Chapter 2: The Initiation
The fire had burned low, painting the ancient stones in shades of blood and bronze. The air, once tense with unspoken words and the memory of wild flames at Malkin’s fingertips, now thrummed with a different, baser energy. Rastin hadn’t moved from his seat on a fallen slab of masonry, but his posture had changed. The stoic hunter was gone, replaced by a man of raw, patient appetite, his eyes like chips of flint in the firelight.
Jarrah stood before him, her confidence a tangible force. Her fingers worked the leather ties of her bone armor with practiced ease. The cuirass came away first, then the pauldrons, clattering softly to the mossy ground. Beneath, her tunic was damp with sweat, clinging to the pronounced curves of her breasts and the tight muscle of her stomach. She never broke eye contact with Rastin as she pulled the rough-spun fabric over her head, letting it fall. Her breasts were full and heavy, their dark nipples already pebbled in the cool night air.
“See something you like, Ranger?” she breathed, a sly smile playing on her lips.
Rastin’s only answer was a low grunt. His cock, thick and already straining, sprung free from his leather breeches as he loosened them. It was a brutal-looking thing, veined and ruddy, a stark contrast to the grime of his hands as he wrapped one around its base.
Jarrah knelt, her long black hair brushing his thighs. She didn’t take him in her mouth immediately. Instead, she leaned forward, squeezing her breasts together around his shaft, enveloping him in warm, soft flesh. She began to move, a slow, rhythmic rocking of her upper body, fucking his cock with the deep valley of her cleavage. The sight was obscene and mesmerizing, her smooth skin glistening with a sheen of sweat as she worked him.
Her eyes flicked over to Malkin, who stood frozen a few paces away, her knuckles white where she gripped her staff, her face a mask of conflicted awe and fear.
“Sorry, Princess,” Jarrah taunted, her voice a husky whisper without a trace of apology. “Are you here to watch only?”
Malkin flinched as if struck. Her gaze dropped from Jarrah’s triumphant face to Rastin’s massive, saliva-slick cock, then back again. A tremor ran through her slight frame. She swallowed hard, her own hidden desires warring with a lifetime of shyness. The words, when they came, were forced out on a shaky breath, but they were firm. “I-I’….I want to suck you.”
Jarrah’s smile widened. She moved faster, the slapping sound of her flesh against his a lewd counterpoint to the crackling fire. Then she stopped abruptly, releasing him. His cock stood straight and glistening. “Here you go, Princess.”
Hesitantly, Malkin shuffled forward. She dropped her staff and it clattered on the stone, forgotten. She sank to her knees beside Jarrah, her movements clumsy. She stared at the intimidating reality of him, so close she could smell the musky, primal scent of his skin. She leaned in, her eyes squeezed shut, and tentatively flicked her tongue against the swollen head.
A sharp, guttural sound escaped Rastin. “Not like that, girl.” His hand, calloused and rough, tangled in her lank brown hair. “Open your fucking mouth.”
He guided her forward, not gently, and Malkin’s lips parted, taking the tip of him inside. She gagged immediately, a dry, retching sound, but he held her there, his fingers tight in her hair. “Relax your throat,” he commanded, his voice a low growl.
Jarrah watched, a predatory gleam in her eye. “My turn.” She pushed Malkin’s head aside and took Rastin deep into her own mouth, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked with skilled, hungry pulls. She released him with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his shaft. “See? It’s easy.”
They fell into a rhythm, a lewd, shared duty. Jarrah would take him deep, her throat working around him, before pulling back and nudging Malkin forward. When it was the younger girl’s turn, Jarrah’s hand would return to the back of Malkin’s head, not just guiding, but pushing, forcing the length of him deeper into her unwilling mouth. Malkin choked and sputtered, tears welling in her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. Each time she managed to take him a little deeper, the violation sparking a strange, shameful heat in her belly.
