Laymon Laymon - The Woods Are Dark

Lander saw spears on the ground within reach of two of the men. A knife hung by a thong at the side of the woman. The one-armed man had a hatchet.

He would go for the hatchet. If he could get to it quickly, before the others…

The woman got to her feet.

She turned.

She held an infant in her arms, its mouth latched to one of her swollen breasts.

Lander ducked out of sight.

Oh, a baby. He didn’t wish to kill a baby.

Why not? They all were babies once. Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. The worst were babies once. A swift death would stop this one from growing villainous.

But he cringed at the thought of killing it.

No pleasure there.

No pleasure fucking the woman while her murdered infant lay in the bushes, watching with pale, dead eyes.

No no no.

He would let them live.

He waited, and listened as the group departed.

When the last sounds of their chatter faded in the distance, Lander stood.

He headed for the stream. That’s where he’d seen lots of fine women. He could wade into the cool water, and drink his fill, and wait for a young, lovely one. And if none pleased him, he would head to the village, this night, and take his pick.

When Lander drew near the stream, he crouched and listened. He heard only birds, and the rush of the water. He crept to the shore, just at the point where he’d entered the water that morning.

The stream was deserted.

He took a step forward. His bare foot came down on a smooth, hard surface.

The head of his hatchet.

“Passing strange,” he said.

He picked it up. Inspected it. This hatchet looked markedly similar to the one he’d lost.

He took it with him into the water. Ducking, he felt the coolness rise to his shoulders. He drank. It tasted fine.

A heady brew.

Staying close to shore where the water was waist high, he began to walk downstream. His eyes searched the shores. He saw no one.

At the bend, the water moved swiftly. It slid over his skin like a caress. He crouched to savor its touch.

Something flicked his thigh.

A snake?

Heart racing, he stood and gazed into the water. His pale legs, rippling with shadows, vanished into the darkness.

A silvery shape glided past his knee.

A fish!

He could eat a fish! Feed his grumbling stomach.

He smashed down his hatchet. Water exploded into his face. He pounded again and again. Then he waited for the fish to float up, dead. It didn’t appear.

He walked downstream, eyes an inch above the surface, seeking it.

Water plopped into his face.

Had the fish jumped?

No.

His head jerked toward shore, but he saw only bushes and trees. Maybe something had fallen from above. He raised his eyes to the tree limbs hanging over the water.

This time, he saw it—a quick, tiny blur near his face and dropping into the stream.

He looked again toward the shore. Though he still saw no one, the nearby bushes were dense enough to hide behind.

As he watched, an arm flicked into view and vanished. A stone curved slowly toward him. Reaching out, he caught it. He turned the stone in his hand. It was squarish, with sharp edges, but too small to inflict much damage.

Someone, obviously, was toying with him.

He tossed the stone into the bushes.

A young woman pushed through the foliage and stepped toward the shore. Thick, tangled tresses of blond hair draped her shoulders and breasts. Except for the knife belt low on her hips, she seemed naked.

She stopped at the edge of the stream. Feet apart, hands on hips, she smiled. But only with half her face. It might have been a sneer.

She spoke in a whisper-words unknown to Lander, soft words. Then she drew apart the thick curtain of hair over her left breast. Her forefinger traced circles around the nipple. She spoke again. She bared her other breast.

A hand on each breast, she sighed. Gracefully, she lowered herself to her knees. Her hands massaged. Her breathing quickened.

Lander watched, standing in the chest-high water that concealed his erection.

Was this her way of beckoning him?

The Beckoning Fair One.

he Belle Dam Sans Merci…

Her hands slid down her body, and over the leather belt. They moved down the fronts of her legs, then curved inward, stroking the inner thighs, moving higher, finally caressing her hair-tufted pubis.

She moaned and writhed.

La Belle Dam Sans Merci hath me in thrall

In thrall.

What can ail thee knight at arms?

He touched what ailed him. It was upright and rock hard.

The woman’s hands reached out to him. Wet and shiny from her juices.

Lander waded forward. The water level fell, uncovering him.

The woman’s eyes lowered to his erection. They stared as if locked onto it.

Lander climbed the bank. He stepped close to the kneeling woman. One hand touched him. Its slippery fingers traced the length of his shaft. Her head moved in. She lapped at him, tongue flicking and pressing.

Then she was easing backward, still lightly holding him. Her back touched the ground. She guided his aching cock into her.

Lander pushed. The slick tightness swallowed him. He lay motionless on top of the woman, savoring the dark suction.

He looked at her face. Her wild eyes frightened him, so he pushed away her thick hair and kissed the side of her neck. A leather thong was there. A necklace. His hand moved over the smooth globe of her shoulder, and down to her breast. He fingered the rumpled skin of the aureole, tweezed the upright nipple.

Began slowly to thrust.

Bent, and took the springy nipple into his mouth.

As he humped, sucking and licking the nipple, his eyes focused on her necklace. A dozen shriveled, stubby thumbs were strung on the leather thong.

No, not thumbs.

His teeth clamped the nipple, grinding and chewing as a scream tore his ears.

She bucked and twisted in pain.

Lander held on. Held on with his teeth. Held on with his hands gripping her wrists. He pounded into her, harsh and breathless and finally shaking with his orgasm.

Then he hammered his fist against her face. He hit her again and again, splitting her lips, mashing her nose. He hit her for a long time after she stopped resisting.

“Didn’t get mine.”

He giggled.

“No, you didn’t.”

Then he cut her throat.

A giant chased Cordie over a barren, glaring landscape of dunes. She whimpered as she ran.

Oh, if he caught her!

His shadow blocked the sun from her body. Such a cold shadow. She tried to run harder, but the sand clutched her feet, slowing her down.

The arms of the shadow reached out.

A monstrous hand gripped her shoulder. Its fingers felt dry as bone.

She bit off its little finger.

Roaring in pain, the giant released her. She ran on, out of the cold shadow, leaving the giant far behind. But she was lost, and the dunes were strange. She didn’t want to be here, after dark.

Where were Mom and Dad?

They must be nearby. They wouldn’t just leave her all alone in this horrible place.

She tried to yell, but the giant’s finger was still inside her mouth. She pulled it out.

How odd! It was just her size.

She stuck the giant’s finger onto her stump. A perfect fit.

She began running again, but the finger fell off and disappeared in the sand. Dropping to her knees, she raked through the sand, trying to find it.

Ah, here it is!

She pulled, but it was stuck. She pulled harder. Out of the sand came an entire hand!

She staggered back, suddenly afraid.

Someone buried in the sand was rising!

He sat up, sand spilling from his body, and grinned at her. “Hi, Cordie.”