The Ring of the Giants

Chapter One-2

And yet, and yet… Why, sometimes late at night, this Mara crept out of her tent and, did things to boys! It was not a secret, and yet it was. People spoke of it in dark murmurs and said bad words, but none of the fathers ever did anything about the older women’s complaints—most likely they had their turns at her, too. Many would not have felt the touch of a thing so firm and youthful and smooth for years and years and years had it not been for this girl, and when wives began to mutter of it over-much, well, then a swollen blue-black jaw or a cut lip all puffy and raw and oozing would keep jealous tongues quieter, if not any less sulking. Lanky young Mara was debased and spurned, but in her own silent, almost aloof way there was a haughtiness about her that no one save Kalesh appeared to sense. When the wild hunger took her, she prowled the night like the great dagger-toothed cats of old, and in a way it seemed that she did the things she did not for the pleasure of men and boys but for her own. It was a strange thing to think, and it made Kalesh feel… most peculiar indeed inside.

Yes, from his lonely lean-to at the very edge of the encampment, Kalesh saw it all. Light-footed and silent and yet fearsomely eager, the raven-haired Mara might tiptoe from tent to tent to do the things that would make her feel good. She used her mouth—that is what he had heard from beyond the edges of the whispering circles now and then. She crept in, she got down on her hands and knees alongside some sleeping boy, she opened up her smirking red lips, and she just sucked and sucked and sucked until she got the thick mouthful she craved. And then, laughing inside, she swallowed with a great wet smack. Some said she touched herself, too.

If more than one boy slept there, then once he had panted and gasped and spurted at her command, she would wake the next, quietly, in the very same way, and the next and the next, until all were satisfied—until she was satisfied. Brother after brother, uncles, fathers, doddering old grandfathers who could no longer tell past from present from dream—she sucked them all when the mood struck her. Yet no matter who it was that shivered and groaned under her hungry lips, still it was all for her and her alone. No one like Haramop had to force her—and in fact she never crept in upon the one-eyed swaggerer, never, which pleased Kalesh very secretly. And no grinning brave had to ask her either. Sometimes the dark-eyed girl simply hungered for seed, and she took it. And afterward, with her eyes shining huge and her cheeks flushed and her chin dripping, she went to the next tent and did it more, ever more.

Many were the nights that Kalesh, peering excitedly from within the dark entrance of his lean-to, watched this strange girl dance in starlight or moonlight from hut to hut and tent to tent, himself helplessly stiff as he thought of the things she did. Breathless and sweaty, he rubbed his stiff p***s as he imagined it all. Why did she do it? he asked himself sometimes in his desperate, wordless arousal. Was it not wicked and wrong? Was it not foul? And yet… clearly Mara hungered for c*m, wanted to feel it and smell it and taste it, wanted to gorge herself upon it until her belly was swollen tight as a drum.

What must she look like? he wondered, thrilling himself. Her head would be bowed, he supposed dirtily, but not with the dread and awe in which one beseeched the gods and not with the secret sullenness with which children sometimes bore the reproach of their elders. No, he told himself, this Mara would bow her head in eagerness. Her dark eyes might flash with some fierce unnamable emotion, but then as her parted red lips found what they needed, her eyes would grow dreamy and naughtily content. With movements so purposeful and swift and sure, she would bob her head again and again and again, making her shining long hair dance and sway. Perhaps boys could gawk down her neck and see the tiny little breasts there, smooth and white and unhandled.

Ah, and what must she sound like? She was quiet, certainly, so as not to wake the women, the frowning, jealous, vengeful old women who would, if they could, drive the skinny bad-girl from their huts, then the village, perhaps even the world itself, with lashings that would strip her flesh straight down to the bone and leave it hanging red and glistening for the delight of the hawks and ravens. Yet surely there would be at least some sound—the breath snorting in her flared nostrils, the slippery slide of flesh upon flesh, the wet little slobbers of her hungry animal feeding. How that would rile a boy’s blood!

What must she smell like? As she squatted there, barefoot and bobbing on the tamped earth floor, her angular, unknown little body would carry with it the powerful liquid scent of her fierce arousal. Ah, the salty-sweet, oh-so private reek of cunt, hairy and open and fiercely excited, crackling under shameless fingers. She would touch herself there to make her feel good, and with her bony knees cast wide, anyone could smell it, anyone!

And, oh, what must she feel like…? Mm, the thought of that girl’s mouth calmly rolling back the skin to bare the sensitive purple head standing thick and swollen and already oozing, and her soft lips settling down, down, down, so smooth and sticky and warm, still slippery from the last man’s seed. And she would do things then, all the things that made a man feel good. When poor Kalesh had to do this to Haramop, it was shame beyond belief, but for Mara it was different somehow. For none of it was for the hairy creatures of sinew and sneers who reviled the likes of her and Kalesh as well. It was for her, all for her.

