This story is dedicated to a friend. Seeing this story will surely make you happy.
Kaye
Olive shuddered despite of the warm spring breeze. A pair of thick woven rawhide ropes stretched between the heavy leather cuffs stitched around her wrists and the thickest limb of the oak tree high above her. Just long enough to allow her to stand flat-footed with her arms outstretched above her, they refused to stretch even when she put her whole weight upon them. She sighed in resignation.
From the pool at her feet, her own reflection sighed back at her. She stared down at it for a moment. Her dark hair and eyes were typical of The People, as was her dusky complexion. Firm young breasts –which stubbornly refused to shrink despite the decreasing size of the village meals–contrasted with her narrow waist. Cocking her head, she wrinkled her nose and wished for a moment that it was shaped more like SkyFeather’s. She puckered her lips briefly, imitating the full-lipped pout that seemed to guarantee SkyFeather the attention of every boy in the village.
The distant cry of a wolf brought her back to the present. The sun had begun to slip past the treetops, caressing the full moon as they passed each other. The wolf howled again, and Olive shivered.
She remembered the words of the Sha’ye, the Witch Mother. One day, after all the men had left the village in the ever more difficult search for food, the Witch Mother had called a Woman’s Circle. Leaving the older girls to mind the children, all the village women had crowded into the Witch Mother’s hut. This was the first time Olive had been included in a Circle and she had felt both proud and nervous. Crouched on a blanket near the small fire, the old woman had rocked back and forth, staring into space as the women filed in. Olive had stayed close to her mother as they sought a place on the packed earth floor. When all the women had seated themselves, the Witch Mother had spoken.
“The gods have turned their backs to us,” the old woman had wheezed, her voice as dry as autumn leaves. “For seven seasons, the rains have not come. In the fields, every crop is stillborn. Our men, they burn offerings, and yet the rains do not come; they say the sacred words, and yet the rains do not come; at night they make silent promises to the gods, and yet the rains do… not… come.” No one else had spoken, but many heads had nodded in grim agreement.
”No, our men cannot help us. After all,” the Witch Mother had grimaced in what might almost have been a smile, “they are only men.” Then she had closed her eyes, leaving Olive with the distinct impression that the Witch Mother was watching something far beyond the world.
For a long time, the old woman had sat silently by the fire, rocking in and out of the shadows, her eyes closed. Then she had spoken again without opening her eyes.
“There is only one other way to bring the rains. One of us,” the old woman had breathed, “must go to the Cold Lake.”
‘Then the women’s respectful silence had shattered into a cacophony of shocked murmurs and excited chatter. Olive remembered glancing at her mother, surprised to find her conversing in fearful tones with the woman beside her. When she had paused, Olive had leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Mother,” she had asked, “What is this cold lake? Why does everyone seem afraid of it?”
It had been the Witch Mother, however, who answered.
The night, which had echoed with the busy noises of life–of crickets chirping and frogs croaking in amorous chorus–,had fallen completely and ominously silent. Only the muffled moan of the wind remained. Frightened, Olive cocked her head and listened desperately, straining to catch the slightest rustle of a living creature in the darkness. Only one sound reached her…a soft gurgle from the direction of the lake itself.
Following the sound to its source, she stared at the mound which had grown from the surface of the lake, rolling and boiling as if the water itself were reaching upward toward the night sky. The lake water boiled and churned, growing higher every moment. As Olive stared in horror, the mound coalesced into a column of writhing water, glowing with its own ghostly interior light. Steam began to form to the base of the…thing…and wisps of it seemed to give the form an almost human shape in the moonlight. No, Olive realized, it was taking on human shape: a crouching figure, its head drawn down almost to its feet.
Then, with a hissing of steam, the spirit slowly stood, uncoiling and stretching itself as if from a long sleep. Moonlight glistened wetly on his body, a form as thick and muscled as Olive had ever seen and as rust-red as potter’s clay. Hair seemed to flow down his back like liquid night. Olive gasped as the spirit’s eyes snapped open. They flickered brightly with unearthly light, as if flames danced inside them. She shivered involuntarily, not entirely sure it was from fear. With a soft hissing of steam from his footsteps, the spirit began to walk slowly across the surface of the water toward her.
“He is old, child,” rasped the Witch Mother, “Older than the mountains. From the time when spirits walked free upon the earth, and through strength alone worked their will upon man. . .and woman. It was from these spirits that The People first stole fire. A brave woman gave herself to one of the spirits, and when he at last tossed her away like a broken doll, the clan elders kindled a bonfire from the smoldering flames in her nest. The demon of Cold Lake is perhaps the last of the spirits left on earth. He has great power… power enough to bring the rains without a thought. Yet the world of men is a tiny thing in the eyes of a spirit.” The old woman paused for a moment, never taking her eyes from Olive’s.
