The Troop

The Troop

The war of the chase, they call it.

Groups of mounted troops, bandits really, raiding and pillaging the countryside, sapping our country's strength and will to fight by demonstrating we cannot protect our people. There is no real rhyme or reason behind any specific outing; the marauders do whatever they believe they can get away with before a company of proper soldiery shows up. And when they do show up, the looters flee like cowards, back across the border with their ill-gotten gains.

My troop approached the nearby village cautiously, our mounts tucked neatly into a small draw, climbing up the hill that overlooked the village. It was necessarily slow going if we were to avoid being seen and remaining unseen was the biggest advantage we had. Picking slowly and deliberately through the stunted and prickly bushes, the twenty of us reached the military crest of the hill before dropping to our bellies and crawling until a few of us could peer down below, careful to keep brush behind us. To any set of watchful eyes in or around the settlement there wouldn't be the tell-tale heads outlined against the summer's sky to give the game away.

I was stopped an arm's length below the true crest, on my belly and mostly hidden by a particularly obnoxious dull-green scrub-bush. Below me was Seven-Toe, a rather rugged looking but kind-hearted fellow, who was silently chewing a piece of jerky, his face a mask of patience. Above me, our leader Ensign Woodriver, who was slowly looking over the village for a few minutes before signaling me the all-clear, which I passed down to Seven-Toe, who nodded and passed it down in turn, communicating every necessary bit of information with nothing more than a wave of an outboard palm. It took less than a minute for the rest of the troop to rise up and begin descending down to the draw where we'd left our rein guards, mounting up and getting back onto the road.

Falling in beside Corporal Casper, I finally spoke, "So, daylight's getting a bit thin," doing my best to ask a question without asking a question.

Corporal Casper didn't even look at me, giving a shrug while remaining ramrod straight in his saddle. "There'll be enough moonlight tonight," ever the hard-bitten chaser, intent on running down his prey and obviously figuring that a night march followed by pale blue raid would be the best way of achieving that goal.

"Still, Ensign Woodriver doesn't seem to think we have a chance with this bunch. It was hours before we even read the message and--"

Corporal Casper still didn't look at me, but cut my words short just the same, "We? Tell me Maven, have you learned to read, since we last spoke?"

I flinched away, knowing exactly the direction this conversation would take from now, "N-no..."

"So who does know how to read in this troop?"

"Ensign Woodriver..."

"And...?"

"Ensign Woodriver is the only one..."

Corporal Casper finally turned towards me, staring into my eyes for an uncomfortably long time, "That's right. Ensign Woodriver is a learned man of proper upbringing and he reads all the messages we get."

It was the start of Corporal Casper's favorite lecture: a good chaser means exactly what they say and says exactly what they mean. Exaggeration and ambiguity are not in the cavalry vocabulary. The cavalry's reports and observations, "Can, on a single word, change the course of battles, be the difference between winning or losing war and lead to the wealth or ruin of nations."

I was so damned sick of hearing the lecture, but I understood why he did it. Corporal Casper had never been taught to read or count higher than one hundred, but he was mindful. He knew when I was trying to ask him a question obliquely and he went out of his way to break me of that habit and train me to be straightforward in my inquiries. But he wasn't a cruel sort and, after I'd endured yet another repetition of his lecture, he rewarded me, "You are right though. Ensign Woodriver isn't holding much hope for this one; two dozen of them, with most on swifts, and no captives or stolen livestock to slow them down? They know what they're doing, they know we have an outpost a few miles away, they'll ride all night, same as us, reach the border by breakfast. If they don't, it's probably a trap and they've got more fellows with 'em, trying to lure our troop into an equal fight in the darkness. Either way, no sense in passing a village full of stables and warm, dry beds for the night."

I gave him a nod of thanks and broke away, leaving him to ride in silence, as he generally preferred. I was grateful for Corporal Casper. Along with Seven-Toe, Martin Elder, Martin Younger, Cheeky, Gallows Tom, Little Thumper, Old Man Brown and all the others who I'd come to know in my short time with the troop.

