100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 684: Chapter 683- Northern Barbarians

The northern borders smelled of blood and lamb fat.

The camp sprawled across the grassland like a scar — hide tents, bone fences, fire pits dug into the earth. No order. No formation. No military precision. Just the raw, organic, ’we-are-here-because-we-are-hungry’ sprawl of a people who had been pushed from their lands by drought and famine and the endless, ’nothing-grows-here-anymore’ death of their homeland.

They were not from Eldoria. They were not part of the civil war. They were from beyond — the barbarian tribes of the northern wastes, where the grass ended and the ice began. Brute men. Muscular men. Men whose bodies had been built by generations of killing beasts with their hands and surviving winters that would freeze a civilized man’s blood solid.

They ate like animals. Buffalo leg pieces, raw in the center, the meat torn from the bone with teeth that had been filed to points. Lamb carcasses, split open, the organs roasted on open flames. The fat dripped into the fire. The smoke rose. The smell — heavy, meaty, the ’we-kill-and-we-eat’ smell of predators — filled the camp.

The tents were hide. Stitched roughly. The poles were bones — ribs of beasts, femurs of mammoths. The wind caught the hide flaps, making them snap like flags. Inside, the men sat. Ate. Drank fermented mare’s milk from skull-cups. Groaned.

And the moans.

The moans came from the center of the camp. From the leader’s tent — the largest, the one with the skull of a horned beast mounted on the central pole. The sounds were high. Female. The ’I-am-in-pain-and-I-don’t-understand-why’ sounds of a young woman whose body was being used.

"Tribe leader," the voice cried. Thin. Cracked. The voice of an eighteen-year-old girl who had been a child yesterday and a woman today. "I have recently become a woman. Please stop."

PAH. PAH. PAH.

The flesh-slapping was heavy. Wet. The sound of a massive body driving into a small one, the impact of hips — thick, muscular, the hips of a man built like a bull — hitting the narrow, barely-developed hips of a girl whose body was not designed for this.

"AAAAH—! Please — it hurts—!"

Inside the tent, the tribe leader fucked.

His name was Gharuk. He was called the Bull. Not for his temperament — though that was bull-like — but for his size. Seven feet tall. Shoulders like boulders. Arms like tree trunks. His chest was a wall of muscle, covered in scars — the ritual scars of his people, each one representing a kill. His cock was proportional. Nine inches. Thick as a woman’s wrist. The shaft was dark, the veins prominent, the head swollen and dark.

He plunged it in and out of the girl’s cunt. The deflowered cunt — the hymen torn, the blood still leaking, the red fluid mixing with his pre-cum and her forced arousal — gripped him. Barely. She was small. Tight. Unready. The walls of her vaginal canal — never touched, never explored — were being stretched beyond their capacity.

Her face was in the dirt. The grass. Her cheek pressed against the cold ground, the blades of grass scratching her skin. Her tears fell onto the earth. Her tongue was out — hanging past her teeth, the drool running down her chin, the ’I-am-being-destroyed’ expression on her young face.

Her hands clawed at the grass. Her fingers pulled. The roots came up. She held them. Squeezed. Anything to grip. Anything to anchor.

PAH PAH PAH—!!

"AAAAH—! SLOW—! TRIBE LEADER—! PLEASE—!"

Gharuk held her hips. His hands — massive, the fingers thick as sausages — wrapped around her waist. Nearly. His thumbs met at her navel. His fingers met at her spine. He held her like a toy. A piece of meat. An object.

"You don’t have to think much," he said. His voice was deep. Rumbling. The sound of a mountain talking. "Just serve me well so that I can conquer the lands of those weaklings."

PAH. PAH. PAAH—!!

He slammed. The full length — nine inches — drove into her. Her body bucked. Her flat, underdeveloped chest scraped the ground. Her ass — small, barely rounded — was pressed against his hips. The impact made the flesh ripple. The sound — the wet, ’flesh-on-flesh’ PAH — echoed through the camp.

The men around the fire heard it. Smiled. Laughed. The rough, ’we-approve’ laughter of warriors who saw women as spoils.

Gharuk slammed again. Held. His cock throbbed. The cum — building, the heavy, bull-like load — was rising.

He pulled out. The cock emerged — the shaft slick with blood and arousal. The head dripped. He stroked. Once. Twice.

SPURT. SPURT. SPURT.

The cum hit her back. Her ass. Her thighs. Thick. White. Heavy. The fluid ran down her skin — over the scratches, over the dirt, over the blood. She collapsed. Her face in the grass. Her body limp.

Gharuk stood. His cock — still semi-hard, the shaft hanging — swung between his thighs. He didn’t cover himself. None of them did. The barbarian men wore nothing but loincloths — strips of leather, small pieces of hide. A piece of grass tied around the base of their cocks, the ’this-is-our-tradition’ decoration that served no practical purpose.

"Good meat," Gharuk said. Looking down at the girl. At the cum on her back. At the blood on her thighs. "Sorry for this."

He looked up. His eyes — dark, small, set deep beneath a heavy brow — found a man. Standing at the edge of the firelight. A soldier. One of his sub-chiefs.

"I like to gift you this," Gharuk said. Placing his hand on the soldier’s shoulder. The gesture was casual. The ’here-is-a-woman-I-used-have-fun’ generosity of a man who saw women as currency. "Kiss."

The soldier — a brute, thick-necked, his face scarred from a bear claw — gave a nod. Looked at the girl on the ground. At the cum. The blood. The tears.

"Indeed," the soldier said. His voice was gravel. "Her mother was really well. Forgettable." He paused. Looked closer. "Do you like her too?"

Gharuk nodded. "Yes, indeed. She is a very high quality person. I would accept her as my concubine."

The men laughed. The rough, ’we-are-men-and-this-is-what-we-do’ laughter of a tribe that measured women by the tightness of their cunts and the width of their hips.

The girl didn’t move. She lay in the grass. Her eyes were open. Staring at nothing. The ’I-have-ceased-to-exist’ expression of a woman whose mind had left her body.

Gharuk walked to the center of the camp. His cock swung. The piece of grass around the base — the traditional decoration — fluttered. He stood on a rock — a flat, elevated stone that served as his podium. The men gathered. Hundreds of them. Muscular. Scarred. Their bodies built by violence, their minds focused on one thing.

Conquest.

"Everyone be prepared!" Gharuk yelled. His voice carried across the camp. Across the grassland. The deep, bull-roar of a man whose lungs were the size of barrels. "We are going to conquer the land of the foreigners! We will breed their women with our seed! We are the tribe of the strong men!"

"GHARUK! GHARUK! GHARUK!"

The chant. The response. Hundreds of voices — deep, rough, the ’we-are-ready-to-kill’ chorus of men who had been starving and were now hungry for something else. For land. For food. For women. For the soft, civilized, ’we-have-everything’ women of the kingdom to the south.

"We will take their homes!" Gharuk continued. His fist — the size of a melon — pumped the air. "We will eat their food! We will fuck their women! We will—"

The light hit.

Not sunlight. Not firelight. Not moonlight. Something else. Something that was not natural and not mortal and not ’of-this-world.’

The sky ignited.

A column of light — enormous, blazing, the diameter of a building — descended from the heavens. The color was wrong. Not white. Not gold. A searing, ’this-is-not-a-color-that-exists’ brilliance that made the eyes water and the brain hurt. The light hit the ground three hundred meters from the camp.

The impact was not sound. It was ’force.’

WHOOOOOOMPH—!!!