Battle Lust 1 MF, Fantasy BATTLE LUST To Captain Thula von Aax has befallen the dubious honor of commanding a contingent of thirty elite soldiers which accompanies the young Prince Raznil on this perilous journey to his wedding bed. The platoon all ride krylls (* bipedal llama-like mounts with tiny prehensile hands, soft padded feet, and cushy sway backs that support the rider like the sissy bar of a modern-day Harley chopper). The troops are in full armor; at full alert. They pass through bleak frontier territory on a seldom-travelled track through the rocky wasteland at the edge of the Great Sylvan. Theirs is a tortuous progress. But they must stay far from the volatile main battle zone, since all attempts at enforcing a cease-fire among the renegade army factions have failed miserably. Midway between the warring cities, Thula and her charge will meet an enemy contingent and exchange Raznil of Warouni for King Khalid's twin sons. Then the two Haran brats will be kept hostage until Raznil is thoroughly wedded to Khalid's only daughter, Rasa, in Fortress Har. It is hoped that this desperate consummation between the two rabid enemies will at last secure the peace between their war-torn kingdoms. Thula has dispatched scouts widely about her, ever wary of ambush by bandits or doublecrossing Harans. To her right rides Uzul, the Queen's seneschal, a greybeard of surpassingly sour disposition and an unwavering cynicism as grey as his lead-hued cloak. On her left rides Raznil, all of fourteen years old, thin as a turkey quill and spoiled rank by bottomless privelege and a doting mother. Raznil is blessed with handsome if overfine features, and a infantile pout which strains perpetually toward arrogance. Oh, this little Prince is indeed accustomed to getting what he wants. And at this moment, he wants something very much, indeed. He stares, as though hypnotized, at a writhing serpent tattoo, coiled threateningly at that very part of Thula's muscular upper thigh which hollows into her firm, virtually unclad left buttock. This marvelous snake tattoo is what we might call a hologram, rendered exquisitely by a master flesh artist in Prigada on the Coast, and appears, as the kryll treads rhythmically beneath it, to undulate at the cusp of the comely captain's bottom. Of course, the warrior girl pointedly ignores this silly boy. Why should she have the least interest in effete, spoiled little fops when she might have her choice of real men? Besides, she is arguing shrewishly with Uzul. "I don't like this, Seneschal. This whole setup stinks of a Harish plot," she complains. "Nonsense, woman. I personally directed the negotiations with Khalid and his toadies. They are defeated. The Birdouni are smacking their lips over the weakened defenses of Khalid's northern sector. He wants this peace more than we do." "Pah! Who wants peace with those foul Haran scum? They have killed too many of my brothers and sisters. I for one have not yet setttled with the kingdom of Har." "Your aggressive sentiments are of no weight, soldier. You are in Pamina's pay, and as such, sworn to obey her." "I hardly need you to tell me my duties, old man! I may not be of Ouni born, but I've more than earned a right to speak as I please of ill-begat pacts with the Patriarchal Satan, even as I must by duty acquiesce to him." "Hold your tongue, soldier." Annoyed, Thula swats at the errant hand of young Prince Raznil, which she has noticed sneakily fondling the snake on her alluring rump. She clamps the boy's frail fingers in a firm grip. "What ho, little lord knob-head? Art thou trying to exercise royal prerogative, or is it my imagination?" "I see, I want, I take," bravely declaims the petite aristocrat, his face reddening, though he does not cry out. "Let go of my hand. You are unclean." "Ah, little knave, and if my hands are so far beneath you, then what of my sweet ass that you've been so ready to explore?" She increases the pressure on his hand, forces it between her thighs, right up against the hot damp crotch of her loin cloth. "Is this, perhaps, what you seek?" He gasps. He can feel her heat. "Y- your sow's body is n-nothing to me, mercenary. I-I just was e--examining the s-s-snake..." "Listen to that, dog faces," she guffaws. "Young Prince Raznil has an eye for my s-s-s-snake. What say you to that, comrades?" The soldiers, men and women alike, burst into irreverent laughter. "Thula's snake do wiggle and shake," they chorus, in a favorite war refrain. "And Khalid's dogs to fear and quake/ But before the crack o' midnight's pass/ They've had their fill o' her steel shaft/ She'll tell 