They'd been hard on me at first, teaching me to ride on some of the wildest horses they could find, forcing me to get back in the saddle when I'd inevitably be thrown. Under their tutelage, I learned to care for my ride, watering, grooming, nurturing. They taught to fight, first by wrestling - teaching me to subdue and disarm opponents with a few canny tricks - then with my fists, knees and skull as weapons before introducing me to the lance, the saber, the pistol and the carbine, on foot and from horseback. They taught me how to find water, catch food (thankfully, I knew how to cook beforehand, because some of their recipes made my face turn green), how to spot a trap, how to scout an ambush, how to charge, how to retreat, how to lead, how to follow.

They'd also taught me some other things, things that would never make it onto the drill field or in the manuals the officers were always fretting about. Like how to find the girl (or girls) in the village who were willing fuck a troop of chasers. There was a certain art to the thing, a practiced eye for the impressionable and the naïve, if you preferred them innocent, or the knowing appraisal of a woman who'd sell her cunt the same as her wares, if you preferred them otherwise.

The best procurer of our troop was definitely Ensign Woodriver - at least when he'd been drinking - on account of his looks and obvious upper-crust, moneyed bearing. There weren't many girls who didn't dream of a dashing cavalry officer atop a white horse and Ensign Woodriver was exactly that. But most nights he stayed sober, so we had to make do with Gallows Tom for the bedding down entertainment. Generally that meant outright whores; Gallows Tom had the tell-tale scars about his neck of a man who'd been half-executed and almost no self-respecting girl would trust him as far as they could throw them. I didn't blame them one bit. Even without the neck pieces Gallows Tom seemed an untrustworthy sort and the story of how he acquired them was ever changing, depending on the audience. But I didn't mind his selection of girls all that much. Even the whores were a good time.

This village was a little larger than usual, the buildings better kept and the people seeming well-fed and happy; a good harvest for the last few years, no doubt. According to law, we had the right to demand quarters, but as usual, the villagers claimed that they didn't have the beds for anyone but Ensign Woodriver and Little Thumper. It was funny - people obviously trusted the good Ensign on account of his status, but Little Thumper had only his youthful angelic face, which conspired to expel the common sense of most villagers. We called him Little Thumper not only because he was an energetic boy, but also because he fucked like a rabbit, fast and frequent. There was no surer guarantee of having your young daughter's virtue stolen in the night than to quarter him.

Meanwhile the rest of our troop had to make do with shelters otherwise not fit for human occupation; generally barns, a half-full granary on occasion, with stables as the last resort. Still, it was better than being exposed to the elements while trying to sleep and good cavalrymen always rode with extra bedding for comfort. The barn we found had plenty of room for the six of us, with the rest of the troop spread out across the village; some paying for an inn like Corporal Casper, Old Man Brown gruffly declining on account of all the noise we make at night and others finding different arrangements.

That left the Martin brothers, Cheeky, Seven-Toe and I to prepare the place for Gallows Tom's triumphant return. It wasn't difficult and before long we were spread out on comfortable straw arrangements, singing and laughing as the dark took over the sky. The only interruption was a sliding of the bar door, drawing every set of eyes. She was better looking than the typical whore, looking like a few winters short of thirty, with a kind of straightforward comeliness to her face, a thick braid of golden hair that fell halfway down her back, shimmering blue-grey eyes, carried by a world-wise expression. I wondered why a woman like her would agree to what this, at least until I saw the faded black widow's choker around her neck as she turned to Gallows Tom, "This is all of them? Three coppers, then," she said curtly.

"Three coppers! You're a comely girl, two coppers' worth certainly, but three? Bah!" Tom replied incredulously.

"Well then, keep your two coppers and let them all fuck your ass instead. My price is three coppers, take it or leave it."

Gallows Tom grumbled, but dug the three coins out and handed them over reluctantly, muttering under his breath about war-profiteering whores. The woman didn't pay him any mind, examining each coin carefully before putting them away and only then walking over to the makeshift bed we'd arranged on a large pile of hay, "Now then, who is going to be first."

