Sighard awoke as sun filtered through his tent and bathed his face. He had celebrated very late into the night with the two slave girls still slumbering contently on his broad chest. His hands traveled their backs and caressed their sides until they moved on him, luxuriating in the blanket and the hard, furry chest of their lover. Eventually he urged them awake and they looked at one another with knowing eyes. They each slid under the blanket and kissed a wet trail down his belly. Arriving at his limp cock, they closed their lips around his over sized member and licked and sucked it to readiness. With their little hands reaching up to roam his hard belly and chest, the slave girls took turns suckling at his root, taking it as deeply as the could, burying their noses in his tangle of hair and pulling back, allowing her slave sister to enjoy his flesh.
Sighard folded his hands behind his head and let out a sigh, surrendering to the slave girls, his cock pulsing and fully erect. He closed his eyes and gripped the fair haired girl by her nape and pulled her up to lie on his chest so he could suckle her bosom as his root was tended to. His lips pursed around the nipple that crested her breast so perfectly, purring as a well fed lion as he drew on her bosom. The dark haired girl continued her happy duty and stroked his long shaft up and down with both of her soft hands as she nursed from the head, rolling her neck back and forth, her tongue massaging his purple helmet deliciously. Sighard knew he was close to cumming and urged the fair haired girl to join her sister, flipping back the blanket so he could watch. Taking turns, the girls made a show for their warlord, moaning and slobbering on his massive root, sucking his balls and stroking his shaft until he could stand no more.
Seed pumped from the long manhood of the Saxon warlord, bathing the tongues of the wanton slaves that attended him, their face and bosoms being splattered in his juices. With the urging of their little hands on his shaft he poured out a hot sticky mess across their faces. Seed dripped from their noses and chins and brows and they giggled, looking on one another. The dark haired girl gripped her slave sister by her neck and made a show of lapping up their lord’s cum from her face in extended, purring laps. The fair haired girl did in kind and they shared a long session of sticky, gooey tongue kisses for their master to enjoy. Once every drop of his cum was gone, Sighard patted their asses and kissed each one gently, promising to look for them again when he was next in the lands of Alric, then slipped several heavy gold coins into their palms. The slave girls kissed him back gratefully, purring and rubbing themselves against him, not wanting to see him go and gave his root one last squeeze before slipping on their ragged white garments and exiting from the great hero’s tent.
Sighard’s camp slowly awoke as well, after a night of drunken partying to celebrate the day’s victory and the payment of tribute by Alric to their warlord. Each slave girl was used one last time by their chosen bed mate and was sent on her way with a smile and a swat to her rear. Wuffa also rooted his manhood into his slave girl as he awoke and then sent her on her way with a charm necklace to remember him by. He rose from his sleeping blanket and stretched and walked a few paces to the road where he openly pissed into the mud, steam rising quickly in the cool air, his eyes scanning over the mess of a camp that lay before him. When he has finished relieving himself at great length he walked through the site, rousing the warriors to rise and break camp and ready to journey.
Sighard emerged from his tent, dressed in his fine armor and arms, sparkling in the sun, all but his helm and coif which he held under his arm. Wuffa greeted his warlord with a smile and strode to him, stepping over discarded bones and empty casks of beer.
“Where do we travel,” the gruff captain spoke to his warlord, his voice even more gravely with the night of drinking.
“To the land of my father, I will pay him tribute and he will honor my victory,” Sighard replied, looking over the hills to the east where far off his father sat on a throne in a very rich land.
Wuffa made no reply, but went about making sure the camp was packed and the rubbish was burnt all was ready to travel. The warriors were weary from fighting and drinking and sex, but made no complaint in their labors, they joked to one another and smiled, knowing they would soon be in the land of the lord’s father, a green rich land where they had family and friends and where they would be honored in feast. Once Wuffa was satisfied with the state of the camp and supply wagons and men, he rode up to Sighard, who was already mounted on his giant warhorse, and informed him that the party was ready to depart.
The Saxon hero lifted his long arm into the sky, the noon sun shining from his mail, and waved his caravan forward. Through the roads of mud the warlord’s band rode, to the east, past dense woods and high green hills, the land’s growing more familiar with each passing hour. Days past and long nights with no women or beer sullied the disposition of the band, but none were woefully despondent as the home of their lord’s father meant great celebration. Onward the company traveled until they camped at the bend of a wide river and knew that they only need cross the horizon once more in the morning and they would be home. Camp was made and game was hunted and fish were caught and several local farmers had brought what little beer they had out to greet the warriors, news of their victory already finding them.
