I lay there on my back, panting, my legs bent but still spread, not wanting to hide anything from the savage, scared witless at what he was thinking, contemplating, but with the overwhelming desire to have him inside me again. Why had he desired to do this? How had he known I would take this? Evening was coming on, and I had no idea how many more “agains” there would be. And what would happen when they stopped.

My eyes, when they weren’t turned to him, conveying my want of him, strayed to where his loincloth and belt lay—and to the long, blonde tresses of the scalp attached to the belt.

Was this going to be my fate too? He seemed to be contemplating that himself now, and yet with each time he had taken me, his face had exhibited yet greater sense of awe and wonder. He sat next to my right leg, in magnificent nakedness, an arm embracing my knee, the hand of that arm playing with the moss at my foot with the point of his unsheathed knife. His eyes kept moving around but always coming back to mine. I could tell that he was struggling in thought, trying to make up his mind about something.

I shuddered and moaned as I felt his hand cup and squeeze my balls. Rough fingers parted my entrance and rubbed the inner surfaces there, causing me to dilate more again. I groaned and opened my legs wider and raised my pelvis to his touch, trying to show him that I wanted him, trying to make him want me again. One of the fingers invaded, and making little panting sounds, I moved my hips, up and down, up and down, on the hard finger, drawing more of it inside me with each upward movement. Panting and moaning. We didn’t speak the same language, but could be possibly misconstrue what I was trying to convey?

The savage was breathing heavily now and arose up on his knees between my thighs. My eyes traveled down this muscular torso to see that he was in magnificent erection again. Not long, but impossibly thick. Leveraging on my feet, I lifted my buttocks off the moss, signaling that I welcomed his entry, the stretching of my passage with that thick, throbbing member of his. The passage would be easier now with the lubrication of his prodigious semen from the previous takings—and from the number of times he’d already been in there, stretching my channel walls to his needs and requirements.

Had he seen us before, when the wagon master, Mr. Jordan, had followed me into the woods from where our wagon train was camped when I was searching for firewood? The wagon master had caught up with me in a glen away from the wagons and near this waterfall pool I now lay beside with the savage on top of me. At Mr. Jordan’s command, I had gone down on all fours. He had pulled my trousers and undershorts down, knelt behind me and pressed his face between my buttocks cheeks, and then, rising and unbuttoning him fly, had mounted and fucked me.

I hadn’t resisted. My parents had both perished earlier on the wagon train journey west, and, all alone, an orphan, at fourteen, Mr. Jordan had agreed to letting me join his wagon. The stipulation had been that I lie under him. We’d both already known I was prone to that direction, as was he. In exchange for survival, I had let him take my virginity to men from me and then to keep on taking it.

After he had fucked me in the woods, risen from me, buttoned up, and walked away, I had gone to the stream below the waterfall, stripped off my clothes, and dove in to cleanse myself. I’d heard another splash, looked up, and found that a savage was in the water with me. He reached out for me and we struggled. He was a big, muscular brute, though. He exhausted me in the water, dragged me up onto the embankment onto my back, slapped my legs open, came down between them, pressing me down with his naked muscularity, entered me, and took me hard and deep. He was young, fit, and virile. He took me again and again.

After several takings, the fear subsided to be overtaken by the burning desire for him. He was choosing the sword over the knife again, at least for now.

He didn’t take me this time on my back, between my spread thighs. He ran a beefy arm under my waist—which was raised off the ground when I lifted my buttocks to meet his stiff staff half way in my signaling that I wanted him, wouldn’t fight him. He turned me on my belly and lifted me up to my knees with the power of the arm encircling my waist.

I bit hard on the gag of material covering my mouth and expending a deep groan as he thrust his thick manhood between my buttocks cheeks and into my passage, now so familiar with the shape of him, and immediately began to pump me again. This was an angle that permitted him to reach deeper than before. He was crouched over my hips, his chest pressed into my shoulder blades. The heel of his left hand dug into the moss beside my shoulder. He still clutched the unsheathed hunting knife.

I moaned as his staff moved in and out, a bit deeper with each stroke, and back and forth inside me, still working at stretching me to his needs. The fingers of his right hand buried themselves in my long, blond hair, seeking and finding the scalp. A jolt of fear went through me in an electric charge that raced through my body and initiated an explosive orgasm, not my first, onto the soft moss of the pond bank. Was he going to scalp me now, or cut my throat, here, during the sex act? Somehow, I didn’t care, not as long as I was able to explode again. He had moved me up a plateau in heat. He was deep inside me. How could I ever had thought that he wasn’t long? I couldn’t remember Mr. Jordan ever having reached this depth before. Or Mr. Jordan recharging to do it this often. Or me coming for Mr. Jordan as I was doing for this savage beast.

I shuddered and saw stars again. My arousal was increasing again and I was on a new high. The fingers in my hair closed into a fist. He jerked my head back, brutally, painfully. Pain from the grip on my hair and the arching back of my head and on the thick staff increasing its insistent, deepening pumping inside me. But none of the pain mattered. The pleasure of him moving inside me overlay it all. I never wanted it to end. At the same time, I was afraid from moment to moment that it would end—that he’d raise that left hand with the knife in it and slit my throat, or, worse, with him still thrusting inside me and making my passage walls shimmer and stretch, building to that last, great orgasm, he’d move the knife to my forehead and start taking my scalp.