Martin Elder already had the straws arranged evenly in his hand and we each pulled one. Mine was longest and Seven-Toe's was shortest. "Guess our own very own maid-of-the-saddle goes first," Gallows Tom bellowed. I looked down, embarrassment rushing to turn my face crimson, "If it's all the same, I'll trade Seven-Toe."

Seven-Toe nodded in thanks and pulled off his shirt. The whore had already removed her simple attire and lay back naked on her bed of hay. The others went back to their card game, but I remained near enough to the corner to watch, loosening my belt and the ties of my shirt as Seven-Toe got atop her, putting her legs on his shoulders and rutting her like an animal. I liked the way Seven-Toe fucked. He was dominating without being cruel or calloused and plenty vocal, which I really enjoyed during the times when I couldn't get a good vantage point. The widowed whore was experienced and before long they were both gasping and crying out, the sounds of their sweaty bodies slapping together ringing throughout the barn.

The others didn't pay much mind, but I concentrated on the spectacle of Seven-Toe's and the whore coupling, running a hand across my breasts while rubbing my womanhood through the riding pants, biting back my lip to stay silent. Seven-Toe laid his head neck to hers, her legs falling off his broad shoulders and splaying out in a manner most unbecoming of a proper lady. I looked closer, taking in every detail: Seven-Toe's tight, full sack swaying back and forth, the way the whore dug her nails into his back, the wet gurgle of her pussy being filled, the way his breathing caught as she massaged his rod. I untied the last of the strings holding my pants around my waist and shoved my hand between my legs, sinking fingers between my gushy-wet folds with a barely stifled sigh.

Seven-Toe was close, launching into a series of repressed grunts as his pale ass bounced ever more comically between the whore's legs. I flicked my nipple faster, my juices flowing freely as I imagined what it must feel like to have Seven-Toe between her thighs, coupling with desperation borne of hard living and constant danger. I felt envy for the whore as Seven-Toe dug his maimed foot into the barn's dirt floor and thrust one final time with a wheezing hiss, his tight balls twitching as they seeded the whore's purse. He stayed deep inside her for a few seconds, then got to his knees, a trail of his essence connecting her sex to his before finally collapsing under its liquid weight.

Seven-Toe took a few deep breaths then got onto his feet, partially dressing before walking back to the other side of the barn, where the card game was still in full swing, except for one figure who rose from the rest and proclaimed with grandiose bravado, "Well boys, it's time to take a little night ride!"

Gallows Tom laughed at his own terribly unfunny banter, which was just as well because no one else ever did, and unhitched his garments. Unlike everyone else in the troop, who would generally carry only their saber (perhaps one pistol if the village was suspect) on their person about the common people, he insisted on carrying his weapons until disrobing for the night. Every single one; saber at his waist, his lance across one shoulder and carbine across the other, with a brace of six pistols affixed to his chest and - I was quite sure - a knife tucked somewhere concealed. The dull thud of his arsenal being shed marked his progress towards the sweating, panting whore until he stood before her supine form nude but for his weathered riding boots, stroking his cock as he got down on his knees. He cast a long shadow over the whore, roughly tonguing her breasts and nipping at her bosom with his teeth. She winced and sniveled, but Gallows Tom was deaf to her pleas; he wasn't the gentle lovemaking sort that every girl dreamed of, but the kind of ruffian that kept their fathers up at night.

I lifted my hips and slid my pants down to better please myself as I watched them fuck, the voyeuristic thrill racing through my entire body before collapsing back onto my clit like a lightning bolt. I reached deeper down into my shirt, digging my nails into my own breasts in a cruel fashion, consciously mimicking Gallows Tom. With my other hand I extended three fingers and gave my clit a nice, solid slap before sinking them between my folds once more, a quiet yelp escaping my lips before finding itself turned into a deep, contented moan.

