As promised, here is a taste of the sort of games I like to play in the woods.
No animals were harmed , or indeed, participated, in the process. Some humans were hurt. But they had to beg for it.
The huntsman crossed the sacred river, swinging his spear in the crisp autumn morning.
His shapely legs, well muscled but lean under his his short leather tonic, trod sure footed over the slippery stones protruding from the rushing water. Even when climbing up the steep banks, he moved gracefully, unencumbered by the bow and quiver slang over his shoulders.
On this side of the river, the one no man may cross, the forbidden forest’s floor was covered in fallen leafs, deep orange, red, and browning gold. This suited the huntsman. The deep foliage swallowed the sound of his eager strides.
He whistled for his dogs, and watched with pride as they came bounding to his side, fierce, but as silent as death. Fine beasts they were. Pure breed Pit Bulls. Keen, mean, and halve starved. Picked, fed and trained by his own hand from the day they were taken, still blind, from their mother. Twelve moons later he commanded the young hounds to slaughter the bitch who whelped them. Three of the litter proved themselves worthy of running with their master. Brutus, the largest, slate-grey, Cleo, a stocky brindle, and the hunter’s favourite, the pure white Narcis, a black patch splitting his clever face in half, like an actor’s mask. It wasn’t for nothing he was hailed the best hunter in the land. It took patience, attention to details, and ruthlessness.
Well, hailed the best huntsman, not the best hunter. Which was unfair. And today, he was about to set the record straight.
The hunter liked the sound of this. Set the record. Teach the stuck up virgin a lesson. Liked it so much, in fact, that a keen observer, like the huge old boar who manifested in the hedge, staring at him through his mean little eyes, would have noted something stirring under the leather tunic.
The hunter called his dogs to heel. They weren’t hunting boar, today. The boar didn’t even blink as they passed, inches from his rust crusted tusks. The hunter sneered.
Everyone knew that the animals in the forbidden woods were almost tame. They seem to have no fear of humans. She must have bewitched them. Which amounts to cheating. Calls herself the hunt-mistress! There is no skill, no sport, in slaying game which practically eats out of your hand.
Everybody knows that the hunt is all about the chase.
The river, which gurgled merrily on his left, was suddenly swallowed under titanic boulders, scattered in odd patterns as if hurled to earth by giant toddlers. The hunter bent to examine a patch of lichen on the nearest boulder, shooing Brutus away from his marble bum. Yes, the lichen was a curios shade of blue. He was close, very close.
The hounds pricked their ears and charged forward, between the boulders. The hunter whistled, softly. The Pit Bulls heeded him not.
They’ll get a taste of his whip later. The hunter strapped his spear to his back, and swapped it for the bow. Stringing his special arrow, the one with a heavy bronze head, sharp enough to penetrate any armour. The one blessed by the oracle. Or possibly cursed. He couldn’t make out what the Delhpi hag mumbled over it.
Taking a deep breath, the hunter padded around the boulders, taking care to keep his shadow behind him. Beyond, water roared.
Tough fur rubbed against his bare calves. He almost tripped, startled. But is was only Narcis, whining. The hunter closed his snout, roughly, and motioned to Cleo and Brutus, cowering behind, to follow down the narrow path. The stone face was getting more slippery, mushrooms sprouting from indigo moss.
Without thinking, the hunter picked one. The yellow sponge turned inky rotten blue, and disintegrated in his callused hand.
Finally, after creeping down a path between the boulders which seemed to go on a lot longer then it should, the hunter reached the Malachite rock pool.
At first, he didn’t see her. But sweeping the scene, his eyes rested on another rare prize: Her bow! The legendary yew and spider-silk bow of the virgin huntswoman was laying on a flat rock, next to a quiver of bone-carved arrows, and a pile of garments.
Cleo’s growl alerted the hunter that the owner of that fearsome weapon was somewhere in the direction of the waterfall feeding the pool, where rainbows and bejewelled flying fish frolicked. The hunter trained his famous hawk- like eyes on the water’s surface.
At first, he thought the virgin was swimming, her powerful haunches regularly breaking water, or splashing about, creating little whirlpools. The steam rising around her naked body made it difficult to ascertain the exact nature of her movements.
Flat on his stomach, the hunter crawled closer, halting behind a dream-green rock above the discarded bow, right by the water edge. At this proximity, the steam no longer provided an adequate screen. It played around her curves and muscles like the transparent gauze advertising the charms of a common flute player.
The virgin wasn’t doing laps. Head thrown back, she lulled and thrashed in the water, as the creatures playing in the spray swooped all over her body. Little dappled fish nibbled on the nape of her neck, her ears, and no doubt, other nooks and crannies. Something much larger and darker swam between her legs, whiskers bristling, as bright purple crabs scuttled on her chest, inflamed pincers closing and opening, pinching and twisting the virgin’s nipples. Heedless of the splashing water, three huge dragonflies landed on her forehead, fluttering over the closed eyes and parted lips.
The hunter returned the arrow to the quiver, and lowered his bow, grabbing the spear instead. This freed one hand. He reached under his leather tunic, and started stroking his cock. It was a fine cock. Every slut he fucked agreed it was. One Hetaira even commented that she’s seen bigger, but not on a human. And from the sounds they made when he rammed it in, they meant every word. It was so big that his favourite slave boy had to be send to a healer, discretely, a number of times, which was rather costly.
The hunter wasn’t surprised when a canine tongue started rimming his ass hole. Narcis, most like. But all his dogs were well trained. Suppressing a groan, he returned his piercing gaze to the water.
The virgin wasn’t there.
The hunter’s heart missed a beat, his cock jerking out of his fist. Did he lose her? How could he be so careless? He had never lost a…but no. There she was, squatting on the throne-like rock on the edge of the pond.
This was not an attitude befitting her title. No virgin sat like this, legs spread wide open. The hunter cursed, wishing she didn’t have her back turned him. Her tight holy cunt must be fully on display.
And then, the virgin called the waterfall.
End of part one.
Watch this space…