? I mean, without getting too close to the bandits?"

"You're not much of an outlaw, are you?" she asked.

"I'm new at this."

"Yes, I can guide you there, and show you how to find food. You didn't have any here," she replied. "This gelding's strong—makes sense it's a nobleman's. Let me ride with you, camp with you, and I'll lead you to Sicherburg in one piece. Just...stay by me and don't let them take me back."

How a girl knew much more than I about the forest, about towns, and about bandits was a stone I'd need to leave unturned for now. She'd broken her promise to tell me more about herself, and I let it pass without protest. All I could think about was her finding food. 

We set off again shortly after, this time with me in front. It wasn't long, however, before my limitations as a rider were too glaring to ignore. We traded places, and suddenly our pace picked up measurably. Naturally, I felt self-conscious riding behind Kali, though wrapping my hands around her waist was its own kind of pleasure. For the first time since we'd met, I took a moment to really see her.

She looked underfed, but pleasant nonetheless: not much to hold on to when riding her I assumed, but a pretty face, with a cute button nose and sandy brown freckles that matched her long, tangled hair. Bandits must not have combs, I recall thinking. She had a kind of feminine grace that was easy to miss unless one got the opportunity to ride with her.

Once in the saddle, all memories of the fearful cowering girl I'd first encountered were irretrievably gone. Kali had an air of natural control. She seemed almost instinctively to know how to guide the beast beneath us, to avoid the roots and tangles that had forced me to ride in comparative languor. Seeing the speed with which she rode, I knew it had been a stroke of fortune to have discovered her. I could forgive her for trying to steal my stolen horse; like me, she had needed to beat a hasty escape. 

Over the sound of hoofbeats, I called to her, "How much longer?"

"We'll camp tonight, and make the gates by tomorrow evening," she cried.

We rode on until the sun began to fade, and then Kali brought us to a halt, by the side of a stream. As we dismounted, I admired the view of her lean legs and tight little ass. I felt fairly certain an inhumanly large cock like mine would never fit in such a little thing.

Beyond the purely physical, I was curious about her story as well. Neither of us had disclosed much; she had even saw through my story as a lie. Through force of circumstance we were brought together: she needed my horse and I needed her skills as a navigator. My decision to trust her had been not much of a decision at all, and her promise of finding food was as much to blame as her proficiency on horseback.

"I heard that," she said, smiling for the first time at the sound of my growling belly. "I haven't forgotten."

I saw her smile for the first time, her teeth glistening white. She was no beggar or laborer's daughter, that was certain.

"Well, if you wouldn't mind," I said sheepishly, "it would be nice to get some food before trying to turn in."

Kali looked at me incredulously.

"There's a lot more work before that. What, are you going to sleep on the ground?"

Now it was my turn to look at her in amused surprise.

"Well, yes. I've done it hundreds of times."

Here I must reflect on the marvels of writing. Dear reader, you may hail from any sort of land imaginable, and it seems only natural for me to describe the climate of my homeland. Suffice it to say that sleeping under the stars was a not uncommon pastime of young children, who grew up accustomed to slumbering upon nothing more than a bed of dry leaves. The warm autumn wind had not yet given away to winter's cold, though still quite mild bite.

"Well...I'd like some cover. We could try to build a...a structure," she said, the realization slowly dawning that her plan was comically unpromising.

"So you're a builder as well as a horseman...er...horsewoman?" I said in jest. "You can make my cabin small. I'd hate to get too greedy."

Kali looked angry, though I couldn't tell how serious she was.

"Don't treat me like I'm stupid," she snapped. "I've never slept in the open. It doesn't seem safe."

"Well, it's not safe," I demurred. "There are bandits and beasts, possibly even witches. I'm only saying that nothing we put together will protect us from any of that. We're better off eating and setting off at sunrise."

"Witches? I was right about you being a farmboy!" she exclaimed. "Only farmboys go around blaming their misfortune on witches. Oh, the cow's kicked it, the corn's gone to rot—let's blame Mother Death—"

"Don't say her name!" I cried. "She hears everything!"

Kali returned to laughing at my superstition. Everyone I had ever known knew not to speak the name of the Queen of the Witches. I suppose it was an improvement over having her mad at me, but not much of one.

"Can you build a fire?" she asked.

I was thankful to change the subject to one that would get me fed.

"That I can," I said, happy to finally be able to contribute more than my stolen horse.

"Good, then you're not hopeless. I'll be back..." Kali trailed off.

I realized then she was considering the prospects of being recaptured.

"We need food," she said slowly, as if the words were a confession. "And we need a fire. I'll help you gather wood, if you come with me afterwards to gather food."

It seemed like a fair trade, as I had no desire for us to separate, regardless of how much more we might have accomplished at our allotted tasks. Without an ax, we were limited to collecting fallen branches, which were fortunately plentiful. I carted the branches back while Kali scavenged for edible roots and berries; with my dagger and a truly ingenious display of trap building, we even had a rabbit to share that night.

Though we ate and shared the warmth of the fire, there was little real warmth between us. The women in my life had always been sweet, willing lovers, who needed and wanted a strong man. I thought about Kali, fragile, winsome, yet also whip-smart and independent. Falling into the clutches of bandits was awful for men, certain death. What could it mean for a beautiful girl who clearly sought freedom above all else?

We spoke not of the threat of bandits, though it hung over us. I even thought about the Baron's men, prowling the byways in search of me, if only to make my decision to traverse the forest seem less foolhardy. 

"What are you going to do in town?" she asked me out of the blue.

"I don't know," I replied, instantly regretting my answer.

"What about that uncle of yours?" she replied, seizing on the whole in my fabricated story. "He doesn't have any plans for you?"

"Ummm, no," I replied gracelessly. "He's got a spare room for me, though, and friends who could always use a pair of strong hands."

"Well, I'll be glad to return to civilization," she replied, "and to get there without a Bandit's mark."

Not for the last time, I had no idea what she meant, and told her as much.

"You must have never poked your head very far into the world," she replied, though without malice. "Don't you know what bandits do?"

"They rob, and they kill. I suppose they sell their stolen goods to someone or other. I've never met a bandit." 

"Lucky for you," she replied. "You've got it partly right. They rob men and, yes, kill them too. But women they kidnap. And then they play their games."

"Games?" I asked.

"Games," she replied, her voice twisted with hate. "They'd sooner slit a man's throat than shake his hand, but with ladies they take a sick pleasure in making us surrender willingly. When a bandit's got you, he makes you earn your food, earn your bed, earn your passage. And you can't get away, unless you let them mark you."

