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Save Point: Green-Bronze Collar

Instead of defending, Cleo grabs the descending warrioresses wrists and traps her ankles, then pulls her down on top of her, stopping the sickle-sword an iota from her muzzle and pinning her completely for all the fact that she's on top.

"You have a magnificent package. I saw it when you jumped on me. That's why I was so slow to catch your sword."

"Ah..."

"Don't just kill me, _rape_me."

She's trapped, but to everyone else it looks like she's the one doing the trapping, so after a few seconds of confusion and conflicted interests she goes with it.

They let her into the warband because a woman with a huge dick doesn't make much of a house-wife. She's been used for stress relief plenty of times and liked it, hell it's nothing the guys don't do amongst themselves, but claiming the spoils is new to her, not something she'd normally try to attempt.

Her cock stiffens despite herself and a few seconds later she's forcing it roughly up between the lioness-girls already wet twat-lips as she_yowls_. It's so tight and wet, so hot, and it feels just incredible. Cleo releases her wrists and she doesn't even hesitate before discarding the sword and dragging out the cats breasts, mauling and milking them like when she was back on the farm, looking after the goats.

Long after all the rest of the women-folk have been thoroughly brutalized in every hole until they drip carmine cream, then collared as property, they're still going at it. Someone comes by with a branding iron to do Cleo and burn the mark casually into her flank with the usual sizzle, but all that happens is her sweat scorched to steam and the fur crimped in an abstract pattern the shape of the red-hot metal. She doesn't even flinch, just screams and comes. They're both bruised and quite exhausted by the time they finally finish fucking, with everyone else standing around and watching because they've gotten bored.

The warrioress spurts triumphantly across the length of Cleo's body, clearly pent-up as hell, then hauls the lioness to her feet one handed, knees shaking, where she is collared not like a punishment but like a prize, a special band of deeply green bronze pinned tightly around her neck so she can feel it when she swallows. Everyone helps, feeling up her sweat-sticky body.

The special collar is nowhere near as strong as the crude iron ones the other sobbing bitches are being dragged about by as they are chained into line, but it has a certain artistry to it and smoothed edges without burrs. It's a treasure, and she doesn't even try to run, just traces the metal as she waits to see what they will do with her next.

~*~

They won't let her keep her weapons, but that's alright, because she doesn't have most of them with her. She was just out shopping at the nearest waterside trade-town, which is why all she has with her are a couple of belt knives, excusable as an eating set and well under regulation size, which of course they confiscate. They were blunt anyway, soft round iron, safer to eat with when you occasionally bite into the metal by accident.

The real weapons are at home or at least nearby, safe under an unremarkable shallow waterfall in their box, where she can collect them easily if needed. She's always been afraid that the armour of bone might get caught in a fire, not one of her controlled unnatural blazes but a house fire of the sort that consumes dried rafters in an unstoppable fury, something that would leave not a scapulae intact to regrow it from, and the skills haven't been reinvented yet to create a truly fireproof container (although the current box has heavy sheets of chrysotile embedded in its walls that massively improve the resistance). Under a waterfall where it's nice and cool and damp seems far safer, barring some sort of flood, and she's made sure that the location she choose is well above the flood-plain and closely surrounded by overhanging slabs of rock.

It's actually kind of refreshing to find herself in entirely unexpected circumstances. Terrowne is away on some unexplained business in the Americas somewhere, the old continent turned new yet to have been officially rediscovered, but she's expecting it to happen sometime soon, probably in the next thousand years or so. To get across such a vast ocean he did something she's rarely seen, spreading the wings of the Dragon that are not real wings but distortions in local space-time, lifted up by the spars emerging through his shoulders and spine from the headlands of the bay until, lost in the distance and uniquely vulnerable in the exercise of his powers, she heard or maybe felt a small shockwave through the air signal his departure.

If he wasn't out exploring, he'd probably have come and rescued her by now, not because she needed it but just on general principles. In his absence, having absolutely nothing to fall back on except herself is a breath of fresh air, which is exactly why they make a point of taking a few decades apart every once in a while until they start to miss each other again.

Immortals by and large are not that fond of ships, mainly due to the intrinsic risks of travel. Having the vessel break up under you in the middle of the great green is likely to mean one hell of a long swim to shore, complete with sharks that might just eat you completely a bit at a time and no handy sources of fresh water. It makes a nice safe desert look hospitable. Plus, the technologies of sailing change radically even across lengths of time significant to her.

Which is why, although she's embarked briefly in plenty of vessels to various local and near-coastal destinations, she doesn't really have that much sailing experience. It's not something she'd do unless she had no choice, and now the choice has been handily taken from her.

