Disclaimer: Adult situations, don’t try this at home, over eighteen. Yada yada yada. Conan, Hyboria and all lands herein this work of fiction are the property of whoever owns the rights to Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian stuff. It is used without permission. (duh)
This is one of my earlier works I have never been that satisfied with it. My apologies for its short length. I have another tale of Deane inside me somewhere and if properly persuaded I may tell it one day. I always use real world faces for the people I write about. This fic is no exception.
Conan: Ahh-nold. Accept no substitutes.
Deane Aryman: Daniella Pestova, supermodel. She is best known as a SI swimsuit babe and Victoria Secret model.
Deane was scared for her life. She wasn't ready for this; it was all too much. Master Virthalin had no right to die like he did, leaving just herself to stop the resurrection of a one thousand year old sorcerer/priest. She knew that what she was thinking was silly, but truthfully she was in way over her head.
She and Master Virthalin had not been on the road three days when they had been attacked by priests of Set, leaving him dead and her alone. Master Virthalin had been a sorcerer, who had as a favour to her father taken her in as an apprentice. She had learned much of the mystic arts, and the mysteries of magic awed her still, but she was nothing compared to her master, and they had killed him. If they knew she still lived, surely finishing her off would just take a stray thought, and that was assuming they thought her dangerous enough to warrant a killing. Maybe she was still alive because she was no threat to them. That was a nice thought.
All of her musings did nothing to help the current situation. Takosh-Ra, the sorcerer/priest who has started this whole mess, had been imprisoned one thousand years ago by a nameless hero, who had been given a staff by Mytra himself. The hero and the staff went to a city called Thuran-on-the-Heights, where presumably the staff was still. If Deane had any chance to stop the resurrection of Takosh-Ra, or to stop him once he rose from the dead, she would need the staff. This meant she had to go across three countries just to get to Thuran-on-the-Heights, and with Master Virthalin being dead, she had to get there by herself.
She was fortunate enough to have enlisted the aid of a Vanir barbarian turned farmer named Wulfgar. The same people that had killed Master Virthalin had killed his family, and he rode with her both to protect her and for vengeance. Travel with Wulfgar wasn't that much better than going it alone. He never talked for one thing, and when he did he was always growly and snappish. He held her in total contempt for not being his idea of a level headed woman. It wasn't her fault that she had never been outside a city, or had set up a tent, or knew how to unhitch the horses from the wagon. His idea of protection left a great deal to be desired, as well.
They had gone into an inn/tavern to get a meal and spend the night, and there had been a military detachment in town at the time. Looking back on the situation, she had to admit that she had been nieve, but Wulfgar still had a lot of nerve. When she entered the tavern, every male eye in the place was on her. She had been on the road with just bitter Wulfgar for weeks, and a little attention had been nice. When one of the soldiers had bought her some wine and began to flirt with her; well that was nice too. Deane was a very social person, and being cooped up with Wulfie was hard to take sometimes. A table of five soldiers invited her to join them, and had paid for her meal and more wine. Only two of them spoke Ophirian, so there was lots of translating going on, but it had been a nice time.
In Deane's defense, she had only gone to upper class taverns before, where nobles and other civilized people associated. She had never really known people who were...the salt of the earth. The people who she normally associated with would certainly get a girl drunk to get her to drop her drawers, but they would never ever do what these men had done. She still shuddered at the memory of the forced kisses, the hands, too many hands, that had groped her breasts and behind, or being dragged kicking and screaming to a table where they pinned her down and been one step away from ripping her clothes off. Every man in the room would have had his way with her, she knew now, and the room had been quite full.
Wulfgar had intervened before things had gotten any farther, thank Mytra. His size, and more his huge axe, had persuaded the soldiers to find easier game. Deane still had nightmares of their rough hands and stale breath. Wulfgar, damn him, had known before anything had happened what the soldiers had been up to, and he could have prevented the entire thing half a dozen times before he had. He said that he was teaching Deane a lesson. The nerve of the man!
He had the upper hand all the time and he knew it. He owned the horse and wagon, and protected her from being attacked, robbed or sold in chains. As much as she tried to lay down the law as to who's quest it was, what he wanted ultimately was what they did. He was the one who insisted that they stop staying in inns.