I couldn't see how this made for much of a game.

"So they'll let you go if they mark you? Why not just let them mark you?"

Kali looked appalled. I must have offended her.

"Can I call you stupid without hurting your feelings too much? A marked woman has no future. No life, save for whoring. Never to marry, never to do honest work, never to be a part of anything. You're scared of witches? Look for a bandit's mark on a witch and ask her if she turned to the dark arts after her own mother and father cast her out. It's not fair, but it's the way it's always been. I'm not getting marked. That's why I've got to get free. It's freedom, being a bandit's wench, or the mark."

The depth of bandits' malevolence ought not have surprised me, but I nonetheless felt a wave of revulsion. I liked Kali and felt a little pride that perhaps my help might spare her the fate of such unhappy women. Yet, there was one aspect that I didn't fully grasp yet.

"Not to bring up bad memories, but what's the other choice. What's a bandit's wench?"

Evidently, Kali had lost the ability to be surprised at my ignorance. She took a deep breath, searching, I suppose, for the right words.




A Fantasy Picaresque Ch. 02



"So young," she said, shaking her head. "Bandits...when they take a woman, they tell her the deal. Leave with a mark, or stay without one. Only when you stay, they...they make you do things. Not, you know, with a knife, or by force. It's like I said, they'll run a man through with a blade at the slightest offense, but for them the game is making a woman surrender her virtue, whether she wants to or not. They can be...persuasive."

"And that's what they did with you?" I asked.

"I'm a fighter," she replied. "Sometimes, I even win. But these bandits have another. She's older and never puts up a fight—hell, she's marked. She left and came back."

Kali paused while I tried to wrap my mind around that strange fact.

"Like I said, farmboy, your own family will leave you to starve if you're marked. She—Lina—I guess she found out that life with bandits was the best of a lot of bad options."

I pondered Lina's fate for a while, though the exertions of the day and my full stomach were making me drowsy. Kali could see the look in my eyes, and I noticed it forming on her face too.

"How do we do this?" she asked. "We shouldn't leave the fire going, but I'm cold. Are you sure we couldn't scrounge up some cover."

"You're free to do as you like. When we were kids, we always slept against each other to stay warm. It won't get that cold tonight, I promise."

Kali eyed me warily. I knew as soon as I spoke that my words might seem a ruse to get her to sleep against me. To be honest, I did wonder how her body would feel against mine, though I had no intention to stoop to the level of a bandit and force myself upon her. She made her mind up eventually.

"Don't try anything," she said uneasily. "I'm stronger than I look."

"I believe you," I said. "Besides, you're the one who knows the way."

As the fire gave away to merely smoldering embers, she did nestle against me, her soft body working its magic the way women do. Within a minute, my cock sprang to life.

"Very funny, farmboy. You're not fooling me," she said in jest.

Confused, I asked her what she meant, and she reached backwards to flick my cock. I howled in pain, and she spun around.

"Are you...? Was that real?"

"Of course," I replied, rubbing my sore prick, "haven't you ever felt a cock before?"

"A man's cock, yes—a giant's cock, no!"

I was hurt; once more, my physical curse had brought me embarrassment. Kali asked to see it, still in partial disbelief. Since she had been so good to me thus far, I complied, though her immature giggles and comments didn't help my confidence.

"That thing must split girls open, huh farmboy?" she said sarcastically. "No way you're comin' anywhere close to my snatch with that monster."

I stirred to put my cock away shamefacedly before Kali touched my arm and asked me to stop. She wanted to see my spurt, though I was not to point it at her. I agreed and took hold of my engorged member, stroking it while imagining little Kali's ripe young ass bouncing in front of me. Kali couldn't stop laughing, though by now she seemed to be cheering me on.

"I know why you're running, farmboy—you put that big thing in the Baron's daughter, didn't you? Now she's all stretched out and Duke Tinycock can't feel her worn-out cunt anymore!"

I didn't talk; I jerked. My hand was a blur, and I felt a strong urge to impress Kali.

"God, farmboy, you're such a sweet little thing. Who'dve known you were packing such a blade?"

I felt a strong urge to shut Kali up by cramming myself into her mouth, and I think she could read my mind.

"Tempting, farmboy, but I'd like to stay tight enough to snag a man. Besides, I only have a big mouth figuratively."

I realized that Kali wasn't being mean, but rather playing around, as if we were old friends. I relaxed and begin to enjoy pleasuring myself for her even more. We were both acting foolish, and the delightful feeling of playing with my cock only made me less cognizant of my surroundings. Kali's laughs and my moans were getting louder, and when I felt my climax coming, I was in no shape to respond to Kali's sudden, frantic request that I stop and look around. 

"Do you hear that?" Kali whispered, fear quickly overtaking the jocularity in her voice. "Get that dagger."

As my cock erupted, showering the ground by our campsite with my seed, I heard from behind us both a sinister voice.

"Quite a weapon," the cruel voice said. "—dagger's nice, too."

From out of the shadows, a second voice called out. Kali had begun to cry, her tough exterior crumbling in the face of the bandits.

"Kill 'im—take back the slut."

I felt a sharp pain in my skull, and everything went black.



A Fantasy Picaresque Ch. 03



The pain in my head was excruciating as I woke to the sound of laughter. The sun streaming through the trees told me I had been unconscious for hours. There were tents—miserable looking things, really, and a cauldron rigged above a dying campfire.

I had to be in the bandits' camp. I tried to move, but I had been lashed to a tree. Why I remained breathing was a mystery—was I actually still alive? I decided quickly that being dead wouldn't hurt so much. Time was hard to gauge; I stared at the empty campsite from my fixed vantage point for what may have been an hour, my mind drifting in and out of a dreamlike state of deliriousness. I could see a basket of bread and a flagon of some kind of drink on a stump near the fire pit, and looking at it made me almost weep.

Though I'd eaten once the previous day, I was already ravenous. The hunger helped me to focus, and my wits had just started to return to me when I heard the bandit company's voices approaching.

"I'm just sayin', Mr. Block, I haven't run one through in months. I think it's my turn—"

"There ain't no turns, Mr. Pitts, 'cause there ain't no law. You run him through, if'n you want to tangle with me after. "

"I've no mind to scrap, Mr. Block. Only, well, Mr. Booker's washed his hands red with the slag's daddy, and here I am all clean."

