Moonkiss

AUTHOR'S NOTE AND A WARNING TO READERS: This story fuses an anal sex fetish with that of a fantasy story. Not one with magic and dragons, mind you - the fantasy setting is mostly there so that the characters can come from vastly different cultures, without going in to any real-life places or cultures that might offend anyone. The story is ANAL ONLY - No vaginal sex of any kind occurs. Please make sure that you are comfortable with the rosa-blanca.ru listed before you proceed.

The story is a work of fiction, and all of the characters within are above the age of eighteen.

All of my work - including this one - is copyrighted.

--- MOONKISS ---

"HOLD THE LINE, BROTHERS!" the voice of commander Vole called out, though even his booming voice was barely audible amongst the chaos and clashing blades. The shield-wall was breached, and the eastern flank buckled. Blood on grass turned the meadow into an island of crimson amidst the emerald fields, while the roaring warriors seemed to be an unruly storm of fur and steel, completely unfazed by the deep groans and sputters of death all around them. The morale of House Ambyrr's troops was all but shattered, as was their disciplined formation. "BRACE YOURSELVES!" The line shifted, but the trained men fought with a desperation born from hopelessness. Their orders were lost in the deafening din, drowned by the clamour of war. In only a few short breaths, it was clear that the men were on the verge of collapse - the battle was lost, but the northerners weren't known to show mercy, so laying down your arms meant being met by the same fate as dying with honour. There was no other way to go about it but with blood.

Rhycard was a seasoned fighter. Trained in the art of combat since childhood, his fate had always been decided by the sharp edge of his blade. A squire to Foddrick the Hungry long before puberty, then knighted at the young age of sixteen, he had made quite a name for himself since. At age nineteen, he had won the tourney of Oranok and brought great honour to his lord; at twenty-two, he had held the bastion at Scree as the famed siege engineers of House Morn had bombarded the walls with everything from catapults to trebuchets. Now, at the age of twenty-five, he would die - cut down on a foreign field uncountable miles away from home by northern barbarians; uncivilized brutes who butchered and pillaged without leniency or remorse. The realization felt almost absurd - this was the pinnacle of his accomplishments? For how long would history remember him - a man with no sons or daughters, without fancy titles or lordly blood?

His footing felt uneven in his light steel boots as he was ushered forward by the ranks around him. A spear wielded by his own kin found its way past his shoulder and embedded itself into the belly of a northerner - and he spat blood in retribution, staining Rhycard's already-soiled surcoat. The knight's broadsword cleaved through the fur-lined armour of an even larger northman with ease, and he had since long lost count of how many foes he had slain, or whose face had met his blade in this heathen battlefield. Only the cacophony of death and the sharp pain in his ears reminded him that he was still alive, that his body still moved forward to the beat of some invisible drummer. And yet the rhythm was no longer steady, it was more erratic and irregular - faltering - as if some giant unseen hand was playing a game with his heart. And for each enemy defeated, a hundred more seemed to remain - a veritable sea of fury, baying for his blood.

"RETREAT!" came the order from commander Vole, as House Ambyrr's surviving forces began to fall back in unorganized disorder. The shield-wall broke like glass before an axe, the northmen all but trampling over the fallen defenders with their sheer ferocity. And Rhycard, being at the frontline, stood no chance to escape. Within seconds he found himself surrounded, his few remaining brothers in arms on either side being cut down around him by the brutal northerners. Suddenly, the sting of biting steel found its way underneath his chainmail. He parried a sword with his shield and slashed outwards with the force of his entire body - but the number of foes were too great, and despite his combat prowess the knight soon found himself toppled over, bleeding from multiple wounds. He didn't feel the pain as much as he felt the cold chill of terror coursing through his veins. His demise would not be turned to song, performed by troubadours throughout the lands. No, he would soon be forgotten - his life but a footnote in the annals of House Ambyrr's ledgers.

Fur-lined boots traversed across his body like a stampede. Mud and blood was kicked into his eyes. His mouth tasted of metal. The screams of his dying brothers seemed almost distant, yet at the same time uncomfortably close - coming from all directions. His sword was no longer in his hand, and the shield strapped to his arm - upon which the colours of House Ambyrr had proudly flown - would never see battle again. "This is it," he thought. "This is where I die." Only the choking stench of death filled his nostrils, accompanied by the feeling of being utterly powerless, as everything faded to black - the cries of pain and suffering filling the last moments of his consciousness. But Rhycard made no sound. He did not weep.

