Tales of
Erogenia
Episode 1: The
SnowPrincess
Chapter 2:
The
Duel
Zenaria’s chest heaved,
her breathing ragged, as she fought against the fatigue that threatened to
defeat her. Her body was slick
with sweat, her palms so damp she could barely grip the hilt of her
sword. Her brief costume was
soaked through; the doeskin halter that contained her breasts so wet that
her nipples clearly showed. Across
from her Garrod grinned; his mouth twisting derisively.
“Is this the best the
queen’s daughter can do?” he
sneered. “It is as I have
always said; women are not fit for anything other than the warming of a real
warrior’s bed or the preparing of his
meals.” He came at her hard
as he finished speaking, knocking down her guard and forcing her to fall
back across the practice arena.
Just a few more steps and she would be pushed outside the bounds of
the combat circle and shamed before the entire tribe.
Desperately, she twisted
to one side, and turned herself back into the
ring. She retreated two more
steps, giving herself room to manoeuvre, and she hoped, time to
recover. Garrod followed slowly,
his contempt for her ability evident in the leisurely manner in which he
stalked her.
“Tired, princess?”
Garrod taunted. “You look
as if you have spent a night in the men’s
quarters.”
Zenaria flicked back a lock
of her waist-length hair that had broken free of her fighting
braid. Her raven mane was plastered
to her head and in spite of the headband she wore, sweat trickled into her
eyes. The duel with Garrod had
deteriorated into a lesson in swordsmanship with Garrod as the tutor and
she as the reluctant pupil. He
had driven her around the ring with practiced ease, clearly toying with her,
and slowly wearing her down. Her
magnificent body was nicked in a dozen places, blood flowing freely from
at least one wound.
“Pathetic.
To think that you are Queen Cirilia’s
daughter. You can barely
stand. Perhaps you should retreat
to the kitchen where you belong.”
Zenaria did not respond
to the insults. She couldn’t;
she needed all of her breath to defend against Garrod’s superior
skills. She cursed the foolish
pride that had drawn her into an exhibition of her skills against a proven
warrior. She had only just passed
her fifteenth birthday. Although
she was immensely strong and incredibly fit, Garrod was a full seven years
older and weapons master to the queen’s
guard. He should have been infinitely
her superior and he was in the process of proving he was exactly
that.
Zenaria attempted to still
the trembling in her well-muscled thighs and calves and control the heaving
of her chest and belly. She was
aware of Garrod’s eyes drinking in her tall, athletic
body. He had made no secret of
his desire to take her to his bed; bragging before all that she secretly
desired it as much as he, and that once she was his he would have her with
child before a fortnight had passed.
It was this insult that
had finally driven her to challenge him in the
ring. She could, of course, gone
to her mother for the insult to her royal
personage. As the queen’s
eldest daughter she was entitled to a certain respect, but Garrod had reckoned
correctly that her pride would not allow her to do
that. She was after all, considered
the most impressive female warrior the Moon Tribe had produced since her
mother the queen.
Enraged by his insults to
her honour, she had boldly challenged him to settle their differences in
the practice ring. And then she
had stupidly gone one step farther.
As she struggled to control her breathing she remembered her rash
words. “If you wish to bed
me then take me in battle.”
The words once spoken could not be taken back, and now she risked
far more than just the humiliation of
defeat.
Once again her mouth had
placed her in an untenable position.
After foolishly choosing to take the Path of the Snow Leopard she
had kept her mouth shut. It had
not been easy. Garrod and his
fellow bullies had taunted her constantly about her forced virginity, but
she had managed to ignore them and as she had grown older, do something about
many of them. As she had matured,
Zenaria had developed into a formidable young
warrior. Those that sought to
torment her found their actions reworded with painful lessons in the practice
ring.
In the two years since the
taking of her vow, she had grown into full
womanhood. She now stood six-feet-two
inches tall and was still growing.
Weighing in at an athletic 155 pounds she was well-muscled and perfectly
proportioned. She had also filled
out remarkably in another area, her once small, pointed breasts now round
and full. They swayed within
the confines of her brief halter in a never-ending quest to
escape.
Her body was the one real
advantage she had in the duel.
Several times Garrod’s eyes were drawn to places where they should
not have been and she had come close to ending the fight, but always his
experience with the blade saved him.
Now he had her where he wanted her; on the run and panting for
air. Few impartial observers
would have credited her with any chance of
winning. In just a few minutes
Garrod would break through her guard and then he would have her at his
mercy.