He didn't understand why she had to do this. He was just humouring her. They had to get the Staff of Mytra and then go into Stygia before the Night of Thoth, whenever that was. She knew it was soon, and they could not afford delays. He had been more than willing to wait up to two weeks to get an escort through a dangerous pass, but that was far too long. "You won't do any good stopping Takosh-Ra if you're a slave in some hillman's camp!" he had told her heatedly. Deane would have risked it. She had no choice. She had to risk it.
Thank Mytra that the Cimmerian had been there. He had just come through the uncrossable pass by himself, and she knew that she could persuade him to show her the way. He had been stubborn, it had taken both her and Wulfgar's cajoling (and 10 gold pieces) to convince him to lead them across. He had some sort of pact with the Hillmen, and had led them safely through at least one encounter with them.
He was an enigma, that Cimmerian. He carried a 1500 year old sword, spoke Ophirian, Vanir, Shemetish and Mytra only knew what else, and had been a general in an army that couldn't exist. He was quiet, though. He spoke less than Wulfgar, and then only when spoken to. He was intense though. His eyes were bright blue, like chips of ice, and when he watched her, she felt his eyes burning through her. His gaze was very heated, and it reminded her very much that he was a man and that she was a woman.
She knew that she had a serious task ahead of her. Now was not the time to be distracted by a handsome Cimmerian. As pleasant a distraction as he might be, dallying with him would do her no good in the days ahead. If she was to have any hope of defeating Takosh-Ra, she had to stay focussed.
However, the burden was weighing heavy on her shoulders. Wulfgar was no help there. He either didn't understand the scope of what he had agreed to undertake, or he was too crazed with grief and vengeance to care. She was afraid to tell Conan of her quest. All he knew was that she was a crazy woman with a great deal of gold to throw around. He was in it for the money, that was all. If she told him that magic was at stake, and that she herself was a mage, he would either kill her to rid the world of one more sorcerer or abandon her in the hostile hills to fend for herself. Neither option was an acceptable one.
But Mytra, how she wanted to lean on someone's shoulder. The burden Deane carried was too heavy for one woman to bear. She was going to crack soon. Having Conan near, but being unable to confide in him or touch him was infuriating. Soon something was going to crack, and it was probably be her.
* * *
Deane looked up from the stream, startled. She had made sure that no one was near when she stripped to bathe, but some one was walking towards her. She looked frantically around for her cloak and robe, but they were hanging from a tree three meters away, part of the blind that blocked the camp from her view. The stream was too shallow to hide in, so she was still nude when Conan came into view. He stopped when he saw her, just stopped and stared. She should have dove for her clothing, told him to go away, or even try to cover herself with her hands, but she just knelt there, exposed, unable to move. He was so intense, the way he drank her in. He studied her long blonde hair, her slender form, her exposed breasts, the wet patch of light brown hair between her legs, then he looked into her eyes. They were an icy blue, and they stared through her. She met his gaze for perhaps thirty seconds, mesmerized by the power of his stare, before she had to flush and turn away. Her breath was ragged, she realized, and as she escaped his gaze, she couldn't help but notice that he wore very little. He had a magnificent body, all hardened muscle with a washboard stomach and very well formed legs.
He continued to stare at her nude body, and Deane couldn't help but notice that while his face gave nothing away, under his breachclout was unmistakable evidence that he liked what he saw. He walked slowly towards her and she made no move to get away. She stood up as he neared, the water of the creek coming to her knees. He closed to half a pace, close enough to reach out and touch her, and he did. First one hand and then the other reached out and cupped Deane's breasts. He rubbed his thumbs roughly across her hard nipples and she moaned in appreciation. Deane had been several months without a lover, and Conan's touch reminded her just how long that could be. She touched his arms with her hands, feeling their strength, then ran them up to his shoulders and down his bare back before pulling him into her embrace. His kiss was firm and very masculine as he pressed his body against hers. Deane returned it with a passion that until a moment ago she hadn't known she possessed. He moved his strong hands to her back, letting her breasts press against his chest, then sliding them down her waist to rest on her hips. He cupped his hands around the globes of her ass, kneading them, and pressing his loins to hers. She could feel his covered arousal press against her hip as they continued to kiss ardently.
With impatient hands she reached between them to free his erection as he began to press her down against the bank of the stream. She went willingly, drawing him down with her. On his hands and knees he took first one breast into his mouth and then the other, causing Deane to moan and gasp. She wanted him so badly. She impatiently ripped his breachclout aside and guided him into her with her hands. He entered her in one stroke that caused them both to groan, then began to pump with incredible strength and ferocity. It was like being on the back of a great animal. She could not stop or control him, only cling to him and enjoy the ride. And what a ride.