Rastin’s breathing grew ragged. His hips began to piston upwards, meeting their mouths with short, brutal thrusts. His grunts were animalistic, lost to the night. One hand was fisted in Malkin’s hair, the other gripping Jarrah’s shoulder, his blunt nails digging into her skin.
“Gonna come,” he snarled, a raw warning.
Jarrah pulled back, a wicked smile on her face. She yanked Malkin’s head back by her hair, forcing the girl to look up, her face tear-streaked and mouth hanging open. “Look at him, Princess. Take it.”
Rastin’s body went rigid. A guttural roar was torn from his chest as his cock pulsed, and thick, white ropes of come shot out, splashing across Malkin’s face first. It streaked through her eyebrows, spattered her cheeks, and pooled on her lips and chin. He grunted again, shifting his aim, and the second, weaker burst painted Jarrah’s triumphant, upturned face, glazing her skin and matting her eyelashes.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the fire. Rastin slumped back, spent. Jarrah laughed, a low, throaty sound, as she wiped a glob of his seed from her cheek and licked it from her finger. Malkin remained on her knees, trembling, the warm, alien fluid dripping slowly from her chin onto her ragged clothes, her world utterly remade.
Malkin remained on her knees, trembling, the warm, alien fluid dripping slowly from her chin onto her ragged clothes, her world utterly remade.
Rastin and Jarrah jumped to their feet laughing. He grabbed her face, crushing his lips against hers in a fierce, possessive kiss that tasted of sweat and mead. In one fluid motion, he scooped her into his arms, her muscular legs wrapping around his waist, and carried her back to the sitting log where his waterskin of harsh liquor waited.
Malkin stayed on her knees for a few more minutes, naked and shocked. The night air raised goosebumps on her skin, a sharp contrast to the warm trails of Rastin's sperm slowly drifting down her body. The sticky, pearlescent fluid coated her small, pale breasts, painting them in the moonlight.
Jarrah took a long, gulping pull from the waterskin, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes, bright with triumph and alcohol, settled on Malkin’s debased form. "Lick it, Malkin." She laughed again, a sharp, mocking sound, as Rastin’s hand slid inside her tunic to grope her full tit. "Try it, it's really tasty."
A low, shuddering breath escaped Malkin’s lips. Her own hand, moving as if detached from her will, rose to her chest. Her fingers, trembling, smeared through the mess. She brought them to her mouth, her tongue darting out for a tentative, shameful taste. It was salty, musky, and utterly degrading.
"That's it," Jarrah purred, arching into Rastin’s rough caress. "Learn what you're for."
Rastin’s eyes, dark and hungry, watched Malkin’s pathetic exploration. He took the waterskin back from Jarrah and drank deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing. "On your feet, girl," he grunted, his voice rough. "You're not finished."
A fresh wave of tremor passed through Malkin. She pushed herself up, her legs unsteady, the cool stone rough against her bare feet. She stood before them, exposed and glistening, awaiting her next command. The fire crackled, casting their distorted shadows against the ruins, a tableau of power and submission etched in flame and flesh.
The fire crackled, casting their distorted shadows against the ruins, a tableau of power and submission etched in flame and flesh.
Rastin’s eyes, like chips of dark flint, remained locked on Malkin’s trembling form. He didn’t speak, merely jerked his head toward the ground between his spread legs. The command was silent and absolute. Jarrah watched from the log, a smirk twisting her lips as she took another swig from the waterskin, her other hand still idly cupping her own breast.
Malkin’s bare feet were silent on the cold stone as she shuffled forward. The dried trails of his earlier release felt tight on her skin, a gritty, flaking map of her humiliation. She sank to her knees, the rough texture biting into her flesh. The musky, animal scent of him filled her nostrils, a pungent mix of sweat, leather, and sex.
“You missed a spot,” he grunted, his voice a low rumble.