Garrod seemed to read her
mind. He stepped forward lazily,
revelling in his clear superiority, his naked blade held at the
ready. “Soon princess you
will be mine. Is that why your
legs tremble? Do they long to
part in order to accommodate my manhood?”
Ordinarily such words would
not have been tolerated in the royal
presence. But this was a true
contest, fought with naked blades.
An opponent was allowed to use words to throw an adversary off his
or her game and Garrod’s steady taunts had decidedly had that effect,
drawing her into mad rushes that served to open her to his ripostes and sap
her endurance.
The sun beat down on her
almost nude body. Her brief halter
barely concealed her ripe, young breasts, and a minimalist doeskin breechclout
left a good deal of cheek and thigh
exposed. It left most of her
well-tanned body open to the elements, a situation she had previously never
noticed. Now, however, the
sun’s once benevolent rays leached away her remaining
strength. She was at the mercy
of her opponent if only he chose to finish her.
Garrod, however, was not
inclined to take an easy victory.
He wanted to completely humiliate her first; to strip way her youthful
pride and reveal her as little more than a feeble woman playing at being
a warrior. He circled her, his
blade held disdainfully low, daring her to attack, while all the while looking
for another opening; another chance to inflict one more painful
cut.
The wounds were not
serious. They were intended to
display Garrod’s supremacy and humble his youthful
opponent. In addition, they also
served to goad Zenaria into rash and uncoordinated attacks that he evaded
with ease while at the same time opening her to another painful
riposte.
All the while he derided
her attempts to do him harm, gibing at her constantly as he evaded her every
attack, and belittling her when she stood on the
defensive.
“What is the matter,
princess; finally met your match?” Garrod jeered, as he slowly circled
his panting opponent. “It
is one thing to duel with untrained boys, but against a real man you are
nothing but a helpless woman.”
Even without his comments it was painfully clear to all those who
watched the contest that he could finish her at any
time. Breathlessly the onlookers
waited for him to do just that.
Garrod’s attempt at
ridicule, however, had not entirely served him. It had allowed her time to
recover. Her breathing steadied,
and she crouched slightly, readying herself for an
attack.
Garrod grinned
disconcertingly. “I know
what you are thinking, my princess.
You are thinking that I have let my arrogance get the better of
me. Well try me and let’s
see.”
Zenaria had just one trick
left. She tried one last attack,
using a risky but deadly maneuver; a devastating overhand slash that she
twisted in mid arc, bringing it under the opponent’s guard with the
intention of opening his abdomen.
It took tremendous strength and coordination, but it had won her several
bouts. She used it against Garrod
for the first time.
With a laugh, Garrod tied
up her blade, locked it against his guard and sent the sword spinning from
her hand. Zenaria watched in
horror and mortification as her blade described a lazy arc and then dropped
to the sand of the practice ring.
“Well, princess,”
Garrod said laconically.
“Have I proved my point or are you in need of further
instruction?”
It was a tone and manner
that set Zenaria’s teeth on edge, but she was completely at Garrod’s
mercy. Unarmed, she stood no
chance against him, and if she stepped out of the ring she forfeited the
challenge. She backed slowly
away, glaring defiance but fully cognizant of how hopeless her situation
was.
“Stupid
bitch.” Garrod’s blade
flicked out more quickly than Zenaria’s eye could follow
it. She felt a twinge of pain
between her breasts and then gasped in shame as Garrod neatly flicked aside
the halter binding her breasts. It
followed her sword to the sand of the arena, exposing perfect breasts crowned
by upturned nipples the colour of burnished
copper.
Zenaria made no effort to
cover herself. There was little
or no prohibition of nudity among members of the Moon Tribe, and tribal members
covered themselves only as protection against the elements, or in Zenaria’s
present case to confine her breasts during strenuous physical
activity. Her only shame was
in the fact that Garrod’s removal of her breast band had humiliated
her before her peers.
Garrod stared at her breasts,
or more precisely at her perfect upturned
nipples. “Like ripe
berries,” he commented.
“It will be most enjoyable to taste
them.”
Zenaria chanced a quick
glance toward her mother. Queen
Cirilia’s face was carefully blank, but her rigid posture revealed her
feelings to Zenaria as clearly as if she had shouted them
out. The defeat and complete
humiliation of her daughter by a man who wished to exclude women from the
warrior class was a blow to one of the great traditions of the Snow Leopard
tribe. Garrod’s position
was a minority one, how could it be otherwise with the great warrior Cirilia
as the leader of the tribe?