Gallows Tom took his time, patiently working the whore with calloused hands and brash manners. The whore's diffident attitude only encouraged him, bringing forth further excess as he pushed both her breasts together and took her nipples between his teeth, then pulled his head back. The whore gripped the impromptu bedding tightly, her nails threatening to pierce the material as her mouth wrenched itself open at the same time her eyes screwed themselves shut. The whore's face was the very portrait of a piercing scream, if only not for her complete silence as Gallows Tom put the reins to her. I felt my pussy clasp at the fingers pushing deep and I took it as a sign to withdraw them to give my clit another slap. My head rolled back and I closed my eyes briefly, enjoying the sting before going back to rubbing my clit. It was too much for me to stay quiet and I took my shirt between my teeth, biting down on the thick garment to keep myself under control.

When I gathered my senses and looked back, Gallows Tom had spit her nipples out of his mouth and was now hanging his face close to hers, speaking softly enough I couldn't make out the words. I could however, understand her response, "No! Not even for a tencop! If you want to bugger someone, you can start with yourself!"

Gallows Tom leaned back on his heels, scratching at the scars circling his neck, "Well then, turn over whore. I'm tired of looking at you," directing her with his gruff voice no longer held low.

The whore stared at him for a few seconds on account of the insult, but dutifully rolled over onto her hands and knees, turning her head back, "And if you get any funny ideas about pretending you don't know where to put that pig-sticker, I'll tear your fucking balls off," her voice dripping with willful malice.

The scoundrel behind her didn't seem to pay any heed, but - judging from her intake of breath - he didn't put her threat to the test. Instead he drove himself deep inside her with only a moment's respite, stopping with a fleshly thwack to mark the sheathing of his cock. The whore didn't moan or cry out this time, taking his length with a stoicism probably borne of experience. Instead she pushed back against him, her milk-white thighs and ass jiggling as she moved back and forth. Gallows Tom purred like a satisfied cat and let her do the work, one hand rubbing the pert ass in front of him, the other behind his head, looking for all the world like a highborn lothario being serviced by an ardent social climber. If of course, you could ignore the bed made out of hay, the wooden structure and the farm smell that hung in the air.

I preferred to imagine him just as he was: a swashbuckling chaser with a mysterious past, taking what he could get from a widow-turned-whore. My body agreed, goosebumps climbing my skin as a thin, white dribble of love juice ran down the back of the whore's thigh. I licked my lips as I imagined what was in that drop - a woman's natural desire, pre-seed to smooth the way, the last man's seed, being displaced. I wanted to taste it but instead settled for removing my hand from my shirt and sucking on two fingers, imagining the vaguely salty taste was the same.

She remarked flatly, "By the mountain river, you fuck like a dog... and about as long as one too." The whore had stopped moving, the dribble down her leg now surpassed by a dripping trail straight from her rented cunt.

Gallows Tom merely smiled at the insult, "Got what I paid for, hah!" he replied.

He was barely standing before Cheeky emerged from a nearby shadow, already naked, and sat down next to the whore. "Hello, Miss! Ready for another," he spoke quickly, with the honest exuberance of youth.

Cheeky's voice was certainly that of a man, deep and throaty, but his manner of speaking was that of a much younger boy. If you didn't see his face - the puppy-dog eyes, prominent red cheeks, and the hint of boyhood fattening - you'd think he was mocking you. The whore turned her head towards him and opened her mouth to say something nasty, but then shut it when she saw his face and realized he wasn't putting it on.

Instead she rose to her knees, flicking a few stray blonde hairs behind her back and tucking them back into her braid, "Always ready for an eager chap. How will you have me?"

"Umm, can you get on top?"

The whore's face transformed when she smiled, lighting the room with the kind of refreshing happiness that spread like fever. It was the face of a young mother greeting her child or receiving a piece of lovely jewelry from her beloved husband. I stopped playing for a bit and watched her more closely. This one was good at her trade. Most whores only had two characters they played: the wanton harlot enflamed with lust and the hardened tramp who wanted men to hurry up and fill her purse, so she could get on with filling her purse.