His hand, calloused and impossibly strong, fisted in her hair again, not with violence, but with utter control. He guided her face toward his groin. His cock, now semi-soft and glistening with spent seed and her own saliva, lay against his thigh. The smell was overpowering, deeply intimate and degrading.
“Lick clean,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Jarrah let out a low, throaty laugh. “Every last drop, little witch. Show him you’re good for something.”
A hot tear finally escaped, tracing a path through the drying filth on Malkin’s cheek. She closed her eyes, but it didn’t block out the reality. Her tongue, small and pink, darted out. It was a timid, shameful stroke at first, just against his skin near the base. The taste was intensely salty, profoundly masculine, a flavor she would forever associate with this violation.
“All of it,” Rastin growled, his hips shifting slightly.
She opened her mouth wider, her lips closing around the softening flesh. She worked her tongue along the length of him, cleaning the sticky residue from his skin and the coarse, dark hair at his root. She swallowed convulsively, the act forcing his essence down her throat. Her movements were clumsy, unpracticed, but thorough, driven by a fear that was quickly mutating into a strange, hollow obedience.
She felt him begin to stir again under her ministrations, a faint twitch of renewed life against her tongue.
Jarrah saw it too. She uncoiled herself from the log and moved behind Malkin, her body pressing against the girl’s back. “He’s getting hard again for you,” she whispered into Malkin’s ear, her voice a venomous caress. “Don’t stop now. Make him fucking rock hard.”
Malkin continued her task, her world narrowed to the taste and smell of him, the weight of Jarrah’s body against her, the unyielding grip in her hair. She licked and sucked until his skin was clean, until every last trace of their previous encounter was gone, consumed by her. By the time she finished, he was fully erect once more, a thick, demanding presence against her lips.
Rastin’s hand released her hair, and Malkin slumped back, her breath catching in ragged hitches. He looked down at his own renewed erection, then at the girl’s body, still glazed and sticky from his first release. "Now, Malkin, you can rest a bit. Lie there," he grunted, nodding toward the bedrolls near the dying fire.
She scrambled backward on unsteady limbs, collapsing onto the rough woolen blanket, her slight frame trembling against the cold ground.
"Jarrah," Rastin said, his voice a low, casual command. "Malkin is covered in my seed. I don't want to feel it when I will fuck her. Lick my sperm from her body."
Jarrah laughed eagerly, a dark, hungry sound that held no mirth. "With pleasure." She was on Malkin in an instant, her strong hands pinning the younger girl's shoulders to the bedding. She didn't hesitate, lowering her head and running a broad, wet stripe up Malkin's neck, collecting the drying spend with her tongue.
Malkin gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound, as Jarrah’s mouth moved over her skin. It was not a lover's kiss, but a predator's cleaning. Jarrah’s tongue was rough and demanding, lapping at the streaks on Malkin’s collarbone, then moving lower to her small, pale breasts. She took a nipple into her mouth, sucking hard, not to give pleasure but to scour the flesh clean.
"You taste like him," Jarrah murmured against her skin, her breath hot. "You taste like a used whore." Her hands roamed, groping and squeezing Malkin's slim hips and thighs as her mouth worked, licking, kissing, and biting with a possessive fervor. She moved between Malkin’s legs, pushing them apart with a knee.
Malkin whimpered, her hands fisting in the blanket, as Jarrah’s face buried itself in her pubic hair. Jarrah’s tongue delved into her, a brutal, invasive probe that sought out every last trace of Rastin’s presence. She licked at Malkin’s sensitive folds with a rough, practiced efficiency, making the younger girl jerk and cry out, a confusing mix of shame and unwanted sensation coursing through her.
"Clean as a fresh-killed rabbit," Jarrah announced, sitting back on her heels and wiping her mouth. She looked over at Rastin, her eyes gleaming with dark pride. "She's ready for you now."
Rastin moved from the log, his shadow engulfing them both. He knelt between Malkin’s spread legs, his weight causing the bedding to dip. He didn't look at her face, his focus entirely on her body, now glistening only with Jarrah's saliva. He spat into his palm, slicked his cock with a few rough strokes, and positioned himself at her entrance.
