DAMSEL IN THE ROUGH: Amazon Warrior Sarmatian story Zeus bannishes Tasha from New York to Ancient Greece where a serial killer awaits to kill his next time-traveler. Being the protectress of women, Hera offers an out---maybe. Visit page for sample chapters added May 5, 2001 ***Another Bard going for publishing!

Author: Wilma3: Ann Logan
Story Title: Searing The Wounds part 1
Characters: Xena & male, Xena/Gabrielle, Xena/Gabrielle/male
Rating: NC-17
Summary: While caring for Xena and Gabrielle, a lonely rancher gets lost in his own sexual fantasies.
This rating is for explicit m/f sex.

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SEARING THE WOUNDS part 1

©_ February 20, 1999___Ann Logan

2, 3

DISCLAIMER:
Xena: warrior princess and Gabrielle are characters belonging to USA/Network MCA/Universal. No copyright infringement was intended. This story belongs to Ann Logan. That having been said, please enjoy.

For three years, I've existed as a proficient sheep and goat rancher. Some villagers from a half-day away, bring me their ill. Shepherd, they say, is the finest healer. ( I think it's more my lax to say no.) My days as a widower have marched to my purpose. I've been a man unto myself until an event from last winter.

I struggled through eight day of snowing.(The worst, I've known in all my thirty-two years.) It was early evening, though it had been dark most the day. As I huddled by a modest fireplace, I sipped the liquid from a hot bowl of lamb stew. A tall warrior burst through my door.

The first, I noted, was her bloodstained sword dangling at her side. My tardy palm indicated a bubbling pot daggling in the fireplace.

"Take what you wish," I said, quickly standing. "I'm called Shepherd."

I sat my bowl on the hearth. My dagger hid on the back of my boot. The female warrior stepped closer, easing a protective narrow brow.

"Are you hungry," I asked?

The amber flickers from my fire caught her crystal gaze. She was a half-hand taller than I, maybe fifty pounds lighter. Her black-bear cloak matched her long raven braid. A northerner, like me, I figured. With her next staggering step, her sword raised swiftly. My chest held my breath captive.

"I mean you no harm," I yelled, moving my hand to snatch my dagger.

The warrior woman dropped her sword then she fell on her side. In haste, I shut my door, blocking my nearest escape. She muttered something indistinguishable. Kneeling beside her, I rolled her body on her back.

"What ails you," I asked?

"Got to go," she said.

Her fluttering eyelids were wind-worn. Striking regal cheeks were blemished with soot. From a variety of slits in her bearskin cloak, I knew she had engaged an overwhelming battle.

"Warrior," I said.

I took heed to inspect further. Were she aware of my dagger, I'd be dead on the floor. The bear cloak lifted easy, save a glued area by the top of her right shoulder. With my boot dagger, I cut around the afflicted patch, tossing the remaining cloak aside. Her neck was filled with large finger-size bruises. In her hand-to-hand battle, she must have been skilled to outwit a monster.

At first, I saw dried blood clinging to the patch under her right shoulder. There was a swollen purple mound, suggesting a deep stab-wound. Then, I squinted at her prolonged athletic arm covered with flaking blood clots. She must have engaged several antagonists. I glanced at her bloody sword, silvery white along its razor edges. Maybe a larger group gave chase. Her long legs were clammy and pale. She had lost much blood, seeking shelter.

"From whom are you hiding," I shouted? "From where?

Being gentle, I grabbed a folded blanket to rest beneath her head. Then , I heated a pot of water, laying the tip of her sword in white charcoals. The storm rocked my hut which couldn't have been easy to find. While the warrior slept, I continued my cordial exam. She wore a thick leather tunic with an intricate display of silver-shielding. I didn't seek to add further pains yet needed to reveal any hidden maladies.

"Warrior!"

She didn't flinch. I stripped the garments then brought them to a laudry barrel in a the den. Returning to the living room, I removed the stew pot to the hearth and thought to add extra wood to warm the room. The fire spit crackles landing on my palm. I shook my hand, blowing the annoyance.

She moaned unconsciously then said, "Go back.

"Who," I asked?

She sustained in sleep. Her nudity was a dreamer's fantasy, true-born. Over the mantel, I took a small oil lantern then lit it to enlighten my view. The woman warrior's rhythmic respiration heaved fulsome silky breasts slightly parted to the sides. Beyond the patched shoulder, I looked for other injury to amend. The lamp shook in my anxious hand. She was so beautiful. Save a few bruises about her taut thighs, her satiny skin flowed chest to toe.

My eyes gazed upon her rosebud nipples raised to the coldness of my room. Despite my shame, I caressed the sensitive tips. She felt hot-blooded like the wiles of my departed wife. I caressed in larger circles, feeding youthful urges my wife had adored about myself.

A slight moan leaked from the warrior's lips. "Gabrielle," she whispered.

"Is that you?"

I sat back, ashamed. My wife, this woman was not. Glancing at the fireplace, I saw her long sword was glowing crimson. She had lost enough energy already. I snatched the sword then straddled her torso.

"May Mercy," I prayed. "Flow upon these hands."