"Clean's one thing I wouldn't accuse you of, Mr. Pitts."

"Besides, mate, it wasn't planned, you see. Killin' 'im was a sort of happy accident, I'd say."

The bandits numbered four. The one called Mr. Block wore a black rag over his head, tied in the back. A brown vest, marked with white notches, covered his torso, with a filthy brown shirt underneath. Mr. Block's face didn't betray a bandit's cruelty—if anything, he looked like every petty town councilor or Baron's man you'd ever seen.

Mr. Pitts was shorter and thin as well, with the mad energy of a rodent but much uglier. He looked as if he'd crawled out of the earth, so filthy was he, with the shrill voice one might expect given his pinched little face.

Mr. Booker was as hairy as a sheepdog, but without the redeeming loyalty, cheerfulness, or honest employment. He had the kind of airy joviality only found in good-hearted buffoons and soulless killers.

The fourth man, as yet unnamed, was silent. His hawk-like face and intelligent manner made him look both nobler than his companions yet also vastly more dangerous.

I looked around for Kali, but didn't see her. Mingled in with the bandits was a woman I could only assume to be Lina, the bandit wench of whom Kali had spoken. I took her for a woman of thirty-five, with a ruddy complexion, chestnut brown hair tied up in a bun, and heavy bosoms made for suckling. She seemed perfectly calm around the bandits, and I could easily fathom that she'd been their personal whore of sorts for some time.

"Alright, honey tits," Mr. Booker told Lina, "Make us some bacon and beans, and quick. We're movin' today."

"Yes, sir—ohhh," Lina squealed, as Mr. Booker slapped her ass, hard. "Breakfast first today, sir?"

"Yes!" interjected Mr. Pitts. "I'm fucking starving. You can get your breakfast when we're done."

Thus far little attention had been paid me, though that was about to change. The fourth man, the one who had yet to speak, noticed I was awake. An elbow to Mr. Block's ribs later, and the pair of them walked menacingly towards me.

"You're a lucky one," Mr. Block said, with an unctuous grin. "Most days you'da run dry by now. Don't worry, boy, we'll put holes in you yet, if'n you won't dance for us."

I was beyond confused—why would a bandit want me to dance? I didn't even know how. Perhaps the fourth man read my expression, because he spoke, for the first time. His voice was soft, calm, and measured, almost reassuring, which made it all the more unnerving.

"Boy, tell me about this," he said, holding up the Baron's signet ring. "Where'd you get it?"

My mind raced. The truth would reveal my outlaw status, but these men were outlaws, too. A clever lie, though, might enable me to gain some advantage. If only I could think of one.

"It belonged to Baron Welkenschwanz's son. I took it from his body after...after I knocked him out. I'm running away from Sameneimer to escape the Baron's justice," I stammered, more or less adhering to the truth.

The fourth man eyed me warily.

"And then you tried to steal our wench? You're a brave one—stupid, but brave, to steal from barons and bandits."

Without thinking of the consequences, I blurted out, "She tried to steal my horse!"

I felt guilty immediately, as if I was harming Kali to save myself. Mr. Block whispered into the fourth man's ear.

"Boy, I believe you. I really do," the fourth man said. "Only, thing is: we can't be havin' our spoils...well, spoiled. We caught you...disciplinin' that one-eyed monster of yours near ourwench, and there's a price for that."

The sudden onrush of terror blotted out any capacity for guilt in me. Kali would have to save herself, as it appeared these bandits meant to do me in.

"Monster?" Lina asked curiously. "You sayin' 'e's got a big one?"

"Fuckin' massive," Mr. Pitts said, before Mr. Block struck him hard in the ribs. "What was that for?"

"Don't make the whore all sloppy for 'im," he warned, "'fore she goes off tryin' to ride him the next chance she gets."

"I never touched Kali...I mean, your wench, sir," I protested. "She merely wanted to see my...shameful disfigurement."

The bandits had a hearty laugh. Perhaps, I thought, I might amuse them such that they'd elect to keep me alive.

"It's a terrible affliction," I averred. "I...I do confess I might have brought about the untimely end of a few sheep back in my village."

The bandits laughed, save Mr. Pitts, who needed Mr. Booker to explain my jest to him before he grasped its wit.

"Clever boy, this one," Mr. Booker proclaimed. "Only, as I see it, the clever rarely find their way into a bandit forest."

My mind, at that tender age as yet unaccustomed to strategic thought, was barely up to the task of concocting a scheme. Yet I soldiered on blindly, hoping to hit upon a means of salvation.

"I mean to join you," I blurted out finally..

They looked at me expectantly. I would need a story.

"I...ummm...well...when the Baron's men...I mean to say..."

"So you stole the ring as a masterwork, eh?" the fourth man queried.

Not knowing, of course, what a bandit might consider a "masterwork," I nevertheless plunged onwards.

"Yes, sir, yes. A masterwork indeed," I chirped eagerly.

"Well," he said almost paternally, "it's not a bad first go at it. Perhaps there's hope for you yet."

Perhaps, I thought. It was just then, for the first time, that I heard the sounds of high-pitched, muffled screams. Kali was there.

"That means breakfast, boys," Mr. Booker exclaimed with glee. "How's the food, wench?"

Though the men were casually possessive and degrading to her, Lina seemed to bear their affronts with paradoxical good cheer.

"Good and hot today," she cried out. "And not a moment to soon."

The bandits left my vicinity to take their places around the campfire, all save the fourth man, who entered one of the tents and retrieved the bound figure of my erstwhile travelling companion, Kali. She kicked, as best she could, against her restraints, but if a bandit knows one thing, it's how to tie a knot. Kali was held fast, helpless against the bandits' depredations no doubt to come.

"Now, don't you try closin' yer eyes this time," Mr. Pitts admonished. "Else this'll take all day."

Kali was dumped unceremoniously on the ground alongside Mr. Block, who began to devour a side of bacon. Even from my vantage point, I could see how ravenously hungry Kali appeared. My own stomach was tied up in knots, and I knew at that moment that I would sell my soul to Mother Death for a bite of the beans grubby Mr. Pitts was shoveling into his greedy maw.

The men took their time eating, enjoying their filling breakfast perhaps more demonstratively than necessary. It was then that I realized the meaning of their meal: they were taunting Kali. The source of the bandits' persuasion was no spell or charm, but rather the simple facts of slow starvation. No wonder Kali looked so thin, unremitting rebel that she was.

