W&W Chapter 34

Rating: Um, NC-17 for ears? I promise it won't be so long before the next installment by the way. I decided to split the Party into two parts since it turned out really long, but the second part is close to done already.

Well, what did I expect? I tied such a bad one on at our party I was lucky to have a liver left, really. Too-vivid dreams and a killing hangover were mild punishments, for the fun I'd had. Gawd, I thought I already *knew* how to party. I used to be a rocker, for cryin' out loud! Well, those Tribal boys and girls certainly showed *me*.

Damn. Lemme see if I can explain all that happened. It might not be in any kind of logical order; the after-party head, y'know. Along with other stuff. I'll just have to tell it as I remember it, and be damned to those who prefer a story that follows rules and a consistent time-line.

I'm gonna fuck up, because it's so hard, to get from where I am to where I have to go. It hurts. Never in my life have I had a problem with jabbering on, telling a story. But this one----

I'll do my best. I'll try to get from Don'ar dragging his newly-found brother off, the both of them laughing like a pair of drains they were so happy, to the same man standing over me, a cruel and dreamy smile on his face and a jade-tinted knife in his fist. I'll start at the beginning, but I don't know what paths it'll take, from there.

Well, shit. Perhaps this "party "idea was a godsend after all. Screwing a stranger is much less difficult, in a merrymaking situation. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. I had some experience, with all the beastly three. As well as the "screwing a stranger" part.

And I admit it, I felt an electric quiver of sheer excitement. Liquid surge of adrenaline, that I'd occasionally known when I was rocking on and suddenly realized the head-banger nearest the stage wanted me. Wanted *me*, the least attractive guy in the whole band. Maybe I hated myself for it, just a little.

Maybe because I'd missed it, the crackle of primal lust that could rise so effortlessly through the loud, violently strobe-lighted darkness? The only times I've ever felt desirable, were when I played and sang. When I rocked.

Sex, drugs--rock and roll. Emphasis on the sex in this case! Music still important---have to see about that. I'd been creatively dry for too long, and what the hell are parties for? I'd show these guys what music was!

"I'm not as stiff as you imagine me, wizard," Carson told me, in a voice that was a mere dark breath. The hot alien light in his eyes hadn't faded, though it was very oddly twined with real affection. As if he'd read my thoughts and found them charming.

"Sometimes part of you is stiff!" I observed, but it was a pat humorous response and he treated it as such, smiling coldly. I acknowledged his reaction by turning serious. "You sure about this? You always hated whooping it up. I know your father made certain getting loaded wasn't your chosen thing, with his fuckin' mind games---"

"I had enough to do when younger, to keep reality firmly around me," he agreed quietly. "But I understood eventually, why you enjoyed your potions of mood changing. And perhaps I despised your parties, because it was never my celebration? This time---" His slightly wolfish smile turned softer, as he studied me. "We never could truly revel in what we had between us, in that other world. Not openly."

"Okay," I said, meaning a whole lot more than that. And a thought hit me---I'd still been worrying, off and on, about the magic not rising between us when we were "bonded". Of course, I'd taken into account that the ceremony was as brutally cut as a cult film playing on network teevee. But maybe something else was also a factor?

Ceremonies were always damn important to the Riders; in the case of a Bonding even more so. I mean, people didn't get Bonded all that often, because it was so permanent. The hand-fasting thing, with both partners able to bail later if it didn't work out, that was way more normal. The scarcity of couples wanting to Bond made the event almost magical, even if it were normal people getting hooked, as opposed to me and Carson. So the rituals for a Bonding were pretty elaborate to begin with, because it was such a deal. A Bonding between a High King and his Chosen? Shoulda taken a couple of days of music, pageantry, and long speeches, not just Jalin patting our asses and wishing us luck.

But the *party* after such a Bonding? It woulda lasted *weeks*, involved every Tribe in the North, and wouldn't have slowed down until every drop of booze and every chicken in Khesh had been consumed. And then, they woulda started importing.

"Right, then," I said, so thoughtful that Carson studied me curiously. "A party it is. But no need to be a target waving our naked drunk butts at the Southern boys. I'm gonna talk to Jalin, see if he'll help me shield up the area. I know all the ins and outs of casting a shield, but he's better at actually doing it."

