Trespassers Price
The swamps were fetid and wet, and left a musky scent throughout the old growing wood. A swamp, flooded and wet and teeming with life, few dared to cross into the marsh, for the vines were thick, the roots were grasping, and predators hunted the still waters of the ancient place. The hour was late and the insects began to buzz as the swamps cooled only slightly, no longer a fever of heat and murky water - but the scent of a cool breeze that slowly danced between ancient trees.
Here, I sat, taking camp along the old smugglers route. The ground was dry, for a marsh - and I could lay my head comfortably down, while setting my tent up without fear of it sinking over me and trapping me to a wet death. I sat before a cooking fire, with a thin smoke raising up - not to give heat against the pleasing chill, but to drive off the biting insects, whom hated the mesquite smell. Other predators would avoid the flame as well, or so I hoped - and with my sword beside me, and my tent bound - I listened to the old music, and plotted my course to the other side of the murky death.
It was not easy being a smuggler, but it was lucrative - and the contraband I carried would sit pretty in a foreign market away from my home.
My boat bobbed and wobbled slightly, from a subtle current from some other source - but as night fell and the ghostly lights of hidden yore danced beyond my flame, I hugged my cloak a little closer, and stroked a hand through my long red hair. I was proud of my hair - it made me distinct and exotic to the women on the other side of the swamp, and lent an air of roguishness to everything that I did. They liked it, and so did I.
My meal was finished and I laid my head against my bedroll, while tucking myself in with a comfortable enough sigh. My arms hugged my weapon, my feet tucked, and my shoes were laid within the tent, to air my toes and prevent anything of the swamp from remaining with me. It was quiet and pleasant - leading me to enjoy its blissful silence but for the whisper of insect song.
Time in a swamp can be strange - without the sun or stars to properly guide, one could only guess from old markings what lead which way. I was glad to have the guide of experience to teach me where to go - and where to avoid the scaled folk, who had lived in these old, fetid waters since before the first brick of the great kingdom had been laid.
A sound startled me from my dream, making me jerk and sit up - and grasp for my blade. It was taken from me, as was the small dagger I kept in my boot. Uncomfortably bare, without the comfort of steel and iron to protect me, I felt around, only to encounter the shin of something bit, and smelling faintly of the swamps sweeter fruits. I glanced up slowly, and in the dark, I saw the outline of a scaled tail, half as large as an alligators. But no alligator was it, for the tail was drawn to strong hips - strong hips over a firm torso, and a long neck craned down, watching me - while smoke curled from an old worn bone pipe.
Sasskevakah. Lizard-folk. Those who swam in the swamp, as often boon as they were a bane, known only to they of their hidden ways. As they kept to the swamp and boded no trouble, neither kingdom held them in any sort of distrust - for they cared little of the outside world, and the swamp held little treasure for those who sought their riches. I only dared it, for it was safer for those of my intent.
"You trespass. Debt must be paid."
Debt was serious to them. He, now I could see when he lifted the pipe and blew into it - to create a plume of grey smoke - held himself tall and strong, but not that of a warrior. In the thin light of what moon could show, he was not a warrior, for his markings were not the jagged claw or zagging spiral of thunder - no, his were the entropic swirl, the flowing river, and the eternity of the swamp. A shaman, a mystery-seeker, one who was with and apart. The spirits and the wild answered his call, and he was beholden only to the laws of nature - Survive, Flourish, Grow.
"Swamp whisper your presence." He gave a rumbling hiss. "But not your blood."
He reached down, and grabbed me by the shoulder, and pushed me forward, out of the tent. I obeyed, because he would have struck me down had I offered any resistance. He followed, leaving me in the chill of the colder months - if cold was a term the swamp understood. He stood, towering a head and shoulder above me, and glanced down - again the grey smoke washed out, making my head swim with its potency.
"Why do you come?" The words were breathy, half a whisper, half a hiss. It was hypnotic, when the smoke made my extremities tingle. "Men keep away from the ancient lands. Why do you come?"
"Men of the west want what I trade. The lands over are too dangerous, the kingdoms of the east do not wish this traded." I prayed he understood, and I did not garble his language too much. Any who lived near the swamp ended up learning of it. I fidgeted, feeling naked even if he wore only a hanging vest and loincloth, a belt to hold pouches and a bone knife. How many had gurgled under the slice of the blade?
"So you come the olden ways. It is dangerous. Men vanish and are never found."
It was not a threat. They did not make such crude things as threats. I shivered as he reached up and touched my jaw, turning my face left and right, and ran a thumb across my lower lip. The smoke, already making me dizzy, made my body vibrate, like every nerve were being touched at once. It was stimulating, and distracting. I liked it, and I hated it.
"The spirits say you are not a man of wicked heart, only of strange deed. But the spirits say you must be punished, for breaking the laws of men."
