copyright paul douglas robertson
please stop plagiarising my work!

1 was from PENGUIN!
so many amateur writers… what 500? more?

Max led the girl into the house and cast about for a torch. Seeing none, he sighed, but then his eye fell on a lantern set back upon a side table. He fished out his flints from one of his bandoliers – the sparks were sudden, almost shockingly bright, but after a few moments warm light spilled into the empty home. The places in his armour that had born the brunt of the biter’s frantic attacks glittered, scraped clean of verdigris and stains of rust by clumsily wielded weapons. By teeth. By fingernails.
There was no smell of decay here. It seemed that the house had been left before whatever calamity had twisted the minds and bodies of the folk of the town. The first room held a large table that had been adzed unevenly, with a centre-piece of wilted flowers and a crude iron candelabra. Upon the undressed hardwood floors lay a limp scattering of straw.
Max locked the door, lit the candles with a taper from the lamp and took the girl’s hand once more. Picking up the candelabra awkwardly with the hand that held the lantern, he led her through the house and into the next room. He gently pushed her onto a rough bench with flat cushions of loose linen over straw. She obeyed, obedient to his careful touch.
He set down candelabra and lantern.
Looking around him, suddenly shy, he reached into his bandolier. With an attempt at a flourish he produced the jar of beans. The girl stared dully past him, her wide eyes unfocused, unseeing.
In the buttery glow of lantern and candlelight, she looked far less like a creature from the insanity of this night of violence and fear.
Max realised that beneath the dirt, she was far younger than he had first guessed. Almost pretty, though her features were raw, her skin beneath the dirt appearing as if it had been scraped or scoured by the madness of the night.
He held up the beans, and then his face fell as he realised that, to feed her, he needed a spoon.
Taking the lantern, he left the girl with the candelabra while he walked into the kitchen. He looked through a rudely made drawer set into a canted side-board, and then a chest, wincing as the immutable steel of the cuirass stabbed into his hip. But then his gaunt, battered face was transformed in a smile of pure delight as he found a wooden spoon.
As he turned from the chest he suddenly jerked backward – the girl had been standing behind him, perfectly still. She was half-lit in the dim flamelight. She was staring at him. There was no sign of awareness in her gaze. But there was something… in her eyes. She licked her lips.
He felt his throat tightening. His mouth was dry, and then suddenly full of wet saliva. She was so close. He could touch her – he could just reach out and touch her young skin – just raise his arm and stretch out his fingers and –
He realised that he could not look away from her, and that the distance between them had become something intimate; the cold air was pressing, heavy against the heat of his skin. It promised… promised… His wide eyes, one blue, the other almost yellow, danced from place to place as he tried not to look at her and failed.
He stared. The shapes of her thighs beneath the thin wet shift, the arc of her cheek, the fullness and youth of her lips. Her breasts pressing against the sheer, torn linen.
Max shook his head to clear it. Not the most appropriate time for such thoughts. And she was so young. So young.

He took her hand and led her back to the bench, carefully placing the lantern next to the candelabra upon the table.
She responded easily once more to his gentle push, and sat, though now her eyes never left his face. There seemed to be nothing of awareness or intelligence behind them. But something… something there… Without warning, she tilted her head away from him, her white neck bared, but without moving her gaze from his face. Something… in her eyes and in the open wetness of her lips – she looked so hungry.
Max nodded and opened the jar of beans.
Bending to feed her, the plate cuirass that he still wore pinched his skin painfully. He placed the jar carefully beside her and tugged at the fastenings, but they were ancient, and tight, and would not move at all under his slipping grip. He was well used to wearing his own armour of stiff boiled leather, oiled pieces of chainmail and iron pauldron, but this was not his armour and it was different and he was sick of its clenching discomfort. He undid the ties of the long leather cloak he had acquired and let it fall to the floor. Even that action made the steel stick a corner into him.
Suddenly it seemed as though he was trapped in the armour, so heavy and immovable, suffocating him; he could not breathe in such a carapace and he was wild with the need to free himself from its clutching weight. He snapped the leather fastenings in his small, strong hands and threw the pauldrons into a corner, and then the spauldings. His breath came rapidly as a kind of panic overcame him, and he ripped free the buckles holding the breastplate, hurling it into a wall, the backplate falling from him and crashing to the floor, both pieces clanging in the silence.
Frustrated at the complexity and awkwardness of undoing the rest of the platemail, Max tore at each of the clasps and hasps and stripped himself of couters, vambraces, rerebraces, greaves, rondels, cuisses, lames, and demi-greaves, finally almost falling over the scattered armour he tried and eventually succeeded in pulling the habergeon over his head.
He stood panting, sweating, in tunic and loinclothes. This was one of the reasons why he preferred light armour.
The girl stared at him in the suddenly silent room. She had not reacted to any of his thrashing and cursing apart from her gaze tightening somehow without anything like cognizance behind it.
Max closed his eyes for a moment, feeling suddenly foolish, ridiculous in his stained undergarments. Though how could he feel embarrassed at the witnessing of his capering by this girl whose mind seemed to have left this world?
He found the spoon, dipped it into the sticky mixture and lifted it to her lips. Her throat worked. He placed the spoon against her mouth and her lips opened a little, then a little more, and she gulped the food. His self-consciousness vanished as he watched her, entranced at her visceral need.
Sauce dribbled down the front of his cloak, that she now wore, and over his fingers. She licked the spoon hungrily, her pink tongue flicking between her lips, a snake in the narcotic grass. Then she licked the sauce from his fingers, the sensation of her touch prickling the skin all over his body.