He was magnificent. She wrapped her legs around him and gripped him by the shoulders, crying out in pleasure. He never stopped or slowed, pumping her like a piston and grunting with the intensity. He twisted his hips with every thrust in a way that made Deane cry out. She was oblivious to the water lapping at her ankles, or the cold mud that she lay in. All that existed for her was the muscular Cimmerian who lay on top of her and thrust his erection into her with no signs of slowing.
With a low, long wail Deane began to climax. She gripped Conan's shoulders even tighter as the wave of the orgasm washed through her. She panted and groaned. Even if she had wanted to stop now, which she didn't, Conan showed no signs of slowing. How did he possess this energy after a day of walking and hauling in these rough hills? Deane had no answer and didn't search too hard for one as she felt molten pleasure boiling up from her loins.
After countless minutes of ecstasy, and with an even harder thrust than his previous, Conan clutched Deane to him and came with a wordless cry. Deane lay back and accepted his seeming gallons of hot come, clenching the inner walls of her velvet prison and milking every last drop of his essence from his still hard member.
Conan looked down at her with his blue, blue eyes and Deane gazed back with a look of lazy contentment. His face was mostly expressionless, as it had been ever since she had known him. Maybe it was Deane's imagination, but in the afterglow he seemed a little...softer.
His erection was still hard within her. Deane forced them both to roll over, so that now he lay on his back in the pebble strewn mud, and slowly pulled herself off of him. Her body almost cried out in protest at the removal of something that fit so perfectly that surely it must belong there. Giving Conan a steamy kiss on his lips, she slowly crawled down his body. She loved his hard, muscular chest and caressed both it and his rippled stomach as she made her way down to the prize: his hard glistening member.
With a fond look both at it and at Conan's face she took it in her mouth. Deane groaned deep in the back of her throat as she rolled the head of his penis with her tongue. There was something about a man's penis that was perfection itself. Maybe it was the shape, maybe the smooth skin as it glided between her lips, but Deane had loved a man's greatest pride from the first moment she had seen one, when she had been sixteen.
She loved performing fellatio. She licked up and down his long, hard shaft, tasting her own nectar on him as she did so. Removing her own juices from a lover's penis was always a thrill for her, and this time was no exception. It gave her an excuse to lick and examine every inch of it, from the bold red head to the heavy sack of the scrotum below. With Conan there were a great deal of inches to examine. She rolled the bulbous head around her tongue, bobbing her head up and down as she did so. She could feel it rubbing against the roof of her mouth.
Conan put his hands around her head and groaned as she continued to go down on him. She could feel his strong fingers running through her hair and did her best to return the favour, running her fingers along the coarse thatch of hair that tickled her nose. With her other hand she caressed and then cupped the heavy sack of his scrotum.
She increased the frequency of her movements, bobbing, sucking and licking in her desire to feel and taste the salty juice that boiled down below. Conan was moaning more, his hands getting stronger on her head. She could feel his legs bunching and his hips begin to thrust.
The large head began to swell in Deane's mouth and with a heavy gasp and a cry, Conan began to erupt. She let his essence fill her mouth, rolling the thick liquid in her mouth and savouring the salty taste. He proved to be too much for her and jism began to leak out of Deane's lips. Deane caught the few drops on her wrist and lapped them up like a cat. With a smile, she looked up at Conan and swallowed.
He was laying back on the stream bank, spent, and Deane slowly crawled up his body. She lay next to him, absorbing the warmth of his chest. She realized at once that she was covered in mud, and was shivering besides. Wordlessly Conan sat up and carried Deane to the shallow brook. Still saying nothing, they bathed each other and dressed. Conan stared at her with his eyes, and with a final kiss he walked silently away.
Deane, damp in her clothing, shivered and knelt on the bank. Had that just happened? Only the pleasant aching from her loins and the pleasant after taste of Conan's seed in her mouth told her that it had. Standing on shaky feet, she returned to the camp and Wulfgar's curious glare.
She gave him a mysterious smile, confident for the first time at they days ahead. There was definitely something to be said for sex in relieving stress. She knew that there was going to be plenty of the latter in the near future, and if she had her way, enough of the former to make it all bearable. Nothing about her situation had changed, but her ability to deal with it had.
It seemed almost ironic that sex was the prop she used to ease this great weight on her shoulders, but Deane needed every prop she could get, and at least this one made her forget her sorrows, even if it was only for a moment.