For The Love of Athyr-Bast 2

Once clean, they went about binding his wounds. One was the more knowledgeable of the herbs required, while the other did not rest on her laurels. She sat beside Conan and leaned her head on his brawny shoulder, drying his wet body with a towel, though her real goal was to stay close enough to lavish kisses on his bronze skin, his stony muscles.

The medicus did not allow herself to be shortchanged—she kissed where she bandaged, letting it be known that she was as available to him as her fellow slave.

Conan allowed them their ambitions. His body responded, hardness stirring where their lips caressed and gathering at his groin. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and Conan felt the redness that was no doubt flushing out his skin. Still, he went no further than his flesh already had. He would not engage with these shabby blandishments. It would take more than whoring slave girls to content him with a life of servitude. He would strike a harder bargain before he allowed Athyr-Bast to think she had tamed him, even if it was only to lull her into thinking his escape an impossibility.

Still, he was gratified at how the girls were taken aback by the size of the hardness they incurred. Second thoughts were had at the idea of being a sheath to such a sword! Conan allowed himself a grin as their caressing fingers now trembled, their kisses accompanied by muted god-oaths. Would they feel regret when they left this room, having felt no more of him than they themselves had touched… or relief?

Now bathed and bandaged, Conan was led to a room unlike others in the slave quarters. It was kept clean, spotless, festooned with flowers and burning incense to keep even the smell of the slaves out. It was a shrine, but not to any God. To the slave masters. Or perhaps to their sense of propriety. This they found worthy of worship: the way they thought their property should venerate them.

Here was Athyr-Bast in all her beauty. An exquisite feast indeed, and one served in whole, a glutton's treat. Conan looked up her bare and hairless legs, honeyed with an oil that made them shine, so soft and supple he could tell without touching so much as a finger to her.

From toes to calves to knees to thighs, she wore only golden circlets, trailing wisps of clear silk from her body. There were no sandals. This place, like anywhere she stepped, was free of anything that might mar her life's loveliness. At her crotch, a band of silk finally broke the almost intimidating expanse of unrestrained flesh. Not one hair escaped the gusset of that garment, despite how scarce the covering was. Conan could only assume that, like a well-paid courtesan, she kept herself trimmed of anything but the pinkness she would wish a lover to concentrate on. Conan admitted to himself a desire to shove his hard cock inside her and see if her womanhood merited how she treasured it.

“I didn't want to get my hopes up,” Athyr-Bast said. “You were truly a brute in how many of my men you slaughtered before you were downed. There was even some cleverness in how you let yourself be taken, to vouchsafe your strength for another battle. But perhaps those were accidents. This battle was your true measure, wasn't it? You're not just a dumb brute. You're able to direct that giant rage to where it will do the most good. Which means I can direct it.”

Conan felt his composure slipping, worked away from him by this woman's impervious confidence and the luscious sexuality that rested under every word, every gesture, even the lightest breath she took.

“You should release me. You'll find me easier to deal with as a free man.”

“But I want you to fight for me.” It was hard for him to credit her seeming confusion as real or not, it was so underlaid by her omnipresent seductiveness. “How can I order you to fight if you're free?”

“Pay me my worth and I'll fight for you.”

“How ridiculous. Your worth is whatever I say it is. You'll fight for me because I tell you to. Doing what I say can be very nice for you. I'm not a cruel woman. I'm kind. Very, very kind.”

She either decided then was time to press her point or lost her patience with indulging him instead of her own desires.

Conan could see how she thought hers was the advantage. He was breathing hard, his muscles corded, his skin flushed. His rage hard to discern from his passion. And Conan would readily admit he was still looking at her body. There was no denying her beauty, even in someone who thought herself a goddess over him.

She padded across the spotless floor to him on feet pink and soft. Slowly, sensually, her white arms were around his throat. A hold that had been broken when sought by ape-men who detested their own humanity, by black-blooded trolls who could not think anything worthy of life if they could crush it… she simply threaded it around him, her only strategy the softness of her touch and the heat in his own body that she promised to cool.

