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The Apprentice’s Amazons (TG Story) - Chapter 6
🕑 Added 2025-09-22 23:07:10 +0000 UTCThe Apprentice’s Amazons (TG Story)
Korr and Dane were the north’s proudest brutes and barbarian warriors — cockswinging, scarred, stronger than any man alive. But when a witch who bent men’s wills with a whisper rose against them, their only hope was a filthy, forbidden ritual. They burned up their manhood, trading cock and pride for raw power, and rose again as towering Amazons: busty, muscled, dripping with strength the witch could not touch. They crushed her with their new bodies… but victory came at a price.
Day by day, their power seeped away — not into nothing, but into their apprentice, Leif. As he grew taller, harder, more manly with every sunrise, they shrank: muscles softening, voices sweetening, their proud dominance withering into need. By the end, the Iron Wolves of the north weren’t warriors at all, but hot, submissive women — blushing, breathless, and bound to the apprentice who had become the man they could never be again.
By the end, Korr and Dane weren’t warlords or Amazons anymore — just soft, needy women, too weak to even swing a sword. And Leif, the boy they once mocked as “soup-boy,” had become the man they now clung to, the one they called master… and eventually, their husband.
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Part 6
Skartha leaned on her stick, spit hissing into the cauldron like she was seasoning it with venom. Her eyes glittered in the swampy light, and her grin spread wide enough to make their stomachs knot.
“You thick-headed brutes still don’t get it, do you?” she rasped, voice dripping like oil. “Velithra’s leash ain’t wrapped ‘round your necks ‘cause you’re weak — it’s ‘cause you’re men. Every stiff part of you, every flexed muscle, every fuckin’ cock swingin’ between your legs — that’s her handle. That’s what she grabs onto and tugs ‘til you’re moanin’ like pups.”
She jabbed a bony finger at Dane’s crotch, then at Korr’s chest. “You think bein’ hard makes you strong. But hard things break. Hard things snap. Women? Women don’t break. They flow. They bend, they stretch, they take the hit and swallow it whole. You can’t snap what won’t stiffen. That’s why her magic just slides right off ‘em.”
Dane snarled, fists tight, sweat shining on his brow. “So what — you’re sayin’ we cut our cocks off and wear skirts?!”
Skartha cackled, loud and filthy, her bent shoulders shaking. “Not skirts, you fool — power. You don’t give it up, you trade it. You burn off the shit she owns and take the shape she can’t touch. Cocks gone, pussies drippin’ instead. Flat chests swelling into heavy tits that make men drool, not collapse. Curves built thick and wide — but still strong enough to crush skulls. You’d be Amazons. Women forged for war.”
Her laugh turned meaner, like a blade scraping bone. “You won’t roar like men anymore. You’ll moan, you’ll ripple, you’ll endure. And Velithra’s leash’ll slide right off you ‘cause there’ll be nothin’ left for her to tug. That’s the only way you’ll ever face her without endin’ up humpin’ the dirt like all the others.”
She leaned forward, eyes blazing. “So what’s it gonna be, boys? Stay men and drool at her feet… or strip it all off and rise as women who can’t be broken. Those are your choices. Only path to your boy. Only path to winnin’.”
Dane’s face went red, veins bulging at his neck. He slammed the butt of his spear against the stone floor, the crack echoing through the chamber.
“Fuck no! You hear this hag, Korr? She wants us to toss our cocks in the mud, sprout tits, and strut around like milkmaids! I ain’t losin’ my cock, not for her, not for anyone! I’d rather die swingin’ it between my legs than live like that!”
His chest heaved, spit flying as he roared, his golden hair sticking to the sweat on his face. The fury in him was hot, wild, desperate — but there was fear under it too, trembling in the edges of his words.
Korr didn’t answer right away. He stood rigid, scar catching the green glow of the cauldron, eyes locked on the hag. His jaw clenched hard enough the scarred skin twitched, but his voice came low, steady, heavy as stone.
“Dane… listen.”
“The fuck you mean, listen?!” Dane barked. “She’s talkin’ madness!”
Korr finally turned, his dark eyes boring into his brother-in-arms. “Madness or not… she’s right about one thing. You felt it. I did too. That witch had us droolin’ like dogs. Our strength — all the scars, all the muscle — it meant nothing. She bent us near to our knees with a fuckin’ look. She owns men.”
He stepped closer, voice dropping further, as if admitting the truth was poison. “If she can’t touch women, then this… this might be the only way. The only chance.”
Dane froze, chest heaving, rage faltering for a breath. His mouth worked, but all that came out was a hoarse, “You can’t be serious.”
Korr’s stare didn’t break. His voice stayed steady, but there was weight in it — the grim weight of a man who’d already buried too many friends. “Serious as frostbite. I don’t want this any more than you. But if it’s the only way to take her down… and the only way to get Leif back… then what choice do we have?”
The silence that followed was thick as the smoke in the chamber. Dane’s fists trembled, torn between pride and the ugly truth he couldn’t deny. Skartha just smiled, eyes gleaming brighter, drinking in the crack forming between them like sweet wine.
Korr squared his shoulders, voice rough as gravel. “Enough riddles, hag. If this is the only way, then spit it out. What’s the damned ritual?”
Skartha’s grin split her face wide, jagged teeth gleaming in the swamp-glow. She hobbled closer, her bony toes curling against the stone, bone rod tapping the floor as she circled them like a vulture.
“Oh, now the scarred wolf wants the truth, eh? Fine. I’ll give it to you raw.” Her laugh rattled the charms overhead. “You want Mor’na — the War-Whore Goddess herself, mother and rival to Velithra. She don’t hand out blessings. She strips men. Tears the cock off your body, melts it down into a hot, wet slit between your thighs. Swells your chest ‘til you’re carryin’ fat, heavy tits that bounce when you fight. Curves thick enough to crush a man’s skull between your hips. You’ll moan where you used to roar — and that moan will be fuckin’ iron.”
Dane spat on the floor. “Gods, listen to her filth.”
Skartha just cackled harder, pointing a gnarled finger right at his crotch. “Don’t like it, golden-boy? Too bad. This is how it goes. You’ll kneel, right here by this cauldron, bare-ass naked. Cocks hard, proud — last time you’ll ever feel ‘em stiff. You’ll bleed into the brew, spill seed into it too. Pride, cock, all of it boiled down ‘til nothin’s left of the man. Then you drink. And Mor’na takes what’s hers.”
Her voice dropped into a guttural growl, hungry and gleeful. “You’ll burn from the inside out, moanin’ and writhin’ as your meat melts away. Your voices’ll crack, sweeten, turn high and wet. Your tits’ll swell heavy in your hands, your hips’ll spread, your cocks gone forever — replaced with a dripping cunt so deep you’ll feel it ache when you breathe. And when it’s done? You’ll rise up as Amazons. Big. Busty. Built for war and fuckin’ both. Women no spell of Velithra’s can leash.”