Ripping off the shoulder patch, I waited for fresh red rivulets. Then, I pressed the burning cusp. Flesh sizzled as the wound seared. Using my weight I rode the warrior lurching. Her jaw opened then closed. Only her crystal eyes cried to me, a brief moment. Then,she gazed at the sword, absorbing my medical act. When she collapsed, I rolled off, lifting the sword and grabbing the lamp.

"You are safe, Warrior."

I jogged outside the door, piercing her sword in an ice mound. Steam minced with the blizzard winds. My worst was done. I raised my lamp to study bluish terrain. Dragged tracks barely showed in the south. In the east, flowing snowhills blocked view of the ocean. Judging from my last foot-tracks, I needed to shovel a new tunnel to the woodshed. But first, the warrior.

I retracted the sword, inspecting its decorative handle. This warrior held stature, at one time. Swooping her blade, I felt its marvelous balance then strolled inside. The warrior had traveled overseas, an Amazon perhaps. I closed the door on heckling whirlwinds of snow. Amazons hold the art of traveling sand without print. Why not snow, as this one did?

Her face glowed in peaceful repose. Grabbing a small ceramic basin, I added tannin-soap and hot water then crept to her. If she were Amazon, where were her followers? Kneeling beside her, I buffed the tannin-bar against a damp cloth then wrung dripping suds to my woodplank floor.

"You are a foolish woman."

I scrubbed burnt grim from her forehead. She didn't stir, no surprise. Using a rinsing cloth floating in the basin, I removed the soap foam sliding across her regal cheek, so soft and proud. Repeating the cycle, I progressed down her chest.

"I hope I'm not hurting you."

"Mm," she said, unconsciously.

I waited a moment, holding the damp cloth against her stomach. Then, I proceeded with a lighter hand.

"Mm, yes," she said.

I gazed at her feminine triangle, curly black velvet. Oh what a boldness I suffered. Taking the sudsy cloth, I stroked gentle circles about the area. She moaned with a tone that carried through me. Switching to a rinse cloth, I braved my hand to wash between her feminine clef.

Softly, I whispered, "I should be done, shortly, Warrior."

Her legs parted slightly while her right hand reached for her stomach then fell. Something I never expected from her weakness. I took care to tread slower with the rinsing cloth. Salt dripped from my lip.

She cooed,"Yes, there."

By Cupid, I wanted to spend the pressure pushing within the confines of my trousers. I squeezed the moisture dripping to the floor.

"Yes," she said, slowly.

I sat back and drew a calming breath. I would not be as him, the baseless slave-trader who annihilated my wife in every way. This was another woman in peril. This time my hands were not fastened like a dog to a tree.

Wringing a soapy cloth, I started at her shoulder, carefully washing dried grim from the purple mound. It was torturous, soaping and stroking her vast milky curves while she moaned in pleasure.

"Mm, more," she cooed.

"Stop, that," I said.

I wrung the rinse cloth repeatedly as if to choke my masculine tautness. Laying the washcloth on her supple breasts, I pictured a horse and just buffed to a shine. The warrior moaned longer than before.

"Stop," I cried.

I tossed the wash cloth then raked my fingers across my scalp. The warrior shifted. I glanced down as her eyes opened, listlessly.

"Who," she whispered?

Her thin gaze drew pleasure at the sight of someone she must be seeing in my place. With my features, save the kindness of my wife, no sane woman found lust.

"Rest," I whispered. "All is safe, friend."

"Thank you," she said so velvet like a mating lark.

"You are very welcome."

I smiled to encourage her peaceful gloat. A blank sleep soon befell her mystery eyes holding tales I wanted to hear. Rushing my task to wash, I stare at the woman, my patient, then carried her my bed.

Several blankets warmed her nakedness, too strong a beauty to ignore. Quietly, I crept outside, for the comfort of the cold, shriveling my yearning. Then, I shoveled a new tunnel to my woodshed. (I could have shoveled a new path to Troy.) If a snow mound blocks the door, we will inevitably freeze, starve or suffocate.

Since the storm's onset, I've kept practice to sleep by my fire, my warmth and duty. It was easy to lose my thoughts in the dancing flames. My wife loved those moments, we once shared. I starkly recalled the sight of my hands tossing dirt to bury her lifeless smile. She would have shared a son with me that summer. That harsh summer, three years ago. How foolish I've become, replaying this accursed memory.

Adding another log to the blaze, I heard the warrior woman cry out. It was too early for that reaction. Lighting a small oil lamp, I crept into the bed room. Still under the blankets, she slept deeply. Ah-ha, another dreamer! Her face glowed like an angel enduring her torments within. I palmed her warm cheeks, no fever. Any vitals after enduring a seared wound is a good sign.

She yelled, "Gabrielle!"

I nearly stunk my trousers, leaping back. Good, I thought, she doesn't need me anymore. Her struggle would continue for days and nights. What would I do when she awoke? Going back to the fire, my mischief offered an answer.

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NEXT-2, 3-Last ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A fashion businesswoman arrives for on a seven night vacation, hoping for her boyfriend's inevitable wedding proposal. Taking a forced photo-assignment, she and a wayward pilot crashland on a deserted island. Great movie!

Logan_a@hotmail.com
Page edit: Jan 14 2000