How long he remained there, amidst the corpses, he could not tell. He drifted in an out of reality repeatedly - the occasional scream jolting him back awake. The battle was over. All that remained was a feast for carrions, for beasts who had no respect for the dead. Parched, Rhycard's last wish was to find some water, but even that simple request seemed like an impossible one, because he had not the strength to move. All he could do was to cough, and hope that death would be kind as he'd come knocking on the reaper's door.

--- 2 ---

He could hear voices, seemingly both distant and intimately close all at once. The young knight was enveloped in warmth - yet he was shivering. Rhycard opened his eyes, and the light set off a blinding headache. Or perhaps it was there all along? He felt dizzy, nauseous. How much time had passed? His mouth tasted foul, his vision was blurry, and he couldn't hold back a groan. The voices stopped speaking - and the few seconds of silence that followed were worse than any blow to his skull. Deep within, he felt afraid. He was not among friends.

"I told ya I'd be able to save him!" said a feminine voice in an accent that was clearly foreign. A northerner. And there was a hard edge to it, a defiance - a stubbornness to her tone which suggested she would not be dismissed or ignored. But she seemed delighted by his awakening, and in the knight's frail state of mind this caused his fear to rise. Were they planning to torture him? His armour was long gone, and he was stripped down to a near-naked state, bandages and linen wrapped around various wounds, treated with poultices of herbs and other strange ingredients. He was not strapped down, yet moving felt near impossible. Every part of his being was in incredible agony.

As Rhycard's vision cleared, the knight quickly assessed his surroundings. He was on a cot in a large tent of barbaric origin, covered in blankets and furs. Wooden poles were woven through the walls and tied with leather strips, which were dangling here and there. Their patterns would have been unfamiliar to most, but Rhycard recognized the runic symbols. They stood for health, or healing. A few other cots were littered around the tent, though only one seemed to be occupied, the rest empty. He attempted to sit up, but it proved impossible, and he quickly assessed that he was in no position to fight. But if he was in enemy hands... then he should already have been dead? Or was he about to become a sacrifice to foreign, pagan Gods?

A few feet away from Rhycard sat the women - around a table seemingly made from thick bark - draped in furs and skins, looking at him curiously. They were clearly northerners - with wild hair and pale skin, and blue eyes like those of the ice-giants from the fables. Three of them, all of similar age - and to a man like Rhycard who only saw them as savage barbarians, they shared many physical traits. But they had distinct features. One was pudgy, with round cheeks and eyes full of suspicion. One looked relaxed - almost bored - leaning back on a wooden chair with a cup of some scalding-hot drink in her hand, the steam rising past her face. Her blonde hair was short and disheveled. The third had raven black hair which she kept tied up in a twin set of braids. Her eyes were big, her mouth formed into a satisfied - perhaps even proud - smile. The corners of her lips twitched, and she spoke again.

"So this is what a demon looks like when awake? He's not that frightening." She stood up and approached him, clad in leather pants and boots. Rhycard flinched involuntarily as she came closer - and yet she didn't seem to notice. She placed her palm on his forehead and gave a frown. "You've got a fever, Sir knight. But don't ya worry, I took good care of ya." She beamed him a great, wide smile, one so bright he felt as if it could light up a cloudy night. The way she talked sounded like an imitation of his own language. All vowels were softened, butchered, and the rhythm was far from refined. It sounded like a babbling brook, if a brook was capable of stringing words into sentences. Why had they kept him alive? For what purpose? He turned his head away in defiance, although his neck was so stiff it pained him immensely, and he gave up that fool's errand quickly.

"Ain't no point in showing yer teeth. You're alive because of my care, demon-man." Her eyes were surprisingly kind for someone flinging accusations that he might be a hellspawn. She looked to the other two girls for a second. "Nila, go tell Elder Solvin that my chosen survived." Nila seemed like the plump one with a round, friendly face, and she got up in an instant, bowed her head with her palms pushed together in front of her, and scurried out of the tent - the flaps of cloth seeming thick and heavy.

