For The Love of Athyr-Bast update (Patreon)

Her arms and legs flew out from her, her arousal rolling out from her sex as if forced out by Conan’s pumping, the nectar mixed with Conan’s forceful ejaculation. The blend blanketed the couch below her in sticky proof of her despoilment.

“By the Gods, Conan! You fuck me as though to leave nothing left! As if to use me all up in one blistering pyre!” Athyr-Bast gasped. “Your cock is as iron!”

“Glad you’ve realized that so quickly,” Conan gritted out, still pounding himself into her, taking full advantage of what a good sheath he’d made for his cock. “But I’ll prove it to you even more. It’s going to be the most certain thing in your world, little queen. That, and how you belong to me.”

Athyr-Bast seemed not to hear him. She was straining to drain every last drop of seed from him. Conan leered while she took it all into her tense, grateful womanhood. He ground his cock around, slowing his thrusts, rubbing himself upon her tingling clit to render her totally mindless as pleasure gave way to the serene contentment of being totally relieved.

Now a satisfied smile spread across Conan’s face, sure that he was empty and all he’d held was in Athyr-Bast, the woman stuffed as a wineskin with his essence.

“Don’t worry, woman. There’s still plenty left of you. Enough for another ride, at the least. Perhaps next time my iron will destroy you. Would you have it any other way?”

“No. By the hells, no,” Athyr-Bast panted, still mostly without breath even in the afterglow of their tryst. “How else should I meet my end and what else should sate me until then? You’re all I’ll ever need. Your iron fulfills me as nothing else does… sweet mercy, it’s wonderful. A statue’s cock with the power of a stallion behind it!”

Conan’s proud cock diminished, softening from its throbbing bulk into something limper and less potent, an idle threat instead of a brandished weapon. Conan let out a wearied sigh and pulled himself from the sopping wet of Athyr-Bast’s opening. His removal let loose a river of the same mixture that had already soaked the woman’s thighs, making the puddle between her legs into a lake, dark and pungent.

Athyr-Bast continued to marvel as the sultry tide departed her overstuffed womanhood: “You shall be my stud, Conan. And were there not such profit in it, I’d never risk you in the arena again. But a new scar would hardly spoil your looks.” Then she grinned lazily. “And even halved, your cock would still be enough to grant me pleasure heavenly…”

Falling away from her, Conan dropped upon his back, now reveling in these soft, plush cushions and satiny sheets, chilled to cool his skin as the air could not—it still felt violently disturbed by his lovemaking, a lightning bolt that left thunder still ringing in the environs.

He cradled his head upon his hands and relaxed with a great yawn… was unsurprised to find Athyr-Bast coming to him, plying her slender body upon his broad chest so as to not greatly disturb the peaceful majesty she wished to join.

Upon vining herself about him, Athyr-Bast snapped her fingers. The guards and serving girls held forth and Conan cracked a wary eye to observe their readiness.

“Guards, clap my new possession in chains. He is new to slavery and not yet quite tamed. I would not want him to err in his unthinking foolishness and force my hand to punishment.” Athyr-Bast pressed a small kiss into the broadness of his pectorals. “How soundly we shall sleep, knowing that clever mind of yours need not ponder escape. It is impossible. You may look forward to being my gratification many more times before I weary of you. And in time, I think you’ll wonder how you ever went without the pleasure of my iron wrapped all about your thews… my barbarian.”

***

Before

The Agorian Sea was rough. Even miles from the beach, it was obvious there was no peace in those waters. The waves formed rolling hills, summited with white froth. Not the mad chop of storm-waters, but this was still an angry sea, one that fumed and seethed between the hurricanes when it finally found relief.

Perhaps that accounted for the men who gathered in the coastal inn. Riffraff, flotsam and jetson, their sore-lousy skin and dirty clothes seeming to mock the fresco of mighty warriors that they milled beneath.

They were gathered in the courtyard of a tavern, one meant to ply coin from soldiers before they accompanied caravans into the Deep Interior, where their swords would be as well-used as they were highly valued.

Looking at them all, Conan could see only one reason these ruffians would desist from begging and go to the effort of strapping on rusty armor and hefting spears of splintering wood. They hoped to be hired as caravan guards, perhaps to make the trek into Deep Interior, but then only to flee at the first sign of trouble. Hoping to be issued arms and armors that could be sold upon their desertion.

Then a second theory presented itself, as a barmaid brought out a platter of shrimp, which the ruffians went for as rats would crowd in on a spilled morsel. Conan ignored the maelstrom in disgust. He wondered who could be so foolish as to provide free food before even selecting their recruits.