Wuffa built a great fire and the men ate of the game and fish and drank the beer until they were warm, with full bellies and the back of their head tingled in the alcohol’s embrace. The brutish, hairy and broad warriors reclined and lounged before the fire, smiling once more, laughing and telling stories of the slaves they had mounted or seedy ports they had visited in their travels. These men were not nobles, but mercenaries, and owed loyalty to none but themselves and he that paid them to fight. What little concept of loyalty they had rested with Sighard, he had earned their respect and their fear in many battles.
Sighard too relaxed, leaning up on one elbow, his arms and armor put away for the day, wearing a long blue shirt and black breeches, sprawled out on a soft blanket near the fire. He lifted a wooden cup to his lips and drank of the beer and blinked, the road making him weary, his ears delighting in the tales of Slavic whores and Persian concubines. Lifting his cup to his men, and then draining it, he rolled over and closed his eyes, the weight of the beer in his belly pulling him deeper into the hole of sleep. Wuffa sat at the fire and stared into its glowing coals, poking it every so often with a stick, watching the men fall asleep, one by one. No guard was to be left this night, so close to the home of Sighard’s father, but Wuffa could not relax or find ease. His ears pricked up with every sound of the night as he remained the tender of the fire, the snoring of the sleeping band gently roaring all about him.
The drawing of a blade from a sheath is distinctive and Wuffa heard this clearly. He rose and gripped at his long spear and peered out into the night, his eagle eyes matching his eagle beak. His teeth bared and a growl rose in his throat and he called out to the camp, roaring at them to awaken, seeing a blade flash a few feet from the fire. Wuffa stabbed out at the flash and yelled out again as warriors were rising, clutching at axes and blades and spears. Sighard was at Wuffa’s side quickly in the midst of the commotion.
From the darkness a sword was flung point first into the ground before the fire, at the feet of Sighard, a sword with a thin handle and broad leaf style blade. Sighard bristled and yanked it from the ground as a figure stepped slowly in from the direction of the river and knelt before the Saxon hero, clutching his side. The man was bare-chested and wore only fine breeches in multi colored stripes. Blood trickled from under his hand and down his pale flesh, staining his pants almost black. His face was covered in all manner of scrolling, serpentine tattoos and his arms as well, from his knuckles to his shoulders. He did not cry out in pain, only looked up at the hero through his tangled brown hair and breathed in short, sharp breathes.
Wuffa hurriedly stepped behind the man and pulled his head back by his hair and laid the blade of his dagger to the man’s sinewy neck.
Wuffa growled, “I am getting old, were I a bit younger the spear would have been through your neck, boy.”
Sighard stepped to the man and looked quizzically at the sword he had plucked from the earth, saying, “Assassin… who is your master?”
“My master is Osric of Northumbria, I am no assassin, I flung down my weapon at your feet and I kneel before you as a messenger, come to pay homage to you, Sighard the Saxon hero. Forgive me for coming in the dark of night, I found that you were camped here and knew I must come right away,” he panted out, the blade of Wuffa biting into his flesh, blood trickling down his neck, clutching shut the wound to his ribs.
“He’s a liar and an assassin, give the order my lord and I will send him to hell,” Wuffa spat out, looking to his leader for direction, his blade digging harder into the Northumbrian’s flesh.
“My master is in dire need of you, his people…,” the man exclaimed, stopping to grunt and tighten his neck against the advance of Wuffa’s dagger, “… his people are in peril, we need the hero Sighard.”
Sighard stooped down and looked at the man’s wild, terrified eyes, saying, “Base flattery will see your tongue cut out, assassin.”
“Look in the pouch on my belt, inside is the signet ring of my king, a gift, proof of his cry for your help,” the painted and marked man grunted out, trembling.
Wuffa again looked to his lord for direction as Sighard opened the pouch with the tip of his blade and then dipped the blade inside so he would not be tricked into placing his hand in some trap or assassins device. Withdrawing his perfect blade Sighard saw a gold ring with maroon rubies that bore the seal of a king, a seal he had seen in his father’s house many times.
“King Osric the Northumbrian… yes… a name I have not heard in some long years,” Sighard said slowly, closing his fist on the ring. He motioned to Wuffa to release the man and this he did.
“I am Thrydwulf, messenger to the king,” the man spoke quickly, still kneeling before a stooping Sighard. “I left to intercept you on your way home from the land’s of Alric, my king Osric and his people find themselves in a horrifying way.”
