Fire in the Cave
Authors: P.W. Chance
Fire in the Cave
by
P.W. Chance
Text
copyright © 2015 P.W. Chance
All
Rights Reserved
For
M.
Table of Contents
Light the Fire
T
he hunters would return soon. The witch-girl was getting
ready.
She crouched in her hut, skin pale and bare, watching the smoke curl
from her fire up to the hole in the roof. The circle of sky she
could see was slowly darkening. The light was orange, slanting in
through the drifting smoke as the sun burned lower outside. When it
was dark, they would return, and light the fire in the cave.
Her toes dug into the dry rushes beneath her, and her fingers moved
between wooden and clay dishes of soot, crushed berries, pigments,
oils, perfumes. No poisons tonight. She dabbled two fingers in the
soot and drew a broad, dark line over her eyes.
“You’ll need to fix it soon,” said Grandmother.
The witch-girl tried to ignore her. Most of the tribe wouldn’t
have heard Granny Rattlebones at all. The old woman had been dead
for many winters, and was now no more than a painted skull adorned
with beads and set on a shelf on the wall of the hut. But the
witch-girl was her favorite granddaughter. She was the clever girl
who’d learned the woman-secrets. She was the cunning girl
who’d taken up the task of guiding the Red Cave tribe after the
old woman had gone to her rest. The witch-girl could hear her
whispering still.
“It’ll go bad if you don’t fix it,”
Grandmother whispered. “Tribe can’t have two chiefs.
They’re good boys, strong, brave. Smart, which can be trouble
in a man, but you can turn that to good uses. But the brothers can’t
both lead the men, lead the hunt. Their love for each other will
sour. The hunters will pick sides. Knives in the night. Fix it
soon. Fix it now.”
The witch-girl put on a long necklace, black and red stone beads. It
hung down to her stomach, cool on her pale skin, cold on her breasts.
She put on another, of hanging wolf-teeth, and another of feathers,
and another of bones. She thought of the brothers.
She thought of White-stag, tall, pale-haired, laughing in the
sunlight. He had been wrestling with another hunter, playfully
struggling by the shore of the lake. The tribe gathered around them
to watch, laughing and calling out encouragement. Golden hair and
golden sand flew as they rolled. She thought of the muscles of his
broad, tanned back as he lifted the other man up and tossed him into
the water. The hunters had cheered, and then rushed him in a mass
and carried him down into the lake.
He would be a strong chief, well-loved.
She thought of Black-dog, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, standing
silent in the moonlight with his two hunting-dogs beside him. She
had been surprised to find him there on the hilltop. She had set out
to gather night-blooming plants, flowers and herbs. She had thought
herself alone, her bare feet quiet on the grass, the moon and stars
silent above her, until she padded around a tall stone and heard a
dog growl.
She had seen him then, just as he turned to look at her. His long
hair, blacker than the night sky behind him, hung around a face that
stared at her like a wolf watching prey. His chest was bare, except
for a single bear-tooth hanging around his neck on a leather cord. A
long spear rested in his hand, the flint tip shining in the
moonlight. His hounds flanked him, large and dark, watching her.
His eyes had run up and down her body, her moonlight-pale skin, her
round hips… she had felt a shiver of fear or excitement, and
thought for a moment he would try to take her. But he turned away,
stared down at the forest below the hill. She had waited, still and
quiet, until she saw what he saw: a single shifting shadow, a moving
silent place among the trees. A man, or woman. A scout from the
River-folk, trying to slip close to the tribe in the night, to steal
or kidnap. Black-dog stood openly in the moonlight, staring down.
The presence paused. Then it retreated, fading back into the depths
of the forest.
Black-dog would be a fierce chief, a great protector of the tribe.
She blinked away the memory and looked up through the twisting smoke,
at the skull on the far wall. “Which one, then, Grandmother?
Who to raise up, who to cast down?”
“One is the sun.”
“And the other is the moon?”
Through the shifting smoke, the skull seemed to grin. “The
other is the night.”
The witch-girl rubbed red berry-stain on her lips and gave the old
skull a stare. “You’re even less helpful now than when
you were alive, Grandmother.”
She heard the old woman’s laughter, in her memory, in her mind,
and in the gathering night outside. “Taste them, beloved
granddaughter,” the old woman whispered. “Take them into
yourself, make them pour themselves into you and feel their heat in
your belly. You will know then.”
A shiver ran down the witch-girl’s spine. For a moment she
could feel them, feel herself pressed between them, one behind and
one in front. She could feel the heat of their chests, her breath
forced out of her as they pressed against her, the smell of their
sweat, their hands on her thighs, the heat pushing into her from
below...
As quick as it had come, the feeling faded. She glared at the skull.
“Horny old ghost. Keep your visions to yourself.”
“That was just you, girl.” Grandmother’s laughter
was the waves on the lakeshore and the wind in the trees. “Follow
that hunger in you, it knows the way. But now, listen…”
The old woman’s voice was fading. Faintly, to the north, the
witch-girl heard laughter. Then happy yells, whoops of triumph,
getting louder as they came. The hunters had returned.
The witch-girl quickly slipped on her bracelets and soft fur
loincloth, dabbed a bit of scent beneath her arms and between her
legs, bowed to Granny Rattlebones, and hurried out of the hut and up
the hill to the Red Cave.
*********
They danced around the fire, now, the young men of the tribe, the
hunting party. They laughed, cried out, slapped each other’s
shoulders. They were stripped to the waist; the firelight danced on
their smooth skin and rounded muscle as their shadows danced on the
roof of the cave and sparks from the fire danced out and up into the
night. The women of the tribe sat in a wider circle around them,
bellies full from what the men had brought: a great boar, tall as a
man at the shoulder, meat enough for every mouth. They watched the
men dance, and whispered to each other, smiling or nervous. They
waited for the gifts to begin.