She leaned in close, sour breath hot against their cheeks, eyes gleaming like swampfire. “That’s the deal. No cock. No roar. But tits, pussy, and power strong enough to make the witch choke on her own smug laugh. You want your boy back? You want a chance at her throat? Then strip it all off and take the trade.”
The cauldron hissed louder, smoke curling around them like hands. Skartha’s grin stretched wider. “So. What’s it gonna be, wolves? Keep your cocks and die droolin’ at her feet — or lose ‘em and rise unbreakable?”
Dane lost it. He slammed both fists on the hag’s table, jars rattling, green smoke puffing up like the swamp itself had jumped.
“Fuck this shit!” he barked, voice raw, face red. “I ain’t lettin’ no hag’s spell turn me into some big-titted, pussy-drippin’ mockery! I’d rather get my head chopped off than walk around swingin’ tits like a milk sow, moanin’ with a cunt between my legs!”
He stomped across the dirt floor, boots crunching bones, chest heaving, spit flying as he ranted. “You hear me? I’ll die with my cock hard in my fuckin’ fist before I let you or your goddess rip it off and stitch a pussy on me! I ain’t lettin’ my balls shrivel so some bitch in silk can laugh while I jiggle tits!”
Korr’s eyes stayed locked on him, stone-cold, but Skartha’s lips curled like she was savoring every word.
Dane jabbed a thumb at his chest, voice breaking into a roar. “This cock’s mine. These balls are mine. These scars—mine. You want me to toss it all just to sprout some fat fuckin’ udders? Nah. I’d rather be buried cock-first in the mud than live to see myself pissin’ like a girl.”
Skartha croaked out a laugh, wicked and wet. “Oh, you’re already halfway there, wolf. Witch’s got her claws in your cock, and you know it. You’ll be moanin’ like a girl soon enough, tits or not.”
Dane’s face twisted, fury burning into shame. He bared his teeth, voice ragged. “Better moanin’ with a cock than moanin’ with a pussy, old hag!”
The words rang out ugly, raw, hanging in the smoky hut. Korr only exhaled slow, heavy, like a man hearing his brother dig his own grave.
Korr didn’t flinch at Dane’s shouting. He just stood there, arms crossed over his scarred chest, waiting until the last echo of “pussy” and “tits” quit rattling the bones hanging from the rafters. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, flat, like steel dragged across stone.
“Done?” he asked.
Dane’s chest heaved, sweat running down his temple, fists still clenched tight. He spat on the dirt. “Aye. I’m done. And I ain’t growin’ no tits.”
Korr stepped closer, shadows from the green fire cutting across his face. “Listen, brother. You felt it. I did too. Every time she smiled, our cocks got hard and our knees near buckled. Every flex of muscle, every drop of pride — that’s the rope she tied round our throats. Your cock, my cock, all that ‘man’s strength’ we’re so proud of? That’s what she feeds on.”
He jabbed a scarred finger against his own chest, hard enough to thud. “That’s why we dropped like dogs in the square. Not because we weren’t strong enough — because we were too much the thing she wanted. Too much cock, too much pride, too much stiff fuckin’ manhood.”
Dane glared, nostrils flaring. “And your answer’s what? Growin’ tits and spreadin’ our legs like whores?”
Korr didn’t blink. “If tits and a pussy are the one thing she can’t twist her claws into? Then aye. Better to fight with a cunt she can’t touch than a cock she’s already got wrapped in chains. Better to walk in with tits she can’t bend than balls she’ll squeeze ‘til we’re droolin’.”
He leaned in closer, eyes like burning coals. “You think I want it? You think I won’t choke on it too? But this ain’t about what we want. It’s about what works. And right now, brother, our cocks are the leash around our necks. Tits and pussy might be the only fuckin’ weapon left to us.”
The swamp hut went quiet but for the hiss of the cauldron. Skartha grinned wide, toothless and gleaming in the green light, croaking, “Aye, now one of you talks sense.”
Dane shook his head, jaw tight, fury and shame all tangled in his eyes.
Skartha cackled, bent nearly double, the sound wet and sharp like frogs croaking in a fire. She smacked the side of her bubbling pot, green steam belching up around her face. “Hah! There it is! One of you finally seeing sense.”
She leaned in close, her milky eyes glinting mean. “Don’t you see, boys? I can picture it already. You two, not as stiff-cocked brutes swinging your manhood around, but as towering Amazons — tits heavy and dripping sweat, hips wide enough to crush skulls, thighs thick as tree trunks. Big, muscled, moaning women that no spell of hers can touch.”
Her grin split wide, gums shining. She jabbed a claw at Dane, her voice dripping filth. “Imagine you, wolf. That golden mane spilling down your back, only now it’s a curtain over fat tits bouncing every time you breathe. Your cock gone, slit wet and eager between your legs, every roar turned into a moan. You’d look down at yourself and see nothing but flesh begging to be grabbed. Tell me that witch wouldn’t choke on her own laugh when you came striding back with a pussy she couldn’t pull on.”
She swung to Korr, her tone turning almost sing-song. “And you, mountain. Scarred chest smooth now, but swollen with tits that’d put milk cows to shame. Hard arms still thick, but with hips rolling under ‘em, thighs rubbing with every step. You’d flex and the whole swamp would shake with the weight of your new body. No leash on you then — no cock to tug, no balls to twist. Just a cunt dripping power, tits swinging like banners.”
Her laughter rose again, high and cruel, echoing against the bone-hung rafters. “Hah! Picture it, my wolves — you’ll fight her not with stiff cocks droolin’ for her spell, but with bodies she can’t touch. You’ll be women, aye — big, busty, muscle-bound sluts of war — and that’s what’ll tear her down.”
She spat into the pot, the green brew spitting sparks. “So keep barkin’ about pride, or choke it down and face the truth: tits and a pussy are the only way you’ll ever beat her.”
The steam swirled thick, wrapping her taunts around them like chains. Dane’s face burned red, jaw locked, while Korr’s eyes narrowed, his silence heavier than iron.
Skartha leaned over the cauldron, steam licking her face, that nasty grin spreading wide. “Oh, quit your bawlin’, boys. You think I’m sayin’ you’ll end up as soft lil’ milkmaids, tits bouncin’ while you bake bread? Hah! Not a fuckin’ chance.”
She jabbed a crooked finger at Dane, then Korr. “You’ll still be huge. Tall as fuck, broad as barns, biceps thick enough to snap logs. Abs cut so deep every lass — and half the lads — would wanna lick down ‘em. Only difference is, that line won’t end at a cock hangin’ stiff. Nah — it’ll run right into a hot, wet slit she can’t touch. That’s your shield, boys. A cunt she can’t grab hold of.”
She let out a ragged laugh, slapping her thigh. “And don’t you worry about power — you’ll have thighs like fuckin’ tree trunks. Squeeze a man’s ribs till he pops, or grind ‘em round his waist ‘til he’s cryin’ for more. Your arms’ll still break skulls, only now you’ll have big sweaty tits bouncin’ while you swing.”
