Chapter 37: The Black Sun and the Wetnurse’s Rebirth

Natasha die Frostklaue urged Velikiy Grom forward through the knee-deep snow, the great bear’s midnight fur steaming in the frigid air. Every padded step sent a shiver of raw pleasure straight through her clit, the psychic knot-link pulsing like a second heartbeat between her legs. Days of skulking had left the entire unit raw-nerved and aching. Thirteen colossal Blutklaubestien lumbered in loose formation, their riders perched high on rune-etched saddles, thighs spread wide over the beasts’ heaving backs. Behind six of the riders clung the Hexenzirkel witches, black-cloaked silhouettes with silver rune-chains glinting across bare, snow-pale breasts, their cunts grinding restlessly against the bears’ coarse fur as the beasts snorted and rumbled.

Natasha’s own cunt throbbed in time with Grom’s heavy breathing. She could feel the brute’s frustration like a hot iron pressed to her clit, the need to charge, to crush, to knot and flood helpless Slavic holes until they burst with black seed. The other riders fared no better. Olga Snowfur rode to her left, lips parted, hips rolling shamelessly against her mount’s spine. Irina Icevein kept one gloved hand buried beneath her fur cloak, fingers working her shaved slit in slow circles. Even the witches were restless, whispering filthy hexes that made the bears growl deeper.

Across Natasha’s back hung the relic mace Bärenknoten der Zerfleischung (Bear-Knot of Rending), its haft warm against her spine. The head was a brutal cluster of iron bear-cocks, three thick shafts ridged with barbs, each crowned by a swollen knot that could flare on command. She smiled, remembering the first time she had truly blooded it.

It had been three nights after Reinhard’s personal breeding. The Führer’s black seed still sloshed thick in her womb when a Rus’kiev supply column blundered into their ambush. A young lieutenant, nineteen, pretty, golden braids whipping as she swung a saber, had charged straight at Natasha. Grom had reared, slamming the girl to the snow. Natasha had vaulted down, mace in hand. She swung once. The knotted heads punched through fur coat and mail, lodging deep in the lieutenant’s belly. Natasha twisted the haft. The knots swelled, locking inside soft flesh. The girl screamed, legs kicking, cunt squirting helplessly as the barbs tore inward. Natasha yanked back. Meat ripped in wet sheets. Intestines spilled steaming onto the snow. The lieutenant’s last orgasmic spasm had painted Natasha’s boots with girl-cum and blood. Grom had roared approval, and Natasha had cum so hard her vision whited out, clit pulsing in perfect echo of the bear’s knot throbbing inside another dying cunt nearby.

Now, ahead through the blowing snow, lights flickered. Belyayevka. A nothing village, three hundred souls at most, log izbas huddled around a frozen pond, a single onion-domed chapel no bigger than a barn. Militarily worthless. But one inhabitant made it priceless.

Natasha raised a fist. The column halted. She turned in the saddle, ice-blue eyes sweeping her sisters. “We take no chances. The prize must not slip away. Three prongs. Olga, north ridge with three sisters. Irina, south through the birch grove with three more. I take the east road with the rest. Witches remain mounted until the square is secured. On my signal.”

The riders grinned, tongues wetting lips. Bears pawed the snow, cocks already unsheathing in anticipation. They split and vanished into the blizzard.

Natasha led her group down the rutted trade road, Grom’s bulk silent despite his size. The village slept, unaware. A single watchman stood on the palisade, lantern swinging lazily. Natasha nocked a black-ice arrow and loosed. The shaft took him through the throat. He toppled without a sound.

The first roars erupted from north and south simultaneously, Olga and Irina striking. Natasha spurred Grom forward. The great bear crashed through the flimsy gate in an explosion of splinters. Villagers spilled from izbas in nightshifts, screaming. Men grabbed axes and pitchforks. Women clutched children to their breasts.

Grom barreled into the makeshift militia gathering in the lane, twenty men and a dozen women in mismatched fur armor, relics glowing faintly with Moroz’Zauber. Natasha laughed, the sound rolling across the snow like cracking ice.

The bear charged. One man raised a spear. Grom’s paw smashed him flat, ribs bursting like dry twigs. Natasha swung the Bärenknoten. The knotted heads caught a broad-shouldered sergeant across the chest, punching through mail and bone. She twisted. Knots flared. When she ripped free, half his torso came with it, lungs flapping like wet rags. Blood sprayed hot across her face. She licked her lips, savoring the copper-salt taste.