I watched with a mixture of horror and desire when Mr. Block scraped the remains of the bacon and the beans into a large bowl.

"Now, wench, take your pick. You splittin' this bowl with honey tits or goin' without again?" Mr. Pitts said lasciviously.

I could only imagine what the bandits would demand of poor Kali in exchange for a bit of food.

"Bacon's burnt," she said stoically. "And the beans are cold by now. Maybe tomorrow."

I was amazed at the strength it must have taken her to turn down a meal that, to my greedy eyes at least, looked like a veritable feast.

Without warning, Lina walked up to Mr. Pitts and pulled his shabby britches to his ankles. A small, unimpressive cock flopped out, and she placed his whole shaft in her mouth at once, as if it were mere routine. I heard her hum a tune with Mr. Pitts' willy in her mouth and barely two minutes later, she was pulling his spent cock from her mouth and wiping her hand across her lips. I wish I could remember the tune; I think my dear old mom might have sung it to me once.

At that time, I'd never seen a woman use her mouth on another man, nor had I seen such an act accomplished with so little movement on the woman's part. Even fully engorged, Mr. Pitts must have been an easy mark for a talented fellatrix like Lina. So enthralled was I by the bizarre site, that I had missed Mr. Block and Mr. Booker taking the opportunity to free their own straining members from confinement. Without neither hesitation nor haste, Lina knelt on her knees below Mr. Booker, who fed his cock little by little into her waiting mouth. Mr. Booker put up a much better show of himself, even causing the wench at his feet to retch and sputter a time or two. 

While Mr. Pitts had been quick to spew, Lina was forced to employ more of her skills to coax the seed from Mr. Booker. Like a maid at a butter churn, she pumped his shaft furiously, intermittently taking him full to the hilt into her willing mouth. One could be forgiven for believing she actually enjoyed such debasement; with her free hand, she reached under her simple homespun dress and began to caress herself intimately. Mr. Booker grasped big handfuls of her heaving tits, calling out "mommy!" as he came, thrashing. 

While such undignified behavior would have embarrassed you or I, dear reader, it was instantly apparent that among their own kind, bandits have little sense of shame, and I suppose my impending demise made me no one of consequence to them. This general brazenness was confirmed when I spied Mr. Block coating Lina's breakfast with a generous dose of his seed. Evidently, he'd been unwilling to wait for Lina to service him and took matters into his own hands. Why he'd choose poor Lina's breakfast as the place to deposit his offering was a mystery to me.

I expected Lina to wait until the fourth man had his way with her as well, but she immediately went for the bowl and hastily devoured it. The fourth man made no objection to this. I instinctively recoiled to see her consume Mr. Block's semen along with her bacon and beans until I remembered how common it must be for Lina to ingest such fluids with her meals.

Kali looked positively wretched, unable as she was to contain her envy over Lina's meal. I recalled how dismissively she spoke of Lina in our short time together and could see how, to a woman so bent on resistance like Kali, Lina's total submission to the bandits would seem demoralizing, an unpleasant glimpse into a possible future.

"What about him?" Lina asked. "How's he gonna eat?"

Mr. Booker cocked an eyebrow.

"Slut's got a point. We don't usually keep another twig and berries around 'ere."

"He'll live," the fourth man said. "For now, let's hunt—Mr. Pitts is on watch."

As the other bandits departed, I expected to see Mr. Pitts return Kali to the tent. To my surprise, instead he freed her.

"Don't try lick the bowl again, bitch," he said cruelly. "You want our cream, you get it straight from the source."

Without a single instruction, Kali and Lina set about performing chores. Each time Kali turned towards me, even for a moment, Mr. Pitts slapped her hard across her ass.

"Don't you worry about 'im. Be dead soon enough."

Mr. Pitts performed no work of his own, save for watching the three of us. With little to do in my current condition and no prospects of being useful myself, I settled for observing Mr. Pitts, hoping at the least to learn about how the bandits worked. Either I'd succeed in joining them—only to slip away at the first chance, of course—or I'd find some weakness to exploit and steal away once more with Kali, and perhaps even Lina, if she so desired.

It was well past midday when I noticed for the first time a pattern of furtive movements on the part of Kali. Each time Mr. Pitts took his eyes from her, she would discretely perform some sort of small motion with her hands, though with her back turned away from me I couldn't discern what it was.

Mr. Pitts was eating a loaf of bread and what appeared to be an unwashed carrot when Kali quickly crumpled what I then saw to be a small scrap of paper and flung it at me. I had never seen such a thing before—to destroy so valuable an object as a sheet of paper. Oh reader, how strange it is now to pour out buckets of ink upon these sheets and recall how once I only laid eyes on paper in the rare occasion that the baron's men came to settle accounts.

At that moment I gave thanks that my arms, though bound at the wrist, were not pinioned behind me as Kali's had been. Taking care not to alert Mr. Pitts of anything out of the ordinary, I first used my feet to pull the scrap towards me. Unable to make obvious movements, it took some time, and during the interlude, I had time to ponder what I might do with the paper. I prayed Kali knew well enough not to write any words: a picture or map might do me some good, but a message in writing was lost on me.

Once I had the scrap, I opened it surreptitiously. Both my hopes and my fears were confirmed: there was indeed a map, but also a series of written instructions. When Mr. Pitts completed his lunch, I tucked the map away, fearful of being found out. I gave Kali a forlorn look, waiting for her to glance at me and discern that I could not read her note. When she caught sight of me, she immediately set aside the pants she was mending and spoke to Mr. Pitts.

"Alright," she said in evident resignation. "I'm bloody starving. Give me a loaf of that brown and I'll suck your cock."

Mr. Pitts laughed, an unpleasant, weaselly laugh, and pulled his pants down for the second time that day.

"Since the old slag drained me this morning, I might just last long enough to wear you out, cunt," he said.

Kali positioned herself such that Mr. Pitts was looking away from me. I couldn't see her take his prick into her mouth, only his skinny bum clenching as he thrust in and out. Kali made little mewling sounds, evidently to hold Mr. Pitts' attention, and at once I grasped her plan.

She must have ascertained my illiteracy from that look I gave her. Now she was distracting Mr. Pitts, so that I could secure some help reading. I beckoned Lina over, and she tilted her head curiously. I wished I could cry out for her to come to my aid, but instead I merely motioned for her, with my bound arms and desperately shaking head, to come over. If she could read the message, perhaps she might decipher for me the words I could not.