The dark-haired woman then placed both hands on her hips and leaned forward until she was inches from Rhycard's face, her blue eyes wide open in amusement as he shied away. "Ya don't have to be afraid of me, demon-man. You slaughtered many of my kin and a mere woman makes ya quiver? My father always said, never trust a man who fears the fairer sex." She leaned forward and brushed the hair from his face, and her touch was gentle.

Rhycard found his voice, though it was hoarse. "I fear nothing," he spat in protest.

The woman chuckled softly, and sat down next to him. He could smell her fragrance - elderflowers and honey - a distinct scent that made him feel slightly more relaxed, like the first rays of sunshine breaking through stormclouds. "You ought to be dead, ya know? The men you killed with your blade... Like an unstoppable fury..." She cupped his chin and turned his head so that their eyes met. "They tell me you put our best berserkers to shame. You're a special one, aren't ya?"

He gritted his teeth. "Just doing my duty," he said, feeling a pang of guilt - though he had been unable to keep count of the number of foes he had slain. And yet they had spared him? For what purpose? To taste his flesh, and take from him his lifeblood in some unholy ritual?

The woman tilted her head at the wounded man. "Duty?" she said, incredulously. "That's what yer wielding a blade for?" Her eyes searched his own, as if she wanted to find the answers to a question which she herself had not yet realized. The northerners were as different from their southern counterparts as night and day. They were not known for taking prisoners. At least, no one had ever been kept as a bartering chip, or ever survived such an ordeal.

"I swore an oath," Rhycard replied in a bellicose fashion.

She grinned, clearly amused by his attitude. "You are far from home. Yer name?"

He hesitated for the briefest of moments, and made an attempt at inching himself upwards on the cot, but he could barely move his limbs. He grimaced with pain. "Sir Rhycard, Knight of House Ambyrr." He swallowed hard. "What am I doing here?"

The raven-haired woman's lips curled upwards again. "In the tent?" she asked with a certain lilt. "Or in the war?" She reached for some type of sponge, and dipped it into a bucket of steaming water. The scent implied that it was infused with herbs. Somewhere, within his subconscious, he knew the scent well - and he realized she must have been cleaning him with it when he was passed out, as to stop his wounds from getting infected.

Rhycard bit his lip. "Here and now. Why save me? For what purpose?" he asked, as the barbarian lady began to gently wash his skin with a touch that was more caring than anything he had known in years. Her delicate touch seemed strange for a woman whom he saw as little more than savage brute. The pungent aroma of mint and thyme filled the tent, and despite everything he felt his eyelids grow heavy. But he was jolted right back to attention as she answered him.

"You are to become my husband, demonic knight. It is tradition for the Fylja to only take men from the battlefield who've demonstrated bravery and been deemed worthy of a second chance." She smiled softly. "I've never heard of such bloodlust as yours. Even amongst our berserkers and most seasoned raiders we find few so fierce. So I am very fortunate." She pressed a cloth on his wound and squeezed out some excess water, leaving it there to soak.

Rhycard almost laughed out loud. "Your husband? That's insane!"

She shrugged. "You should have died... So why didn't ya?" Her voice had taken on a melancholic tone, and she paused only briefly, giving him a chance to respond. When none was forthcoming, she continued, "It wasn't fate, Sir Rhycard. It was because I saved ya. You owe me a life-debt now. Without me, ya would be a feast for crows and boars."

"We're sworn enemies," he growled - though his defiant attitude seemed more a manifestation of pain and shock.

"Aye, that we are. But it was your own accord that brought ya here. Yer actions have condemned you to this fate, demon-man. Your strength is a gift." She leaned closer to him, her face hovering mere inches from his own. "I'm Vera the Moondancer. And my sworn sisters are Nila, and Myrja." She pointed to the blonde woman who sat quietly in the middle of the tent, sipping on her warm brew, whom gave him the briefest of nods. "We're Fylja. Healers. And I have claimed ya." A warmth spread across her cheeks. "Yer mine now, so stop making a fuss."

The knight attempted once more to raise himself from his cot, but it was hopeless. "This is preposterous! Do I not get a say in this!?"

Vera let out a sharp sigh. "You would die without my aid. Your wounds were grave, Sir Rhycard." She smiled softly, a tender smile that he would have never expected to see on the face of a barbarian woman, with wild hair and bony arms. "The berserkers wanted to chop your head off as a trophy, or use your body parts for sacrifices to our Gods... but the Fylja, we get first selection." She sat upright, and cast her gaze at nothing, staring into the distance. "But aye, ya do get a say. If ya refuse to marry me, then we will both be put to the axe. Our futures are bound now, demon-man. Ain't no turning back. Ya either accept my hand... or ya die. We die." Her words were grave, as was her tone, and there was something in her eyes - a pain - which had been buried deep beneath a facade of confidence.