He drove into her with a single, brutal thrust, tearing through her virginity without a moment’s pause.
Malkin screamed, a short, sharp sound that was swallowed by the vast, indifferent ruins. The pain was a white-hot brand, a searing rupture that made her vision blur. Her nails clawed at the blanket beneath her, her entire body going rigid.
"Fucking tight," Rastin grunted, his voice strained with effort. He began to move, a relentless, piston-like rhythm that offered no respite. Each thrust was a jarring impact, grinding her into the hard ground. The wet, slapping sound of their bodies filled the air, a vulgar counterpoint to her choked sobs.
Jarrah watched, her hand slipping between her own legs, her fingers working in circles as she observed the taking. "Does it hurt, little witch?" she panted, her own arousal evident. "Good. You'll remember this."
Rastin’s pace quickened, his breathing becoming a series of harsh grunts. He leaned forward, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip so hard it would leave bruises. He was a force of nature, a storm of muscle and sweat and intent, using her body for his own release without a thought for the broken thing beneath him.
"Gonna fill you up," he snarled, his thrusts becoming wild, erratic.
With a final, deep roar, he slammed into her and held, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her. Malkin felt the hot, sudden flood within her, a violation deeper than any pain. He stayed there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, before pulling out with a wet, slick sound.
He stood up, turning away to fasten his breeches as if he had just completed a mundane chore. Malkin lay utterly still, a trickle of his seed and her own blood already starting to leak onto the blanket. The world had shrunk to the raw, throbbing ache between her legs and the cold certainty that nothing would ever be the same.
The world had shrunk to the raw, throbbing ache between her legs and the cold certainty that nothing would ever be the same. She curled onto her side, pulling the rough wool blanket over her stained, trembling body. The fire had dwindled to embers, and Jarrah was already asleep, her breathing deep and untroubled. Rastin sat staring into the dying glow, his profile a craggy cliff-face in the dim light.
Hours passed, measured by the slow crawl of the moon across the sky. A faint, pre-dawn grey began to bleed into the blackness. Malkin flinched when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Rastin. He didn't speak, but his touch was different. It lacked the brutal ownership from before.
He gently turned her onto her back. His eyes, usually chips of flint, held a strange, considering light. He lowered his head, and his lips, surprisingly soft, met hers. It wasn't a demand, but a question. His calloused hands, which had only known how to grip and bruise, now traced slow, almost hesitant paths along her ribs.
He moved down her body, his mouth leaving a trail of soft, warm kisses. He took one of her small, pale nipples into his mouth, and his tongue circled it with a lazy, devoted attention that made her gasp. This was not Jarrah’s possessive scouring. This was something else entirely.
He continued his journey downward, his hands spreading her thighs with a patience that felt alien on him. He buried his face between her legs. His tongue, which had only growled commands, now began to work on her with a slow, deliberate focus. He licked the swollen, tender flesh with a gentleness that seemed to apologize for the earlier tearing.
He found a rhythm, a soft, persistent lapping that sought out the hidden, sensitive knot of flesh he had previously ignored. A low, shuddering moan escaped Malkin’s lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock. The throbbing ache began to transform, melting into a deep, coiling warmth. Her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
"Just feel it," he murmured against her, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her entire core.
He kept at it, his tongue circling and flicking with an exquisite patience she did not think him capable of. He was learning her, tasting her, devoting himself entirely to this single purpose. The tension built within her, a tight, bright coil of sensation so different from the blunt force of his cock. It was a sweet, agonizing pressure that gathered all the confusion and pain and shame and twisted it into something else.
Her fingers tangled in his greasy hair, not to push him away, but to hold on. Her back arched off the blanket, a broken cry torn from her throat as the coil snapped. Pleasure, white-hot and shocking, radiated out from her core, washing through her in relentless, pulsing waves. She trembled violently, utterly consumed by the release.