Athyr-Bast rubbed her thigh upon his bulging groin. Conan had never felt softness coupled so thoroughly with perfection. She was delicate as a flower, yet as sculpted as a stone statue. If a diamond could be soft, it would be her.

“You offer close to my worth,” Conan quipped with a wry twist to the set of his lips.

“I show my kindness in this unbelievable generosity.” Like a silk cloth being drawn over him, her hand went slowly down his thews. The mountain range of his broad shoulders and pectorals. The abdominal muscles, rigid as the stones at the bottom of a river. And finally his manhood, a fisted threat beneath his loincloth, the musk of precum about it like the smoke from a volcano about to erupt.

Conan looked into Athyr-Bast’s eyes and saw the same thought that must be lancing from his own. How could something so soft possibly share anything, even touch, with a man so impossibly hard?

Conan heaved from one breath to another. He did not say anything. He wasn't as seduced as Athyr-Bast seemed to believe him, judging by her pleased smile, but he would take great delight in convincing her he was so seduced.

“You have much to offer, my bull.” Athyr-Bast spoke in a voice low and velvet, her eyes half shut, as if anything she might see paled in comparison to what she was feeling. “But no inkling of how to use it. The rough victories you know are as nothing next to the heights I might bring you to. Do not spurn my guidance. Allow me to help you in achieving your true potential… and pleasures you have never known.”

“You ask of me my freedom, but all I have for you is a man's hard cock. “

A lavish grin grew on her lips with every throb she felt go through Conan's flesh. “Such a man. Such a cock. It is like your strength of arms, my champion. Useless on its own. Everything when given over to me.”

“I've met women before who know what to do with a hard cock. Or at least the wit to lie still and allow a man to work his urges.”

“Well! Enough of a tradesman's blood in you to want to sample the wares before you agree to the deal. How would you like it if I had this beautiful cock of yours in my mouth instead of in my hand? Would that convince you? Or would you prefer your own strength to my… cunning?”

There was no cease to the flow of her body upon his, every moment of her warmth he felt more seductive than the last. And there seemed no end either to Athyr-Bast’s appreciation of his hardness, her awe at his size, her delight at the bloating of his balls.

It was a masterful performance, Conan thought. If a performance at all!

Heh. Perhaps I'm not so hard to seduce. But I do wonder how much she'll be able to stand having me seduced!

Conan decided he would take no more. Now was not the time to impress her with his stoicism. It was when his patience was ended and his urges given rein that he was most a force to reckon with.

He held back as he would in battle, only a cold core reserved while the rest was given over to determination. He checked himself solely to not be overextended, allow himself to be tricked, or spoil what guile would win.

Athyr-Bast seemed to have no complaints as he tore garment from flesh to make her barer than she already was. He wished to enter her treasured cunt with a finger and prepare her immediately for being the sheath he needed of her. His cold core drew back, though. He would not glut when he could savor. And he would learn all he could of this woman who thought herself above him.

Athyr-Bast backpedaled, her face evincing the delighted fright of a child being told a ghost story. And as the moments passed, and her scared feet stilled, it was only delight he saw.

“Don't feel bad, my champion. I know how hard it must be to control yourself. When could you ever have come across a woman of my loveliness?“

Conan reached out to have the same feel of her bosom that she'd had of his cock. Athyr-Bast ducked away. Then she stared at him as if wondering why he did not chase. As if disappointed.

Conan had not met a woman yet who was worth chasing around a table. His women came to him. Then he put that energy to much better use.

Athyr-Bast took off a tiara and a torc, setting them aside along with her earrings and necklace. Then she held out the trailing end of her silk wrappings to Conan.

“If you wish to unveil me, then have your wish. You would not have me do it myself, would you… my champion?”

Conan was not like a wild animal in pulling at her silk, ripping and tearing until it could do nothing to bar his view of what he wished to see. But he was an animal. A guard dog sicced upon an intruder. A horse finally allowed to run.