The witch-girl sat with them. The line of soot across her eyes and
red berry juice staining her lips were dark against her stark white
skin and pale hair. Witches were night people; she was untouched by
the sun. Her breasts, bare beneath her bead and feather necklaces,
were full and soft; her hips were broad on the ground. A clever
witch always ate well. She watched the dance, biting her lower lip,
guessing which of the women would be chosen.
Nim was first. Beautiful Nim, tall and curved, with sweet, full lips
and long, dark hair. She and Redheart always chose each other. It
was no surprise when he spun out of the dance, snatched up his little
pile of new-won treasures, and offered them to his mate. He held
them out: a sturdy boar rib and a handful of blue feathers. Nim rose
to take them, smiling. She kissed a trail down his bronze-tanned
chest as she sank back down. On hands and knees, she looked up at
him, adoring, and then opened her mouth wide and showed him her
tongue. Onlookers hooted and cheered, and the dogs outside barked
and howled. The witch-girl grinned, watching. Redheart pulled his
hide loincloth aside and laid the tip of his ready cock in his
lover’s mouth. He stroked her pretty hair and rocked his hips
as her head bobbed, lips sliding up and down his shaft.
Gifts were being given quickly now. The witch-girl watched as two
men choose the same girl, brought her closer to the fire, pressed her
between them as their hands squeezed her little round rump and toyed
with her cunt. Highhawk, the woman who hunted and danced with the
men, was holding a girl’s head between her legs, baring her
teeth and gasping with pleasure as she pressed her slit against the
girl’s eager lips and tongue. Strong, broad-shouldered Bors
offered a stone knife to Mother Mara. She had been watching him,
teasing him as she stroked her great, soft breasts and round belly,
her fingers moving wetly in her slit. She turned away from him,
licking her lips, then sank down like a bowing dog, with her hips in
the air and her face and breasts resting on the ground. He gripped
her hips, fingers sinking into softness. With a deep growl, he
shoved his shaft deep into her hot, slick hole. Her sweet moan added
to the rising chorus as the tribe fucked.
The witch-girl could feel her face flushing, her breath growing
quick, her cunt growing warm and slippery. She smiled as the sounds,
the smells, the lust of the rutting all around washed through her
like spirit-mushrooms and berry-wine, hot and drunken and joyful.
But she kept watching. There were things she needed to see.
The hunt-leaders, the two brothers, had not yet chosen. They paced
around the fire, circling, watching as their people rutted. They
were young, and strong, and clever, greatest warriors of the tribe;
they had led the men in bringing down the beast, this feast was
theirs.
White-stag stood tall, laughed loud, grinning as girls called out to
him. He smiled widely as he turned, the fire shining in his pale
hair.
Black-dog was shorter, but with wider shoulders, dark hair falling
down his back. He cast his gaze left and right as he walked, face
stern, eyes hunting and hungry.
The witch-girl blinked as White-stag stopped before her. He held out
his offering: a dozen porcupine quills. Useful, valuable. He was
smiling down at her, lit from behind by the fire, muscles of his arms
like smooth river stones, muscles of his stomach like sand rippled by
water.
The witch-girl hesitated for a moment. Then she reached out, took
the quills, set them carefully aside. She settled onto her knees and
looked up at him with a sly smile. Her eyes were half-closed, her
bright red lips slightly parted.
The heat of his shaft was shocking. He laid it on her face, along
her cheek, long and thick and hot. She groaned at the touch of it;
she’d been watching, watching for so long. She moved her head
back and forth, stroking her cheek against his length, her mouth
opening wider with need. Her tongue slipped out, gliding along his
warm rod, tasting sweat and maleness. She pushed forward, pressing
her face down to the base of his cock, licking and kissing. Her
right hand was between her legs, cupping and squeezing her mound,
one finger slipping inside. Her left was stroking him, the shaft
huge in her hand. She wanted to swallow him, she wanted to take it
all in her mouth, she could feel her mouth watering for it, but it
was impossible, it was too big, she wouldn’t be able to! She
drew back, nervous and eager, dragging her tongue along the underside
of his huge cock, opened her mouth wide, and took in the head.
Salt and sweetness on her tongue, the wetness from his tip, her
tongue pressed flat beneath him, her mouth was completely full. He
groaned, happy, the sound vibrating through his shaft and into her,
his pleasure intoxicating as she moved her fingers faster, teasing
and rubbing her own slit and bud, stroking his length more firmly.
She bobbed her head, red lips sliding over the smooth, wide head of
his penis, winning a few more sweet drops from his tip. She could
take more, she knew she could. She felt his hands on the back of her
head as her lips slipped down, as his cock-head pushed deeper into
her yearning mouth, pressing against her throat. She squeezed her
eyes shut, her body screaming at her that her throat was full, that
she couldn’t breathe. She rode the wave of panic and pleasure,
feeling it tingle down to her fingertips, as she eased into the
rhythm of swallowing his cock. Her head was spinning with lust; the
sounds of fucking all around had faded to a faraway buzz. The only
thing in her universe was his dick sliding back and forth in her
mouth.
She had to do something, she was going to choke, she was going to
come. She stroked the base of his shaft frantically as his fists
curled in her hair, and then he was pulling back and pouring his come
onto her, a thick, sticky mouthful, hotness splattering her face.
She moaned, happy and half-delirious, swallowed and gasped. There
was too much; half of it slipped out between her lips and down in
thick drops to her chin.