"A day to prepare, I think." He was off and running, lost in creating the bash. Who woulda thunk he'd get so into it? "There are some other things that can be confirmed, several namings as well as the ceremony for Do'nar's brother. Should we give him a tribal use-name as well, or wait to see what spirit chooses him?" he fretted. "You came to us with a name of power, but 'Asher' is as meaningless as any Southern word!"

"Or any English one," I pointed out reasonably. "Let's keep it simple for now; finding him a name would require Smitty to roll her snake heads and trance out for days, and we don't want Do'nar blowing up under the pressure of waiting."

Carson laughed at that, a rich midnight rumble that seemed to startle the group of tribesmen. I suddenly noticed them all hovering nearby, patiently awaiting their turn with the Warchief. After watching him tongue-lash Le'gahn they apparently weren't real eager to pester him till he was ready. I suspect they were also listening avidly; tribal business on their minds or not, a party was a party.

He ignored them completely, with true royal attitude. "So, my Hawk. Can this shield be ready, by the dawn following tomorrow's dawn? I would like the festivities to begin at sunrise, the ceremonies at dusk. There will be time to hunt and cook, if we allow the remainder of this day and the morrow for preparation---"

Wow. Impulsive decision or not, he meant to made a fair-size deal of it. And if we started drinking at dawn, us partygoers were gonna be as drunk as mad rabbits on a runaway ferris wheel by dusk.

"Well, if Do'nar doesn't pop when he hears day after tomorrow instead of thirty minutes from right now, I guess that's a go as far as I'm concerned. With two of us building it, a shield around the camp should take, oh say four, five hours to construct. It's a big project, but we're hella good."

I'm not saying I looked forward to that many hours of grueling magic-work, but I was determined that my people would be safe as they partied. And safe as they recovered, too---the time when you're hung over a toilet puking your guts out is even more vulnerable than when you're roaring around hours earlier, feeling like Superman and tripping over your own toes while imagining you're flying.

And to answer the unspoken question, yeah we had toilets, sort of a cross between water closets and the infamous porta-potty, one in each tent. Not as high-tech as Berkeley plumbing but not useless either, and no bills to pay! Especially efficient, since I'd gone around in a fit of boredom one day when Carse was unavailable, and tossed a looping clean-up spell on each and every one of them. Started out for just my friends, but the Riders are gossips and word spread. I mean, I like to help but Jesus Christ! Suddenly I was far from bored, and more popular than I coulda believed. The practical stuff always endears you the most. But still, a warrior incapacitated due to yakking his guts out in even the miracle I'd made of the private commodes wouldn't be up for much, defense-wise.

Carson nodded, then slashed me a smile that made the surrounding warriors back away nervously. *I* usually understand what he means, with his quick and somewhat savage amusement. But people who didn't know him as well probably figured I was up for decapitation at the minimum.

I gave him my best innocent look, even while noting to myself that the red glitter seemed to have vanished from his eyes. Or maybe just merged deeper, snuggling into the blue to create a subtle, near-violet flame. "Owe you something, I do declare I don't know what you's goin' on about, Massa Wolf!"

The surrounding warriors might not of known where the hell my Scarlett O'Hara flutterings came from, but they all looked as if they thought I might be suicidal, teasing the warchief in such a girly fashion. Carson just tilted his head and studied me, smile turning absolutely perilous. I dropped the Southern Belle shit, and grinned at him wickedly like the biker boy my mama had *not* raised me to be. "Anything can happen at a party," I agreed seductively. "So I better get on with raising that shield, huh?"

His eyes narrowed at the implication I'd make him wait that long, until after the festivities started. Of course he'd expected a boink by the end of the day or tonight at the latest. But something got into me, and I smiled flirtingly, turned, and took off without checking if his expression changed or not. I tell ya, it was all I could do to hold back the giggles till I was a few hundred feet down the road and safely behind a tent.

I don't taunt Carson often, I mean string him along and make him beg for it. Hell, generally if he waves his dick I'm right there jumping on it, to put it crudely. Cock-teasing's not in my nature, and I'll bet not a healthy thing to do consistently either, not with Carson anyway! But it struck me that there might be an element of fun in the game, this time. A party within the party. Wind him up until he was frantic, and then turn unexpectedly what? Aggressive? Or sweet and submissive; not usually my style, but it might be interesting to him as a new twist? I hadn't quite decided yet.