'em what they shoulda knowed/ Snake, you curs. SNAKE, MY ASS!" The troop bursts into course laughter. Thula still grips the young prince's hand, regarding him with an amused smile. "Let me go, merecenary. My mother would not countenance this," he whispers. "She'll have you in the dungeons if you hurt me." "Ho! And what good to the Queen would be a Snake in the dungeon?" chuckles Thula. "That is enough, Captain von Aax," commands Uzul. "Let the boy go. He meant you no disrespect." "I don't know about that, greybeard," says Thula, releasing the boy as if she has already completely forgotten his existence. "He and certain of his kin have a special talent for disrespect." Raznil furiously yanks the reins of his kryll and hops away from Thula and Uzul to the other side of the meandering column of soldiers, as far from her as he dares go without fearing for his safety. As the column rides on, he cradles his right hand with his left, though it no longer hurts. His eyes smoulder at the proud valkyrie, only five years his senior but a universe of experience wiser, wearing his rage like a gleaming mirror. What's that? A bloodcurdling scream from one of the vanguard riders! The troop halts. Thula and four of her riders sprint toward the sound as an unmounted kryll hops toward the Sylvan in terror. The Captain dismounts in one bound. She crouches over the body of a fallen Amazon convulsing in gruesome agony in the dung-spattered dust. A tiny dart protrudes from the dying woman's neck. "Hell and dung fire," cries Thula. "It's Sonta, my best tracker." Thula cradles the blonde beauty's twitching head in her lap, trying to sooth the last wretched, screamless moments of her death-agony. Bile erupts from her gaping dying-fish mouth onto Thulas legs, but she takes no notice. "Who done it, boss?" asks Beldorn, her lieutenant, kneeling close to examine the dart. "Bandits?" Thula's eyes narrow. "I don't like this," she mutters. "Not one bit." "Who dya think?" asks Beldorn, his brow furrowed. "Who else, in these goddessforsaken parts?" "Donkey dung. Not Dalzeil." "Who the hell else still uses these things?" "The Renegades. Dalzeil and company. Nobody else. But why are they here?" "There can be only one reason," growls Thula, her fury rising. "Because someone told them we would be coming this way. We have been betrayed!" "But who would want..." "Who in Ouni's sweet name do you think? But forget that. We have to find ourselves a good position, and fast." There is a shriek from the ranks of the company behind them, and a chaotic shuffle of kyrll feet. "Too late," cries Thula, the battle lust rising into her throat. "Too late for good positions. We've been doublecrossed by those Harian scum, as I expected. But not too late to serve up a few Renegade worm banquets!" The battle is swift and bloody. Thula's troop comports itself well, but they have been caught in a cunning trap, hemmed in on two sides by steep rocky hills which hide the attackers and display their prey like quail on a woods trail. Ten of her best fighters fall within moments to the hissing strikes of poison-laced darts. The fatally wounded writhe on the ground in unspeakable pain as the poison snarls their nervous synapses into viny tangles. Thula bellows orders with cool authority. Defensive positions are taken with perfect discipline. At first, the Prince watches the whole affair from behind Thula and Uzul with boyish excitement, shouting at the troops like a cheerleader. His first battle! The bandit attack is relentless, however, and perfectly executed. It soon becomes clear even to Raznil that the bandits are overwhelming Thula's hopelessly outflanked position. After a while, only Thula and eight warriors are left standing. Sometime during the fray, a dart grazes her right shoulder. She slaps at it irritably as if brushing away a fly. The dart has barely scratched her. She does not fall like her comrades, appears to notice no pain. Even Baldorn and Uzul are dead now. Two dozen brigands swarm from the rocks, no longer fearing effective counterattack, and plow into hand-to- hand skirmishing with Thula and her few remaining. Her sword flashes, and a brigand head goes flying. Again she swings red, and a burly man is split down the middle from pate to pubis. Stalwart Adema kills a bandit with a thrust between the ribs, but as she struggles to unstick her blade from the red- gushing wound, another attacker sneaks up behind her and runs her through at the base of her spine, just above the powerful swoop of her ripe buttocks, severing her spinal cord. She flops paralyzed, screaming to the ground. A fountain