So, as the other captive women wail futilely in the shallow hold and experience sea-sickness and the after-effects of their first-ever violations, her reavers have simply left her loose on the deck. After all, there's nowhere particular for her to run to, just the waves on every side, and the special collar seems to mean something she doesn't quite understand. She enjoys the sea air and the waves, tolerates the acceptably infrequent and not too personally-directed rapes, and gets fed the same dried and poorly stored food from sealed casks that the reavers would also be enjoying if they hadn't done a little sacking and looting on the way out (but not too much, since they only have one ship, and once they had most of the compact valuables and a quota of young women sufficient to fill the hold they left quite quickly, rather than give the locals time to get together and put up a more organized resistance).

She observes the sailors on deck, carefully committing to memory the tasks performed, the adjustment of ropes and maintenance of the main sail, how the main keel and rudder works (and whether, should the circumstances arise, she could contrive some arrangement of ropes to operate it from a ships wheel, allowing her to fix the course and work the sails by herself). She listens also, cat's ears twisting to pick up half-understood phrases where some of the loan-words are similar, mostly short phrases with angry, intense verbs describing violent or abrupt actions (no judgment; this is a forceful language, for people who prefer to live and do rather than sit around and argue the details). She says nothing; it is always wise to be under-estimated.

Once she gets bored and can mostly predict what will be said, and what sailing actions are likely to take place next, she starts in on a coil of old and tattered rope, having seen a sailor working to patiently rehabilitate the first few feet of it in an idle moment. Ironically, the rope is made of spiral-tied bast and so one could argue that it's part of her divine mandate to exercise power over it, purely through linguistic coincidence.

To a chorus of the wails of the captured women, chained crouched in the low-roofed hold, she knits together knots, using jagged claws that never fail and semi-padded fingertips that resist the pressing points of the rough-tipped fibers. Her captors are confused at first, then quite impressed despite themselves as she slowly and systematically reconstructs the ships supply of rope, making it stronger than it was to begin with using subtle knots taught to her over the years by the Dragon. They check the rope, in case she's trying something tricky, and can't break it with any test they can devise.

Her little trick becomes an object of fascination. At one point she finds herself with her belly on the completed part of the coil, her tail raised and her ass high in the air as several of the reavers take turns with her and she just keeps braiding together rope fibers, never missing a beat. Her enthusiastic yowls practically shake the mainmast, but no-one minds. This is clearly a girl who really likes it.

The only real downside is that she starts to leave a puddle under her firmly used rear end, as a result of which they hand her a deck cleaning stone and indicate through gestures that she should clean up her mess. She promptly starts cleaning the decking with the same misguided yet perfect focus that she previously devoted to fixing rope, a task that would be agony on just about anyone else and would normally serve as a brutal punishment, but she has the spine of a cat and can easily fold herself over to grind the decking with no significant discomfort. Mere sun on her back does not burn a mistress of solar flame.

Her only real concession to the situation is to wash out her pussy with salt water in full view of everyone at more frequent intervals, not just when she's taking a leak. Grudging admiration grows at her total unwillingness to be bowed by the situation. She catches looks from warriors and half-hears comments that seem to suggest that she is worthy of her collar.

Part-way through the voyage, the crews only female member, the chick with a huge dick who so enjoyably captured her, becomes jealous not so much that she now has competition as of just how popular Cleo is becoming as a preferred fuck-toy. Her position seems to be that with plenty of easy slave-bitches available in the hold, it is unreasonable just how little she's gotten to sleep with her prize and how much everyone else has.

To try and make it up to her, Cleo concedes a point and extends to her a level of intimacy that no-one else has gotten, even if it might be construed as a weakness. She fucks her face-to-face, looks into her eyes, makes it long sessions of deeper love-making in which she shudders and cries out her captors name. Ironically this works out, because everyone enjoys watching and it defuses any potential competition for her exclusivity.

When they finally do get to shore again, after a long slow march that is excruciating only in its tedium (a coffle of slave-girls, exhausted and now dully accustomed to their situation, moves very slowly when chained at the ankles) it becomes apparent that she is also going to be sold, but into different circumstances. The rest of the girls are sold at auction in the first town they make port, stripped of the clothing they were allowed to retain simply to keep them warm on the ocean waves and displayed bare-breasted for sale (the clothes are sold separately). Cleo is allowed to watch as girls are carried off, spanked, slapped, humiliated and vaginally fingered by various buyers. There's a full-time attending blacksmith to strike and refasten chains and collars for all the discerning purchasers, so it seems that ships from raiding parties that are striking all over the surrounding coastline converge here to sell their goods.