Sighard stood and motioned to the man to continue as he examined the ring of swimming jewels in the firelight, his eyes narrow, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“On our northern border is an ancient wall in great disrepair, built in centuries forgotten by giants, for what cause we know not,” he continued hurriedly, “it is crumbling and along its immense length, which runs from sea to sea, there are many forts built into the wall. It is one of these forts that are home to some manner of… devil… that has destroyed village after village along the frontier, murdering our people, woman and children and cattle alike. They leave little trace of themselves, but they do leave footprints like a man and they use the weapons of man, but any who have seen them say they are no man but devils that wield man’s weapons and glory in tearing apart the flesh of their kin.”
Sighard looked on the messenger as he spoke and searched for understanding. His men were also gathered about, holding weapons and paying attention to the envoy. The messenger caught his breath and looked up to Sighard, then to his wound which had stopped bleeding, and back to the lord, the serpentine etchings in his flesh both beautiful and hideous in the firelight.
“My master prepares for you a reception…Sighard… Lord Sighard… he offers you lands with fields and hardwood forests and a brook and peasants to oversee… and title in his lands… Lord Sighard,” he said rising, his eyes hopeful, his words meant to entice.
“Then I shall accommodate his request,” Sighard spoke coolly, evenly, his eyes narrowing and far off.
Legitimacy and title and… land… all his, he thought, all there for the taking.
“Devils? Ha!,” Wuffa exclaimed, spitting on the ground and sheathing his dagger, “your petty imagined demons will be no match for he that you sought out and stands before you, he is a reaper of mean and he will harvest your devils as a scythe cutting through wheat.”
“Think you as those before you, they went into that land and not one has returned, no hero in Northumbria or in East Anglia has ventured in and returned, not with a hundred fine warriors in tow. This reward is great, hero of the Saxon’s, and the danger is mortal… my king Osric awaits you… I will take you there,” he finished, trailing off, watching the immense man rise to his full height and hand him back his elegant sword.
“Rest in my camp this night, before the fire, you will take me there with the sunrise,” Sighard intoned in his warm baritone.
“Lord Sighard,” the messenger spoke tentatively, “the journey should take us nearly a week of hard riding, and that is without a wagon and supplies.” He looked about at the company and wagons and turned back to face the warlord, his visage plainly pleading his case to ride light and hard.
Sighard raised his head and turned to his score of men who had been listening and saw that they were afraid, but were willing to follow wherever he led. Wuffa tossed a log onto the fire and orange sparks swirled into the night sky, Sighard’s face illuminated orange.
“Wuffa …,” he looked about for a moment, “and Alfred… and I will leave at dawn with the messenger Thrydwulf of Northumbria. Eafa, you will lead my caravan into my fathers land and wait for me. Should I not return, Eafa will divide up all that we have and you may find your fortune in the camp of another.”
Sighard looked about at the confused eyes of his men and continued, “Should the All-father smile on me I will send for you and you will all have a place at my feasting board in my lands should you choose to bind your fate to mine.”
“Lord,” one of his spear bearers called to him, his voice plaintiff but not complaining, “We men would wish to ride with you into Northumbria and face this thing with you… why should you get all the glory,” he finished and a great nervous laugh went up from the warriors. Sighard smiled on his band, a broad and loving smile and he went to the man and gripped his shoulder and pressed his cheek to his.
“Eafa will lead you into the lands of my father where you will honor him with my share of the treasure and he will make for you a feast and provide you with slave women and beer and you will sleep in his hall and protect the treasures we have won until I have made a place for us in the north, until we are no longer the ragged band of nomads that seeks hospitality. I will send for you when I have a place where we may he host and make for us a future, for our long forgotten wives and children and their children. I and Wuffa and Alfred must ride as the breeze that blows high and loud through the All-fathers beard. Spend time with my father and my brothers and take leisure, I will send for you,” he finished and went back to his blanket, laying down and closing his eyes and putting an end to the matter.
Wuffa looked warily on the stranger as he too lay down by the fire and closed his eyes, his wound superficial yet bloody. Sleep did not find Wuffa for some hours, but it did come and he dreamt of the fragrant slaves he enjoyed in the land of the Franks, dreamt of a home to call his own.