"I think he's gettin' randy," she called out to Mr. Pitts, who was distracted enough by his forceful fucking of poor Kali's mouth to require her to repeat herself.

I shook my head frantically. Had she not understood me?

"Fuck 'im," Mr. Pitts called out.

Lina began to remove her dress.

"No, you fat whore. Don't fuck him, FUCK HIM!"

At once, Lina pulled her dress back on, and Mr. Pitts bellowed out, as he no doubt reached climax.

"I think he wanted a go at me," Lina said, laughing to Mr. Pitts. "Thinks he's one of you already."

Mr. Pitts turned towards me, and I fumbled to hide the map. I was too obvious. Dragging Kali along by her hair, he approached me. Once she came closer, I could see that Mr. Pitts had coated her face with his seed; moreover, despite his miniscule endowment, he seemed to have produced an obscene amount of semen for a man who's just enjoyed the services of another woman scarcely six hours before.

"What's the word, Mr. Pitts?" the fourth man cried out from a distance.

What a time for the bandits to return! I closed my eyes and prayed that Mr. Pitts might fail to discover my secret, but when I felt his greasy finger rummage underneath my knees, I knew Kali and I would be discovered.

"What's this?" he asked, unfolding the paper.

"I...I don't know. I can't read," I blubbered.

I was not putting on a particularly gallant display. Dear reader, I will spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say that my bladder does not always obey my mind when great danger draws near.

"Fucking hell," Mr. Pitts called out, and now the bandits were upon me.

"A map," Mr. Booker said. "And she  must've drawn it."

"Says here he should kill us in our sleep," Mr. Block said, drawing his blade.

"And here I thought she just wanted a little bread and cream," Mr. Pitts said in mock self pity.

Kali's face, still spattered with Mr. Pitts' cum, was twisted into a mask of horror. For my part, I had traversed fear to arrive at utter paralysis. Only my eyes still worked: I watched the fourth man, the one whose name I'd never heard spoken, whisper into Kali's ear.

"I'll take the mark!" she cried out.

The bandits, to that point leering and cruel, suddenly changed. Mr. Block reached for a cloth to hand Kali, while Mr. Pitts straightened his shirt a little. All trace of their lascivious grins had vanished, and they took on a vaguely funereal air.

Mr. Booker departed slowly and returned with something I'd never seen, the skin of a white bear. There were certainly no white bears in these woods. One day, I would ride into battle mounted on such a majestic creature. As a young man in those woods, though, such adventures were well ahead of me. 

The fourth man whispered once more into Kali's ear. She turned to me, glaring, but did not speak. Her eyes never left mine as she removed her clothing. Mr. Pitts took her tatters and flung them into the fire, where they burst into an unnatural, towering flame. Kali lay on her stomach, hands at her sides. The bandits, hitherto constantly engaged in lewd taunting and ribaldry, were silent, solemn. 

The fourth man approached Kali and knelt down at her side. Reaching out his index finger, he traced an indecipherable pattern across the small of Kali's back. I confess to being distracted by the sight of her bare ass, though the scene was more outré than erotic. She breathed slowly, deeply, as he traced his finger in a spiraling pattern, and in a moment he was done. 

Kali lay there, perhaps uncertain what was to come. In an instant, though, she cried out in pain, and smoke rose from the spot where the fourth man had touched her. I could see the mark forming: a black, hateful looking spiral, traced in a place where a man might see it when he enjoyed her from behind. I recalled Kali proclaiming that women marked by bandits often became whores, and I wondered whether such a fate awaited her.

Yet the greater mystery was why she'd suddenly assented to the mark. What had the fourth man whispered to her to cause her stout resistance to crumble? In all likelihood, I would never know: the only mark bandits gave men was a knife wound.




A Fantasy Picaresque Ch. 03



After what seemed an eternity, Kali's pain subsided.

"Go forth and walk, so that all may know The Left-Handed One's gift," the fourth man intoned, as if he were a priest. "Cover not your mark or feel the flames of sin."

I was taken aback. Kali stood up: naked, marked by bandits, an outcast, as it were, from all civilized society. Her eyes shone with fire, her breasts quivered, and in that moment I wanted to have her more than I had ever wanted a woman before. Rarely, even in the many amorous escapades between then and now, has a girl so inflamed my passions as she did. The sight of her: frail and vulnerable, yet burning with passionate rage, a mere girl, slender of hip and waist, delicate in features, yet at the same time a survivor of untold torment. 

Our eyes locked.

"You told me you were frightened of witches, farmboy," she said to me. "When next you see me, I will be a daughter of Mother Death, and you will know my pain."

Before I could plead with Kali not to become a witch, she turned to Lina.

"Whose whore will you be when I spill their blood?" she thundered. "You will know my vengeance just as they will!"

Kali turned and walked, slowly and purposively into the forest, seemingly undaunted by her nudity or the hideous black spiral above her firm ass. All of us stood in dumbstruck amazement as she slowly disappeared into the forest. Only Lina seemed capable of speaking.

"I didn't take it that well when you all marked me, either," she said nonchalantly, scratching lightly behind her ear. "Now who needs his prick sucked?"



A Fantasy Picaresque Ch. 04



(All imaginary people in this fantasy world are 18, the age you legally have to be in order to have sex in magical worlds. –Theworldspins)

Chapter Four: the Red Flower 

Faithful readers, I've received wonderful news: my execution is to take place by the executioner's axe, and not, as I'd expected, by being burned at the stake. This stroke of luck has left me in such good spirits that I've been moved to write once more.

Where did I leave you, dear readers? Ah yes, I believe I was still in the clutches of the bandits, fearful after hearing Kali's pledge to destroy me, yet hopeful that a blowjob from the bandit wench Lina might take the edge off my certain death.

In truth, the feeling of her moist, magnificent mouth around my massive member made me forget my fears and foul temper. As a captive/bandit-in-training, I, of course, had to wait my turn; watching her service the bandits with her talented mouth, however, was in a way its own reward.

That night, the nameless bandit, whom I had taken to calling the "fourth man," if you recall, came to me alone. I assumed it was his intention to do me in, perhaps, or to initiate me into the gang—it was not clear yet what was intended. All I knew at that point was that he possessed some form of magic, powerful enough to form the indelible bandit's mark that now adorned the creamy skin of Lina, Kali, and some other countless number of bandit's wenches. These unfortunate women had been reduced through the perfidy of bandits to simply a set of holes for their deviant gratification (gratification which, to be fair, I myself enjoyed thoroughly, though with a somewhat guilty conscience). Now, Kali had sworn to become a witch to avenge her stolen honor, her fiery eyes making it painfully clear she intended to tear me apart at the first chance she got.