As the last tremors subsided, he moved up her body. He kissed her again, deeply, letting her taste her own satisfaction on his tongue. He positioned himself at her entrance, still wet from his ministrations, and pushed inside. It was slow. There was no pain this time, only a deep, filling pressure. He moved in a long, steady rhythm, his eyes locked on hers, his breath hot on her face.
"Come for me again," he breathed, a command, but a gentle one.
And she did. The friction, now welcomed, built the heat once more. It crashed over her faster this time, her inner muscles clamping around him as she sobbed into his shoulder. He followed her over the edge, groaning her name as he spilled inside her, his own body shuddering with a release that seemed to cost him something. He collapsed beside her, his arm draped over her waist, and within moments, his breathing evened out into sleep. Malkin lay awake, staring at the lightening sky, the raw ache replaced by a profound and terrifying confusion.
Malkin lay awake, staring at the lightening sky, the raw ache replaced by a profound and terrifying confusion. The memory of Rastin’s rough hands shifting to a tender caress replayed in her mind, a dissonant chord that refused to resolve. She could still feel the ghost of his tongue on her most sensitive flesh, the unexpected pleasure that had twisted her shame into something unrecognizable.
The first true rays of sun pierced the ruins, painting the stones in harsh, golden light. Rastin stirred beside her, his body a solid, warm weight. He groaned, a low, gravelly sound, and his eyes opened, immediately sharp and focused. He didn’t look at her face; his gaze dropped to the blanket pooled around her waist.
“Suck me,” he commanded, his voice thick with sleep but leaving no room for argument. He settled back onto the bedding, not even bothering to sit up, and pushed his breeches down his hips. His cock, already half-hard and smelling of last night’s sex, lay against his thigh.
Malkin’s stomach tightened. Her mouth felt dry, the memory of his taste and the choking sensation vivid. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her eyes darting toward where Jarrah slept.
“Now,” Rastin growled, his hand moving to grip the back of her neck, not with violence, but with an undeniable pressure that forced her head down.
She moved obediently, her body operating on a dull autopilot forged in the night’s violations. Her lips parted, and she took the soft tip of him into her mouth. It was warmer than she remembered, the skin like velvet over iron. She could taste the faint, musky residue of himself and her own body from hours before.
“Use your tongue, girl,” he instructed, his voice a casual rumble as he stretched his arms above his head, getting comfortable. “Get it wet. Get it hard.”
Malkin obeyed, her tongue flicking tentatively along the underside of his shaft. She felt him swell and stiffen against her lips, rapidly filling her mouth. His grip on her neck tightened, guiding her into a slower, deeper rhythm. She focused on the mechanics of it, the in-and-out motion, the way her saliva made everything slick.
“Deeper,” he grunted, his hips lifting slightly off the blanket to meet her mouth.
She took him as far as she could, until the head of his cock nudged the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering, but he held her there for a long moment before allowing her to pull back for a gasping breath. The air was cold on her wet lips.
“Good,” he said, almost to himself, his eyes closed in concentration. “Just like that. Keep going.”
She fell into the rhythm he demanded, her world narrowing to the smell of his skin, the sound of his breathing, the repetitive motion of her head. She was a tool for his morning readiness, nothing more. The confusion from the night before began to curdle into a numb acceptance. This was her purpose now.
Jarrah stirred, rolling over to watch with a lazy, amused smile. “Morning already?” she purred, not bothering to cover herself. “Don’t wear him out before we break camp, little witch.”
Rastin chuckled, a dark, low sound. “She’s just warming me up.” His hand moved from her neck to tangle in her hair, controlling her pace completely. He began to thrust upwards, fucking her mouth in short, sharp jabs that made her choke and sputter.
“That’s it,” Jarrah encouraged, propping herself up on an elbow. “Take it all. You’re getting better at it.”