With the morning Sighard, Wuffa, Alfred and the messenger Thrydwulf rode off with light packs on their horses, but wearing their heavy arms and armor. With spears ever ready they galloped across the deep green fields and across the cold clear waters of the isle, their magnificent attire shining in the sun. At the mid day break Alfred, a man taller than Wuffa but not the mountain that was Sighard, approached his warlord and inquired of him. Brushing his long blonde braids behind his shoulders, he asked, “Why did you choose me lord? There are many others more experienced than I that you have held in your company longer,” the warrior asked, his sapphire eyes searching his lord’s.
“Because, Alfred,” Sighard replied between bites of bread, “you are young and strong and swing your axe hard even during long engagements without becoming weary… and you usually don’t ask questions like a woman and do as you’re told.” The Saxon warlord laughed and slapped the younger warrior on his back with his hero’s smile and they finished their meal in good spirits by the small brook. Wuffa laughed lustily as well, embarrassing the young man, but the youth did not take it to heart, knowing his warlord held him in esteem to bring him along on this quest.
Days past and after a hard week of riding with every hour of sun the travelers reached the land of Northumbria. Here was a good land, with proud peoples who honored the warriors with beer and food as they camped, growing closer and closer to the hall of Osric. Sighard looked about and saw what he may one day hold in his hand, green land and tall woods. His mind would often turn to his men and his father and how they must be feasting and relaxing, smiling to himself, wishing he could share in the celebration.
Very deep into Northumbria the company stayed the night at the humble hut of Thrydwulf as his abode was on the way. His wife and children greeted him with joy and prepared for them boiled pork and bread and the company took full advantage of his hospitality. In the night Thrydwulf could be heard grunting as he thrust into his wife in their bed at the rear of the hut. His wife being as wild in appearance as he husband, with tattoos on her neck and shoulders, she made much noise and received great pleasure from her husbands plunging of her womb.
As the company rose they looked on one another and smiled and as soon as they were on the road they bellowed in laughter, chastising their guide and mimicking the sounds of him and his wife making love. Thrydwulf took this ribbing in stride and ventured to point out that he had been serviced by his woman before even the noble lord had ravaged a slave wench, asking how well he had slept alone, listening to a common man have his pleasure. In good spirits the band continued the merriment as they came closer to their destination, Wuffa offering up stories of the whorehouses he had worked his way through and how he could not urinate in a straight line or without burning for weeks afterward.
Night was coming quickly and the company dashed forward on their worn and tired steeds, racing to get to Osric’s hall before all was covered in a veil of black. Thrydwulf brought them into a village that was nearly vacant for the day and stabled their horses. He then put on a brocaded purple blouse and looked to the men, urging them not to tarry as he was sure a feast was prepared in their honor. Sighard and his men followed their guide from the village on foot, dressed in their finest armor and arms, up a slopping green hill. Wuffa bellowed a continuous roll of deep laughter at the garment Thrydwulf had put on and harassed him the entire walk, saying, “I’d have never put my blade you your throat if I’d known you were a lady.”
The company reached the wide doors to the high, broad hall and were bid to enter by their guide. With his finest voice, Thrydwulf poetically announced the arrival of Sighard and his band to the assembled court of king Osric. With his hand on his leaf shaped sword, the messenger and herald of the king led the band past the lines of warriors and nobles to the head of the table where Osric sat on his elegantly carved throne. The messenger knelt at his king’s feet and introduced the Saxon hero and his band. Sighard knelt at the old king’s feet, then rose and meet his eyes.
The dark haired girl clung to her warlord’s leg and watched as he used her slave sister, openly rubbing her own cunt, panting, her own cheeks streaked in tears, nuzzling his hip and moaning. She dug two fingers into her pussy and searched out the almond shaped spot she enjoyed petting so much, her fingers being bathed in honey. She kissed her hero’s muscular hip with her abused lips and watched saliva drool and drip from the fair haired girls chin. The dark haired girl bent down and extended her tongue, allowing the spittle to fall to her, pulling it into her lips and savoring the flavor of his root, still warm with the taste of her slave sister. Sighard watched her enjoy the product of his throat fucking and gripped her by her hair, mashing his cock back into her lips, this time holding still, urging her to suckle him, and this she did, her fair haired sister resuming her duties of nursing his sack. Panting and gasping for air, her eyes red, her lips swollen, she cupped his sack in her little hand and bent under him, twisting her torso, moaning that she be allowed to taste the stones of such fine a warrior. The Saxon warlord enjoyed the slow sucking and mewing of both pets that pleasured him, closing his eyes and belching beer and meat, his hands softly caressing them as the attended his root. When Sighard was ready he clenched his jaw and picked both slaves up by their hair, flinging them onto his bedded cot roughly, looming over them, his broad chest flinching, his fist around his swollen root, stroking himself and drinking them in with his eyes.