A female corporal lunged, ice-lance crackling. Natasha parried with the mace haft, then drove the knotted head upward under the woman’s chin. Iron cocks punched through jaw and palate, lodging in the brainpan. The corporal’s eyes rolled white. Her cunt clenched visibly beneath fur leggings, a dark stain spreading as she pissed herself in death. Natasha yanked back. His skull tore open like overripe fruit. Gray matter spattered Grom’s fur.

Grom himself was a black avalanche. He seized a screaming militiaman in both paws, slammed him to the ground, and mounted. The bear’s monstrous primary cock, thick as a woman’s forearm, ridged and veined, speared the man’s ass in one brutal thrust. The soldier’s scream cut short as his pelvis shattered. Grom roared, knot swelling, pumping black seed until the belly distended and burst. Natasha felt every thrust in her clit, waves of pleasure crashing through her. Her juices sluiced down Grom’s flanks, steaming in the cold.

Two fallen female soldiers lay twitching nearby, pretty things, one with honey-blonde braids, the other dark. Grom abandoned the corpse and pounced. He tore fur leggings away with his teeth, exposing shaved cunts already slick from terror-arousal. The blonde sobbed as the bear’s cock slammed home, knotting instantly. Her belly bulged obscenely. Eyes rolled back in forced ecstasy. The dark-haired one tried to crawl away. Grom’s secondary back-cock speared her ass, double-knotting both holes. Both women shrieked as black seed flooded them, wombs and guts swelling until skin split. Natasha’s clit throbbed in perfect sympathy. She came hard, thighs clamping Grom’s sides, cunt gushing down his fur in hot rivulets.

The last militiaman broke and ran. Natasha hurled the mace. It spun end-over-end, knotted heads burying in his back. Knots flared on impact. When the weapon stopped, it ripped him in half at the waist. Lower torso kept trying to crawl until Grom casually crushed it beneath one paw.

Silence fell, broken only by distant screams and wet rutting from the other prongs. Natasha slid from Grom’s back, boots crunching in bloody snow. Her cunt ached to join the rape, imagined pinning some plump village wife face-down, grinding black milk into her mouth while Grom knotted her from behind, but the mission burned hotter.

She shouldered the Bärenknoten, still dripping, and strode toward the central square. Flames already licked rooftops. Her sisters herded survivors into the open space. The six Hexenzirkel witches dismounted gracefully, cloaks falling open to reveal rune-scarred tits and shaved cunts glistening with anticipation.

Natasha planted her mace in the snow and surveyed the kneeling, trembling villagers. Somewhere among them waited the prize. She swept her ice-blue gaze across the huddling villagers, their faces pale and streaked with tears under the flickering torchlight of burning izbas. Smoke curled thick in the frigid air, carrying the distant screams of women being dragged into snowdrifts and the wet roars of Blutklaubestien knotting fresh cunts. Her clit throbbed in jealous sympathy with Grom, who rampaged somewhere on the village edge, his psychic link flooding her with echoes of hot, swelling knots bursting Slavic wombs.

She planted her boots wide, mace dripping gore at her side. “Varvara Kuzminichna!” Natasha bellowed, voice rolling like thunder across the square. “Show yourself, old hag! I know you hide here!”

Silence answered, broken only by sobbing and the crackle of flames. No one stirred among the kneeling forms.

Natasha’s lips curled into a cruel smile. She stepped forward, boot crushing a discarded fur cap into bloody slush. “If Varvara Kuzminichna does not come forth in the next breath, I slaughter every last one of you. Men first, slow. Women after, knotted until your bellies split.”

A long, frozen moment stretched. Wind howled through the square. Then an elderly woman rose unsteadily from the back row, thin shoulders hunched under a threadbare shawl. Gray hair escaped her kerchief in wisps. Her face was a map of deep wrinkles framing tired hazel eyes. She shuffled forward on swollen ankles, hands clasped before her sagging breasts.

“I am Varvara Kuzminichna,” the old woman said, voice quavering yet steady, thick with Slavic burr. “Vhat ... vhat horror is zis, child? I know you. Little Natasha Frostbloom, niece of our Tsarina. I held you vonce, vhen you vere small and sveet. Now ... now you ride for ze vile Reich? Butcher of your own people? My heart breaks.”

Natasha threw back her head and laughed, the sound cold and sharp. She strode closer, towering over the matron in her fur-trimmed black leathers, massive tits heaving with each breath, nipples hard points against the chill.

“Oh, I remember you well, babushka Varvara,” Natasha purred, accent thick with corrupted Slavic venom. “Tsarina Sofia’s old wetnurse. Those fat, milky tits of yours fed her as a babe. Then you nannied her, wiping her royal ass and singing lullabies while she grew into the plump bitch who sits on Kievgrad’s throne now.”