of blood erupts from the exit wound in her belly. As she dies more blood spurts from the corners of her clenched lips. Marfak the Flatulent is heavily engaged with three attackers, wiry dark fellows who methodically have separated him from the rest of the fighting and have backed him against a boulder. He holds them off with his legendary swordcraft, but it is only a matter of when. Now! One of them strikes a glancing saber blow across his sword forearm. His own blood splatters into his eyes. His sword clatters ineffectually at his feet. The attackers take turns prolonging it, tormenting him with their sword-points, until he bleeds from two dozen wounds and his knees wobble with the approach of Death. ` "You've lost the battle, Snake," squeals the Prince above the clamor of contending steel. "You had better get me out of here before it's too late." Consumed by bloodlust, it is almost impossible for Thula to draw herself away from the carnage. But her common sense and her loyalty to Queen Pamina pull her to her senses. Almost worst of all, she must swallow the possibility that her snotty little charge is in fact offering sound judgement. For the fight is indeed hopeless. Thula catches the eyes of Zorbed and Salina, two of her last troops and among her most loyal. Both nod, silently, in agreement with her decision, and return grimly to the fight, their only purpose now to cover Thula and Raznil's escape. There is nothing more to say. Cursing furiously, Thula grabs the protesting Prince and flings him over her shoulder. She sprints for the agaric Sylvan. Far above the fray, Dalzeil the Victorious, commanding his troop from high up on the escarpment, watches the escape with a frown of cruel satisfaction. This whole operation has been far too flawlessly easy, and so he rather relishes the prospect of an amusing forest hunt to top off an otherwise humdrum day. First, he must see to securing the last details of the battle. Then he will follow the woman and the boy. As a precaution, he orders Burf and Weasel, his two wood rats, to track them. For now, he must indulge himself, as any good bandit ought, in directing the plundering of the corpses and the chaining of the prisoners. The boy and the woman cannot escape him. No way. The agaric forest is, after all, his domain, and a soft-fleshed female and scrawny city boy will not get far in that dense psychotropic thicket. His wood rats are unparalleled trackers, after all--even if of dubious moral calibre. ****************************** Thula slogs through the dense forest, dragging the protesting Prince behind her. They blunder into the twisted tumescent vegetation until almost all light is obliterated, as in a dense bamboo stand. It's as if they have run for hours. She is exhausted. Battle-wearied, in a state of incipient shock, she fails to recognize the creeping effects of the scratch she suffered from that stray flatalla dart in the midst of slaughter. It seemed such an inconsequential thing at the time. But though she knows it not, now the poison is morphing in her bloodstream as it combines inside her with the poisonous exhumations of the jungle air. Subtly, insidiously, her mental powers are being eroded. She is losing track of time and direction. By the leaden languor in her limbs, she comes to convince herself that they have been fleeing for hours even though in fact only some minutes have passed since entering the forest. Soon she is quite positive that that they have eluded their pursuers. Time warps into Mobius pretzels. Overcome by a heavy torpor that suffuses her blood with the viscosity of molten mercury, she collapses to the forest floor, her consciousness flickering like a torch in a gale. The prince, following close behind, whimpers in fear and confusion. He has never been outside of the sweet, coiffed fields of Warouni before, except in security-swaddled tours with his mother and siblings. Never has he touched the Oberon wilderness up close this way. "Whu-wull rest a momen," pants Thula, her opulent young bosom heaving heatedly from exertion. The Prince sneers. "The mighty warrior woman has failed in her assignment. When Mother learns of this she will have your sword arm cut off." This foolishness is not worthy of response. Besides, at the moment she is having trouble forming coherent words. A twig snaps suddenly in the undergrowth nearby. Raznil jumps in terror. "Thula, you idiot. What's the matter with you? Why are we stopping? They're right behind us. They'll kill me too!" He is still, after all, no more than a frightened child. "S'alright, little knobhead. Nobodyz gunna hurt