"You want in?" he queried quietly.

Before I could answer, he fished out his cock—no small thing, though also no competition to my own—and began to piss a stream as wide as it was foul-smelling. Though he pointed his cock to the left of my face, pissing a good two feet from me, his affect was menacing. Perhaps the only thing worse than being simply run through with a dagger is to bleed out while soaked in your killer's urine—in any event, I didn't want either to occur and was, as always, compliant.

"I...I...I would," I stuttered, certainly not putting on a display of composure in front of the mystically-empowered, vicious, menacingly-urinating brigand before me. "What would you have me do?"

"Good boy," he said patronizingly. "We've got a score, set us up before we have to strike camp and make trails. Think you could handle a simple smash-and-grab?"

Fortunately, bandits' lingo is often quite literal, and I could figure the meaning of the expression with ease.

"Yes, sir, you just send me, and I'll bring you back whatever you want."

I didn't mention the part about escaping at the first chance I had; after the catastrophe with Kali, my strategic acumen was steadily improving.

"Well, you're not going alone. You and Mr. Pitts are heading to pick up something for me. He's in charge, so you don't even imagine back-talking, or gods forbid, trying to run away. Pitts'd love a chance to wet his dagger in you—metaphorically and otherwise."

I had no clue at that juncture what a metaphor was; suffice it to say, I didn't want anything to do with a disappointed Mr. Pitts. My plans would have to be shelved until better opportunities presented themselves. I probably should have simply shut my mouth, but at that moment, my curiosity got the best of me.

"What was that you said over Kali's body?" I asked impudently. "The words, I mean. Magic?"

"I can't cast spells, boy," the fourth man said ominously. "The magic comes from Him."

Again with my big mouth: "Him who?"

"The one who speaks when He should be silent, who laughs while others weep. He limps, yet dances, never sows, yet reaps a hundredfold. He is but a Man, yet makes love to a goddess. It is His magic you saw, boy."

"The Left-Handed One?"

"Aye."

I know what you're thinking, dear reader: that certainly didn't suffice to ease my curiosity. In any event, I still slept under the stars by that tree, and the next morning, my bonds were cut, to set off with Mr. Pitts.

There are few things that inspire a simultaneous feeling of intense fear and utter boredom than riding for miles with a man who doesn't want you to know whether he plans to kill you or not. Pitts, far from the jovial sadism of his compatriots, was almost utterly silent on our journey. At least now I was fed, though all my actions came at the prompting of monosyllabic orders from Pitts: "Eat." "Shit." "Wait." "Sleep."

We were deep in the forest, and as far as I could tell, we were headed away from anything remotely approaching civilization. It was difficult for me to imagine what thing of value might be found so deep in the woods. Despite my trepidation, I finally appealed to Pitts to inform me as to our quarry.

"What's that?" he said, a picture of ignorance.

"Just asking, sir, what're we looking for? What're we gonna steal?"

"We ain't thieves," he replied. "We don't sneak around and nick things. We...capture."

"Well, sir, what are trying to capture?"

"Trying?"

I could feel my collar tightening.

"What're we taking back?"

"He wants the Red Flower."

"Red Flower?" I asked, intrigued but trying to hide it.

"Very rare. Very valuable. Not to keep, too precious. Fetch a tidy sum, I imagine."

I could only imagine the "Red Flower" was perhaps a ruby, or an object of great magical enchantment. Perhaps it summoned a powerful creature to the assistance of its possessor, or sparkled like a thousand suns, even within the dark recesses of the earth. My mind was enraptured with what the "Red Flower" might be.

"And it's out here in the woods?" I continued, a little unwisely given the way Mr. Pitts was rubbing one finger across the pommel of his blade.

"It's up your mother's ass," he countered, "we're just out 'ere for the scenery."

I took that as my cue to be silent. We traveled for four days—far and away the furthest I'd ever been from home, and all of it in dense forest that slowed our passage at times to a crawl. I felt remorse for ever having struck the Baron's son, plunging my life, as it did, into one unremitting train of horrors (with the occasional blowjob sprinkled in to make things bearable).

Finally, when I'd begun to lose faith we'd ever reach any sort of destination, Pitts simply pulled up, a finger to his lips, and stuck his hand into my chest. I halted, waiting for some word, anything, to tell me what was going on.

In the faintest whisper, Pitts spoke: "He's up ahead. We'll approach together, then you go through the front, and I step around the backways. Open the door and distract 'im, and I'll put 'im down."

Suddenly I realized that the "smash" part of a "smash-and-grab" might involve a poor, innocent old hermit in the forest. I'd often hear tales of how such hermits would care for poor travelers lost in the woods—it's funny to recall how trusting of the good intentions of strange men living alone in the forest I was back then. In any event, it appeared I would soon be an accomplice to murder, and I had to choose whether to go along to save my own skin, or hope that by changing my allegiances, I might, together with whomever I encountered at the cottage, turn the tables on Mr. Pitts.

We crept forward, as silently as possible, until I finally saw the cottage up ahead. It was twilight by the time we approached, and though no smoke escaped from the cottage, it appeared to be lit from within, as though a hearthfire burned without smoldering. As I continued a direct path towards the door, Pitts broke off to circle around back. I asked whatever gods I could think of for guidance, and, once I'd made my approach, knocked on the door of the hut.

"Kind sir," I called out, "I beg you of aid. I'm lost and—"

At that moment, the hovel door swung open, and a wizened old man with a patchy white beard and bald head opened.

"If you think for one second that—"

"Sir," I interrupted, "in one moment a man is going to come through your back door—"

"And get a nasty shock," he laughed.

At that moment, Pitts burst through the back door, and my vision went white. When my eyes focused again, Pitts was flat on his back, and the old man had a gnarled staff crowned with a rusty iron spike in his hand.

"You boys must not know who I am," he said, wheezing a little and backing me away from his cottage.

"Sir, I do not," I said, praying the man took my warning as a sign of good faith. "Though I promise you I—"

"Not interested in bandits' words," he said, backing me away with the pointed end of his makeshift spear until my back struck a tree.

"I'm no bandit," I swore, "only a captive looking for a chance to escape."

"That so?" he asked, still not lowering his blade. "Seems a risky move for a bandit to try one job while holding the spoils of another."