Her eyes glowed in the green smoke, voice dripping filth. “Picture it: you stride back into that square, muscle stacked high, hips rollin’, tits heavy, veins pumpin’ in your arms — and when she tries to yank on your cock like she did before? Hah! Joke’s on her. There ain’t one. She’s got nothin’ to leash, nothin’ to choke. Just two big, moanin’, musclebound Amazons ready to tear her apart.”
She cackled hard, shoulders shaking, voice echoing through the swamp hut. “Tell me that don’t sound better than sittin’ on your knees, cocks droolin’ for her like all the other mutts!”
Dane snarled under his breath, fists tight, face red with fury. Korr stayed stone-still, but his scar twitched — a sign he was listening, even if he hated every word.
The silence stretched thick in the hut, broken only by the bubbling hiss of Skartha’s cauldron. Dane paced like a caged wolf, muttering curses under his breath, while Korr just stood still, staring hard into the green steam as if he could carve the answer out of it.
At last, Korr exhaled, long and rough. He turned to Dane, his scar catching the firelight. “We don’t like it. Gods know I fuckin’ hate it. But she’s right. Our cocks made us her playthings out there. We keep walkin’ in the same, we’ll crawl back out droolin’ like the rest.”
Dane froze mid-step, fists balled so tight his knuckles cracked. “So what, we just—what? Chop our balls off, sprout tits, spread our legs and call ourselves warriors?” His voice cracked with rage and something close to fear.
Korr’s jaw worked. “If that’s what it takes to rip her throat out and get Leif back? Aye.”
For a long beat, the only sound was Dane’s ragged breathing. His shoulders shook, and finally he slammed his fist against the wall, wood splintering under the blow. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He dragged both hands through his golden mane, eyes blazing. “I swear I’ll never forgive you for talkin’ me into this. But… fine. If it means we get the boy back, and I get to plant my axe in that bitch’s skull—then fuck it. I’ll do it.”
Korr nodded once, grim as stone. He turned back to Skartha. “So be it. We’ll do your godsdamn ritual. Now tell us what it is. Every step. Don’t leave a single foul detail out.”
Skartha’s grin split wide, her gums flashing wet in the glow of the cauldron. She spread her arms like a priestess welcoming converts, her voice thick with glee. “Ohhh, my sweet little wolves finally ready to bare their throats, eh? Good. Then listen close, ‘cause what I’m about to tell you will unmake the both of you — strip your manhood clean and stitch you back together as the biggest, bustiest, meanest Amazons the north has ever seen…”
The fire popped. The cauldron belched green smoke. The swamp hut seemed to lean in closer, waiting with them.
Skartha leaned over the bubbling pot, steam curling around her face, eyes glittering like she’d been waiting her whole life to say this. Her voice dropped low, syrupy and wet, every word dragging filth across the air.
“Oh, you want the truth? Fine. You’re gonna be torn apart, piece by piece, right down to your cocks. That’s where it starts. The goddess don’t just snip ‘em off — she drinks ‘em. Every drop of pride, every twitch of hardness, gone. You’ll feel your balls shrivel, ache like they’re bein’ sucked hollow, until all that’s left is heat spillin’ down your thighs. And when you look, you’ll see nothin’ but a slit openin’ up, wet and needy, already twitchin’ like it’s been waitin’ for years.”
She licked her lips, slow and grotesque. “And your tits… oh, those’ll come next. Don’t think you’ll just wake up with a pair sittin’ there all sweet. No, you’ll feel ‘em swell. First your chest goes soft, muscles meltin’ under the skin — then bam, two great fat mounds pushin’ out, heavy and swingin’. They’ll ache, burn, bounce with every breath ‘til you’ve got tits big enough to make milk cows jealous. You’ll flex, and they’ll still jiggle. You’ll swing a sword, and they’ll slap against you. Ain’t no ignorin’ ‘em.”
Her laugh cracked through the hut, nasty and high. She slammed a claw against the cauldron, green sparks spitting up. “Your arms and thighs, though — oh, those’ll still be monsters. Don’t think the goddess makes you dainty. You’ll have biceps thick as melons, veins crawlin’ over ‘em, thighs so strong you could crush skulls — or cocks — between ‘em. You’ll still be fighters. Just fighters with big sweaty tits and a pussy drippin’ between your legs.”
She leaned closer, her foul breath mixing with the steam. “And here’s the best part. You’ll moan. Gods, you’ll moan. Every pulse of the ritual will have you groanin’ like sluts — voices high, breathy, beggin’ without even meanin’ to. By the end, you won’t sound like warriors. You’ll sound like women who just got fucked raw. That’s how the goddess remakes you: tits, cunt, muscle, and moans. That’s what’ll make you untouchable. That’s what’ll tear the witch down.”
She spread her arms, green light licking her skin. “So. Still want it, my wolves? Still ready to give up your cocks and rise again as the Amazons she can’t break?”
The hut was quiet but for the bubbling cauldron and Dane’s ragged breathing, his face red with rage and shame. Korr’s jaw worked, steady but grim, like every word had cut deep.
Skartha’s grin went wolfish, gums glistening in the green light. She wagged a crooked finger at their bellies, then cackled so hard the rafters rattled.
“Oh, don’t fret too much. You’ll still keep your abs,” she crooned, dragging her claw down her own ribs like she was carving lines in the air. “Cut deep, slick with sweat, ridges hard enough to grind teeth on. Only difference is, they’ll run right down into a dripping slit instead of a cock. Sexy as sin, strong as stone — and untouchable by her leash.”
Her laugh came out ragged and wet, like the swamp itself was joining in. “Two big Amazons with washboard stomachs, tits bouncin’ over ‘em, muscles stacked high… aye, you’ll be the filthiest saints this goddess ever made.”
Dane’s jaw worked, teeth grinding loud enough to hear. He muttered, voice hoarse, “Gods damn me for sayin’ it… but fine. If this is the only way to tear that bitch down and get Leif back… I’ll do it.”
Korr nodded once, scar tight under his eye. “Then we’re decided.” He stepped closer to the cauldron, his shadow stretching long over the smoke. “Tell us what we need, hag. Every last ingredient. We’ll fetch it, no matter how foul.”
Skartha’s smile split wide, almost too wide, her eyes glinting like wet coins. She dipped her claw into the brew, green sparks hissing off her skin. “Ohhh, good pups. Brave pups. You’ll bleed for this, sweat for this, pant and curse for this… but you’ll come out new. Strong. Cunt-strong.”
She licked the green slime off her finger and whispered, “Now listen close — ‘cause the list of what you need ain’t for the faint of heart…”
The hut went still but for the bubbling brew. Both warriors leaned in, shame and fury boiling in their eyes — but also resolve.