There were none in the courtyard who looked far enough above the others to be able to hire anyone, but Conan had a sixth sense for danger. A preternatural awareness for where threat might be lurking. And it told him the greatest intelligence he had to contend with was inside the tavern, shadowed behind slatted shutters, still and silent as intellect so often was.

Conan drew his broadsword. “All attend me!” he called. “Those of you who have eaten are hired, effective immediately, so long as you can withstand a blow from the flat of my sword.” He slung his blade along a broad shoulder. “Any who do not believe themselves up to the task should be away.”

That did away with them in grand numbers. They left still spitting out shrimp tails, Conan watching for resentful eyes. It wasn’t uncommon for a kicked dog, no matter how mangy, to try and bite when he felt robbed of that which he was entitled to. And no one felt more entitled than a beggar—those who believed they could live without work, eat by virtue of simply having open mouths. Even the princeps of the world had learned their merit at the thrones of stately fathers. How did the poor come to think themselves so indispensable?

A few remained, and though their luck looked hard-pressed, they had muscle that could be fed and noble bearing that would only be improved by coins. Half-ten warriors, but better they be well-fed in a caravan traveling light than a mob eating the provisions of a slow, fat voyage.

Now came out his hosts. Conan recognized them, to varying degrees. Commodon was a compatriot of old, young when Conan had last seen him, gone to Gabraltos to be right hand of his master, in the imperial world where a bodyguard was not needed but a strong voice was. Fat had replaced armor, thickly padding out the chest that had once needed a breastplate to stand so wide, and grayness had made inroads upon his beard, trimmed to drip down from his chin instead of bursting forth like the dark deluge Conan remembered. But his gimlet eyes were unchanged and they regarded the Cimmerian with both the glee and frank appraisal that Conan expected from one man enough to be called friend.

The other one was Willin. He bore the face of Commodon’s master, but softer and slighter, a youth with boyhood holding on as years pulled him towards manliness. His hair was light as fluff and his chin was a whetstone that had never polished a blade, but Conan would not discount the man he might be. His father had been a cunning merchant who knew the best use for men such as Commodon and himself. As well, he had known when his best use was to remain quiet and allow his guards to proceed as dogs without leashes. What more could you ask of the city-born?

“Such ruffians we gathered,” Willin commented, looking in disbelief at the courtyard once full and now with but a handful of applicants. “All dispersed by one man! Did we not offer them enough?”

“Nay, too much did you offer them,” Conan answered in Commodon’s place. “Free meals and your own precious time for naught but their own worthless presence. You’d have every man on the Broken Coast seeking employment, and not one worth hiring.”

“Commodon, who is this?” Willin demanded. “He speaks with such arrogance—has my father left a by-blow to split my inheritance?”

Conan barked in laughter and Commodon joined in.

“That is Conan,” Commodon wheezed, swiping a tear from his eye. “A warrior, young but already thrice-proven when my time was at a close. Mark the look of him, my lad. Each of those scars is a death that would doubtless have claimed you, were you in his place!”

Willin sniffed and tried to look at Conan without seeming either impressed or intimidated. “It would be unwise of me to place myself where so many blades could reach my flesh.”

Commodon led the laughter this time. “Unwise, indeed! And unprofitable. Which is why we hire men such as Conan to put himself between us and such harms. A small price to pay, compared to the blood he saves us!” Commodon crossed his arms. “How about it, Conan? Will you captain us into the Deep Interior, for wealth and glory, though certain death offers itself as cheaply as a whore starved of wine?”

“Perhaps.” Conan wrapped the flat of his blade upon his shoulder once, twice, before returning it to his scabbard. “But I’d know course and cargo before agreeing, and have a say in what mongrels you press into slinging swords for me. And a tankard of ale besides, to remember when the desert winds have taken the spit from my mouth.”

Commodon’s smile bellowed where he was circumspect with words. He clapped Conan on the arm and the barbarian knew this was a man who would not settle for second best when he could have a legend instead.

“A tankard you shall have. The rest we shall negotiate. Come, Willin. See how we might make this proud barbarian serve our ambition and be happy to do it!”

Conan shook his head. “Coin and copper. You Imperials spread that around and think yourselves masters of diplomacy.”

“You barbarians put a sword to your enemies’ throats and hear them yield, then think yourselves the same!”

Conan’s grin contained only pride. “Aye. But a sword is not so expensive as a bag of coin.”

“So you say. But I’ve seen a bag of coin having you risk sword, arm, and barbarian head a score of times!”