The Duchess of Lust Ch. 01 - The Barbarians

Every one of them was armed, and almost all of them bore scars, tattoos or warpaint. There were no signs of children, the elderly or noncombatants. The Iron Blades were an army with a single purpose: the destruction of her city.

But it would not come to that, she told herself for the hundredth time.

Her escort showed her to the largest of tents, made from the black hide of some strange beast.

"Inside," he said, gesturing with her axe. He smirked. "Good luck. May the Spirit of the Dancing Forest smile upon what you have to offer."

A few called after her, shouting out encouragement, insults and lewd comments. But none approached, and she did her best to ignore them. Sarya briefly closed her eyes and paused before the doorway to the tent, and after a few deep breaths, she stepped inside to meet her fate.

A brute of a man knelt upon fur blankets, sharpening a massive iron sword. He was clad in black furs that matched the material of his tent, and wore chainmail beneath it. His belt was covered with sheathed knives: the man was a veritable walking armory. His skin was pale, almost like snow, and was marred with dozens of scars: some were thin and faded, others were darker and more fresh. His hair was long and coiled into tight black braids, and he had a thick beard that was surprisingly well-groomed for a wild barbarian. He wore a simple crown made of red wood and studded with teeth. His bright blue eyes stared down at the blade as he worked, and he did not look up as she entered.

"So," the king said, his voice rumbling so deeply that it nearly sent her back a step. "You are the offering of Fellhaven, to honor the Spirit of the Dancing Forest."

She nearly spoke, then took a moment to collect herself and steel her voice.

"Yes," she said firmly. "I am Duchess Sarya of Fellhaven. I have come to make an offering, in the hopes that you might stay your hand, or at least delay the bloodshed."

"Stay my hand?" he wrinkled his nose, and still did not look up. "Not likely. But a delay? Perhaps. If the offering is suitable."

Ulrik set the blade aside and finally looked at her with those piercing, ice-blue eyes. Again, she nearly staggered back at the cold, penetrating intensity of that gaze. She suppressed a shiver at the thought of those eyes boring into hers as he spread her legs and-

Her thoughts vanished as he rose, towering far above her to his full height, well over six feet tall.

"What do you know of this ritual and this offering?" Ulrik rumbled.

"Not much," she said softly. "Only that this Spirit of the Dancing Forest is a deity of lust and pleasure, and that the moon is sacred to her at this time."

"You have already expressed far more knowledge about my people and our ways than any other foreigner thus far." That icy, unblinking gaze looked her up and down, and she quivered. "Impressive."

Sarya wasn't sure if he was referring to her body or the knowledge she'd shared. Perhaps both.

"The ritual is simple," he went on. "We shall go out beneath the moon, within the light of a sacred bonfire. Then you shall disrobe for me, and for my chosen chiefs and champions."

Sarya's eyes widened at that. She had expected a public display, given what she'd witnessed through the spyglass, but hearing the details now made the prospect all the more real, all the more frightening.

And all the more enticing.

"You shall do as I command, and if I find you worthy, I shall use you as I see fit, for the honor of the Spirit of the Dancing Forest. If the offering is accepted, the sacred flame shall go out. And then you shall have four weeks of peace."

Her mind reeled with the details of the ritual, wondering exactly what she would have to do to prove worthy of his touch, and also what she'd have to give in order to satisfy that strange savage goddess.

Four weeks of peace could make the difference between survival and destruction. In four weeks, her soldiers could further fortify the walls and build even more weapons, and the other duchies might finally come to their senses and ride to her aid. Even once the four weeks were up, her people would be able to hold out for weeks more.

If she succeeded, Fellhaven just might have a chance.

Ulrik stepped forward, looming over her. His scarred fingers reached out and brushed with surprising tenderness over her cheek.

"Are you a virgin?" he rumbled.

"No. Does that matter?"

His fingers fell away, and she found herself aching to feel them again.

"It does. For it gives me a better idea of what to demand from you."

Ulrik stepped back again.

"How experienced are you, exactly?"

She blushed at the question; no one had ever dared be so brazen with her before.

"I have had a half-dozen lovers over the years," she said softly. "Mostly knights or nobles from other duchies. Men who know the value of discretion."

Ulrik barked a laugh.