Skartha stirred the cauldron with a bone longer than a man’s arm, the green brew spitting sparks every time it clinked the rim. Her grin split ear to ear, eyes glinting hungry as she started her list.
“First thing you’ll need,” she rasped, “is cock’s pride. Not just any — you’ll carve it fresh. The seed of a man still stiff inside a woman, ripped out in the middle of his rut. His lust’s gotta still be drippin’ when you take it. That seed burned in the cauldron will melt your own balls clean off.”
She cackled, smacking her lips. “Then, tits’ envy. That’s milk, aye — but not cow’s. Woman’s milk, stolen from a mother’s breast while her babe screams for it. Sour it with swamp herbs, pour it in, and your chests’ll swell, heavy and aching, ‘til you’ve got tits bigger than her own.”
Her finger traced the air, filthy and gleeful. “Third, you’ll need moans. Not yours — not yet. You’ll snare the cries of whores. Real whores, the kind that squeal and beg for coin. Trap their voices in clay jars, smash ‘em over the pot, and their moans’ll crawl into your throats. By the end of the ritual, you won’t roar like warriors. You’ll moan like sluts every time your bodies change.”
She leaned in close, breath hot and rancid. “Last… blood. Not your own, not hers. The blood of a warrior who swore he’d never kneel. You pour it in, and the goddess of war herself drinks it. She strips his defiance, stitches it back into you — only twisted. Only female. She’ll give you cunts carved from that blood, hard as steel, wet as fire. Weapons in their own right.”
Skartha cackled again, high and jagged, throwing her arms wide. “You pour all that in, let the goddess drink it down — and you’ll be reborn. No more cocks for her to leash, no more pride for her to tug. Just towering muscle, sweaty tits, dripping cunts, and moans she can’t twist. That’s the only way you’ll ever face her and win.”
The cauldron hissed, spitting sparks high enough to sting their faces. Dane swallowed hard, color drained, rage burning behind his shame. Korr just stood there, stone-still, scarred lip curling like he’d already decided.
The cauldron’s hiss filled the silence after Skartha’s words. Dane was shaking his head, lips peeled back, fury and disbelief burning in his eyes. “That’s fucked. That’s beyond fucked. You’re talkin’ about whore-milk and stolen seed, moans in jars—”
But Korr didn’t let him finish.
He stepped forward, boots thudding hard on the dirt, eyes fixed on the bubbling green brew like he’d already stared into hell and made peace with it. His scar twitched as his jaw tightened, voice flat and cold as a blade.
“Then we do it.”
Dane spun on him, eyes wide. “Are you out of your godsdamn mind? You just heard her! This ain’t a ritual, this is madness! She wants to strip us down, fill us with… with—” He waved both hands, words failing. “Tits, moans, fuckin’ whore’s milk—”
Korr’s gaze never left the cauldron. “Leif’s still in her hands. Every second we waste, she’s twisting him deeper. You felt her power, Dane. We don’t walk back into that fight as men. Not and win.”
His voice dropped lower, but it hit harder. “So we do it. We bleed, we moan, we grow tits and cunts if that’s what it takes. We do it, or we watch the boy die screaming.”
The words slammed into the hut like a hammer. Dane froze, fists clenching so tight they shook. His mouth opened, but no sound came out — just a choked breath, shame and rage burning behind his eyes.
Skartha cackled, gleeful and cruel. “Ahhh, there it is. One wolf with a spine. The other’ll follow soon enough. Don’t matter if he pisses and moans — when the pot’s ready, both of you’ll be stripped bare all the same.”
She slapped her palm against the cauldron rim, sparks spitting up into the air. “Now get me what I asked for. Seed, milk, moans, blood. You bring it, and I’ll give you the bodies to break her.”
Korr finally turned to Dane, eyes hard as iron. “No more arguing. We gather what we need. Tonight.”
By the time they staggered out of Skartha’s reeking hut, the swamp air felt cleaner — but only barely. The dawn had burned off the mist, and the light spilled weak and gray across the muck.
Korr trudged first, axe slung on his back, jaw set tight. Dane followed a few paces behind, muttering curses under his breath, boots sucking at the wet ground like the swamp itself wanted to drag him under. Neither looked at the other for a long while.
Finally, Dane broke. “Seed. Milk. Fuckin’ moans. Blood. You hear yourself? We’re not warriors anymore, Korr. We’re errand boys for a witch’s sick joke.”
Korr didn’t slow, didn’t glance back. “We do what we must. You want Leif back, you shut your mouth and walk.”
Dane spat into the mud, but kept moving.
Their first stop was the low huts near the swamp’s edge, where desperate men and women sold more than food and furs. The reek of stale ale and sweat hit hard. Dane snarled, “So this is it, eh? We’re hunting cock’s pride from men with their trousers down.”
“Better theirs than ours,” Korr said flatly. His eyes swept the shadows, already looking for the quickest way to take what they needed without wasting breath.
Later, they trudged deeper into the mire to find a nursing mother desperate enough to trade her milk. The hag’s words rang in Dane’s head, every step making his stomach twist. He muttered bitterly, “Stealing milk while a babe screams… gods, Korr, we’re rotting already.”
Korr’s voice came back steady, but rough. “Better her child cry a night than Leif cry forever.”
By the time they reached the whore’s den by the broken mill, night was falling again. The walls rattled with laughter and squeals, voices already thick with ale. Korr stood silent at the door, while Dane cursed under his breath, “Moans in jars. Saints help me, I’m gonna puke.”
And last — the hardest — was the blood of a warrior who swore never to kneel. The kind of man they once were. That one they couldn’t steal. That one they’d have to take by force.
When Korr finally said it out loud, Dane stopped dead in the mud, eyes burning. “So we’re to kill a man like us, just to feed a cauldron that’ll rip our cocks off. You hear how twisted that sounds?”
Korr looked him dead in the eye. “Aye. But it’s what’ll save the boy.”
The swamp was dark, the air thick, the path ahead fouler than any battlefield they’d marched. But both of them knew there was no turning back.
The longhouse sat sagging at the swamp’s edge, its walls barely holding against the damp. From outside you could already hear it — the laughter, the groans, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the rotten boards. The whole place stank of sour ale, stale sweat, and years of seed spilled on the floorboards.
Dane gagged before they even stepped in. “Gods, Korr, it reeks like a troll’s arse. And this is what we’ve come to? Sneakin’ about to bottle some bastard’s spunk? I swear, if my ancestors are watchin’, they’re spittin’ in their graves.”
Korr’s scarred face didn’t flinch. “Better his than ours. Keep your jaw shut and your hands ready.”
Inside was worse. Half-drunk mercs sprawled on benches, women riding them for coppers, groans filling the smoke-choked air. Somewhere a lute twanged out of tune, drowned by the sound of flesh meeting flesh. The floor was slick underfoot, gods knew with what.
