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| vriter |
THE STORY OF THE PANTHER SHEYLA
5° part
The night in the jungle grew thick and hot, like the breath of a larl during mating season. The fire blazed, casting crimson reflections on the naked bodies of the panthers, who sat and lay around it in free, predatory poses. The air filled with the heavy aroma of sweat, medicinal herbs, and awakened desire—Gorean, primal, knowing neither shame nor bounds.
Sheila rose first. Her strong body, glistening with sweat, cast a long shadow. Her green eyes swept the circle of sisters, then settled on the bound slaves. She said nothing, merely slowly running her hand over her full breasts, down her flat stomach, between her thighs, and growled softly. That was enough.
Kyra and the three other savages immediately pulled the elder trader closer to the center. The man, trembling and with a graying beard, was forced to his knees. Vines bound his wrists and ankles, but left enough room for him to serve. Kaira grabbed him by the hair, forcing his face up.
*Look at us, male,* she hissed, her dark eyes blazing. *Watch and learn how they pay for passage through our jungle.*
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| (fantasy immagine) |
The merchant woman, still wearing the remains of a torn silk dress, was brought in next. Her slender legs trembled, silver bracelets jingling on her wrists, now bound behind her back. One of the younger panthers—tall, with skin the color of ripe chestnuts—torn the last shreds of fabric from her in a single movement, revealing a pale body, so alien among the bronze and black shadows of the tribe. The woman gasped, but that same flame already flickered in her eyes—fear mingled with admiration for the power of the wild females.
Sheila approached her closely. The leader's fingers slid down the woman's throat, then lower, along her collarbone, tracing a nipple, causing it to harden under the gaze of a dozen predatory eyes.
"You will dance for us," Sheila said quietly. "Dance until you fall. And then... we will decide if you are worthy to remain among the panthers."
The woman, whose name was Selena—the name escaped her in a trembling whisper—was untied just enough to move. Two wild women stood at her sides, ready to direct and punish. There was no music—only the rhythmic clapping of hands and the low, guttural chant of Nayra, the shaman, whose voice made the blood run faster.
Selena began to move—clumsily at first, then more boldly, spurred on by the touches, the growls, and the heat of the fire. Her hips rocked, her chest heaved, her hair flowing down her back. The panthers watched, unwavering: some stroked themselves, others pressed themselves against each other, their lips finding their sisters' necks and nipples.
Lyra, still lying on the skins, watched with amber eyes. Torval, kneeling at her feet, was pressed against the wound again—his tongue working slowly, meticulously, under Kaira's stern gaze. Each time Lyra moaned softly, Kaira pressed harder on the back of the slave's head, forcing him deeper.
Sheila finally sat on the boulder as if it were a throne. She spread her powerful thighs and nodded to the two sisters. They dragged the trader toward her. The man, now completely overcome by resistance, was forced between the leader's legs. "Serve," Sheila ordered curtly. "And if you do well, you might live until morning."
The night filled with groans, growls, and the rustle of bodies against hides and grass. The panthers took their toll—one by one, two by two, three by three, trading, sharing, dominating. And above it all, in the shade of a tree, Nayra smiled quietly, fingering her bone beads. The tribe was well-fed, strong, and united. Wounds were healing. The prey served.
As the fire burned low, leaving only glowing embers that reflected red sparks in the panthers' eyes, Naira suddenly rose. Her ebony body, covered with ritual scars and shadows from her fang necklace, seemed part of the night itself. She stepped into the center of the circle, her bare feet silently touching the warm earth, and all the sisters froze. Even the groans of the slaves died down. Even Lira, pressed against the skins, turned her head, her amber eyes widening.
The shaman raised her hands to the starry sky, where the cold disk of one of Horus's two moons shone above the jungle. Her voice sounded low, ancient, as if the earth itself spoke through her:
*I saw. The spirits of the forest whispered to me in the smoke of the fire and in the blood that spilled today.
The great panther will come—black as a moonless night, with eyes as green as our leader's. She will bring either power the likes of which no tribe has ever known, or death to us all.
Blood has already been spilled, but that is not enough.
The spirits demand a sacrifice. Living. Voluntary. Or taken by force.
One of the males must be given to the forest tonight—bound at the roots of a sacred tree and left until dawn. If he survives the night, he will become marked by the spirits, the strongest of slaves, capable of impregnating new warriors. If not... his blood will water the roots, and the black panther will pass us by.*
Silence fell heavy, like damp air before a thunderstorm.
Sheila rose slowly. Her naked body cast a long shadow across the embers. Her green eyes met Naira's black ones—long, wordless. Then the leader glanced at the three bound males.
Thorval—a strong, muscular fugitive from Laurium, already proven strong. The elder merchant—graying, trembling, but still alive. And the woman, Selene, not a male, but her blood could also please the spirits in other ways.
Lyra, despite her wound, raised herself on her elbow. Her voice was hoarse but firm. *Thorval. He is the strongest of them all. If anyone will survive the night with the spirits, it will be him. And then...*she grinned*—then he will be worthy of us all.*
Kaira nodded, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her knife. The other sisters growled softly—a mixture of fear of the prophecy and predatory arousal.