Of course, he could second-guess me if I overdid it, and I would no doubt be stripped and raped like lightning. Maybe publicly right in the middle of the feasting table if I got too cocky. I could almost see it, me yelling for mercy as I was bounced around on the platters of food while the whole crew of barbarian men and women cheered and pounded their mugs on the table.

The party came, and Carse obeyed me. He drank, too, for once. He drank a *lot*. Me and Do'nar peer-pressured him into it, with gibes I actually remember from my college daysthat's how utterly juvenile we were, and ganging up on him to boot. But in addition to our questionable influence, the outer tribesmen would've been insulted if the High King hadn't sampled their own special poisons. I mean, each group boasted a home-brewed favorite, and each tribal rep seemed to have brought plenty with 'em, even before being aware we were gonna throw a bash. Typical tribesmen, they were just sure our local inebriants wouldn't cut it for them. Though I seem to remember a crew of staggering, singing battle gals who went back to the Flame Moon tribe swearing they'd never touch Blue Death again---even while loading cases of the stuff on their horses.

There was one brew called Angel's Bite, for example, which even Do'nar found disgusting. Reminded me of a mix of Southern Comfort and Mad Dog 2020, and that's no compliment. I've never been much for sweetened liquor; in fact, one over-syrupy swig of this crap had me gasping for air and ready to hurl. But for some reason, Mr. Fastidious thought it tasted great! Of course, this was after he'd had a few tankards of Blue Death, one after the other in pure exasperation when me and Do'nar had chanted "wuss" at him several dozen times for sticking to spiced wine so insistently.

But Carson has a cast-iron constitution and to my dismay all the liquor didn't seem to affect him as much as it should That is, until he decided to call it quits in the wee hours of the morning. I will always carry a fond memory of him imitating a pinball on his way back to our tent, bouncing off equally drunken tribesmen with chilly grandeur and trying to remember where the hell we lived.

Still dark. Both body and mind are thick, drowsy, warm. No blaring alarm screaming to scramble up/fall into clothes/stumble to work. Well, there's noise outside the tent, party still in full swing out there of course; it couldn't be much past midnight now. No need to move, except for well, the bladder thing. Not urgent, yet. Time to stretch, smile a bit. Hold him.

We'd snuck back to our tent just after the ceremonies where Asher'd been made a tribal guy. And oh, yeh, the old boy Severn had gotten his Rider name as well as being proclaimed warrior---two different things entirely though both important.

Silverfox, we would call him now. He'd gone full tilt crazy on the Southern assholes who'd attacked us, proved that he was still able to kick enemy rear end twenty times over. His daughter wasn't pleased; Irenea thought he should spend his declining years safely in a rocking chair or its Tribal equivalent. Thing is, they don't have one. An equivalent, I mean.

He'd slipped out with a wartroop behind her back, covered himself with glory. Come home splattered with blood, hanging on the arm of a grinning blond Amazon who obviously thought this old coot was more than worth a tumble.

Severn was a throwback to the original Southerners, I think, basically mellow, peaceful guys. But damn could he hold a grudge when he'd been wronged! I had been pretty proud of him, not only for kicking Southern ass but for so easily finding a girlfriend. Although really I think the latter was a surprise to him too. No doubt he'd wake up going "Huh?" while Whiteraven was right in the middle of boinking him.

I fully intended to party with him later, and get the full story. But Carson expressed an urgent need for nookie somewhere near the party's middle, and who was I to say him nay?

Well, actually I tried to, but I didn't have much choice, really. And probably I shoulda had more sense, than to argue with a seven foot two inch warrior with a killer hard-on and enough booze on board to petrify a lesser man. Because he just threw me right over his shoulder like a rolled up rug when I meanly dared to indicate I needed a little more drinking time before I'd have any interest in getting cozy with him. Lugged me easily to our tent despite all my wailing and flapping, pushing his way a little unsteadily through the cheering, guffawing mass of Riders rather like he was heading to score a touchdown. And the crowd of hollering Vikings cheering him on his way sure looked like a rabble of football fans to me. All they needed were beer cans and hot dogs in their mitts instead of mugs and greasy chunks of pork.