Cheeky's ruddy face brightened as the whore straddled him, Gallows Tom's seed still leaking from her. If the boy noticed, he didn't care and they were joined with a wet squish and soft moans from both parties. She settled down on his lance, then wiggled a bit before working her hips, back and forth, undoubtedly kneading his cock with the muscles no one would ever see. He kept his hands on her tits, treating them with the sort of reverence you'd see displayed when a learned man encountered a long-lost ancient text; cautiously fingering its dimensions, silently giving thanks to grace and good fortune, only slowly opening it up and exploring its depths. In return, the whore venerated his cock, speeding up to bring him closer, slowly down to keep him from going over the edge, then shifting styles before it became too familiar. She went through a full range of pleasures, bouncing up and down as if riding at a gallop before laying herself flat on his chest while sliding against his manhood and then leaning back and holding his ankles to allow him to watch as her cunt slithered up and down his cock. She was playing him like a harp and Cheeky didn't even know it.

I had slowed down, holding myself back in anticipation, but I felt a deeper, more insistent crest of pleasure building within my stomach. I didn't want to go over just yet and so I withdrew my fingers, regretfully, and went after my bosom again, this time reaching under my shirt instead of into it. My nipples were puffy and stiff, like little rocky peaks atop mounds of snow and I attacked both vigorously, sustaining the flames of desire as I looked on.

The whore wrapped a hand around the back of Cheeky's head, pulling him up to a sitting position, supporting her weight in his lap while she whispered something in his ear. I didn't hear what it was, but I could tell - despite his sun-kissed complexion - that whatever soft words she'd spoken were debauched enough to bring a blush to Cheeky's entire face. Oldest trick in a whore's book and Cheeky went from blushing to planting his seed deep within the whore. She rode out his spills, softly stroking his hair and singing a gentle voice as he finished, his cock falling from her like a loosened rope, followed by a steady run of excess seed onto the bedding.

Ever so carefully, he laid her on her side, his face with her face, and spoke for a few minutes as she continued to carry the melody. In the pale light of the diminished fire, the barn took on a ghostly essence, the flames causing the shadows to begin their dance across the crude beams and haystacks. I couldn't see them anywhere near as well, but I was still able to hear plenty, including the pause in her song and wet smacking noises that told me Cheeky was kissing the whore. Suddenly my breasts felt much more sensitive and my pussy begged for attention with tears made of my love juices. I gave my clit a three finger slap to calm her and kept listening, hearing the kissing become energetic and impatient, the wet tones of lovers sharing their hearts through their mouths sprinkling throughout the night.

Someone at the far end of the barn laid new fuel for the fire and it flared back up, revealing the spectacle before me. The whore was still in his lap but Cheeky had his arm around her waist and was pulling her onto him while his other hand held her mouth to his. They were both rolling their hips in unison, joining together and breaking apart with a desperate rhythm. Cheeky was lost in the moment, his eyes closed, his skin flushed with sweat and his body yearning for release.

Meanwhile, his cherished other had her eyes open and carried the expression of a washer woman after cleaning five stew pots.

Cheeky would never see that and the whore was quick to close her eyes and adopt a suitably overwhelmed manner as he finished a second time, putting on the affections of girl caught out of breath after they'd broken apart. Cheeky rolled over onto his stomach, reaching out to run his fingers over her lips, saying something that made her giggle. The whore shrugged and then dropped the mask along with a fourth copper into her piles of clothes, "Aren't there others?"

As if he remembered a solemn duty, Cheeky hopped up, scooping his clothes into his arms and rushing to the other side of the barn. The whore didn't bother dressing, even as moments turned to minutes. Instead she waited, sitting on the now scattered bedding that only partially shielded from the stunted haystack we'd used for a mattress, taking up a stray piece and using it to clean her finger nails.

The Martin brothers came upon her slowly, quietly enough she was slightly startled to see them, "Both of you?"

The younger Martin put his hands on his hips and gave her a once over before answering, "That's right. Is that a problem?"