Sheila approached Thorval and grabbed his hair, forcing his face up. Her hips were right in front of his eyes. "You heard, slave," she whispered, her voice low and dangerous. "Your life is a gift to the forest. Either you die this night... or you will truly become ours."
Nayra was already weaving a new rope—thick, soaked in the juice of poisonous berries, so that no beast would dare approach before the time.
The tribe rose. The naked bodies of the panthers closed around Torval, like shadows around prey.
The victim had been chosen.
Beneath the roots of the sacred tree, where the ancient trunk curved like the back of a sleeping larl, Sheila's panthers prepared a sacrifice. The night was moonless, black as the hide of the foretold panther, and only the embers of a distant fire glimmered in the distance, like the red eyes of spirits.
Torval was led to the tree. His muscular body glistened with sweat, the old lash scars silver in the dim starlight. Ropes soaked in bitter sap wrapped around his ankles and wrists, pulling him to the thick roots until he lay spread out on the ground—back to the bark, chest and belly exposed to the night, legs slightly spread.
He offered no resistance: his gray eyes gazed upward, into the impenetrable canopy, where invisible spirits whispered.
Nayra circled him three times, her bare feet leaving barely noticeable marks on the ground. She held a bone knife with a sleen tusk handle. She stopped at Thorval's head and drew the blade across his chest—not deeply, just leaving a thin red line from his collarbone to his navel. Three drops of blood appeared, and the shaman caught them on the tip of the knife, then smeared them across the bark.
*Blood for blood,* she whispered. *Life for strength.*
Sheila stood closest, her naked body casting a long shadow over the bound slave. She crouched beside his head, her green eyes boring into his face.
*Survive until dawn—you will truly be ours,* she said quietly, almost tenderly. Her fingers slide across his cheek, then down his throat, stopping at the pulsing vein. *You won't survive—your blood will make us stronger. One way or another, you're already ours.*
Lyra, leaning on Kaira's shoulder, stepped closer, despite the wound. Her bronze skin glistened, the fresh stitches beneath the bandage darkening. She leaned over, her amber eyes meeting Thorval's gray ones.
*Prove yourself worthy,* she purred hoarsely. *I expect you in the morning... whole.* Her tongue quickly touched his lips—briefly, powerfully, leaving a taste of blood and desire.
Kayra touched him last: she ran her fingertips down his inner thigh, almost to his groin, causing the slave's muscles to tense. *Don't close your eyes,* she whispered. *Spirits love to watch.*
As the first rays of dawn, pale and cold, broke through the dense forest canopy, Sheila's panther tribe moved silently toward the sacred tree. The naked bodies of the savages glistened with morning dew, their muscles tense in anticipation of the spirits' verdict. Sheila led the way, her green eyes narrowed, her full chest heaving evenly, but the steel of her leader was felt in every step. Lyra followed, leaning on Kaira's shoulder—the wound still aching, but her amber eyes glowing with anticipation. Naira brought up the rear, the bone beads on her neck clinking softly, like an echo of nighttime whispers.
They reached the roots... and froze.
Thorval was dead.
His muscular body was still stretched, the ropes cutting into his skin, leaving deep furrows. But his chest was torn—four long, parallel claw marks, from shoulder to belly, so deep that his ribs showed white. Blood had caked into a black crust, mixed with earth and leaves. His throat had been ripped apart by a single, precise bite—the cartilage snapped like a dry twig. The slave's eyes were wide open, gray, staring at the treetop, but empty, lifeless glass had already frozen in them. No scream, no struggle—only the traces of a single lightning attack.
The black panther was coming.
Nayra was the first to kneel beside the body. Her ebony fingers touched the torn flesh, then scooped up a handful of blood and smeared it over the bark. The shaman's voice was quiet but firm:
*The spirits have taken their toll. The sacrifice is accepted. The blood of a strong male has watered the roots. The black panther passed us—I can smell it in the air. It's satisfied... for a while.*
Sheila stood motionless, her powerful thighs tensed, her green eyes darkening. She showed neither grief nor anger—only a cold acceptance of the law: the weak die, the strong tribe lives.
Lyra grew softly, her amber eyes flashing with disappointment. She leaned closer, running her palm over Thorval's still-warm chest—the panther's last touch on her unfulfilled toy.
*He was strong,* she whispered hoarsely. *But not strong enough for her.*
Kaira bared her teeth, the knife in her hand flashing as she cut the vines, freeing the dead body.
Sheila finally turned to her sisters. Her voice cut through the morning silence:
*The black panther spared us. We've grown stronger today... tomorrow...* her lips curved into a predatory smile, "*tomorrow we'll find a new male. Stronger than this one.*"
The tribe grew in response—low, in agreement, hungry. The naked bodies of the panthers closed around the dead slave. The forest was awakening. The scent of fresh blood carried on the wind.
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| (fantasy immagine) |
And somewhere in the depths, beyond sight, a huge black shadow silently retreated into the darkness, sated and satisfied with the tribute it had accepted.
continue.........
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