They spotted him quick — a merc in the corner, trousers shoved down, rutting into some farm girl bent over a barrel. His laugh was wild, guttural. His hands clamped her hips so hard her skin bruised purple under his grip. “Take it, bitch!” he barked, slamming forward with every word.
The girl squealed and moaned, half fake, half panicked, her voice high and sharp. “Y-yes! Gods, yes—just—ahhh, fuck, yes!” Her eyes darted to the side, like she just wanted it done, but her voice kept wailing louder, selling the act.
Dane’s face twisted. “This is filth. Pure filth. We’re supposed to be warriors, Korr. And now we’re waitin’ for some bastard to blow his load so we can snatch it up like beggars.”
Korr didn’t even blink. “Filth’s what the hag asked for. Filth’s what’ll save Leif.”
So they waited. The merc’s groans got rougher, his thrusts faster, his voice cracking into low growls. “Fuck—yeah—yeahhh—” His hips bucked, his laugh breaking into a grunt. The girl gasped, squealed, even slapped the barrel like she was pounding out a drumbeat just to push him over the edge.
And then it came. The merc’s whole body jerked, his cock buried to the hilt, his voice a broken snarl. “Fuuuck! Ahhh—take it, take it, all of it!” His face twisted up, spit dripping from his lip as he emptied himself with a loud groan.
Korr moved like a wolf. The flat of his axe cracked into the merc’s skull with a meaty thud. The bastard went limp instantly, his cock still twitching inside her.
The girl screamed, staggering back, skirts bunched, thighs slick with white. She nearly tripped trying to pull herself together, but cum was already leaking down her legs in glistening ropes.
Dane muttered, “Gods damn me,” as he pulled out the clay jar Skartha had given them. His hand shook, but he shoved it under her trembling thighs, scooping with his palm. Warm seed ran through his fingers, slick and heavy, dripping into the jar. He gagged, cursed, and scooped again until the glass sloshed wet.
The girl gasped, horrified. “What—what the fuck are you—?”
“Shut it,” Dane snarled, slamming the lid down, trying not to puke at the wet slop inside. “Fuck me, Korr, I’m a spunk-thief now. This is what we’ve come to. Not splitting skulls, but jarring cum like alchemists of filth.”
Korr barely looked at him, barely looked at her. He just dragged the limp merc’s head against the wall, propping him like a sack of grain. “Better his pride in a jar than ours in her chains.”
They were out before the girl could speak another word. Dane held the jar away from his body like it was plague, his face pale, lips curled in disgust. Every step through the mud made it slosh, wet and obscene.
“This ain’t warrior’s work,” he spat. “This is depraved. We’re crawling lower than pigs.”
Korr didn’t even look back, voice flat and grim. “So’s her magic. So’s what she’s doing to Leif. We’re already in the muck. Might as well finish the crawl.”
The jar glowed faint green as the swamp swallowed them back up, like the seed inside already belonged to Skartha’s cauldron.
The swamp stank worse the deeper they trudged, all rot and buzzing flies. By the time they reached the crooked hut Skartha had described, Dane was already spitting curses every third step.
“First we bottled spunk like fucking perverts, now we’re out here to milk a woman like she’s a godsdamn cow. Korr, this is sick. We’re sick.”
Korr didn’t answer. His face was carved from stone, eyes fixed ahead. His only reply was the clay bucket in his hand.
The hut sagged in the muck, shutters cracked, roof sloping like a broken spine. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, sour milk, and something sharper — grief so stale it hung in the air like rot.
The woman sat hunched by the fire. Her hair was wild, eyes sunken and red, shift half open. Her breasts swelled heavy under the cloth, damp patches spreading across the fabric. When she lifted her head to see them standing in her doorway, her voice was raw and flat.
“You here for coin? Or pity?”
Korr stepped forward, voice like gravel. “Neither. We came for what your body still makes.”
The hag’s laugh was jagged, spitting madness, her chest heaving. “Milk. Always fuckin’ milk. Gods curse me with tits that won’t quit, and no babe to suck ’em. My kid rots in the dirt, yet these udders still ache, still swell, still spill like I’m some goddamn cow. You want it? Hah! Then take it. Drink it, drown in it, fuckin’ bathe in it. That’s all I’ve got left!”
Before Dane could spit out a protest, she ripped her ragged shift down. Out flopped her tits — heavy, veined, swollen like ripe fruit about to burst. Nipples fat, dark, already slick and beading white.
“Gods fuckin’ damn,” Dane gagged, turning his head. “We’re actually doin’ this.”
She didn’t wait. She clamped one fist right under her tit and squeezed hard, dragging her knuckles up the heavy mound. Her throat tore with a filthy groan — “NNnnnNNhhhHHhh—fuuuuckkk—” — right as the nipple spat a hot arc of milk. It sprayed across the floor in messy splatters, sizzling on the firestones with a hiss.
Korr didn’t flinch, bucket steady. “Do it.”
She snapped her eyes to him, wild, lips peeled back in a snarl. “Oh, you bastards want it? Then watch every fuckin’ drop.”
Both hands slammed down on her tits, kneading hard, rough. She pulled her nipples long and let them snap back with wet squirts. Milk gushed out in fat streams, splashing into the bucket with loud slaps. Froth foamed up quick, white and sticky, the smell sweet and rotten thick in the air.
Her body shook with every squeeze. Sweat rolled down her temple. She was groaning nonstop, guttural and raw, like it hurt and pleasured her at the same time. “HhhhhhhnnnNNnnnghhhhhh—ahhhhhh gods it never stops—nngghhhHHhh—ahhhh fuuuuuuckkkk!”
The hut filled with noise — squirts, splashes, her tits smacking against her ribs as she wrung ’em out, her groans ragged and filthy. She arched her back, grinding her ass into the dirt like she needed the pressure. One hand clawed so deep into her flesh her knuckles turned white, dragging out more gushes.
Dane gagged so hard he nearly retched. “Fucking hell, Korr, we’re milk-thieves. Actual fucking milk-thieves.”
Korr’s scar twitched, but his voice was steady. “Keep going.”
The hag snarled, eyes blazing, milk dripping down her chest in fat streaks. “Men—hahhh—always takin’. My babe’s bones rot, yet my tits still pour, and now you’ll haul this filth to your witch? You’re pigs. Fucking worse than pigs.” She squeezed again, hard, and another gush sprayed into the bucket, splashing Korr’s scarred knuckles.
Her moans were breaking into sobs now, guttural, nasty. “Ahhhhhh—nghhhHHhhh gods—there, there, take it all—ahhhh, lap it up, drink me dry—ahhhhhh—fuckkkkk!”
The streams slowed to spurts, thick drops pattering heavy into the froth. Her tits slapped wet against her chest as she mauled them, biting her lip till blood streaked her chin. “Ahhhhhh—nnnnghhhhh—fuckin’ empty me, you bastards—take what drips out, take what the gods left behind—”
The bucket was near overflowing now, foam bubbling, hot milk sloshing against the rim. Korr pulled it back, his hand wet with spray, the smell cloying and sweet as rot. He met her eyes, cold. “It’ll save him.”