"Soft, weak men, you mean. Pampered aristocrats and armored ponces playing at warriors."

He wasn't entirely wrong, at least not about some of them. A few, though, had been strong and worthy...but none had been so imposing as Ulrik.

"Are you just going to insult my past lovers, or are we going to commence with the ritual?"

"Struck a nerve, have I?" He snickered and gestured to a chest against one wall of the tent.

"Help yourself to some ale or wine, if you wish."

Feeling that she could have used a bit to steady her nerves, she crossed the tent on shaking legs and opened the chest, and gasped with surprise at the fine bottles. She recognized the labels: the bottles contained of the finest wines in the Empire.

"Loot and tribute from merchants and smaller towns," he explained. "We've an abundance of it, and I have little taste for the wine of soft men."

She reached down, popped open a bottle, and took a sip.

He watched her with those keen, disarming eyes.

"You must love your people a great deal," Ulrik said.

"I do." She wiped a few drops from her lips. "They mean everything to me."

"They mean so much that you would debase yourself before a savage? That is what your kind call mine, yes?"

She frowned at that, then nodded.

"Yes. I would do anything for my people, and yes, that is what we call you. We call you savages, and you call us soft. A level field, when it comes to insults, I think."

"Not quite. Far better to be savage than soft."

Sarya took another sip.

"Have you done this before? This ritual?"

"Aye. When I began to conquer and unite the various tribes of the Iron Blades, a chieftain sent me his daughter as an offering, to ensure a peaceful transition." Those icy eyes took on a brief, hungry gleam that took her breath away.

"And can you...tell me of that offering?"

"And ruin the surprise?" He snorted with amusement. "No, Duchess Sarya of Fellhaven."

He watched her in silence for a few moments, then he crossed the tent with surprising grace and snatched the wine from her hand.

"Enough of that. It is time."

She swallowed, nodded, then looked to the flap of the tent. Those rough fingers gently grasped her by the chin and turned her gaze back to his. She stared, awestruck and terrified and aroused.

Ulrik smirked.

"I can sense your excitement, duchess. That is good. An eager offering is much better in the eyes of the spirits."

He then gestured to the tent flap, and she took a deep breath and stepped outside.

To her shock, almost all of the onlookers were gone, and had been replaced by a dozen or so warriors. Among them were men and women clad in robes and wreathed in warpaint and tattoos. Sarya blushed a little as she recognized the blonde witch whom she had seen so thoroughly ravished. Other warriors stood behind them: fur-clad and armed with rune-covered weapons, their skin adorned with tattoos and warpaint. Those must have been the favored champions of Ulrik who would be helping to test her.

She cast her gaze over them, and her blush deepened as she recognized one of them as the blonde warrior who had ravished the shaman during Sarya's scouting of the enemy camp.

Other chosen champions were similarly strong and savage, clearly a cut apart from the rank and file of the Iron Blades. They ranged in age from their early twenties to their late forties: all bore scars of some kind or another, and most were brutish and strong, but others were more lean and wiry. All of them had a certain rugged handsomeness that was enhanced by their scars and their rough attire.

She nearly squirmed beneath the collective gaze of the shamans and the champions.

"It is time," Ulrik announced. "Tonight, we honor the Spirit of the Dancing Forest."

The shamans stepped away, towards a nearby fire, and Sarya inspected the champions once again. Her eyes flitted from the blonde warrior to a shorter, wiry young man with dark curly hair and a bow strapped to his back. He smiled warmly at her, with a kindness she hadn't expected in the camp.

"May I...may I know your names?" she called out. "If I am to be tested by you-"

"Their identities are not relevant," Ulrik growled. "All that matters is that they test you, to see if you are worthy of my touch."

She frowned a bit at that, then nodded. It seemed that the band of barbarians who would seen be ravishing her would remain anonymous.

The champions watched her in silence, and the shamans and witches began to chant, and tossed blue flowers and herbs onto the fire. She winced at a sudden flare of bright blue light, and the fire grew massive, casting an ethereal glow on their surroundings.

"The Spirit of the Dancing Forest smiles through this flame!" the blonde witch shrieked. "She watches and judges! May your offerings be pure and wicked, may they be strong and sweet, may your cries and your sweat bring a smile to her hungry lips!"

