Girls Got Rythm by GrynningIsaac

Literotic asexstories – Girls Got Rythm by GrynningIsaac,

Maximus surveyed the battlefield, a cold pit drawing in his stomach.

He watched as the enemy forces swept through the civilian crowds with ease. Two dozen linen clad infantry-women slashed and cut mercilessly at the ankles of nobles with gleaming khopeshes.

Bolstering their advance were twenty battle hardened mercenaries. Each of them clad in a skull mask and blackened scale mail betrayed their identity as the Sorority of Mortas, an elite mercenary unit. Their pike wielding infantry crashed down upon another gaggle of escaping civilians. Whomst amongst them weren’t initially impaled from their first attack were chased down and had leads thrown around their necks. The screams of the survivors being dragged off echoed off the walls of a church.

Maximus lurched forward, his hand clutching to the gladius at his side.

Bounding over the barricades he lowered his shoulder and charged into the nearest infantry woman. His banded armor collided with their sternum and broke as she tumbled to the ground. Maximus was on her in an instant and finished her off with a decisive stab to her throat.

Looking behind him he roared to his comrades in arms, raising his gladius over his head. In one swift motion he began striding toward the Sorority of Mortas’ vanguard.

Four mercenaries wielding spears and round shields had cornered a wounded officer, the red of hid blood comingling with the crimson fabric of his uniform. Behind him, a noble family draped in violet fabric and gold jewelery clutched each other in terror. The matriarchs of the family clutched at their three adolescent offspring. The middlest and stupidest among the children clutched a woodcutter’s axe in his hand like it was the holy blade of Artur. Bravado of youth painted his eyes in absolute wonder as he glanced to his attackers.

Maximus knew the look well, the child was about to charge the mercenaries and that his time to act was short. Leaping into the fray a moment too late, he watched as the young man broke free from his mother’s arms. Rearing the axehead up he swung for the mercenary’s chest but was easily swatted away by her shield. Maximus saw the spear going for the young man’s unarmored chest, he turned his back toward the mercenary and intercepted the blow for the noble boy.

Pain raced through his back, he felt something hot lancing its way up to his shoulder and it began to tingle. Clattering to the ground, his right shoulder skidded across cobble streets as armor pieces broke away like tin shingles.

Driving the pain out of his mind, a surge of adrenaline allowed him to quickly bound to his feet. Turning toward his foes with his gladius drawn, he felt his teeth nearly chip and break as he ground them in a rage. Four mercenaries clad in the Sorority’s black skull masks and armor sized him up appreciatively. The only part of their faces uncovered, their eyes looked like that of a lion stalking its prey in the tall grass. Hungrily, playfully, each of them sized him up and waited for the other to make their move.

These were the moments Maximus lived for. These showdown moments where you were never sure who was going to move first, the tension mixed with adrenaline, excitement, and what he was definitely sure now was poison.

He dropped low and charged the nearest mercenary. Using his sword to shatter her spear in half he drove the point of the improvised weapon into the back of her knee. She tumbled, trying to steady herself with one hand while bringing the edge of her shield down into maximus’ neck. His right shoulder connected with her diaphragm, knocking the wind out of her and allowing him to pick her up into an improvised fireman’s carry.

The other three mercenaries reacted, two attacking him simultaneously with exaggerated stabs from their spears to try to drive him toward the third lying in wait behind him.

Maximus leapt up with their comrade still on his shoulder, and threw her still dazed body at the mercenary behind him. Her body made for a fantastic improvised missile as even when blocked with a steel shield, both mercenaries still went tumbling and crashing into an abandoned fishmonger’s stall.

Maximus rolled, picked up an abandoned spear and backed against the stone wall of a boarded up potter’s shop. He saw the two still standing mercenaries, one was pulling her blood soaked spear from the freshly dead body of the fellow officer, the second stalked toward him with spear and shield raised. Beyond them though he saw a noble family clad in purple running aboard gangplanks to ships with unfurled sails. Tears crept at the corners of his eyes with contentment.

Turning his attention to his two adversaries, he readied himself for the death that awaited him. He knew that he had served the Cult of Mavors well by fighting until his last breath and shedding blood in valorous combat. His muscles tensed as they prepared to strike, but a voice cut each of them off.

“Halt! Leave this one to me.” It was cold, firm, and raspy. A feminine voice that followed a member of the Sorority adorned with golden skull medallions and seals upon her armor. She carried an eight foot long spear but a handaxe and shortsword dangled on her belt. Sauntering up between the mercenaries she looked to Maximus.