you. They want yer precious little body preserved in pink perfection. B'sides, we left em' hours ago." She cobbles her words in strange shapes. The drug and the forest conspire inside her to wear her down, her lucidity retreating into a dark tunnel, like a dazed rabbit. Despite his fear, the princeling smiles enthusiastically at this attractive development, savoring her predicament. It dawns on him that she is not in complete control of herself. His fear of capture is replaced in his forebrain by renewed interest in her every move. He watches patiently, sitting nearby, until at length Thula, overcome by a stifling heat she alone feels, unceremoniously yanks open the leather thongs that secure her breastplate and hurls the heavy metal garment with a careless clank onto the moss. Prince Raznil leers freely and greedily at her ripe breasts. They are so firm and buoyant that their lurid teats, freed of the weight of chain mail, jut upward hard and erect against the sheer fabric of her sweat-soaked underjerkin. He stares and gulps in the sight. Those breasts! They strain against the flimsy chemise as she bends down to unfasten her armored war boots. The undergarment is so thoroughly soaked that it clings to her flesh like second skin; it is almost transparent, exposing every lush curve. She might as well be stark naked. Then, as though disgusted by the burdens of mayhem, she unhasps her sword belt and knife, flinging them sloppily over a nearby branch. She yawns and stretches, legs akimbo, as far across the clearing from him as she can get, ignoring him completely. Flatalla, though usually poisonous, is under certain conditions a true psychotrope. In high concentration, it will indeed cause a horrid death, as we have seen. But it is also commonly used in small doses during Warouni religious rituals, and sometimes, less licitlly, by amorous couples. But then again too, in some less felicitous herbal compounds flatalla is rumoured to trigger psychosis rather than enlightenment. The agaric forest, at certain seasons, exhales just such a dangerous essence of malevolence. Even the coddled prince, a sheltered city dweller, knows this much of the common lore. It appears that, at this moment, right before him, the mighty Thula von Aax is coming dangerously unhinged. And so the clever Prince, correctly intuiting her vulnerability, gradually sidles close to her now, until he is so near that his senses swoon in the battle-rich perfume emanating from her voluptuous flesh. She lies on her side on the mossy earth now, back to him, the swoop of her hip like a wave of warm milk in the pastel light. The prince slinks up behind her, moving quickly, a hungry wolf cub approaching fresh-killed game. She brushes his intruding fingers away from her proud breast, annoyedly; once, twice. But she is drowsy, and lazy as a cold fly. Fending him off is just too much trouble. He is so persistent! And anyway, the forest quiet is lulling her. Soon, she forgets just why she doesn't want the intrusive hand touching her. Besides, now that its little fingers have crept inside the lowcut vee bodice of her jerkin and are pulling clumsily at her teat, now that her nipple is jutting hard and dancing compliantly to the oddly sensual ministrations of the child's thumb and baby finger, she can form no good reason to stop him. Let the little fop cop a feel. All she wants to do is lie here and sleep. As long as he doesn't go any further.... Damn, the little brat is really pushing things. This must stop now. His fingers are probing inside her undergarment persistently, insolently, as if he had a right, prying open her folds and massaging the taut softness of her belly. He uses his whole hand on her belly. His fingers are scouts for the main corps of his palm. He uses a pleasant, unpredictable swirling stroke. His fingertips brush lightly, naively, under the wasteband of her Cyrillian silk panties. "Stop it," she protests between quick breathes. But the drug, like a sleepy demon inside her, mocks her protest. His fingertips are stroking with devilish playfullness over the silken surface of her loincloth, right where it is squeezed between her tightly clamped legs. "No," she rasps, "not that!" He laughs softly, an edge of condescension in his squeaky voice. He pulls her hair back from the nape of her throat and runs his tongue lightly, damply over the curve where it meets her shoulder. A flock of goose bumps flaps its wings over her entire body. He thrusts his tongue hard into her ear. She gasps aloud, and lifts her upper leg, just a little. It is a sneak attack; a wholly involuntary capitulation. Her