When the local roughs captured her, barbarian warrior Tyria thought her life was over. They had her sword, her armor, her potions, anything she could use to fight back and escape. She expected a swift end. She didn't get it.
The boys laughed as she stood there, cupping her breast with her palm. Her imperious downward glare lost its potency as she wore leather horse bridles, crudely reformed into straps that girded her loins and framed her goods for viewing. In Tyria's prime, the sight would have roused torrid passions that carried her into bedchambers. Yet no one, not a soul, wanted to fuck the woman. Because of what they had made her become: a naked, sweating, stinking tavern wench.
"Pints all around," the gang leader said.
"Comin' right up."
Her grungy red hair hung limp past her shoulders. Product of many months without bathing. It matched her absolutely wild pits and bush, ungroomed and adding to the filthy lies of barbarians being an uncouth people.
A miasma of her body's oils and odors hung thick around her. Not the most appealing of airs, but the gang wasn't going for appealing. They went for slimy greaseball. A woman whose skanky aging curves ranked her somewhere between washed-up hag adventuress and nasty cave troll bitch. Either life could claim her. Sometimes both did, when the men pretended they slaughtered a den and 'rescued' her bitchy foulness from taking big green dick every day for the more civilized world of carting around swill for her saviors.
Another time, another place, she would have cut their throats out for insulting her pride. In this time and place, she kept her tongue silent and let her stench do the talking.
Her journey to the bar earned plenty of smacks to her fat ass, which she took with a subservient growl. Hard muscles had turned to gentle flab without her daily training.
"No spillin this time," the barkeep chided.
"No, sir."
Tyria picked up the serving platter. This weight used to lift easy for her, but buffness had atrophied to a pair of thin and weak arms that barely kept it above her chest. The brews sloshed. She peered over the mugs, to watch her path, while the return gauntlet reddened her cheeks. About the only part of her toughening up in her current employ. Slowly, she set the platter down and handed out their drinks.
"Maybe I should give the wench a splash to get some of the stink off her."
"Nah, waste of good mead. Ain't that right wench?"
Clammy, sticky and gross, she placed a hand on her hip, held her head high and answered. "Yes. I'm a wild beast, and I need to look and smell like one. It's the way of my people, and honestly it makes me horny as hell."
The leader rewarded her self-debasement by sticking gold coins in her cunt to pay their tab. He was short. Not just in height, but in how many pieces should be clenched between her lips. They spilled as she waddled off, forcing her to bend over to retrieve them. Waving her fanny presented an opening which one of the men seized upon, picking up a blunted dart and tossing it at his target.
He hit the bullseye. It slipped right in, its fins sticking out like a bizarre butt plug while Tyria scowled and held position. She could already hear chairs scooting for men to rise up and join the game.
At least they weren't making her fuck their horses tonight. Yet.
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"Urgh. What can I get ya?"
When the local roughs captured her, barbarian warrior Tyria thought her life was over. They had her sword, her armor, her potions, anything she could use to fight back and escape. She expected a swift end. She didn't get it.
The boys laughed as she stood there, cupping her breast with her palm. Her imperious downward glare lost its potency as she wore leather horse bridles, crudely reformed into straps that girded her loins and framed her goods for viewing. In Tyria's prime, the sight would have roused torrid passions that carried her into bedchambers. Yet no one, not a soul, wanted to fuck the woman. Because of what they had made her become: a naked, sweating, stinking tavern wench.
"Pints all around," the gang leader said.
"Comin' right up."
Her grungy red hair hung limp past her shoulders. Product of many months without bathing. It matched her absolutely wild pits and bush, ungroomed and adding to the filthy lies of barbarians being an uncouth people.
A miasma of her body's oils and odors hung thick around her. Not the most appealing of airs, but the gang wasn't going for appealing. They went for slimy greaseball. A woman whose skanky aging curves ranked her somewhere between washed-up hag adventuress and nasty cave troll bitch. Either life could claim her. Sometimes both did, when the men pretended they slaughtered a den and 'rescued' her bitchy foulness from taking big green dick every day for the more civilized world of carting around swill for her saviors.
Another time, another place, she would have cut their throats out for insulting her pride. In this time and place, she kept her tongue silent and let her stench do the talking.
Her journey to the bar earned plenty of smacks to her fat ass, which she took with a subservient growl. Hard muscles had turned to gentle flab without her daily training.
"No spillin this time," the barkeep chided.
"No, sir."
Tyria picked up the serving platter. This weight used to lift easy for her, but buffness had atrophied to a pair of thin and weak arms that barely kept it above her chest. The brews sloshed. She peered over the mugs, to watch her path, while the return gauntlet reddened her cheeks. About the only part of her toughening up in her current employ. Slowly, she set the platter down and handed out their drinks.
"Maybe I should give the wench a splash to get some of the stink off her."
"Nah, waste of good mead. Ain't that right wench?"
Clammy, sticky and gross, she placed a hand on her hip, held her head high and answered. "Yes. I'm a wild beast, and I need to look and smell like one. It's the way of my people, and honestly it makes me horny as hell."
The leader rewarded her self-debasement by sticking gold coins in her cunt to pay their tab. He was short. Not just in height, but in how many pieces should be clenched between her lips. They spilled as she waddled off, forcing her to bend over to retrieve them. Waving her fanny presented an opening which one of the men seized upon, picking up a blunted dart and tossing it at his target.
He hit the bullseye. It slipped right in, its fins sticking out like a bizarre butt plug while Tyria scowled and held position. She could already hear chairs scooting for men to rise up and join the game.
At least they weren't making her fuck their horses tonight. Yet.