Nevertheless, Zenaria’s shame was increased many-fold as she
realized that she had strengthened the position of Garrod and others like
him.
Her attention returned to
Garrod. “I will never surrender
to you. I will die
first.” If there was one
man in the tribe to whom she would not submit, it was
Garrod. For the past two years
he had gone out of his way to humiliate her; ever since it became obvious
that the warrior who would eventually supplant him as weapons master was
Cirilia’s teenaged daughter.
“Your death is not
what I desire, princess. The
movement of your body beneath mine is.
You are mine now, and I do not intend to destroy what will shortly
be giving me so much pleasure.”
As he finished speaking his blade flicked out, neatly slicing through
the leather belt that held up the briefest of
loincloths.
Zenaria now stood in all
her nude glory, open to the admiring glances of all members of the
tribe. She did not flinch from
their stares, well used by now to the perusal of her strikingly beautiful
body. However, the removal of
her loincloth was more than just one more insult to her
honour. Garrod’s blade had
revealed what no male had yet been given the pleasure of
seeing. Chastity was not something
treasured by members of the tribe, but it was the woman’s decision to
show her readiness to mate.
Garrod’s removal of her brief garments marked her as a prize
of war, to be used any way he chose.
Garrod stepped
closer. “You are honour-bound
to submit to me. You have
been defeated fairly in the arena
and are bound by your own words to honour the agreement.” The tip of
his blade hovered just an inch from her elegant
throat.
“Take her right here,
Garrod,” some lout in the crowd
shouted. “Show us all how
the royal slut should be treated.”
“An interesting
idea,” Garrod commented.
“Would that please your royal highness to be taken in front of
the entire tribe? I doubt there
is any prohibition of such an act.”
As Garrod spoke he looked
directly at Queen Cirilia. It
was a clear and insulting challenge to her authority, but she was helpless
to act. She could not afford
to show favouritism to any member of her tribe, even her eldest
daughter. Zenaria had gotten
herself into the situation and she now had to pay the price for her rash
behaviour.
Humiliated before her mother
and the others of her tribe, Zenaria stood trembling with
rage. Garrod had used her like
a pawn in a clever game to not only humble her, but to also undermine the
authority of the queen. And she
had walked into the trap like a stupid
child. “You are filth,”
she said, her eyes filled with impotent rage as she glared at her sneering
victor.
“And you are mine,
princess,” Garrod gloated.
“Your mouth, your tits, your cunt, your
ass. All of
it. And I intend to use every
part of your body. You won’t
be able to close your legs for days when I am through with you.”
Zenaria’s vision
clouded. Something inside her
snapped and she responded in a way no trained warrior is supposed to
react. For a brief instant all
she saw was Garrod’s sneering
visage. A red haze blurred her
vision and the world around her
disappeared. The fact that Garrod
held a razor-edged blade just inches from her throat was completely lost
on her. And then she was suddenly
on top of him, driving her fists again and again into his once smug
countenance.
Hands gripped her arms and
wrists, dragging her from the semi-conscious form of the arms
master. She fought wildly for
a few seconds, hurling people from her, and then as suddenly as it had started
her rage subsided. Exhausted
from her ordeal she fell to her knees and then let her companions lift her
up and move her away from her defeated foe.
Later, as the tribal shaman
bound the slash in her hand, and attended to her battle wounds, her friends
recounted how she had suddenly seized the blade of Garrod’s sword,
disregarding the blood that spurted from her cut
fingers. Ignoring the frantic
efforts of the two hundred pound man to break free, she had raised him over
her head, and slammed him to the
ground.
You have made a deadly enemy,
Zenaria,” her half-sister, Shalandra said.
Not yet in her teens, the young girl had already shown some talent for
precognition. Dressed in
the robes of a novice priestess of the Snow Leopard, she stood in the doorway
of the shaman’s hut, the light silhouetting her slender
frame. “Garrod is certain
to want his revenge. You will
have to be careful.”
“Why then was I stopped
from killing him?” Zenaria asked, raising her amber-green eyes to her
sister.
Shalandra did not
answer. A slight chill ran down
Zenaria’s spine. Although
Shalandra’s gift of second sight was not yet
fully developed, and thus prone to error, the prediction seemed
ominous. She
sighed. Her impetuous nature
had only made things worse, and she still had to meet with her
mother.
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