He blew another puff of smoke - and my eyes watered as it washed across my face. His nostrils flared to blow it out, like an ancient drake in its slumber - while his eyes took on a glow, no longer the pale yellow of the swamp-folk, but now glowing, almost like molten gold. I watched him - as he circled me, trailing me, his strong, muscled body flexing subtly beneath the thick scale. He was old - old and powerful - and much loved by the spirits of the mire.
"As they demand, so you must pay. Pay, man, in the ways of old. Remember the dream, before you were born." He blew a last breath of smoke into my face, and left my mouth dry, and mind no longer as sharp. Colors emerged, and the creature stood before me - hands coming to touch my face, and I to touch his hands. His scent was no longer musky, but enhanced to smell the life of the swamp, and the sensual hint of musk between his digits. He held my face, and drew his thumb to my lips - and slid the digit in, to caress his claw across my tongue. I found my lips drawing behind his knuckle, and suckled softly.
He tasted like life - as much a pleasure to inhale his scent, as it was to taste. Very vaguely did he taste wet, very vaguely did he taste dry - and like the wild berries and the faintest hint of reptilian musk was across my tongue, making me treble, and spark inside of me things I did not wish to think about. He looked pleased that I surrendered though - and his pleasure made me feel quite good.
He drew back - and his tail proved to be more agile than I knew - for it had found its way into the front of my breeches, and curled firmly against the swelling heat of my manhood. I shuddered as he rubbed, the scales rough, but skilled, and the tip of his tail lifting my balls and brushing over my scrotum. I would have liked it to have been softer - but in my hazed state, I do not think it really mattered. I grew stiff, painfully stiff - and he pushed my shoulders down - drawing me to lower myself onto the mud and green, and kneel before him like a priest before his god.
A priest worships with his mouth, and so would I - for he drew his cloth to the side, and the turgid interest of my scaled god rose out, a swell as beautiful as the spire on the grand cathedral of the pantheon. Long, stiffer than steel and tapered to an almost arrowhead point, it stood out to me, and I could do nothing but obey. My fingers wrapped the root, like it were an instrument - and I brought my lips to the crown, to hook behind the glans, and suckle from. He hissed, sharply - but did not complain. My hands slid down and up his length, as he toyed with mine - and then he brought his foot up, and stroked the claws against my hip - to hook and push down at my clothes.
A hand left, undoing my belt - and the other stroked him as I slowly worked my mouth up and down the tapered length - my tongue flicking across the edge, and polishing a slow circle around the tip. He hissed sharply, as I tingled in my bliss - his hips pushing forward slowly, to slide a little bit deeper into my mouth. His hips surged and pushed, and I worked him half way down and slowly back. I didn't know what I was doing - but I didn't want to stop.
Quicker - my lips found a vein, and my tongue traced it, caressing and signing my name along it - which did little but stir his enthusiasm. Deeper into my mouth he thrust - and again and again he pushed against my throat, making me gag - and shudder. But it did little to stop him as he swelled, trickling the wet heat of his interest across my gums, over my teeth, and letting me taste him closer on my quickly working tongue.
His taste was wild, and the reptilian part of my mind knew it was healthy, strong, and just right. It was the taste of something old and wild - something I should be honored to have the pleasure of knowing - and something I should work harder for. His milky flavor washed and dripped down my lips, spilling between my legs as I knelt, my pants only now around my ankles. His nostrils flared as he began a low crooning hiss - and his shaft began to throb.
He came upon my tongue. He came into the heat of my mouth. He came hard and wet, thick and copious across my gums and teeth and painted the roof of my mouth. His amount was much more than I had ever spilt in the lonely days of my life - and it sent shivers down my body - making me wonder if this was how the whores felt when they earned their pay. I didn't know - at the moment, it wasn't anything more than a detached thought - because right then, I was swallowing the wet fire, and feeling his semen slide down my throat and into my belly.
Soon he stopped, and I turned, coughing, spitting what was left from my mouth - feeling dazed and confused, and my thoughts swimming from the effects of smoke and lust. And I heard a mirthful sound leave him - though his lust hadn't. It was quite evident he wanted something more - even with the last bits of his white need dropping, now onto my thighs and knees. He waited - drawing another breath and puffing it out, waiting until I could catch my breath.
"Good." He said. I felt myself tinge at the cheeks and throat - and his eyes trailed across it, like looking upon one of his own kind. I didn't know what to say, much less feel, as he circled around me - and stood at my back. His length pressed against the side of my head, as he stroked through my hair, and curled his claws to scratch my scalp. I was like a dog, being rubbed for doing a good thing. I liked it, but slowly shook it off.
And he pushed forward, sending me onto my belly, my knees together and my length slapping the mud, wet and soft. He drew behind me and straddled my thighs, while his comfortable weight settled down, against my backside. His hands gripped down on me, before he nudged forward, against the smooth cheeks of my upturned ass, and rubbed himself in a way I had done on a whore my very first time. I flushed, my mind washing with need, lust, and want. He knew what he was doing.