“One of us must offer herself to the demon of Cold Lake. She must draw him closer to the world of The People so that he will notice our suffering, and she must please him so that he will help us.” The Sha’ye seemed to gaze past Olive’s eyes and into her soul.
“Olive, daughter of White Lotus, YOU are the one who must succeed in these things, or The People–all of us–will surely die.”
The spirit halted at the water’s edge and regarded her. Despite the summer warmth, Olive shivered uncomfortably under his level gaze. Taking a tiny step backward on tiptoe, she tugged discretely at the thongs binding her wrists. The demon seemed to notice this, and he stepped forward until he stood only a step away from the frightened girl. His eyes followed the rawhide from the tree to her wrists, and then back again.
Suddenly, Olive screamed with surprise as the rawhide rope above her burst into flames and parted. She dropped her arms, wincing with the pain of cramped muscles, and stared at the demon, too terrified to move. The spirit continued to watch her impassively, leaving Olive with the unnerving impression that he was looking straight into her soul. Summoning every handful of her courage, she stepped forward to meet the demon of Cold Lake.
He stared at her for a moment more, and then the spirit lifted a hand and stroked the collar of her robe. Olive gasped as the robe shimmered and softened, then broke into rivulets and streamed down her body like water, leaving her naked skin exposed in the moonlight. The urge to hide the embarrassing hardness of her nipples was overwhelming but, remembering the Witch Mother’s words, she drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and thrust her breasts forward slightly in silent invitation. She must please this demon, she reminded herself, or everyone she loved would starve.
The spirit stretched out his hand again–almost tentatively–and cupped the underside of Olive’s breasts. The touch itself was almost painfully hot, and wisps of steam escaped wherever the spirit’s skin met hers. Olive bit her lip to stifle a pained cry as fiery hands kneaded her soft breast. Reflexively, her hands shot up to clutch at the demon’s wrist, but his flesh refused to yield with the solid strength of polished ironwood. One of his arms slipped around her, encircling her waist and drawing her to him.
The touch of the spirit’s body was that of a rock in the summer sun: hard, unyielding, and hot. Olive could feel the skin of her belly and breasts flushing to crimson where it met his. Otherworldly fingertips explored the naked cheeks of her ass, stroking the tender flesh only an instant ahead of a wave of goosebumps. As if in a dream, she felt her back arch, thrusting desperately back against the spirit’s fingers as they traced the cleft of her ass. Her hands explored his body in turn. She stroked the firmness of his chest, running her hands down the chiseled too-perfect solidity of his torso to—Olive gasped as her hands brushed against the spirit’s immense manhood. Her hands encircled the spirit’s inhuman shaft at its base without touching each other; the head pressed tightly against the inside of her elbow. Olive felt it stiffen even further at her touch.
Her breath was coming in rapid, shallow gasps now. When the spirit leaned down and branded her neck with his scalding ruby lips, Olive moaned a loud and thrust her hips back, urging his fingers to take her. She could feel the moisture building in her nest even as her need to be mounted grew. The spirit’s fingers caressed her inner thigh and then slipped between the outer lips of her nest, sliding upward until they brushed against the tiny button of her clitoris. Olive stiffened, her eyes snapping wide as her hands clawed convulsively at the spirit’s chest. He continued to stroke her glistening jewel, each time forcing a low moan of pleasure from Olive’s quivering lips.
“No…” she whimpered as the hand withdrew. She pushed herself backwards, questing for the spirit’s firey touch. Then, firm hands clasped her hips and lifted her like so much smoke, into the air. The curly black hair of her nest, now glistening with her juices, brushed along the spirit’s dark chest and came to rest against his belly. Looking down, Olive felt her heart race. The spirit held her in the air, her aching nest just a handsbreadth above the head of his impossibly large tool.
With a whimper, Olive spread her thighs as wide as she could, drawing them up almost to her shoulders in the impossible hope of easing the entry of the demon’s enormous shaft. She knew that there was no chance of surviving the onslaught of such a monsterous organ–it would doubtless pierce straight to her heart–yet she wanted it with a passion that surpassed any feeling she had ever known before. The tip of him touched her and came to rest against the glistening exposed lips of her nest, parting them slightly and releasing a flood of trapped juices which streamed down the spirit’s shaft in tiny steaming rivulets. A shudder ran the length of Olive’s body. Her head dropped back and she stared skyward, eyes closed and mouth agape. With a growl, the demon dug his fingers into her and drove her down onto his inhuman flesh.
Olive’s agonized scream echoed across the lake and into the night. In the woods nearby, a wolf bitch whimpered and pressed herself deeper into her den and closer to her mate. He turned and licked her face softly. Their eyes met and each paused for a moment. It would be months before she was in season, yet she assumed the mating position even before she felt her mate’s teeth at the nape of her neck…