Varvara nodded slowly, eyes glistening. “Da, I did. Proud service. Now I am retired, here in Belyayevka vhere I vas born. Simple life. I am unimportant old voman. Take vhat you vant from village ... food, furs, even girls if your beasts must ... but leave us in peace. Please.”

Natasha chuckled low, reaching out to grip the old woman’s chin hard, forcing her head up. Varvara’s papery skin bruised instantly under gloved fingers. “Unimportant?” Natasha leaned in, hot breath fogging the cold air between them. “No, babushka. You are very important. Blood of the royal line still lingers in those veiny old tits that once nursed Sofia herself. You will be a perfect conduit.”

She released the chin and turned to the six Hexenzirkel witches, their cloaks parted to bare rune-scarred bodies, cunts glistening with eager dew. “Where do we hold the rite?”

One witch, raven-haired with silver chains dangling from pierced nipples, tilted her head as if listening to unseen whispers. “The village chapel,” she rasped in guttural Reichdeutsch. “Ley-lines converge beneath the altar. Strongest there for the binding.”

Natasha grinned wide. “Good.” She swept her gaze over the Blutklaureiterinnen, who herded the villagers with casual cruelty, boots kicking ribs, bears growling at heels. “Sisters! See none escape. Take care of the rest. Enjoy yourselves. I want screams echoing until dawn.”

The riders whooped, dragging women by braids toward waiting mounts. Bears roared approval, cocks unsheathing thick and ridged. Natasha felt fresh waves of psychic pleasure ripple through her clit as Grom claimed another plump housewife somewhere beyond the square.

She seized Varvara’s thin arm in an iron grip, bones creaking under fingers. “Come, babushka.”

Natasha marched the old woman roughly across the square toward the small onion-domed chapel at the far end, its wooden walls painted faded blue, golden cross glinting weakly atop the steeple. The six witches followed in silent formation, boots crunching snow, cloaks billowing to flash pale asses and shaved slits.

They shoved open the chapel doors. Inside, candlelight flickered over simple icons of the Triple Cross, painted saints gazing down with stern mercy. A middle-aged priest in black robes stood before the altar, clutching a wooden crucifix. His beard was trimmed neat, face round and flushed with fear. Behind him, a small cluster of villagers, perhaps fifteen men and women, cowered among the pews, whispering frantic prayers.

The priest stepped forward, hands raised. “Please ... sisters of darkness ... leave zis holy place alone. Take me if you must, but—”

Natasha snarled and shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled back, tripping over a prayer rug to crash onto the plank floor, crucifix clattering away. “Silence, pig.”

She stormed inside, Hexenzirkel fanning out behind her. The hiding villagers shrieked as witches seized them by hair and clothing, dragging them into the open. Natasha swung her Bärenknoten der Zerfleischung in wide arcs, smashing wooden pews to splinters. Knots punched through oak like butter, tearing benches apart in explosions of debris. She laughed as she worked, massive tits bouncing with each swing, sweat beading between them despite the cold leaking through the walls. The witches joined, supernaturally strong fingers ripping entire rows free and hurling them into corners. Soon the nave lay cleared, bare boards exposed.

They dragged braziers from side chapels and scavenged every candle stub from alcoves and the altar itself. With precise movements, the witches arranged them in a large six-pointed star upon the floor, braziers at the points, rings of candles between. Flames leaped unnaturally high as they lit them, casting writhing shadows.

Varvara protested weakly as two witches manhandled her to the star’s center, stripping away her shawl and dress despite her frail struggles. They bound her naked to an iron candelabra dragged from the altar, wrists and ankles spread wide. The old woman’s sagging tits dangled, veined and flat from age, gray bush exposed between skinny thighs. She wept quietly, muttering prayers.

At each point of the star, the witches forced two captured villagers to stand, twelve bodies total, men and women trembling in torn clothing. Rough hands pinned them in place as invisible runes began to glow faintly under their feet.

The Hexenzirkel formed a circle around the star and began to chant, voices low and guttural in ancient Reichdeutsch, syllables throbbing like cocks in tight cunts. They waved pale arms in synchronized patterns, conjuring throbbing black runes that hung in the air, pulsing with obscene life. Candles flickered wildly. Brazier flames twisted into perfect, spinning swastikas, casting hooked shadows across the defiled chapel.

From his sprawl on the floor, the priest stared in horror, beard quivering. “Triple Cross preserve us... Bozhe moy ... zis is abomination...”