From his belt he drew out a small vial - of hardened clay and sealed shut - he lifted and poured it across his digits, making it splay in a rainbow of color and hue even in the murky shade of the moon. His fingers rubbed together, then stroked down on his spit and jism-marked shaft, making it gleam. I looked back, feeling weak, and unwilling to move for my horrified fascination at what was happening, and about to occur. I wanted it, like I had never wanted anything else - and he knew it.
He knew it, for his claws stroked across my cleft, and more of the warm liquid was poured onto my asshole. I clenched, in surprise, and clenched again as a claw was pushed up, and slowly rubbed across the bud. I hissed, in a way that made him chuckle - and clenched tightly, as the same digit pushed forward, and slowly slid into me. I was tight, and I milked his digit - it hurt, but the cream and the slipperiness helped quite a bit. Again he rubbed while working the finger in and out - making my rump slippery, and the back of my balls quite the same.
"You belong to me, and the spirits of the marsh." He hissed, while slowly sliding the tip against me, and prodding forward while his claw worked in and out. His shaft was much larger than just his thumb - but it wouldn't stop him, couldn't stop him - for he demanded, and my ass was lifted like a mare in heat.
To be taken. Penetrated. Used. I don't know how to put it, for my mind was hazy, and my thoughts were on other things - like how hard my cock was, how strong his hands were, and how insistent he was in claiming me, making me his female. I was thankful his shaft was tapered - for if it had been a mans, I would have screamed. I was thankful as well for the slippery cream he had been kind enough to rub into me - onto me. It made it easier, as easy as could be for my first time - and he pushed in slow and deep, letting his shaft swell, and slide me open. My mouth held open as I groaned - half in pain, half in bliss. The pain from muscles freshly used - and bliss, from where he slid over something inside, that made my world explode.
"Good female." He whispered, but not derisively. It was no more an insult, than to call a whore a wonderful cocksucker - it was a gift, and it was meant to compliment - for I was a good female, and I was a female eager - eager for the shuddering pleasure that still quaked in me, and shaking for the want of being /fucked/ again. I cried out sweetly while he thrust into me in a single, solid push, then started to ever so slowly pull out - only to work in again, and once more back. I began to pant as he took me, his weight crushing me into the mud, making me wet and sticky - and his hips made my own rub forward, stimulating me in two ways, both warm and cloying.
He pushed again, his hips nestled against my upturned ass, giving me just enough time to get used to such feelings as being taken. His hands gripped my shoulders as he pushed and trusted, his heavy tail slapping against the mud, while his hips slapped against my butt. Again and again I was stretched and opened, the slight upwards curve of his shaft making me shiver, when it rubbed over the hidden spot inside me again and again. I gasped - and he knew how to work my body, the shaman certainly did.
Quick and eager, fast and strong - each hit made my mind flash white, and my body shake like it were in a seizure. Again and again, the strong male held me down and pushed me deeper, his pleasure entirely too pleasant, entirely too real to ignore. He throbbed inside of me and made me swelter outside - sweat dripping my body while I felt hot - hotter than the first time a stable maid made me feel entirely welcome at her inn. He hissed, the long tongue flicking my ear, and across the side of my neck. He was close.
I was close. I cried out suddenly - when my shaft swelled and then began to spurt, coating my belly and the ground with my very thick emission. I do not know what he felt - but I clamped and squeezed and flexed my ass very tightly around his gift - and he responded with harder strokes and pushes. By now, the moon was not as bright - but the swamp itself was not as dark. We had been fucking for over an hour - perhaps even two - but time was lost on me after another motion, and he bit into my neck.
Small fangs pierced my skin - teeth gripped and held tight enough to bleed me - but most of all, he held me down and began to thrash - spilling the thick fire into me as I had spilled it upon the ground. He came a second time and flooded my guts with every last bit of what sweet fire he had dared give me - and I savored it in some far away manner. It felt right - right as I had ever felt before. I was his - his female, his toy, his cockwarmer. And I didn't want to leave.
When I came to, he was still upon me - holding me to his chest and slumbering in the ways of reptiles of old. He dreamed and cuddled me, my legs to my belly, and his shaft thick inside me still. When I came too, my neck was given to a thin layer of dried blood - but nothing that would not wash off. I felt safe in his arms - and the heat of the sun made me relax, like I were one of his kind. For a moment, I wished I was.
But I had a job to do - and I slowly withdrew, yelping as I slid him out of me. I would be sore for the next few days - and had to clean. I did so - before redressing, and sliding into my boat. My blade lay at the bottom - my dagger the same - as did a small vial of the soothing cream. It came in handy - after I'd cast off, leaving the shaman to his dreams and spiritual revelry.
I made my shipment, and gathered quite a bit of coin.
But coin goes fast. And coins are easily spent. And then you have to brave the wild again - and once more, I went into the swamp.
They say men disappear all the time there. But sometimes, they just don't want to leave...