Both girls obediently assumed a submissive position, panting and streaked with tears, sniffling, and knelt before him, pressing their cheeks to the side so they could look back on their great warrior. Sighard stood behind the dark haired slave and pawed at her sex, his thick fingers spreading her lips and inhaling her scent, her bright pink insides exposed for him to enjoy. He bent and closed his lips on her pussy, sucking out her nectar, digging it out with his broad tongue and moaning against her smooth shaved flesh. He then did the same to the fair haired slave, who moaned as a whore as his tongue drove into her sex, his fingers sliding deep into the wet cunt of her sister as he did. Honey glistened on his chin and both slave sisters whimpered under his tongue and hand.
Sighard growled with arousal and sheathed his root deep into the womb of the dark haired girl, his sack mashing tight against her private lips. He gripped her by her long hair and tugged back on her mane, his cock grinding into her, his sack dripping in her honey. She arched her neck and let out a wanton cry as he controlled her. Brutally he bounced into her, pulling her back hard by her hair, arching her slender back, his muscular hips and thighs driving his cock deeper with every assault. Her soft rear bounced and shook against his hard, defined belly, his root a shimmering blur in her now, pumping hard and grunting. The fair haired slave rubbed her own sex openly, watching her slave sister being used, biting her lower lip, her eyes pleading with the hero to fuck her slutty cunt.
Sighard moaned out through clenched teeth as he used her, his hard hand now spanking her sharply, leaving red handprints on her jiggling rear. She moaned wantonly at his discipline and ground back against him, trying to get his veiny root to nudge her clit, angling her hips back at his thrusts. Her pussy was alive and on fire with every possessive slap and swat. Sighard pressed his root as far as he could, yanking back on her hair so she nearly doubled over, cumming, pumping his cream deep , his seed a white hot fountain in her milking sex. She too came, her body urging his root to flood her womb, milking him with her hot, tight sheath, her voice soft and gasping, pleading for his seed.
Sighard stood back and tugged at his purple root, watching his seed drip from her sloppy, swollen cunt and down the back of her thighs. He took the fair haired girl by her hair and pulled her to the dark haired girl’s sex.
“Suck her clean and share it with her,” he commanded, pulling at his softening cock and watching as she complied. With a deep, guttural moan the fair haired slave placed her delicate hands on the rear of her slave sister and spread her cheeks wide. She buried her nose into her rear and closed her lips around her swollen, red labia. The slave began to softly suck the warm cream from her cunt, her little pink tongue slipping into her hot hole to draw more into her greedy lips, sucking in waves, gathering more and more, digging into her slave sister with her fluttering tongue. Wave after wave of aftershock rolled through the dark haired girl, little orgasms making her cunt clench around her sister’s tongue, pushing more cream into her waiting lips, she wailed and looked back at the hero as tears fell from her eyes, her body still convulsing with pleasure from his use of her body. When the fair haired girl had sucked out all the cream, she held it in her mouth and then turned and knelt before him on his cot, looking her warlord in his eyes. She extended her tongue slowly and showed him his gooey white seed. Turning back to the still quivering dark haired girl she made a show of rolling her ass cheeks in her hands and lapping up what had cum trickled down the other slave’s thighs, her eyes never leaving the hero’s.
With all of his seed in her mouth, she tugged the dark haired girl’s mane and arched her head back, bringing her to rest on just her knees. She tugged her hair back tightly and held the back of her neck, her eyes never leaving her lord’s. The fair haired girl barely opened her lips and allowed a trickle of cum to pour into the open and gasping mouth of her slave sister, her eyes glazed with lust for her master, her sex still unused and wanting. She then leaned down and let it pour into the other slaves waiting mouth, closing their lips to together in a sticky kiss, sucking his seed back and forth, slurping it noisily, moaning as whores as they did, wrapping one another in their arms, rolling on the cot, his seed dripping down their chins as they sucked hard on one another’s tongues, their hands gripping one another’s rear and breasts. The fair haired girl humped her sister’s leg openly, raising her rear as she did, showing her sex to Sighard, her tongue plunged between the plump, swollen, cum covered lips of her sister.