thighs part with a soft, moist smack. Instantly, like a rodent sensing cheese, his fingers home in on the sweat- sodden vee of her panties, exactly where she had so mercilessly humiliated him only a short hour earlier. Nor is it just sweat that soaks her crotch, of course. Battle always juices her. The little manling's fingers rip the delicate fabric aside. There is a soggy tearing sound; Cyrillian silk, while very luxurious, is not known for its fibre strength. She tries, unsuccessfully, to stave off a convulsion of hot pleasure as the ripe forest air breaths through the viny thicket of her crotch. What harm? She eases her knees a bit further apart. He won't know what to do, the little tadpole, but she can imagine a real man. Imagine Thula's surprise, then, when the callow boy's fingers home like heat-seeking missiles to exactly the right place and begin to slip back and forth in her slick, simmering froth at just the right frequency, with precisely the correct rhythm, absolutely perfect pressure. Imagine her dismay as she realizes that the loud and uncontrolled moans and fierce rutting cries that begin to crescendo through the forest are her own voice, addled by the drug and enslaved by the uncanny technique of this boy who is barely old enough to know how to pleasure himself. "Stop it, you fool," she hisses through hoarse gasps and moans of unbridled animal pleasure. "They'll hear us. They're coming. Stop it." Unfazed, the boy only increases the frequency, varies the pressure with more electrifying tempo changes, playing her madly like a mephistophilian waltz. Every once in a while now, wholly unpredictably, his finger grazes against the slippery rim of her mons volcanus, then pulls back. Whenever this happens, her body quivers and twitches in mad yearning. "I don't care, Thula, I don't care if they find us," snarls the vile boy with his lips pulls back from his teeth in a rictus of mixed lust and loathing. "I will have you. I always intended to have you, ever since you first appeared at my mother's feet. And this is my only chance. Soon, you'll be dead." So saying, he cups the entire tawny hair-bedecked mass of her pulsating mound with his soft, pampered hand...and squeezes. As if he has pushed a secret button, she feels her disembodied legs splay so far apart that the tendons of her inner thighs stretch taut as harp strings. He has her exactly as he has always wanted her, literally in the palm of his hand . He can do anything he wants with her. And being a prince, has absolutely no compunction whatsoever about doing just that. Coolly, deliberately, he prizes open the fleshy folds of her last resistance and thrusts his two longest fingers as deep into the breach as they possibly can go. She shrieks with outrage. And with animal craving. The petite Prince laughs, cruel. Possessive. His fingers slip in and out slow and free, glistening wet with her rich juices as they withdraw; producing a loud lubricous gurgle as they plunge back in. On the brink of a sexual morass, the warrior woman is as much this young patricians's slave now, at this moment, as ever she was in the pleasure dungeons of Har. She presents a terrifying and pathetic vision as she writhes there on the ground, the Prince's hand-puppet, her hindquarters lurching upward in craven anticipation of his every penetration. Her face, shrouded in the tangled mass of her tawny hair, is twisted into a mask of feral lust. Her magnificant breasts, naked, pulse and quake like milking udders. The muscles of her slender waist, spastic with need, expand and contract at his slightest movement. To his depraved and hungry eyes, she is a sight of incomparable beauty...and glorious, near-complete possession. Just then, the sound of heavy booted feet close in on them from the darkened forest. Beams of torchlight play on the pulpy mushroom branches above them. In the murky half -light, Thula dimly makes out Raznil untying the last of the lacings on his silly codpiece and dropping it to the ground. The sight of his puny manhood, small even for an underdeveloped boy, so shocks and disappoints her, that she begins to cry and laugh at the same time. Thus she is roused rudely from her sexual stupor. "You're going to use THAT on me?" she protests in dazed incredulity. "Shut up, witch," he spits, and falls upon her with good intent but little effect. *************************** Suddenly, rough hands yank him from her yearning, recumbent body. "Ay, an'looky here, Burfy," crows a raspy voice with thick peasant accent. "A boy tryin' to do a man's job." "Unhand me, scum!" sobs the babe, stolen untimely