Ulrik's strong hand shoved against the small of her back. She stumbled forward, then cursed and steadied herself.

"Undress," the king growled.

To distract herself, Sarya stared into the fire as she complied. She kicked off her boots and wriggled her toes against the grass, then began to unlace her dress. Her trembling fingers made quick work of the simple laces, and she shivered at the bite of cold air to her pale, soft back.

One of the champions laughed.

"Don't worry, duchess," he growled. "You'll be warm enough in a moment."

Shuddering with fear and anticipation and the cold, she let her dress fall. Her nipples strained against the silk fabric of her shift.

A few of the champions whistled, and one let out a low growl of lust. Her eyes flitted to that particular warrior: he was a short, muscular bald man, who wore a cloak made of the hide of a red lion. He met her eyes and licked his lips, and she gasped at the wild, untamed hunger in his gaze.

Were it not for the steps of the ritual, she was sure the man would have already rushed her and pinned her to the ground.

"All of it," Ulrik grunted.

She nodded shakily, then steadied herself with thoughts of her home. She even looked towards the distant, barely-visible city walls, reminding herself of who she was doing this for. Her hands tensed, then she reached for the lower hem of the shift and yanked it up and over her head.

Some of the champions whistled and hooted with delight, and she blushed and instinctively pressed her legs together in an attempt to cover her sex, and laid an arm over her breasts, covering up her freezing, pointed nipples. The firelight danced over her smooth, pale curves, and some of the champions stepped forward to inspect her.

"So damned soft," the blonde warrior observed, marveling at her as if she was some great piece of art. He circled around her, murmuring with approval. The younger man with the curly hair approached, smiling softly at her.

He said not a word, but gently reached out and took her by the wrist, trying to tug her arm away from her breasts.

She resisted but for a moment, then let him gently pull her arm away.

But the young man did not look down to ogle at her breasts. Instead, his deep, soulful brown eyes bored into hers for a few moments, then he circled around her for a better view.

The bald man stepped forward to inspect her, and she inspected him in kind. He was as scarred as the rest, and had beautifully intricate tattoos of wolves adorning his neck. It was almost as if the creatures were alive: they seemed to ripple as he moved. She had a strange urge to run her fingers over the inked skin, but was too terrified to move, like a deer cornered by predators.

Despite that, she felt moisture quickening between her thighs.

"Huh," the bald man grunted. "Wasn't expecting much when we heard a fancy noble was coming. Thought you'd be all fat and bloated from a fancy, pampered life." He ran a hand down her arm and she sighed at the roughness of her fingers. "You're soft, to be sure. Softest woman I've ever felt, in fact." His eyes seemed to glow. "But I like it."

He then circled around her to continue his inspection. She raised her head high, still shivering due to the cold and due to her own nervousness, as the other champions stepped forward. They all thoroughly inspected her, some reaching out to brush their fingers or hands against her back, her rear or the sides of her breasts. None moved to grope her nipples or her sex...and the absence of such touches only increased her frustration and nervousness.

Sarya had expected to be forced to her knees or pinned to the ground within moments. She certainly hadn't expected such slow, careful and almost worshipful regard.

"She certainly looks worthy of an offering to the spirits," Ulrik said. "But looks are not everything. Her prowess and the feel of her body mean far more."

"Indeed," called out one of the shamans. "Test her, my friends! Prove that she is worthy!"

The blonde warrior stood before her, and suddenly she felt firm hands grasping her shoulders from behind. She squeaked with surprise and half-hearted protest as those hands forced her to her knees. Her eyes gazed up at the blonde warrior, and she swallowed, for she'd seen his cock in action while she'd spied on him. She both relished and dreaded the prospect of seeing it up so close...

The man undid his belt and shrugged off his cloak and armor. His weapons clattered to the ground beside him, and his fur leggings fell to the grass. His half-erect cock popped free, framed by tufts of soft blonde curls. She let out a gasp at the sight of the thick, long shaft...and could not help but to lick her lips as his arousal grew.

"You didn't come here just to stare at my cock, did you?" the warrior asked. A few of the other champions laughed.

"I need a moment," she murmured. "Just to-"

Another hand gripped the back of her head to shove her forward onto the blonde man's cock, but the warrior growled at the offending barbarian, and the hand fell away.