She bit his palms softly; licked his wrist.
Her hands came up and grasped his bicep firmly as her tongue lapped at the inside of his elbow. She began to make soft mewling sounds and he watched her, eyes wide unable to pull back, his erection feeling huge and uncomfortable against the rough tightness of his loinclothes. He realised that he was biting his lower lips and swallowed compulsively.
One of her hands left his arm and went between her legs, pressing the thin shift against her.
Her lips moved swiftly from his elbow to his neck, and the touch of her hot breath on his cold skin shot through his mind in burning lines. She bit just above his clavicle, then higher to just under his jaw. She sucked at him as if she were drinking from him and her body shuddered and the hand between her legs moved faster. He could see the rise of her breast pressing against his chest, and his fingers opened, dropping the spoon and jar to the floor. His left hand seemed to move of its own volition, slowly, as he stared at the absolute perfection of the girl’s high breast in the half-light. Shaking, he pushed the material of the shift back, exposing a small, hard, pink nipple. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. He cupped her breast enclosing it within his palm, feeling the frisson of the nipple in the centre of his hand. His thoughts fled from focus, images fear and exhaustion driven to warmth and lust.
The girl moaned and her hand left his arm and went to his crotch. She stroked and grabbed at him through his loinclothes, and the pressure and the rough material felt like an exquisite agony against him. He pushed her shift down further, exposing more of her pale warm skin, her other breast spilling free; a pale gift of beauty. She was pulling at his loinclothes but seemed unable to comprehend how to get them free. Her motions became more frenzied and she made louder frustrated, breathy noises . He reached down and undid the string that held them, and the night air was shockingly cold on the hot skin of his cock.
Fifteen… if that… barely more than a child… She took him in her hand and he gasped loudly in the quiet room… She is in some trance state; this is not an act of volition or choice…She struggled out of his cloak and grabbed him with her other hand, her fingers wet from being inside her through the shift… This bizarre night of his life, this exhaustion the absolution of pleasure the totality of his desire… She tore at the shift, seemingly unable to free herself from it. He guided it over her head and made gentle cooing noises in her ear.
She took hold of his cock and straddled him, guiding him into her. He pushed against her and cried out at the touch, his nerves singing, rushing blood. He slid into her and it seemed like the most pure sensation of his life, and his thoughts, his building guilt and burning questioning mind were silenced in a cresting wave of pleasure rising like a tide of ice through him, touching every nerve. He was enveloped, buried in her fevered flesh, searing impossibly hot against him.
She held his wrists and arched her back as they fucked. He opened his eyes and saw that she was watching him, her mouth open and her eyes half closed in bliss and lust. Her body in the candle light seemed beautiful beyond perfection. He let his gaze explore her writhing milk white skin, watching her impale herself on him, how deep he was buried within her. As she slid down him again.
She moved more quickly, her fingers gripping his wrists to the point where it was beginning to hurt. She began to moan, suddenly and loudly, an animal noise echoing in the silent house. She thrashed on top of him, her breath rasping, and he leaned back as waves of shockingly bright pleasure rocked his body with her every movement. She hooked her fingers into his mouth, he could taste her sweetness on her fingers, and she pressed her forehead to his as her hips bucked wildly, her breath on his face as her stared into her contorted features. He could feel every minute difference of pressure inside her, slick and muscular and heated with fever.
Her nails dig into his skin. Her movements increased even more. The bench began to be jerked across the floor. She threw her head back, yelping from the back of her throat. She buried her face under his jaw. He felt his own orgasm peaking through him. It blocked his senses in a sizzling white noise. A purity of pleasure and nothingness. She screamed against his neck. Her hips came clamping down on him and he felt his own cry echoing hers involuntarily.
She bent back, away from him, her legs shuddering as she came. She screamed again and threw herself forward onto him, baring her teeth.
Pain shot through Max and he instinctively threw her from him. She landed heavily against the hardwood table in the centre of the room.
He reached tentatively to his neck and winced as his fingers came into contact with a stinging welt. She had bitten him. Though she had not quite drawn blood.
He looked towards her.
She sat curled against the table, staring at the ceiling. Her mouth was open in a beatific smile.
She stretched and slowly lowered her head to the floor and closed her eyes, the smile lingering about her lovely lips.

“Fuck.” Max said.


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Artist's Description

There is a passion here, but it isn’t from the hearts of the protagonists; it boils from their skin and the ferocity of their lust. They fall into each other like fingers grasping desperate to clutch. It is as real as I can make it and it begins with baked beans.

This is an extract from my forthcoming novel – All That We Have Given (Brotherhood of the Sword, Book One.)

Please don’t copy and paste this without a reference and/or link; the html is

Artwork Comments

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  • MaisieNoble
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