Her eyes darted back and forth between the two brothers before she answered, "No, it's no problem," her voice having lost whatever residual softness remained after Cheeky. She rose to her feet and I finally got a good look at her body, her breasts marked and reddened by Gallows Tom, short strands of almost invisible spittle on her face after kissing Cheeky and the seed of three men dripping from her spread cunt, running down her thighs in rivulets. The whore turned around and adjusted the bedding we'd provided, turning it sideways before lying atop on her back, head hanging off one end and legs spread over the other. The brothers weren't particularly old, but they'd both been cavalry even before joining our troop of chasers. Tough, clever and experienced, neither of them needed a manual when it came to whoring. The younger brother got between her legs, lifting them from the back of her knees as he thrust inside her. The older brother grabbed her braid and wrapped it around his hand before shoving his thick prick into her mouth.

My hands shot back to between my thighs as I watched them go in and out of her, sometimes losing their cadence and causing her to gurgle as both cocks slammed into her, other times acting like a like a pair of lumberjacks cutting down a tree, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I crammed another finger in, leaving only my thumb outside, pumping it fast enough that my juices sprayed onto my palm. Never one to let an idle hand stay at peace, I clasped my clit between two fingers and motioned in circles, massaging the lips and hood as well. By now my shirt was wet with spit and I was sure I'd nearly chewed through it, but I was much too far along to care, so I bit down even harder as the brothers ravaged the whore in front of me.

The younger finished first, loudly barking as he buried himself as deep as she'd go, pulling back a few times to slam back into her depths and spill the last of his seed out inside of her. The elder Martin ignored his brother and instead held her head deep, his balls resting on her face before pulling out, followed by coughing and spitting from the whore. She didn't complain though, not even when he walked around the haystack, flipped her onto her stomach and took her from behind with savage thrusts numbering a baker's dozen before pulling out. The whore made the mistake of assuming he'd finished and turned over just in time for the elder Martin to wet her face with his seed, his free hand grabbing her braid again and holding her even as she shouted out.

His brother hadn't stuck around after finishing but the elder did, staring at the whore for a good minute, admiring his handiwork with a grim smirk. The whore glowered back at him with one eye open, neither wanting to give ground to the other. In the end, the elder Martin stepped away, still smirking but never turning his back on her. It was probably a wise move.

As for me, I continued my dalliances for longer than I'd intended, looking over at the painted whore across the barn. It was only with great discipline on my part that I first stopped, and then removed my hands. I'd been biting my shirt for so long it hurt to stop, my body shivering as the soaking wet material touched my breasts and spread a chill across my skin. However it was no chill that caused my legs and hands to shake as I stood, taking a tentative step forward and casted my shirt aside.

The whore was gathering her things quickly, satisfied her work was finished. She was facing the other direction, bending down to grab for her purse when I put my hand on her back, "Miss."

She turned slowly, looking me over, but speaking kindly, "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were another..." pausing to think of an appropriate term for "whore-monger."

My voice cracked as I spoke, "I am."

Her eyes grew big before she laughed, "You? But how? And why?"

I grabbed her arms and gently pushed her back to the haystack, "Please, just... lie back."

The whore stopped laughing and her blue-grey eyes regarded me warily, but she did as I asked.

"Spread your legs."

She again obeyed and the sight of her pounded, swollen, seeded and spread cunt made me feel faint. It wasn't strictly my decision to fall to my knees between her legs, but it did put my mouth right where it belonged and I closed my eyes before diving in to enjoy the meal. To me there was nothing more delicious than a used cunt at the end of the night, packed full and overflowing with the troop's seed. I started with her thighs, licking up the run-off streams of juices, enjoying the salty taste of her sweat mixed in with it. Once I'd managed a tongue-full, I took it between my lips, savoring but not swallowing until I had a good mouthful of lust in cream form. Once her thighs were clean, I attacked her cunt with my mouth directly, sealing my lips around it and slurping the remnants of the men's desire directly down my throat. The tang was my nectar and I moaned my satisfaction into the whore's cunt.

She grabbed my hair in her hands and pulled my mouth harder against her cunt, bringing her thighs to my ears as well. I didn't mind in the slightest and continued to suck the troop's essence out of her. Being deprived of sight and sound merely enhanced my other senses and provided me the opportunity to withdraw further into my own mind, losing myself in my visions. I felt and smelled and tasted at the same time I fell into trance.