Her laugh ripped out of her like a scream. Bitter, broken, almost orgasmic. “Save him? Curse you both. Curse your witch. May the gods choke you on my tits in hell.”
She spat straight into the fire, yanked her shift back up over her leaking breasts, the fabric soaking through instantly. Even as she turned away, the milk was still streaking down her ribs in white rivulets, dripping to the dirt with soft wet plops.
They left fast, Dane carrying the bucket like it was poison. Every step sloshed, warm froth licking at the clay lip. His face was twisted, eyes narrowed, lips curled like he’d puke any second.
“First spunk, now tits. What’s next, Korr? You want me to jar farts, too? ’Cause this is lower than pigs, lower than the dirt under pigs.”
Korr just trudged, voice flat and cold. “Better milk in a bucket than Leif in her chains. We finish the crawl.”
The bucket pulsed faint green in the swamp’s gloom, glowing faint like the hag’s cauldron was already calling it home.
By the time they got back from the milk-thief errand, Dane’s patience was gone. He stomped through the muck, cursing every god he knew.
“Seed in a jar, tits in a bucket… and now what? Moans? How the fuck do you even steal a moan, Korr? You planning to shove your hand down some whore’s throat and bottle the noise?”
Korr just kept walking, bucket sloshing in one hand, jaw set like stone. “The hag gave us jars. She meant what she said.”
They found the place by nightfall — a broken old mill on the swamp’s edge, converted into a fuckhouse. The boards were cracked, half the roof missing, but the sound inside carried clear: shrieks, squeals, filthy giggles, and the pounding of bodies slamming together.
The hag had given them clay jars, each smeared with some dark rune around the lip. “Moans’ll stick,” she’d rasped. “Catch ’em like smoke.”
Dane stared at the doorway like it was the gates of hell. “So we’re supposed to creep into a whorehouse and… what? Hold jars up to cunts like lanterns? Godsdamn it, Korr, this is beyond fucked.”
Korr’s scar twitched, but he stepped forward. “It’s what she asked for.”
Inside was chaos, pure debauchery smeared across splintered wood. Women straddled men on broken tables, tits slapping as they bounced, while mugs of ale spilled across the floor with every thrust. Laughter rang high, mixing with guttural groans, the two twisting together into a soundtrack of filth. The cracked beams overhead shook with the rhythm of bodies colliding, moans and screams ricocheting like music played by whores and drunkards.
The air itself was thick enough to choke on — sweat dripping off bare backs, musk heavy as fog, perfume sharp and cheap trying and failing to mask the stink of rutting. Every breath was warm with lust, every inhale tasting of bodies grinding.
Dane gagged, hand clapped over his nose. “Gods, it stinks like fucking lust in here. Like the walls are sweating with it.”
Korr shoved a jar into his chest, his face flat as stone. “Catch it.”
The first scene was impossible to miss. A woman rode a man on a bench so hard it rattled like it would collapse beneath them. Her head was thrown back, hair snapping across her shoulders with every slam of her hips. Her tits bounced wildly, nipples glistening in the torchlight, every slap of flesh ringing through the room. Her voice ripped out raw, throat hoarse but still pouring filth:
“Ohhh gods—fuck me—harder—ahhh, yes, yes!”
Dane’s lip curled, but his hand moved anyway. He fumbled the jar open and thrust it toward her mouth like a fool begging for alms. The rune along its lip burned faint green as her scream spilled into it, curling like smoke. The sound clung there even after she collapsed forward panting, the jar humming faint with echoes of her “ahhhh!”
Dane snapped it shut, face twisted like he might puke. “Fuck me… I just bottled a whore’s squeal.”
Korr had already moved on. At a nearby cot, two women were tangled up together, legs wrapped tight, grinding slick on each other’s thighs. Their laughter was filthy, girlish and cruel, cutting between their cries — sharper, wetter sounds as their hips rocked and clit met clit. Korr popped his jar open right at their lips. The rune blazed brighter as the duet of moans spilled inside, overlapping gasps and giggles caught like ghosts in clay.
Jar after jar, they went on. A girl giggling soft and breathy as she licked her lover’s chest, moaning against him. Another shrieking wild as her body shook with climax, her cry ripping straight into the jar like lightning trapped. One bent over a table while two drunk mercs slammed into her from either side — her guttural groans thick and wet, echoing low until Korr twisted the lid shut on them.
Each sound slithered into the clay like smoke, the jars glowing faint green as they filled with lust, every moan a captured spirit of heat and filth.
And the worst part? The jars kept humming. Even shut tight, you could hear them if you pressed close — muffled giggles, shrieks, whimpers, groans echoing like they’d been damned to replay forever.
The mill was alive with filth, and Skartha had given them more jars than Dane wanted to count. They had to fill them all.
The next cot held a girl on her knees, two men shoving into her mouth and cunt at once. Her eyes rolled back, spit dripping down her chin, muffled gags mixing with obscene wet sounds. Every time her throat convulsed, the men roared louder, slamming harder. Dane shoved a jar close to her lips, and the rune flared as her gagging moans and broken squeals spilled inside, trapped mid-choke.
He snapped it shut fast, muttering, “Gods, I just bottled a fucking gag.”
Korr ignored him, moving to the corner where a broad-hipped woman was bent over a table, three mercs lined up behind her like dogs fighting for a bone. She screamed with every thrust, her voice breaking into ragged “ahh—ahhh—ahhh!” Korr held the jar under her mouth as the sound ripped out of her. The clay glowed brighter with each cry, the rune humming like it was drinking her lust. When he sealed it, the jar vibrated faint in his hand, echoing her broken cries.
Another cot, another jar: two girls sprawled across each other, tits pressed, fingernails raking skin, giggling between wet kisses. “Mmm—ahhh—fuck, don’t stop—” Their voices spilled into the jars like wine, sloshing thick and sweet.
Dane’s face grew redder with every capture. “We’re thieves of moans now, Korr. Fuckin’… we’re harvesting squeals like turnips.”
Still, they pressed on. A boy barely older than Leif groaned loud as a woman rode him into the floor, her shrieks high and sharp, his voice cracking with each thrust. They caught both voices, the rune sparking as male and female groans tangled together, trapped forever.
By the hearth, a woman lay on her back with her legs spread wide, two men jerking themselves over her chest. Her filthy giggles — “hahh, yeah, give it to me, cover me—ahhh!” — were caught just as they splattered her tits, her squeals sealed inside with the sound of their grunts.
Dane’s hand shook as he sealed it. “Godsdamn… even their mess sounds stuck in there.”
The jars piled up, each faintly glowing, each faintly humming. Some whispered with breathy sighs, others shrieked faint and sharp. One throbbed with guttural groans so raw Dane swore he could still feel them in his bones.