In daylight the strange Mara again would be spurned and ignored, or talked about behind her back. Certainly after what she had done, no man would ever want her for a wife. And yet in the secret dark of night no man could resist her then. Her mouth gave pleasure for which there were no words, and yet somehow, in a way he could not name or even understand, that smirking mouth took, too. They all thought she was dirty and wicked and unworthy, and yet really she was better than the men of this tribe, and they were below her, far, far below, and Kalesh felt he could look down on them. He could not explain it, and yet it was true.

But still he touched himself. He thought of the girl’s mouth, and the things she did, and how good all those other boys must feel. It excited him all the more that even while he pulled and pulled at his throbbing meat in the delight of his frustration, her mouth was doing all the shameful, dirty, wondrous things to the others. How he longed for the treatment himself! Yet Kalesh, of course, was beneath the notice even of one so low as the demeaned Mara.

And yet once— why, once, perhaps two winters earlier, the girl’s hunger must have gnawed at her, and though her little belly must have been absolutely full already of roiling gray goo, before she sneaked back to her own tent, she suddenly stopped. Perhaps somehow she heard the soft sound of Kalesh’s hand jerking at his rigid red flesh as he watched. Perhaps a faint gleam of moonlight seeped back far enough into the shadows under the roof of the entrance that she caught sight of the motion of his frantic struggles. Perhaps it was something else. Yet one way or another, like a dog that has caught the scent of what it hunts, she turned her head and looked his way. Those dark eyes flashed, her nostrils twitched, and her red lips curled up at the corners.

Eagerly she trotted over, and before the startled Kalesh could even think to release his manhood, let alone draw back, she had ducked inside, her huge dark eyes shining in a sort of triumph. “Give it to me, boy!” she whispered. “Give it to me! Now!" And as he could only goggle at her in disbelief, she leaned hungrily down and sucked him into the paradise of her mouth.

Oh, the joy of it! He moaned softly as the insides of those warm, wet, c*m-slippery cheeks pulled smoothly against his taut-skinned naked p***s, somehow both demanding and needy all at once. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. He was already dripping wet with the clear juices that seep and ooze before the sweet explosion of the red mountain of fire, but she did not stop, did not flinch, and did not shrink back. Her breath stank of the swallowed seed of ten, fifteen, twenty throbbing c***s, and her drooling gums swam with the bubbling residue, and yet still she craved to wrap her mouth around yet another strange p***s and simply feast.

Happily Kalesh squirmed upon the mangy sleeping-furs that shielded him so inadequately from the hard ground beneath. For a moment, though, he forgot everything else—forgot the chill of his ill-protected toes, forgot the cramp from sitting cross-legged, forgot the half-buried stone that pushed against the side of his splayed hip. Nothing existed now but that mouth, that supple, smooth, excited young mouth traveling up and down over the pleasantly aching stiffness that the very thought of her had caused. She licked, she sucked, she gummed. She swirled her flushed face, making heavy waves of starlit sable toss and flutter about the naked skin of his exulting thighs.

Panting, he watched the bobbing top of the head of the strange girl who thirsted for seed. How beautiful it was! In her furtive, animal actions was a simple, primitive grace such as he had never known existed. From what the others had said about her, and from what the poor red-faced boy himself had had to do for the wicked Haramop, he had thought this thing of Mara’s would be a dirty thing. But it was not, he realized in wonderment. It was as natural and wild as the tumult of a waterfall, or the proud movements of the hawk grooming its broad golden wing-shoulders, eyes lordly and unblinking and fierce. This mouth, too, was fierce in a way, smooth and soft and yet fierce to show its calm, cunning power. Kalesh could not resist it. Soon, he knew, grinning tightly, very soon, he would give her what she wished. And he wished it, too, so, so much.

As he trembled there, loose-lipped and reeling, he felt Mara’s hand clutch his bare hip for support, sometimes reach inward and fondle the tight-pulled makers of his seed. Mm, it felt good. She did it not for him but for herself, with the determination of a woman rolling her fingers in the moist earth for plump grubs that wriggled beneath. He knew this, and yet he did not care. Her fingers plucked and pulled without shame, making him respond.

And yet her other hand, he knew dimly, did something else, too. He could not see it, but he could hear it, smell it. Squatting open on the cold damp earth, this girl touched herself fiercely. The fishy smell of her filled his nose, his wondering mouth, his very lungs, enough to make his member stand aching and rigid even untouched, and her bunched fingertips squelched and rasped and bubbled. Tight-curled black hairs, unseen but heard, sounded scratchy-soft, but beneath those tangled strands lay something slippery-smooth and dripping with the secret nectars of its own excitement. It stank beautifully of the way she had rubbed herself all night long, without shame, as she feasted upon man after man.

Mara was a bad, bad girl, he told himself unsteadily. No one but a bad-girl would do this. And yet scarcely even realizing that he was doing it, he raised one hand and stroked it almost gently through her long, glossy black hair. With the grateful tenderness of a boy who has never been touched, he caressed the head of this strange creature whose heart harbored such unspeakable desires. Her puckered red lips worked at his upstanding organ as mindlessly and shamelessly as a baby pulls at the thick, sweetly spurting n****e of its mother’s lolling milk-heavy breast. Yet what this dark spigot of meat would squirt, he told himself dirtily, was not milk…