"Spoils?"

"You got a cock, boy?"

If he only knew...

"Yes, sir. Last I checked."

"Well that means they'd've killed you, unless you were worth some gold. They only keep women—whores, really."

"Sir," I said, at little more at ease now, "do I look I'm worth some gold?"

The old man laughed, a dry, wheezing laugh.

"You like day-old shit," he said.

"But not a bandit?"

"Not a bandit," he relented, finally dropping his spear. "Come inside and help me drag his carcass out."

I agreed, and we walked back the short distance to his hut.

"What brought 'em?" he asked. "Troll's wart?"

"Huh?" I asked, as yet unfamiliar with the art and science of alchemy.

"Well what, then?" he asked impatiently.

In the moment, I had to rack my brain a little. Finally, it came to me.

"Red flowers, sir. They want your red flowers."

His face grew angry, and when we entered his hut—I flinched fearing another magical shock—he kicked Mr. Pitts.

"Think you can come in here and—"

At that moment, Mr. Pitts' seemingly lifeless body twitched, a prelude to grabbing the old man by the ankle and bringing him to the floor. He hit the earthen floor with what had to be a painful thud, and Mr. Pitts rolled himself on top of the man, punching him once squarely in the jaw.

"I'm only going to ask you once, old man, where is—"

Dear reader, I'll spare your tender sensibilities and eschew describing the horrible scene that unfolded before my eyes. Suffice it to say that the old man was craftier than expected, and Pitts ruthless enough to take an old man to the great beyond with him, even with a dagger stuck in his gut.

It all happened too fast for me to intervene. In a flash, both men were dead, and I was alone in the hut. Just then, I heard the sound of dead leaves trampled underfoot. I was gripped with fear—what if the bandits had followed, watching me on this trial mission? I went to grab the knife from the old man's grasp, but soon the sound was racing towards the hut, and it was all I could do to turn and prepare myself for the charging brute out for my blood. I could barely see the shadowy form before it struck; my hands flailed out, striking one of the glass jars on the ramshackle shelves, and the last thing I saw before collapsing to the floor unconscious was a cloud of glittering dust and a long, thick mane of red hair.

Patient readers, if you ever happen to find yourself knocked out and in mortal danger, might I suggest the best imaginable way to wake up?

My heavy eyelids opened to the sight of a mop of long, luminous red hair draped across my belly. Despite the darkness outside, the room was lit with an unnatural light. Once my senses returned, a most exquisite feeling of pleasure suffused my body. It began, as the best feelings of pleasure usually do, from my affliction, the massive tool between my legs that has caused me both indescribable pleasure and unspeakable pain. 

My eyes focused again, and knelt before me, with my phallus between her lips and her hair covering her eyes, was a girl. Her skin was pale, with a faint shade of pink and dusted with light brown freckles. She looked small, slender, but with the graceful curves of a woman and not a girl. Propped up on her hands and knees, she was utterly worshiping my now rigid cock in a way no village wife could hope to match.

I could see her back ripple slightly, her shoulder blades moved as she stroked my cock. Only very little of my cock was actually in her mouth, a feeling I'd grown accustomed to, though I quickly realized that only one hand was pumping my shaft. The other, as it turned out, was just about to bring the girl to climax, as I watched her frantically diddling herself and whimpering. Her dress was tossed in a heap by the door frame.

Perhaps she'd been sucking my member for a long time—all I know was that it wasn't long after I came to that I came, too. After a four day journey in the company of Mr. Pitts, I hadn't ejaculated in quite some time, and the combination of my bucking hips and the surging blast of semen striking her in the back of her little throat caused her to sputter and pull off of my dick. The obvious effect of such a novice maneuver, of course, was to cause me to absolutely coat the girl's face, which I saw for the first time beneath the sticky film of a four-day load.

She was exquisite: big, green eyes that sparkled (at least the left one did; the right one was spackled shut by jizz), an upturned, thin little nose, with the nub of her nose just slightly rosier than the rest of her face, dimpled cheeks dripping with sperm, and a pair of little strawberry lips that I couldn't believe had just been wrapped around my girthy meat. Put simply, the girl was adorable, even when absolutely sloppy with cum.

Her first words to me spoiled the moment, however.

"As soon as I finish you off, I'm gonna kill you!"

The girl had a murderous look in her eyes as she used her fingers to spoon my cum into her mouth and swallow it all down. I tried to move, but found myself too weak. The unnatural feeling made me suspicious, and my struggles caught the beautiful red-head fellatrix's attention.

"Don't even think about it," she said venomously. "That stuff'll keep you in place for six hours at least."

Magic! I glanced around the hut clearly for the first time to see how many jars of strange and fantastical substances filled the shelves lining the walls. The hermit's magical door protector was only the beginning. I could only imagine what magical enchantment this "Red Flower" held.

"I'm not one of them," I pleaded.

"Save it," she said, finally having finished swallowing most of the cum. "You've got, say, five more hours to live. You'll even enjoy one of them."

Without another word, she leaned down to clean my cock of what was left of my cum. Her tongue lapped at the head in broad strokes, before she engulfed it whole with her greedy mouth. For someone who'd pledged to kill me, she seemed awfully busy sucking me off.

I watched intently as she not only began to pleasure me once more with her mouth, but also commenced her own self-stimulation once more. Yet all I could sense from her efforts appeared to be frustration.

"What's your name?" I asked, figuring it was gentlemanly to inquire as to who had my penis in her mouth.

She only responded with glugging sounds—she seemed transfixed by my member. Suddenly it struck me—this was no ordinary fascination of women with large cocks, but rather the product of some sorcery.

"Is this magic?" I asked her. "Is that why you're...you know?"

She lifted her head up, a look of desperation and pain on her face. Her hands stroked my cock furiously, as if she couldn't stop.

"You can call it what you like," she said acidly, "but when Granddaddy's rutting powder wears off, you won't like the things I do to your third leg."

Mortal terror is the great enemy of erections. I knew the heavenly creature on her hands and knees pleasuring me at this moment would soon enough turn towards torture and murder. I had to convince her I had come under duress, had attempted to save and assist her grandfather. It was difficult to carry on a conversation with her, however, since her mouth was alternately full of threats and my dick.

"Can't you just fucking come already?" she asked, enraged. "My jaw aches."

"Why don't you just ride me?" I asked, trying to be helpful.

"Don't say that," she said, more in fright than anger.