"Give her a moment," the blonde snapped. "I want her to like it."

She had a feeling she certainly would, and she flashed him a brief, grateful smile. He returned the grin and brushed a rough hand through her red curls. After a few more deep breaths, she reached out and flitted her tongue against the crown of his stiffening cock.

The other barbarians cheered, and she blushed, but managed to take the tip of his cock past her lips, her tongue still swirling and tasting. The man's taste was odd and earthy, unlike any other dick she had taken past her lips. It was larger, too, and she was sure it would take a great effort to get it further into her mouth.

For Fellhaven, she thought. Her soft fingers reached up and gripped the warrior's strong, scarred hips, then leaned forward, taking another inch or so of that thick shaft. Her tongue was ever-busy, swirling beneath the tip and along the shaft, tracing along the thick veins, before tickling just beneath the tip.

The blonde laughed and leaned his head back.

"Doing damned good so far," he said.

"Can she take it deeper?" a soft voice asked from behind.

"Let's find out," the blonde growled.

She whimpered and did her best to nod, and her fingers tightened against her hips. She leaned forward more, embracing a few more inches of that thick, twitching cock. The head brushed against her throat and she tensed.

She was thankful for her past experience, and managed to breathe in deeply through her nose.

There were still a few inches of the shaft that she couldn't quite fit in, so she reached for the lower portion of his cock, her fingers gently stroking. She then began to bob, finding that the renewed moisture made the sucking of that thick dick far easier. Her saliva dripped down his shaft, lubricating the lower half and allowing her fingers to stroke faster and harder.

A bit of precum dribbled out of the tip of his cock and she shivered at the taste.

She stared up at him as best he could, and he laughed again.

"Gods, you like it, don't you?"

She could only whimper in response, but the juices dripping down her thighs certainly were enough of an answer.

"Clearly her mouth is worthy of the gods," Ulrik said, sounding almost bored. "But what of the rest of her?"

Firm hands grasped her hips and she let out a muffled squeal against the blonde's cock as someone lifted her up. The blonde laughed again and gripped her shoulders, steadying her as she was lifted even further, suspended parallel to the ground. Other firm hands grasped her hips and ankles, but she didn't dare yank herself away from the blonde's cock to see what was happening.

She felt soft, warm breath against her backside, then her inner thighs. The hands on her ankles tugged, parting her legs further, and then she whimpered at the feel of a deft, soft tongue running along her upper thigh.

Sarya certainly hadn't expected that. She'd expected the savages to use her pussy or even her ass, and certainly hadn't foreseen one of them-

Her thoughts were derailed by the feel of that tongue flicking against her damp sex. Her eyes fluttered wide as that tongue caressed over her folds, and her efforts on the blonde's cock faltered.

"Don't forget about me, now," he chided, his fingers digging briefly into her scalp.

She tried again to nod, then her eyes rolled back into her head as that wily tongue continued to work over her dripping pussy. It teased at the entrance to her sex, then dragged upwards. It paused at the apex of her sex, just against her clitoris.

Her eyes widened as it stayed there, barely moving and just teasing her with its wet warmth.

Sarya moaned against the blonde's cock, and she looked up at him with pleading, needy eyes, silently begging to intervene on her behalf. To encourage him to help, she bobbed a bit faster on his saliva-soaked cock, her tongue lashing against the underside.

He grinned.

"Come on," he growled. "Give her what she needs."

In response, that tongue immediately pressed firmly against her clit, then soft lips locked around it and began to suckle.

"How does she taste?" Ulrik growled.

The mouth moved from her pussy and she mewled in protest and need.

"Delicious, my king," a voice said, panting. She didn't recognize the voice, and her theories on who it could be were suddenly dispelled as that skilled mouth set back to work.

"Where should I finish, lads?" the blonde said. He was starting to pant faster now, and his cock was pulsing and tensing within her gasping, straining mouth. She could barely breathe, and her vision was starting to swim, thanks to the cock and the efforts of the man between her legs. Sweat dripped down her pale form, and more of her moisture leaked from her sex, onto her other lover's unseen face.

"All over that pretty face and those tits," another man growled. She recognized the voice as that of the bald man, and by the sound of it, he was one of the ones holding her ankles up.

"Good choice," the blonde growled.