By the time the last jar was sealed, their packs clinked heavy with stolen lust. The mill still rang with flesh and laughter, but their cargo hummed louder, as if the swamp itself knew what they carried: the bottled moans of a whole night’s debauchery, trapped like spirits.
Dane spat into the mud as they staggered out. “Seed, milk, now moans. Korr, when this is done, we’ll never wash this stink off us.”
Korr’s jaw was set, his voice flat as ever. “Doesn’t matter. If it saves the boy, let the stink stay.”
The jars throbbed faint green in the dark, their muffled cries riding with them back into the swamp.
The swamp had already taken its toll — their boots caked in muck, their packs rattling with jars full of trapped moans, the air stinking of sex and rot. But Skartha’s list wasn’t done. The foulest piece was still left: the warrior’s blood.
Not just any blood — it had to be spilled in lust, not rage. Skartha had been clear, giggling with those blackened teeth: “Strong man’s blood, spilled when his cock’s hardest and his moans are filthiest. That’s the kind that fuels the ritual. Not blade on blade — blade on flesh while he’s rutting.”
They found the place before midnight. A pit in the swamp where mercenaries drank and fought and fucked all at once. A war-camp gone feral. Fires burned low, shadows writhing in the torchlight. The stink hit first — blood, sweat, ale, and sex thick as tar.
Men were brawling bare-chested, swinging fists with cocks half-hard, roaring laughter cut with moans. Others were bent over logs with women riding them, blades still strapped to their belts, rutting while their comrades cheered. A pile of armor sat useless in the mud — these weren’t soldiers anymore, they were beasts.
Dane gagged. “Gods’ hairy balls, this is worse than the moan-mill.”
Korr shoved a knife into his hand. His own axe glinted faint in the torchlight. “Doesn’t matter. We need blood. And not from tired men — from ones in the thick of it.”
The first they found was a hulking brute rutting a woman against a tree like he meant to split it in half. His cock slammed into her with wet, brutal smacks, each thrust so hard the bark splintered under her nails. Her hands clawed the trunk until blood streaked the grooves she carved, her head thrown back, throat bare as she screamed.
“Ahhhh—ahhh gods—fuck, yes—harder!” Her voice tore through the swamp air, ragged and filthy, bouncing off the trees like a prayer gone wrong.
He roared back, guttural, his chest rumbling like an animal in heat. Every thrust ripped another sound out of him — deep grunts, snarls, wild laughter that broke into moans. “Hrrghhh—fuck—hahhh—gonna—ahhh—split you—” His words tumbled into pure noise, no sense left, just cock and voice and sweat.
Korr stood stone-still, jaw tight, axe in hand. He didn’t move until the man’s rhythm broke, hips jerking erratic, his roar climbing higher, louder, desperate. The woman’s voice cracked, her scream pitching into a squeal as her cunt clamped around him, their noises tangled together into one chorus of filth.
That’s when Korr struck.
Steel ripped across flesh, and the brute’s roar twisted in an instant. From a howl of climax to a scream of pain — but it didn’t stop. It warped, it layered, agony and lust choking together in one raw, animal bellow. “GGHHHHAAAAAARGHHHHHHH—ahhhh—ahh gods—fuckkk—” His voice cracked into moans, deep, broken, guttural sounds bubbling up between ragged screams.
Blood sprayed hot, splattering across the woman’s chest. She didn’t flinch — she moaned louder. “Yesss—fuck yesss—ohhh gods—more, more—ahhhhhh!” Her cries were shrill and filthy, each louder than the last as she smeared his blood across her tits, grinding harder against his twitching cock.
The brute’s groans broke into choked sobs of release, each thrust weaker, each scream wetter. “Hhhuuuhhh—ahhh—ahhh gods—ahhhhhh!” He bellowed like a beast dying and cumming all at once, voice echoing through the trees until it rattled the air.
Korr snapped the rune-flask open, the glowing mouth drinking down every sound, every shudder, every hot spray of blood. Inside, it echoed — faint moans, muffled screams, the raw chorus of a man undone.
The woman was still shrieking, her moans cracked into filthy little giggles, her voice high and broken: “Ahhh—hahhh—so messy—ahhh gods yes—ahhhhhhh!” She rode his dying spasms, every twitch in his cock wringing another scream out of her throat until she collapsed forward, sobbing and moaning into the bark.
Dane gagged, nearly dropping his flask. “Holy fuck—he screamed himself dry—”
Korr snapped his flask shut, blood dripping down his axe, face blank as stone. “One down.”
“Fuck, that’s one,” Dane muttered. “How many more do we need?”
“Until the hag’s happy,” Korr growled.
The second was two mercs wrestling in the mud, their cocks half-hard as they slammed into each other like beasts. They weren’t just brawling — they were rutting through their fight, every punch followed by a grind of hips, every grapple a grind of cock on thigh.
One howled as the other bit down on his shoulder, blood already slicking his teeth. Their voices were a mess — wet grunts, snarls that broke into moans, laughter that tumbled into screams.
Korr moved first, his axe cutting a deep gash down the thigh of the one on top. The man’s roar warped into a shriek, high and cracked: “GGHHHHHAAAAHHHHHH—ahhh—fuckkkk—” His hips jerked against his partner’s, blood pouring down his leg, cock twitching against muddy flesh. His screams rolled into low, guttural groans, animal noises spilling out between gasps.
The other laughed and moaned all at once, his voice thick: “Ohhh gods, bleed on me—ahhhhhh—hahhhhhh!” The rune-flask sucked it in, glowing bright as the air filled with their tangled screams.
The third was worse. A woman rode a brute by the fire, her tits bouncing wild as his roars shook the night. His moans were booming, like war cries twisted into filth: “HUUHHHH—HRAHHHHHHH—AHHHHHH GODS!” He was close, the firelight gleaming on his sweat-slick chest.
Dane didn’t hesitate. He slashed his arm open from shoulder to wrist. Blood sprayed across the woman’s tits, hot and steaming. She screamed, voice breaking into filthy shrieks: “YESSSS—BLEED FOR ME—AHHHH!”
The man’s roar fractured into sobs, his voice ragged, guttural. “Ahhhh—uhhhhhh—ahhhhhh gods—ahhhh—” His moans came like thunder, each weaker, wetter, bubbling with spit as his cock twitched inside her. She rode his dying spasms, screaming louder than him, her moans shrill and cracked until they blurred into laughter.
The rune-jar filled with every broken scream, every ragged moan, the clay glowing hot like it couldn’t hold the sound.
The fourth was a loner, stroking himself by the fire, his voice already a filthy mess of groans. “Hhhhuuuhhh—ahhhh—ahhhh gods—so close—” He was rutting the air, fist pumping fast.
Korr’s knife cut him across the chest mid-stroke. He screamed, but it wasn’t pain — it was release. His voice went high, wild, breaking into moans that tore out of him like he couldn’t hold them back. “AHHHHHHHH—ahhh gods—ahhhh—FUUUUUCCCKK—” His orgasm sprayed across his stomach, blood mixing with cum as his body jerked.