from his candy. "I am the son of the Queen of Warouni." "Sure, an yer the one we're lookin for, Mr. Finepants. Or is it no pants. And look what the lad's got fer us too, Burf, me boy!" "Why, T'is Thula the Snake!" exclaims the rotund bandit named Burf. "They've written songs about her. She is said to be expert with all kinds of swords." "Yes indeed, I am Thula," she confirms. She sits up, now quite thoroughly naked on the greyblue moss. Her loins are afire. Yet still she clings valiently to the last threads of her dignity. "And I assure you my reputation is well-earned. In fact, I am tempted to run you boys through right now, being Dalziel's goons as you are." "Ha," scoffs Weasel-- the skinny one. "And why don't you then, Miz Barebulbs, if you're so tough?" "Because frankly, boys, this boy and a wee nick of flatalla have left me with this little problem...." Thula raises her eyebrow at them with what she desperately hopes was a convincing mixture of enticement and bravado. Weasel and Burf look at each other, understanding growing like crabgrass in their composty brains. "Ohhhhhh," they chorus. "It's a problem, boys. This little gopher has set me up royally but has not the equipment to finish what he has started." Thula unleashs a whimsical smile and a modest shrug, her arms wrapped demurely about her knees, a forlorn attempt to hide the spasmic twitching of her loins. "We better not, Burf," whimpers Weasel. "Deek will have us skinned and tanned if he finds out. "You damned well better not!" howls Raznil. "She's mine! You better not!" "Deek won't know if we just take a little taste," reasons Burf. "Besides, if word ever got out that we passed up a chance to tup the Snake, our reputations would not be worth a kopak of kryll dung." "Boys," moans Thula, a little desparately as she rolls onto her belly and presents the impertenant swoop of her perfect rump to their gaze like a pair of royal pillows wrapped in creamy satin, "be kind." Weasel struggles to think clearly but all he can see is the snarled matt of her nether hair silhouetted against the mossy forest mattress between her parted thighs, and the glistening freshets of lust that run freely from her royally provoked wellspring. He takes a deep breath to clear his brain, but his nostrils gulp in the heady aroma of her rampant rut. Suddenly, he falls upon her. He mounts her in the manner of the bull. His long, hooked organ begins to graze freely in the plush, oily labyrinth of her mushdough notch. Her firm, billowing rump shoves greedily back against his hard, wiry belly. The more he shoves, the harder she shoves back. He drools like a fool. His spittle spatters on her bucking back. Within moments, he loses all control and erupts inside her with a back-arching, foul-cursing flood of rage. Thula screams like a mortally wounded animal when he withdraws. She looks back imploringly over her shoulder at Burf, still holding the tumescent little prince in firm grip, and fastens her gaze on the swollen prod of manhood that strains against his tight-drawn trowsers. Fresh spilled jism dribbles from her yawning notch and traces little glistenings down her inner legs as she struggles to her feet and staggers toward the hapless Burf. Prince Raznil, passed like a half-emptied mead jug by Burf to his sated comrade, who is hitching up his trowsers, bawls. "She's mine," he sobs pitifully. "She's MINE!" Thula, with the glazed gaze of a crazed madwoman, latches her arms about the big hairy bandit like a succubus. She burrows her jutting teats deep into the flabby folds of his belly and grabs the flaccid cheeks of his ass in a steely grip. She pulls the big man so tightly into her body that his belly appears to swell around her and half-swallow her in its blubbery mass. But she hardly notices. For she can feel what she really needs dangling beneath that gross sack, and she can tell, even through the course cloth of his trousers, that there is at least some faint hope that it will be up to the job. When she slides his trousers down around his ankles, she can barely stifle a little chirp of joy. It is short,yes, but thick in proportion to its host and the only hard thing on his person. Without hesitation, Thula throws herself onto him and wraps her legs about his thighs in a vinelike grip, inducing him to cup her milky bottom in his big hands to keep them both from tumbling. She jambs her plush mound down hard and furious onto him. He gasps and groans. It slides right into her, much deeper than she had dared hope, as her downward weight compresses the layers of his flab and unsheaths a tool of surpassing dimension, now