“Well, well, well, the Eighth Child,” she chuckled coyly as her eyes looked him up and down. “I’ve heard stories of your martial prowess and ferocity in combat, impressive general. If I was the eighth born son to a noble family, I would fight like I had a death wish too.” her mocking voice raised several octaves as she cackled. “My name is Ouralia Hedera, Captain of the Sorority of Mortas and I have the pleasure of defeating you in battle.” she gloated, eyes alight with pride and joy.

Maximus steeled his nerves, his leg muscles coiled like springs to tamper down the rage burning within him. Despite the anger and adrenaline, he was drawn to the eyes of Ouralia. The coursing, churning blue-green of the ocean that the held was unlike any he’d ever seen. Something behind him transfixed the old soldier.

“Have you any last thing to say before you are slain eighthborn?” she chortled.

He sighed, grunted and looked toward the red sky hanging over evacuation ships sailing into the night.

“Red skies at morning, sailors take warning..”

“Foolish drivel. No matter, Empire mongrels die like mutts in the street. Ladies, please put this cur down.” She pointed her finger as she issued the command.

Maximus sprang forward, he drove the point of his spear into one mercenary’s body armor so hard that it broke in half. Bringing up his improvised club to intercept the other mercenary’s spear, narrowly avoiding the point of her weapon. Pain lanced through his arm once more, a hot burning river causing his muscles to crumple. Both remaining mercenaries attacked, driving their spears at him in a pincer attack. Using his good arm he wrapped up the longer spear underneath his armpit. This left him open to the spearhead that drove itself into the meat of his bad shoulder joint. Poison and piercings caused muscles to spasm and tense rapidly. Maximus could feel his head growing faint. Pivoting on his feet he raised both hands defensively, his vision beginning to blur and multiply.

“Red skies at night, sailors delight.” he smirked confidently, dropping himself into a boxing stance.

The mercenary captain tossed her spear shaft to the side, fluidly drawing her sidearms from their places on her belt. Wild slashes cut through the air menacingly. Their sharpened steel edges driven onward by the captain’s rage.

Maximus dodged three attacks, watching for her to finally overextend herself. Catching the wrist of the hand wielding her handaxe, he struck definitively to her radium causing it to break cleanly. With herself similarly handicapped, he casually tossed the handaxe into his good hand.

“Imperial cur, why can’t you just be an obedient little dog and play dead!” her rage was palpable.

The roar spurred new life into her subordinate, only for the captain to hold them back with a wave of their broken arm. Rather she began using her good arm she began to cut off the leather straps of her armor. The sword’s steely blade sliced through supple leather like butter, revealing the Captain’s muscled hourglass form.

A tattoo of a pair of wings adjoined by a circle with symbols in a language Maximus did not understand hung just at her pelvic triangle. Up her abdomen and chest were intricate tattoos that ranged from ink weapons that looked to be the culprits of real life scars earned in some far off war and winding phrases in flowery fonts. She left only a strip of heavy pearl colored cloth that it seemed the mercenary used to cover her breasts during combat. Black woolen breeches tucked into heavy riding boots hung low and snugly across her well rounded hips and ample bottom. From beneath the skull clad mask she looked at him with something that bordered between bloodlust and regular lust.

Pointing her shortsword to Maximus’ throat she growled intently. “I’ll have you testicles adorning my war wagon cur. I’ll fix you yet!”

She sprung forward with a dancer’s grace to her strikes. Each one came swiftly and precisely, a carefully studied blow that Maximus had to struggle to defend against. He tried once again to knock his foe off her feet by laying his shoulder into her, only for her to easily juke and slice him as if he were a charging bull. Bright red blood weeped from the new wound at his side, staining the cobbles below.

Maximus brought his hands up defensively, knees buckling underneath him. His head swayed back and forth as the bloodloss and poison crept to his mind.

“Look at you cur, the poison’s already working.” she lowered her blade to gloat.

He staggered, and stumbled to one knee. Try as he might to summon adrenaline and rage to regain control, he saw the corners of his vision begin to go black.

She sauntered up to him, his head at her mid thigh with him on his knees. “Don’t worry, cur. We’ll be certain to treat any prisoners of war we capture as justly and humanely as you’ve treated our employers.” She threw back her head and cackled, hand atop his head to force him to look up at her.