The booze had managed to give him some type of attitude, all right. But I sure wasn't expecting where his mind would go, after three tankards of Firefog wine and the reluctant doses of Blue Death.

He had me well and truly pinned with the whole length of his body, and he outweighed me by over a hundred pounds, all of it muscle. One leg locked around mine to make dam' sure I couldn't move. One hand pinning both my wrists above my head with an ease that couldn't help but piss me off.

Too bad I'd made a private rule that using defensive magic during lovemaking was cheating. A levitation spell might work, but he was so stubborn he'd probably just hang onto me and continue what he was doing. We were wound so tightly together that a firebolt would've blown my ass up too.

It was all academic, really. He'd managed to work me up and then some, before meandering aside to this odd little kink. I was so roaring, fucking horny I couldn't have focused enough to light a candle.

We'd changed from ceremonial leathers to the lighter, colorful tie-dye stuff so as to party down in comfort, and the pressure of his hardened, throbbing cock through the thin cloth was driving me crazy. Huge and hot, but too damned motionless against my own pounding erection. He wasn't letting me move an inch, the merciless prick. I wanted to buck against him, feel his mouth on me, take him, be taken. I wanted everything.

I just couldn't believe the bastard was holding me down by force and all he would do was leisurely slurp my ears, one after the other and back again, until I wanted to scream with embarrassment at the incredible feeling of it.

"My dick! My dick! Pay attention to my dick!" I half-shouted. Unfortunately, what was meant as an imperative command came out sounding like a high school football cheer. Football again, dammit!

He was still at my ear, but softly laughing into it now, and I realized that by chanting my orders at him I'd lost the focus I'd put into not moaning. Of course he ignored me, twirled his tongue again around the sensitive point.

I groaned at the Spock imitation, but before I could tell him to bag it he'd taken my whole goddamn ear in his mouth, teeth just grazing the pointed tip before his tongue delved into, hot and wet and deep.

Stars, planets, whole galaxies formed, lived, and exploded behind my eyes, inside my body. A sea of liquid fire seared by lightning. And the cool magic I owned/was owned by, suddenly filled me totally. Not my plan, never before had that thing I carried condescended to ride with me during lovemaking with Carson. Of course, he'd never gone after my damned ears before, either.

It slammed into me, into all three of us in a howl of sorcery and I was riding it/being ridden. I was a golden dragon roaring at the stars, a starving vampire sucking the life from Northern gods. I was burning---burning---

Oh, yes, I was on top now. We were on the far side of the humungous tent from where he'd thought he was dominating me. Everything that had been in our path was smashed to batshit.

I focused my gaze and glared down at him, mockingly. "The next time some half-elven wizard from Berkeley tells you not to tongue-fuck his ears, will you for Christ sake listen?"

The grin vanished when a passle of Tribal boys and girls burst right into our tent, swords and axes at the ready. Then they took stock of our positioningI mean I was *right* on top of Carson, and both of us were lacking in the clothes department. What hadn't been discarded through sheer lust, had been pretty well blown up, sir.

"See anything green?!" I had to ask. No doubt they'd heard the big "ka-boom" and came roaring in meaning to save us from everything up to and including dragons. But what they ended up doing was falling down and laughing, at my expression and Carson's utterly out-of-character (to them) meek attitude. In fact the damn fool made things worse by grabbing my arm and begging---in a thick silken voice like chocolate turned into an alcoholic beveragethat I would tie him up, pin him down, and whip shit outta him with the leather straps that---I swear---I *did not* have hidden in the northeast cabinet!!

"Whoa-nelly!" our would-be rescuers remarked, or some Tribal observation much like it. They promptly exited the tent. All my curses and insistent cries that no, I didn't flog their king on a daily basis, fell on deaf ears as they hurried off to gossip all about it.

I mentioned that making him laugh pleased me, but right then his snickers were having the opposite effect. "You better stop laughing, you bonehead! Implying I beat you up, what the hell? You might be surprised if I do it, that shit deserves an ass-whipping!"