She, on the other hand, is retained by her captors and taken along on what seems to be some sort of recreational expedition between voyages. Some of the reavers disappear, perhaps going to visit their wives and children in nearby towns.

The dick-girl seems to have gained drastically in confidence after being watched by everyone ploughing her captive, and is now pursuing a strange, sort-of-almost relationship with another unattached member of the crew. While this makes it far more likely that Cleo will be sold, still she wishes the girl good luck with it. It was an interesting meeting.

When they get to where they're going, she witnesses a strange discussion she can't entirely translate between the woman who it seems is going to buy her, and the dick-girl whose willing slave she's become. After feeling her up with a thoroughness that even Cleo has to admire, and doing things like pinching her nipples to test her circulation, prying her mouth wide to admire her incisors, and painfully spreading her anus, the would-be purchaser names a seemingly quite impressive figure to buy her outright, but gets shot down swiftly by the dick-girl.

It seems that this offer does not include the special green-bronze collar, which would increase her price, but her owner - and she realizes that thinking of the dick-girl as her owner gives her a warm feeling inside - refuses to sell her unless the collar is included. Why exactly this should be the case is something of a mystery, but it seems the woman expected it and the initial sum was only a negotiating tactic.

After considerable haggling they sell her ass - and her pussy - collar and all.

~*~

She shivers as the wind begins to pick up, tearing past the frozen landscape as an icy breath, and pulls her tatter-edged leather travelling cloak up around her ears, trying to orient herself. She really needs to get in out of the cold soon, but the entrance could be easy to miss and it wouldn't do to freeze herself going the wrong way.

The custom around here, where it's so exposed to the northern winds in winter after all the plants die back, is to find an existing cave, open crack in the rock, or even a shallow ravine or riverbed that can be suitably diverted, and pile up earth around the entrance in summer when it can still be shoveled without needing a pickaxe to break up the ice first. The soil is heaped to make a smoothly curved dome that aerodynamically breaks up the airflow, diverting it around a wedge shaped aperture that is left open, leading down into the entrance. Several interleaved layers of large animal hides with the fur still on are then suspended vertically in the entrance-way to create a sort of warmth airlock, which doubles as a security measure because it's very hard to slip through discretely. It's traditional to finish the mound with a layer of turf, which strengthens the surface and conceals the hollowing even better in the summer time.

To Cleo's mind, it's rampant with sexual symbolism. Vulval opening, tough obstructive barrier of skin that's difficult to penetrate, warm inside and cold outside. Of course that could just be her anticipation messing with her.

When she finally spots the entrance through the snow, she's already almost gone straight past it. Shouldering her way in through the heavy fur hangings is a struggle, but inside it's blissfully, dizzyingly musky and hot. She finally relaxes into the warmth, delightedly scenting a faint rich undertone of blood on the air.

Inside the cave, there are only a couple of tiny well-banked fires next to existing cracks in the rock - it wouldn't do to let smoke accumulate, or be overcome by one's own exhaled breath - but the warmth of bodies keeps the space warm. The main chamber, which is long and deep, has been divided with simple leather hangings into a series of small booths or rooms along each side, one per girl, and the ladies going about their business help to keep the air, which would otherwise by stuffy, stirred up and warm.

Down the far end there's a sort of shared room, followed by a bathing and cleaning space for the brave where the cave dips down into the burning cold water table, and even further down, the outflow makes for a handy communal lavatory where the truly daring brace themselves for a daily encounter between liquid ice and their nether regions. Just thinking about it makes her want to start shivering again.

The slave girls, and they're mostly slave girls, are barely dressed at all, just simple rags bound around their hips and, for some of the more favored girls, a breast-wrap designed to hold them at maximum boobage. It seems insane, in a land of icy cold like this, but the humid warmth of the cave is stifling and it's an eminently practical choice, especially since it keeps them from running off and, in all probability, getting themselves killed in a land that they're not equipped for or ready to survive. There isn't even any need for collars - they all come back, except for the few who don't, some of whom then come back later on their own terms after they've seen what it's like out there. The small remainder either got killed somewhere or have what it takes to make it for themselves.

Cleo was one of that small remainder, as she always has been.

The one real problem with the warmest and most welcoming slut-holme in the land is that, being so closely confined together, the girls' lunar cycles tend to synchronize over time, which results in an inconvenient three or four days per month when the discerning will have trouble finding a friendly girl in a good mood. That's what's producing the rich, fertile blood-scent that tingles in her nostrils and is getting her so excited right now.