Sighard grew erect once more watching the slaves perform for him and he tore the fair haired girl from her sister, both girls swallowing hard as they were torn apart, gulping down his essence. He laid the girl on her back and pulled her legs over his massive shoulders, plowing into her without a word, his cock driving against the entrance to her womb. The light haired girl cried out in ecstasy as her master plowed his root deep into her swollen, slick sex. Sighard drove into her so hard that her legs fell from his shoulder and flopped wildly at her sides, with no rhythm or grace, like puppets on a string, his body mashing into her so hard she had no control of her limbs. Her bosoms shook and bounced and the dark haired girl knelt next to them, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her face to his hip, watching with satisfied eyes as her slave sister received her use. He humped his cock into her with scooping thrusts, nearly lifting her from the bed, impaled on his rigid root.
“Rake me,” Sighard growled to the women and they knew not what he meant, dazed with lust.
“Like this,” he growled as he continued to pump into her soft belly. He placed the dark haired girl’s hands on his back and the fair haired girl’s hands on his rear.
“With your claws… rake me,” he again seethed brutally, his sack rising high to his root.
The girls complied with great joy, drawing bright pink lines across his flesh as he pistoned into the fair haired slave. He shivered and shook, making unearthly noises and plowed into the fair girl so hard he feared he would break her bones, crushing her under his weight. He wrapped both of his meaty paws around her neck and held her down viciously, his hips pounding all the harder.
“Harder,” he seethed through clenched teeth, his head thrown back. “Make me bleed,” he commanded.
The slaves tightened their knuckles and pulled their nails lustily across his flesh, ripping it open, streaks of crimson on his defined back and rear. Warm blood dripped from his back and rear and the fair girl surrendered in orgasm, unable to breathe, in a state of utter bliss, her life in the hands of the Saxon hero.
Sighard came hard into the womb of the fair haired girl, pulsing jets of steaming cum deep into her belly. The warlord pumped and throbbed even after his sack was empty and panted and moaned as a content lion, his blood drying on his back, the dark haired girl kissing the back of each shoulder and hugging him tight from behind even as he was still mounted into her sister. He then collapsed on the fair girl, his hands releasing her little neck, panting, sated, the dark haired girl clinging to his bleeding back and laying her head on his shoulder, pecking warm kisses on his hard flesh with her plump lips.
The moans of the lusty women and grunts of their masters made a wanton wail in the wind, the entire company locked in sexual embrace. One at a time the warriors filled the wombs of their escorts with seed and passed out, drunk, with meat filled bellies, their roots buried deep into a vigorous woman. After the Saxon warlord had overfilled the sex of each of his women with his essence he lay back on his sleeping blanket and bid the slaves to curl upon his chest which they did gratefully, their bodies sore and weary from his hard use. They mewed as kittens and tangled their legs together with the hero’s, planting small kisses along his shoulders and jaw, smiling, glowing.
Wuffa also relaxed very close by with a slave girl who was fast asleep and nuzzling his broad, red haired chest. He looked over to his lord and smiled, nodding his head, thanking him silently for these comforts bought with his bold tongue. Sighard’s eyes shown back nearly dead in the firelight, unfeeling, lost in thought. Wuffa scowled at this. He called out to his warlord softly as the company slumbered all around.
“Your belly is full of meat and beer, your seed leaks from the sex of two fine wanton slaves, you have sacks and crates of gold and tribute…,” he paused and looked for life in Sighard’s eyes. “How many nights have we shivered in our tents, our bellies howling for meat and beer, our loins untended by any manner of woman, holding nothing but what we wore on our backs? Remember those nights not so long ago?”
Sighard lifted his hand from where it had slowly been caressing the back of one of his purring kittens. He waived his hand dismissively and closed his eyes, his face stone and still.
“You are the great hero this day and have all there is… this is all there is…,” he said pointedly, with a deep sigh “do you not see that? Can you not revel in your success?”
Sighard exhaled deeply, the nuzzling pets rising and falling as they slumbered on his massive muscled frame, limbs and hair tangled, slave sisters, their fingers laced together over his heart, possessed this night by the great hero.
Sighard replied plainly and simply, his own mellow baritone vibrating warmly, “I have nothing… I have no land.”
Sighard’s hands had ceased their destructive use for the day and caressed his lovers for the night, up and down their backs, gently rolling the pads of his fingertips on the small of their backs, then cupping their rears in his sandpapery paws and nuzzling down to sleep. One of the slave kittens cooed and pulled a blanket to cover them all, smiling, happy to have the seed of the great hero warming her sex, his touch, his affection, to share his bed.
Wuffa laughed softly to his lord, saying, “Just as a woman or a child, you only want what you do not have.” Then Wuffa too closed his eyes and slumbered contently, finding comfort, as he often did, in the arms of a slave girl.