The screams kept coming, broken into sobs and guttural groans until his voice cracked into nothing. Dane snapped the flask shut, gagging. “Fuck me, we’re bottling death-moans now.”
By the time dawn broke, their packs clinked heavy with jars full of echoing filth. Screams and moans rattled faint inside the clay, each one glowing sickly green. Every kill still whispered — raw, guttural echoes of men undone by blood and lust, locked inside glass like ghosts.
Dane wiped his mouth, pale, shaking. “Korr… we’ve bottled squeals, moans, fuckin’ death-cries. We’ve got seed, milk, blood. All of it.”
Korr strapped his axe across his back, voice grim. “Then we’re ready.”
By the fires, they found another brute laid flat on his back, a woman straddling him with her nails sunk deep into his chest. She rode him like she meant to split him apart, hips slamming down, her tits bouncing wild in the firelight. Her voice was ragged and shrill, every thrust tearing another scream from her throat.
He was no quieter — his roar shook the trees, a booming, guttural bellow that rang out like a war cry. “HhhhuuuuHHHH—GRRRAHHHHHH—FUUUHHHCKKK!” Each time she dropped onto his cock, his voice climbed higher, breaking between growls and filthy moans. His chest heaved, sweat pouring off him in streams, cock jutting up thick and shining in the firelight as she milked him.
The woman clawed harder, nails raking bloody streaks across his skin. “Ahhhh—YESSS—fuck me—split me, gods—ahhhhhh!” Her shrieks turned heads in the camp, but no one cared — everyone was lost in their own chaos.
Korr didn’t hesitate. He came up behind, eyes cold, axe steady. He waited until the man’s roar pitched to its peak, his body jerking as if on the edge of release. Then steel bit deep.
The axe tore his arm open from shoulder to wrist. Flesh split, bone cracked, and blood sprayed hot in an arc across the woman’s tits.
She squealed at once — not in fear, but in delight. “AHHHHHHHH YESS—YESSSSS—more—more—ahhhhhh gods bleed on me!” Her moans turned shriller, higher, every spurt of blood on her chest making her grind faster, harder.
The brute’s roar cracked mid-bellow. “GGGHHHHAAAHHHHHH—ahhhhhh—ahhhh gods—” His voice tumbled into broken, guttural groans, spit flying from his mouth as his cock jerked inside her. His screams hitched, tore apart, warped into sobbing moans. “Uhhhhhh—ahhhhhh—fuckkkk—ahhhhhh!”
His body shook beneath her, blood pumping in thick waves as his orgasm ripped through him, cock twitching helplessly. She shrieked on top of him, voice wild and filthy, bouncing so hard her screams turned to laughter. “AHHHH—hahhh—hahhhhhh fuckkk yessss—ahhhhhh gods yessss!”
The rune-jar glowed as Korr held it close, every shattered groan and ragged scream spilling inside like smoke. Even as his voice broke into wet, bubbling moans — “Hhhhhuuhhhhhh—ahhhh—ahhh gods—” — the clay drank it down, echoing faint and green.
The woman collapsed forward on his chest, her cries dissolving into giggles, still grinding on his dying spasms, squealing, “Ahhh—hahhh—so messy—ahhhhhh!” Her nails dug deeper, dragging blood across her tits and smearing it into her own skin.
Korr snapped the jar shut, his face blank, his scar twitching as the last moans echoed inside the clay.
They collected them all. Warriors spilling blood in the height of lust, every cry sharper, wetter, filthier than the last. One man jerked himself off as Korr slashed him, his orgasm spraying into the dirt as his wound poured red. Dane’s flask glowed brighter with every drop, every moan sealed inside.
By dawn, their packs dripped with jars and flasks. Moans, seed, milk, and now warrior’s blood — each ingredient humming, pulsing, alive with filth.
Dane’s face was pale under the grime, his knuckles white on his flask. “Godsdamn, Korr… we’ve got everything but our fucking souls left.”
Korr strapped his axe tighter, his voice flat. “Then let’s trade what’s left. For the boy.”
The swamp stank of sex and death behind them, the jars clinking like ghosts as they trudged back toward Skartha’s lair — every step closer to the ritual that would strip them of their cocks, their pride, their manhood… and make them into the Amazons who could fight Velithra.
By the time they staggered out of the swamp-camp, the sky was paling. Dawn bled over the trees, mist crawling low across the mud. Their packs clinked with every step, jars rattling faintly — not silent, not still. Each vessel whispered. Little echoes of moans, muffled screams, guttural death-groans pressed against clay like restless ghosts. Every time one rattled, Dane flinched.
“Fuckin’ hells,” he muttered, rubbing at his temple like the sound was worming into his skull. “I swear I can hear ’em. Still moaning. Still bleedin’.”
Korr kept his gaze forward, his voice flat as stone. “You can. They don’t stop. That’s the point.”
They trudged through muck and reeds until Skartha’s hovel loomed out of the swamp like a wound. The shack looked alive in the dawn’s haze — crooked timbers sagging, moss dripping down like wet hair, windows faintly glowing green as if something inside breathed. The air stank of smoke, piss, and rot.
Dane spit into the mud, his lip curled. “Every time I see this place it feels like walkin’ into a cunt that’s already dead.”
Korr didn’t answer. He just shouldered the door open.
Inside, the air was thick enough to choke on — smoke, herbs, something sweet underneath that curdled fast. Skartha was crouched over her cauldron, claws stirring the black muck inside. Her head snapped up the second the jars clinked on their belts.
“Ohhh, my good little pups,” she rasped, teeth black and wet. Her tongue flicked across her lips as she waddled closer. “You’ve brought me my sweets.”
She snatched a jar from Dane before he could resist, shaking it hard. A muffled scream rattled inside — a man’s raw death-moan, broken into sobs. The jar glowed faintly green. Skartha cackled, pressing it against her ear like a seashell. “Mmm, hear that? He’ll moan forever. My, my, you’ve done well.”
Dane grimaced. “Gods, you’re fucked.”
“Fucked?” she crooned, snapping her eyes toward him. “No, sweet wolf. You will be fucked — split wide, moaning like these jars — once the goddess has her due.” Her grin stretched too wide, her laugh bubbling up filthy and wet.
Korr set his axe against the wall and dropped his pack heavy to the floor. Jars clinked and clattered, the glow seeping through the leather. His face was carved from stone, his voice low. “We’ve got what you asked. Every drop, every moan, every scream. Now tell us what’s next.”
Skartha’s grin only widened. She crouched, long fingers tapping across the jars like she was caressing cocks. Her eyes glowed faint in the smoke as she whispered, “Now, my sweet wolves, comes the fun. The goddess waits to strip you clean… and make you new.”
She licked her lips again, cackling under her breath. “Tonight, we brew.”
To be continued...