buried up to its hilt in her seething belly. The two of them begin a lubricous dance-and-stumble about the clearing, so energetic that Weasel must pull the boy back under the umbrella of a big toadstool to avoid being trampled. Thula is crushed so hard into the fat man's chest that for a time the tips of her ripe tits are forced skyward, their lurid nipples burrowing like little red beetles into the dark course chest hair of her mate. As they whirl and squirm, Raznil is forced to watch. It is a flagrant, nightmarish vision as the huge man's massive member roots piggishly under the widespread pinkened orbs of her sweet, bouncing bottom. Once Raznil even must angrily wipe away stray juicy flecks of their mingled love waters, which spatter his face as they pirhouette near to him and Weasel. "Go, Burfy," cheers Weasel,"You got 'er where you want er'" It is, however, by no means clear that the fat man has the least control over the situation. He looks like a drowning man holding onto a flimsy branch at the edge of a waterfall. His face is beet red and his eyes clench shut; yet, he refuses to quit, as if he is tapping into some inner reserve of strength, some sullen determination not to be bested by this female legend. His dumb resoluteness, and the sheer mass of his manhood, seem to be working their spell on the warrior woman. A subtle change has come over the plaintive keening of Thula's singing. Her cries and moans are lower now, less shrill, and seem to originate from some deep part of her, the very bowel of her being. The pale, golden fields of her perfect skin are under attack by hordes of hot pink, the invasion starting in her face and jouncing breasts and spreading like a plague over her entire writhing body, until she seems to glow with molten heat. The fat man loses his balance, collapses to the ground on top of her. Now all that may be seen of her beneath his pendulous bulk are the nether side of her thighs, her legs splayed so wide that they seem like they will be ripped off her pelvis, and half of her right breast, squishing out like a gigantic ripe persimmon from the crush between her arm and his chest. The fat man raises his bulk onto his elbows and begins to batter Thula across the clearing on her back with the violent force of his thrusts. He slams his hips into her savagely, so hard that her breasts jounce about in a wild blur. It is a source of wonder to the boy that they don't just rip away and fly off. Far from deploring this bestial assault however, Thula clearly condones it. She claws her fingers into the big man's backside, taunting him with gutter insults, her own brute greed. Her head archs back at an impossible angle and her teeth clench so tightly about her tongue that it bleeds. "Hnnnnnnnn!" she moans. "Do it to me, fat man. Do it to me like a real man!" "BITCH!" screams Raznil, in horror and fascination. But Thula has no ear for her little Prince. Her cocksmate is losing control. She can feel it in the dangerous twitching of his member as it wallows uncontrolled, berzerk, in the swampy muck of her throbbing cunt. She isn't ready, oh dear Ouni, please, not yet. "No, curse you!" she screams, "NOOOOOO!" At that moment, chaos and carnage invades the clearing in the form of the famed, and more than slightly enraged bandit, Dalzeil. With a single clean swipe of his sword, he sends the bullet head of his hapless rutting wood rat across the clearing, cleaved from its root on those massive shoulders. The head falls with a dull thump in the weeds, its expression permanently frozen in an expression of transcendant lust. For an endless moment, it is as if the body from which it has been excised is not aware of any loss. No blood appears at the stump of its neck - so much is concentrated in its lower half. Out of sheer momentum , the great headless corpse takes two more deep, gratuitous thrusts into Thula's heaving belly and then draws free, dumping a torrential bucket of milky seed over her breasts and belly. Spent at last, the massive cadaver collapses. She is crushed beneath its bulk. The dead man's blood, released now from its more pressing duties, explodes from the severed neck, flooding her face and torso as though a great dam has burst from some vile fetid reservoir in hell. She lies stunned, pinned, helpless, half-drowning under the hemorrhaging hull of flesh. Dalzeil rants and fumes about the clearing, brandishing his bloodied sword. "Fools and scum, you have broken the Oath of the Elder Stone, and set our whole operation at grave risk. The Goddess will not countenance such vile and debauched misuse of her Temple."