All A Hero Needs Is A Quest 2 (Patreon)

She loved being touched. She loved that he was touching her. But if the touch deepened, if the kisses became more than kisses, would she love that as well? Vicca didn’t know. She didn’t know if she’d love those things on her wedding night either; she remembered worry and countless assurances from friends and family before the ceremony that told her there was cause to worry.

But she loved Karne. He clearly enjoyed feeling her and knowing the sensation of her lips. How could she not want him to have what made her beloved so happy?

His voice went gentle but shockingly sure into her ear. “We may as well be married, Vicca. There is no one else for me—no one else for you. We set our day. It has come and gone. Just because the fates conspired to silence our vows does not mean they weren’t meant. No more than if a bird’s caw drowned out the sound of them. I hold my love for you as fervently as any husband ever could. Is yours any less?”

He did not sound like he had the doubts that goosepimpled Vicca’s own skin and made her shudder. Perhaps the tremors she felt going through him were all excitement.

(His breath felt hotter than his hands.)

Her mother had told her that a man’s desire was not like a woman’s… that it was physical… that it hurt when it was not relieved.

(His voice had been cool going into her thoughts, but now it was hot, now it burned.)

So the prospect of a release must be like a cure to a sick man—if Karne wanted her as badly as he seemed to.

(He kissed her like he was furious with her, made savage by her. He was on fire and he needed something from her that would cool the flame.)

Just when she thought the heat in Karne would boil over, he clamped down on it. His lips didn’t devour hers. They brushed together with her mouth, as though checking for injuries he might’ve inflicted on her in his passion. His hands felt over her body, touching her gauzy shift more than her skin.

Vicca felt his need more keenly than ever, now that it was off her, its teeth no longer locked on her neck. It seemed all he could manage to touch the fabric of her shift without rending it.

But his eyes never left her. They couldn’t. They were as fervent as if she were standing bare before him. They consumed each motion of her body—her heaving breaths—her quivers. She let her fear run rampant. Anticipation flooded to the surface. Vicca gave it all to him, her face flushing, cheeks reddening, her eyes growing misty as she showed Karne what he did to her.

They embraced again, this one of convenience rather than the desire for the pressure of another’s body. He tore away at the laces that still held her bodice to her. She unbuttoned the codpiece that fronted his trouser. He ripped the bodice and overskirt from her shifted body; only the toughness of the coarse wool kept it from being shredded. And she drew his trousers’ fly open until his manhood burst free, unencumbering itself of the confines of his clothing.

But not quite. At first glance, a substantial length was freed, but then she saw it was only a bend of firm, unyielding girth. The hilt of his shaft. The rest was still down his trousers, disappearing—no, becoming a thick outline along the leg of his pants. What she saw, exposed to the open air, was several inches long and at least two across. Karne undid his belt and shoved his trousers down. More and more came out, an impossible distance of flesh from the thick matting of dark pubic hairs at his loins.

Vicca’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes riveted to Karne’s lowering trousers. They were still coming down and still the head of his cock hadn’t been unleashed. Then, finally, with his pants nearly to his knees, she saw the bulbous tip. Ten whole inches, meaty and stony, came up, Karne’s arousal brandishing the full thick length at her like a weapon. Throbbing angrily, as though a wild animal, maddened from being in the prison of his clothes.

Vicca remembered her mother’s words about how a man’s passion hurt, himself as well as the woman. Her speech came as fast as a hunted rabbit’s racing inhalations: “It’s too big—it won’t fit—it’ll break me in half!” She pulled as much breath into her lungs as she could get. The air felt as insubstantial as a fraying thread before it broke. “Oh, what have I done to you? How could I have made you like that?”

Having his engorged member out in the open seemed to relieve Karne, give him some peace. He breathed deep of cool air, though his heart beat so hard it shook his chest. “It’s alright, Vic. It’s supposed to be like this. Big and hard… to enter you… break you. Reshape you. I know you’re too small for it now, but it’ll open you up. Make you into a perfect sheath for me, just like you’re meant to be. Wife.”

His last word cut into her, drawing a little stinging satisfaction. Yes. Of course. This was how it had been for her mother, for her grandmother. How it would be for their child, if she was born a girl.

Vicca remembered the other girls in the village; how they blustered about how big and strong their men would be. How could she turn down this strength? How could she want to stay closed and sealed when Karne had the power to make her fully his? She knew there were small men—objects of contempt—she imagined them not being big enough to claim a woman as Karne could.

Now she felt lucky; a man so big he would mold her to him! She would be no other’s. Vicca imagined there were not many women that could take him either… used only to moderate men, mediocre men, who did not have it in them to take all that Karne could demand from her. Her very body… the very shape and volume of her… it was breathtaking.

Now she wanted it to hurt, to brand her as his like only pain could do. And somewhere in his eyes, Karne had to see acquiescence.

He lunged forward, bearing her to the ground as a predator would land his kill. Vicca still squealed in fright. The icy woods took her shriek and sent it spiraling out into the distance, as clear winter air could do. She silenced herself, not wanting to draw attention. It might hurt, but it would be her pain alone.

Not that she knew that she wanted it. Vicca wished—with part of her already fractured mind—that he would restrain himself. And she also wondered, with a fervency that gripped her like a fever, what would happen if he didn’t.

Fear won out. She was prepared for love with Karne—sweet, caring Karne—not this monstrous projection of him that he’d kept hidden for her so there was no way to be ready for it. Vicca sobbed: “No, no, don’t! Please stop!”

Karne held himself still. Controlling his own body as he would down a struggling pig to be slaughtered. She felt his throbbing manhood between her legs, its vibration hitting her across open air like waves lapping at the shore. Puckering the flesh of her inner thighs, goosepimpling her mons. Touching her intimately, but not actually touching her.

Yes, she hurt already, but with deprivation, denial. Vicca now imagined rejecting Karne on their wedding night. The fact that there’d been no ceremony seemed like a measly excuse. They’d both named this their first joining as man and woman—this was worse than denial. She’d welcomed him into her body and now she was stabbing him in the back.

Gods, how her womanhood throbbed! She wanted it! How much pain would it give her really… how much pleasure… if only he would take her, make the decision for her, but his eyes were cool. They no longer burned. He had his wild arousal under control and his skin lost its redness, as though cooled by the whipping winds. Losing the ruddy fire she gave him.

“Vicca,” he said, hurt deep in his voice, buried under need. “Vicca.”

He couldn’t beg. He wouldn’t plead. But just by saying her name, she felt his desire for her. How it hurt for him to have to smother it under all his restraint. He needed her as a man could need only the love of his life. And she was asking him to fight that need, to not desire her. To hurt himself to spare her pain.

The words didn’t seem to come from her, no. They were purged out of her. Freeing her from a sickness. “Make me a woman… make me your woman…”