Rhycard paused for a moment, the wheels in his head spinning at a mile a minute. His mind felt muddled, thoughts flying all over the place. He hadn't even known these women for five minutes, and this seemed like an outrageous agreement. For all he knew, they could be poisoning him with venom and forbidden spices - manipulated his mind in some way, so that his sanity would shatter under their unrelenting charms. "If I agree to this... you'll keep me alive? See to my recovery?" he asked, trying his best to appear unshaken by the decision he had yet to make.

She grinned, clearly amused. "Aye. We are healers after all. I cannot make you whole again. Only nature can do that." Her icy eyes were filled with warmth. "But I can keep ya alive. I'm afraid yer stuck with me for as long as ya live, demon-man."

"No need to call me demon-man," Rhycard replied, a sour edge to his voice.

"It is what ya are," she retorted, matter-of-factly, without spite.

He let out a heavy sigh. "And you are a savage."

Vera giggled at that, and nodded. "I suppose that's how ya see us!"

Rhycard winced, a sudden sharp pain from his abdomen causing him to recoil. Vera quickly reached over for a mug of water, and raised it to his lips. Her tender touch was cool and comforting, and he drank from it eagerly - suddenly realizing how parched he was.

The blonde woman - Myrja - rose to her feet. "He needs to rest. I'll leave you two be for the night." Then she, too, bowed before exiting the tent. Without missing a beat, Vera rose to her feet and began undressing herself, her slender fingers working at the untying the straps of her fur-lined tunic. It came off with ease, leaving her bare from the waist up. Her skin was white as untouched snow, her breasts shapely though small. A braid draped over her left shoulder, the contrasting colours of black and white giving her an exotic beauty which captivated the knight.

She seemed completely at ease with him staring, but Rhycard did not dare meet her gaze. He glanced about awkwardly for something else to look at instead, until his eyes settled on the tribal markings adorning the tent's wall - red stripes sown into the surface. Before long, the woman's leather pants came off as well. He realized that the whole ordeal might be natural in their culture - and yet he felt awkward, nervous in the face of the raw beauty before him. "What are you going to do?" he asked, unable to mask his trepidation.

The northwoman tilted her head at him. "Don't ya worry," she said, sounding rather amused by his bewilderment. "Just going to keep ya warm is all."

Rhycard swallowed hard. "But I'm... this isn't proper," he uttered. He couldn't tell whether the flush in his cheeks was a result of his injuries or Vera's seductive form. She seemed to think of herself as his betrothed already - but they just met. She was a stranger to him - a barbarian. A monster, in some ways.

Vera's soft giggle filled the tent, her melodious voice wrapping around his ears like a blanket. "Oh, demon-man. You southerners.." She approached the cot until they were once again staring face to face, then spun around - with the intention of showing him every bit of her body. Her round buttocks swayed rhythmically, her narrow waist leading down to slender, pale legs. Rhycard felt himself drawn to the spectacle of raw beauty unfolding before him. She looked back over her shoulder, her smile wide, only the slightest hint of a blush on her cheeks. Then she bent forward at the waist, raising her bum and parting her thighs, and planted a firm hand on the back of a wooden chair for support. She wanted him to look.

The knight's eyes lingered on her glistening lips, his heartbeat growing faster with every breath he took. Her sex was puffy, pink, enticing him as much as it made him uncomfortable - though his own loins betrayed his body's hesitation, twitching in anticipation. His tongue ran along his teeth in a moment of anxiousness. A feverish blush covered his cheeks. He hadn't lain with a woman in some time - far too long for a man of his stature and good looks. But he was in no shape to get physical with a lady, barbarian or otherwise. "I don't know if I can.. do anything."

She giggled, and rose back up, then pulled her braids to the front - so they fell down to just near her coral-coloured nipples - and stared into the knight's eyes. Her blue irises seemed to look deep into him, peering at his very soul. Then she took another step towards the cot, lifted the blankets and furs, and crawled underneath of it all. Her body radiated a pleasant warmth which calmed the knight, despite himself.