To address this issue, a limited number of females external to the operation are needed about once a month to service any random walk-ins. Most of the long term male clientele are vaguely aware, in carefully non-specific terms, as to when it is not an ideal time to visit their favorite girls and to settle instead for their wife, serving-girl, or hunting bitch. But there's always a few new customers and Cleo is ideal to this task, not having an regular cycle herself.

She used to feel just a little bit proud of herself that she was like this, not just some weak bitch who bled once a month and cried and got all emotional about it, but after her experience in the wilds of Nubia, waking up piled in a heap at dawn with all the other lionesses sniffing and licking at her blood-stained butt every morning for almost three years, desperately hunting sustenance on a continuous basis to replace the constantly depleting iron in her body, she has more sympathy than she did before. She remembers with a certain shame what she said in the caves at Crescent Moon Bay, the wound in the world, where the earth itself bled.

Her own secret ulterior motive is that she hopes illogically that the exposure might encourage her fertility. It seems to her that to have her belly swollen with cubs of her own, she'd need to mate with just the right partner at a specific but difficult to predict moment just after having her own cycle, preferably in an aggressive manner designed to induce ovulation. For a human woman there'd be an optimal hour or day, for a lioness an overpowering heat cycle to determine the right moment to let herself be savagely and repeatedly mounted with jaws clutching the back of her neck (the thought kind of thrills her) but her personal situation sort of combines the two with an accuracy limited to years or possibly even decades.

Her cover story with her warband, ironically, is that this is in fact her own time of the month and that she prefers to travel away to some remote wilderness place known only to herself to avoid troubling her friends with her bitchiness (sort of true, just on the wrong time scale). For those who are observant enough to count days, or know her far more closely and are aware that she never seems to account for enough tightly rolled linens, the story within the story is that she likes to privately visit her favorite brothel every once in a while to get laid and that this is the excuse. No, she will not let you know which one or where it is, that's her little secret.

She has no idea what the warband would make of it if they found out what she really does on her 'days off'. It's just so exciting to be freely given so much money by complete strangers, to exercise herself to the limits in the throes of passion and do everything that she really, truly, secretly wants to do anyway.

She ducks and enters the better, slightly larger leather booth near the communal area that serves the 'occasional girls' such as herself. Unlike all the other rooms, which are open and contain only a flat bedroll and whatever knick-knacks the girls have accumulated, this room has a proper bed supported on wooden cross-pieces up off the floor and heavy, iron-strapped chest in the corner to safely hold any travelling gear. There are a few shared items in there as well, a limited supply of contraceptive herbs for the non-slaves, some toys and training tools, a small punishment whip should she care to educate the girls with something freshly learned.

She casts her travelling cloak into the chest with a swirl as a sort of liner, after opening it with the key she had to pay for herself, then strips off her armour, packing and stacking it carefully into the remaining space. The heavy-padded gambeson goes inside the cuirass, the breach-cloth and wide support bandages for her breasts go inside that. Sword and bow on top, in case of an emergency. The rest of her travelling pack is less valuable and sits beside the chest, ready to be available as required and not requiring concealment as the weapons do. Questions would be asked in regard to a whore as heavily armed as herself.

Once she's completely naked, and bare to the warmth, she pulls forth the decoratively carved green-bronze collar, takes a deep breath, and then snaps it shut around her neck. The pin at the back, once dropped in, forces it just a little too tight in a way that she still treasures, so she feels just a little bit owned, held controlled by the jaws of a lion. She renders the base of the pin malleable at her touch, pressing it upward into a bulge as though it has been hammered shut, and flesh heat slowly works its way out through the bronze, completing the illusion.

She takes a deep breath and savors the fertile smell of blood.

It is time for this one to go to work and serve her betters.

~*~

She's surprised, one day, to encounter the dick-girl again as one of her customers. She still looks mostly the same and is even wearing the same armour. The only major difference is a star-shaped tattoo, deeply blue in color, around her left eye.

It makes her surprisingly attractive when she winks, just by the contrast of dark and light.

Just as on the day they met, the girls gear incorporates a bulging 'money-pouch' of supple leather between her legs to hold her significant extra assets, but she seems more relaxed with her female side now and no longer wears a full cuirass designed to conceal her chest. Her boobs have sagged a bit and gotten bigger with age, but she wears them well.

She still has her peculiar sickle-sword, admittedly cleaned up slightly and with a better hilt and grip, more ergodynamic. Small scratches have been polished out and one major nick in the edge ground down to a perfect triangular notch, as though it was part of the design.

Cleo smiles at her and lies back and spreads her legs.

Later, after an enjoyable interval, she finally gets up the nerve to ask her about the collar.