"What?" I asked in genuine confusion. "I'm just saying, that if my cock was in your pussy, I'd probably come faster and—"

"I wasn't gonna hurt you," she said, tears in her eyes. "I was gonna make it quick."

"I mean you no harm," I assured her, "only that fucking might be simpler and more fun for the both—"

She seemed to move as if against her own will, her face a mask of hatred. She stood up for a moment, straddling me, and slowly lowered herself down.

"Why would you—"

Just then, her pussy, wetter than any pussy I'd ever felt, lowered onto my dick. The head split her open and the weight of her body did the rest of the work, until she'd taken every inch of me that a small girl like her was meant to take. I leaned forward to kiss and suckle her strawberry red nipples, hardened like little jewels already. She threw her head back, baring her graceful, slender neck, and I could tell that my tool was much more satisfying than her little fingers.

Slowly, she lifted herself up and allowed herself to sink down again, trying, I suppose, to allow herself to get used to something so massive inside her tender flower. I looked down at her pussy, and the hair around it was fiery red.

Like a red flower.

"They wanted you!" I exclaimed.

"You wanted me," she spit back. "Now you took it."

"It?"

"Like you don't know," she said between moans. "I was supposed to stay a virgin until—oh no!"

I could feel from the way her tight cunt squeezed my shaft that she was coming—what I hadn't known until that moment was that my cock was her first.

"What is it?"

"I...I don't understand," she cried out, before leaning into kiss me, softly and with love. "I know I should want to kill you, but..."

"You know I didn't kill your granddaddy?"

"Of course not, baby," she cooed, "you could never do something like that. You love me too much."

My head was spinning, partly from confusion, and partly from the fact that now she was riding my cock and flexing that delicious cunt of hers with greater urgency.

"I want you to fill me up, honey," she said, all traces of her hateful tone gone, "and put your baby in me."

The thought of being a father wasn't too appealing, the thought of releasing once again, and this time inside of the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen, was irresistible, and I flooded her womb with my seed, bellowing incoherently the whole time. The girl demurely stood up, a trail of semen running down her leg, and bent at the waist downwards to kiss my slickened prick.

"You're so good to me, sweetie," she said in a little girl's voice. "I just hope my little pussy makes you happy. If you need to put it in my other holes, you just let me know." 

I was wary—she was, after all, under some kind of spell. Maybe it had gotten temporarily stronger before wearing off. Maybe I'd be a dead man before sunrise. Maybe I could get some answers now.

"Sugar plum," I called out, committing to the farce, "remind me your name."

She scrunched her cute face up.

"What do you want to call me?"

"What's your name?"

"I...I'm sorry, honey," she apologized, "I seem to have forgot it. Can't you remember?"

I wanted to stay on her good side, seeing as how unpredictable this magic might be. Since all I knew about her (besides how good a cocksucker she was) was that the bandits had called her the "Red Flower," I went with my first instinct.




A Fantasy Picaresque Ch. 04



"Baby, your name is Rose."

She smiled sweetly.

"You're right, darling. Do you need me to suck your cock again, dear?"

Though the offer was tempting, I'd just come twice, and, besides, I wanted to learn more from her.

"No thanks, dear," I said. "Why don't you tell me a little about yourself? Why do you think those bandits might have wanted to snatch you up?"

She blushed.

"Oh, there's nothing special about me. I'm just a simple girl—well, I guess there's one thing special."

"What's that?"

She smiled, skipped over, and kissed me on the lips. I tried to ignore where those lips had just been.

"Why I'm the luckiest girl in the world to have a wonderful man like you," she said.

I recall something happening, a social faux pas that would later get me into trouble during negotiations over the fate of Admiral Trentino's Lavender Sea Fleet: my stomach growled fiercely. Rose hopped up immediately.

"You're hungry," she said. "Let me get something for you."

"Something" it turned out was a rather elaborate feast: rabbit stew, braised leeks, and a caramelized mushrooms and onion spread for my crusty bread. It was quite possibly the best meal I'd ever eaten at that point, and, spell or no spell, I was in love with Rose in my own way. Moreover, it took her nearly two hours to cook, and not once did she revert to murderous fury at me. I was beginning to think her sudden transformation was going to last longer than she'd let on.

Over time, I could slowly feel my muscles beginning to work again. After dinner, which Rose gladly spooned into my mouth, I managed to crawl over to the bed. Naturally, the most unsettling aspect of this scene of magically-inspired domestic bliss were the two bloodstained corpses in the center of the hut. I hadn't the heart to order my slavishly-devoted thrall to dispose of them herself, and it wasn't until, as she'd foretold, several hours later that I could again hold my own weight up.

With Rose periodically offering to massage my sore muscles after work, I set about digging two graves and burying the poor devils. I truly was spent when the somber work was done and gratefully accepted the massage Rose proffered. The look in her eye whenever she saw me was one of utter devotion and love, and I decided for the night that we would sleep in the hut together. Naturally, she pleaded for me to make love to her once more; though I did feel a pang of guilt, her entreaties were not in vain. 

I found myself, as I looked into her emerald eyes from above her, enchanted, not only with her beauty, but also with the feeling of being loved, truly, unconditionally loved. It went beyond the physical. Do not mistake me, dear reader, for a spiritual man—I fucked her long and hard, and it felt so good. But to know, even if by some strange enchantment, to know without question that she loved me more than life itself, was an intoxicating feeling.

As I fell asleep that night, I began to gather why a young woman like my Rose might be of great value to bandits, and I swore that tomorrow, we would set out together from this place and seek safe harbor, wherever we could find it.

"Rose, honey, can you remember why you had to stay a virgin?"

She looked at me searchingly.

"Did you want me to learn how to please you better first?"

"No, sweetie," I said, realizing that a sex-crazy, utterly submissive wife-slave might not be the best source of information. "You told me...earlier that you were supposed to stay a virgin until...something."

She scrunched up her cute little face, like she always did when thinking grew difficult.

"It would really make me happy if you could remember..."

Her face lit up with pride.

"It's a family thing. Women in my line are bred to make perfect concubines. I was intended for Count Markov, to pay a debt my grandfather owed."

My opinion of the old bastard changed dramatically, needless to say.

"Why...what happens when you lose your virginity?"

She smiled and kissed me.

"It's called 'making love,' sweetie. That's how the love is made."

One ride on my stiff prick and I'd turned a fierce young girl into a docile, cheerful little sex slave. It would almost cost me my life.