First it took me back to when I'd first left my father's home in the city, his youngest child, promising to return with the King's sign on a deed in ten years' time. Then I remembered the first few weeks as we drilled, being one of the very few girls amongst scores of men. I remembered crying, being told I'd never ride properly, never fight properly, and never shoot properly. I remembered they made me wear dresses and used their riding crops to lift my hem up, humiliating me in front of all the others. Then I remembered meeting the captain of the entire company, Prince-Captain Fitzjerome. I remembered the oaths, all the oaths, but especially the one the girls alone swore, promising we would never bed men, wed men or bear men's children. I remember Alyssa the Pretty and Rose being executed for violating that oath, their bodies stripped and swinging from the parade while the other chasers and chasers-in-training spat and called them whores.

I remembered crying even more and only stopping when my troop arrived to take me and Ensign Whiteriver told me he cared for my carbine and not my cunt, in front of all the others. I remembered Corporal Casper teaching me everything I didn't know and thought I already knew. I remembered how the other chasers accepted me. But most of all, I remembered falling in love with all of them, seeing them bathe naked in streams and pools and running off to frig myself until I passed out. I remembered drawing pictures of what our children would look like. I remembered an elaborate wedding ceremony, bound to my entire troop and a wedding night spent with every man having his turn with me. I remembered realizing they were stupid, silly dreams that would never happen.

And as I finally sucked the last of the easy pickings from the whore's cunt, I remembered that whores and harlots all carried what I wanted - what I needed - to feel inside me. I remembered Gallows Tom telling me about cunt-lapping and the taste of another man. I remembered the first time I'd dug my lips to a whore's nethers and lost myself in the taste, with Ensign Whiteriver asking if I was drunk when he'd seen me on watch, on account of how blissful I appeared. I remembered it all.

Most of all, I remembered this whore had more seed on her face. I let my lips part with hers for a moment, pushing her thighs from around my head and getting up onto my hands, looking down on her. It was drying in the warm air of the barn, but there was still a certain thickness to the white lines dripping down her skin. She looked at me with a question, seeming to ask if I was finished. I tongued all over her face as my answer, deftly licking the elder Martin's gifts and swirling them about in my mouth before swallowing them. The whore tried to turn her head away and I grabbed her cheeks in both hands, desperately washing her face clean with my tongue, ignoring her annoyed protests until I was sure it was clean.

Her snowy complexion was tarred by the lines of irritation crossing her face, but I didn't care. Instead I leaned back and started fingering myself again, imagining being a whore in the troop's employ, putting my own nipples in my mouth and biting down to pretend it was Gallows Tom. I posted out a hand and leaned forward, still on my knees, but riding my other hand, pretending it was Cheeky. The whore stared at me like I was possessed, her eyes wide and a hand covering her mouth. I didn't care.

Instead I was lost in my fantasy, giving up supporting my weight and instead leaving my face against the barn's dirt floor while I pressed four fingers between my lips and slurped, pretending that it was elder Martin using my mouth while I slipped my thumb in with the other four fingers filling my pussy, stretching it further than I'd ever imagined it would as younger Martin took me in mind's eye. I rolled and writhed across the floor, the only sounds escaping my crammed-full mouth being animalistic groans of carnality. I can't imagine what the whore was thinking as she watched me debase myself in such a fashion.

Instead I imagined long nights of pleasure, being used by the men I loved. My orgasm hit like it always did, as if I'd leapt off a cliff and instead of falling instead rose higher and higher, above the clouds and beyond, reaching up into the heavens that no mortal man had ever reached before. I knew I was shaking, on the ground, the fingers in my mouth choking me slightly as my whole fist went between my legs, but I didn't care. The whore's appeal to me had left along with the seed inside her. And with that final thought I felt my pussy clench around my hand one final time as I drifted into sleep.

The war of the chase would resume in the morning.

The End

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