The Archer’s Pleasure

(strangling)

Anya had made a good time of her scouting expedition. In the fifteen or so minutes since she had left her companion, she had discovered the location of the mercenary camp, a small grouping of tents around a central fire in a clearing not far from her location. She had spotted only three women around the camp and a sentry whose movements she now observed. Enyara would be happy to know that her time had not, in fact, been wasted.

As Anya watched the sentry pace back and forth on the slight ridge overlooking the camp, she wondered what had become of the redhead. Enyara had said she'd keep an eye out for any other sentries and that was the last Anya had heard of the woman since. The archer was not worried. She knew firsthand that her companion could take care of herself should trouble befall her.

The sentry ahead stood on the edge of the snowy cliff, bow in hand, a quiver of arrows slung across her back. From her position in the bushes, Anya glimpsed her curvy figure, her red hair kept in a short ponytail and the toned thighs that peeked out under the fur skirt she wore. The girl was barefoot, seemingly unfazed by the cold snow on her soles, and she wandered from the ridge to the tree a short walk from the edge and back again, only casually glancing at the thickets that ringed the clearing. Anya had surmised in her short time observing the woman that she was not a very good sentry.

The archer reached for her own bow then stopped. An arrow to the heart or throat would be an easy kill, an efficient kill but not a very entertaining one. Anya thought back to the necromancer she had strangled with her bare hands, at the surge of power and arousal she felt squeezing the life and breath out of the foul witch. Her heart quickened at the possibility of doing the same to the unwary lookout; it was a temptation too great to ignore.

Anya crept out of the bushes, slowly, her boots quietly crunching the fresh-fallen snow as she crossed the distance between herself and her prey. The sentry was not a whit the wiser to the danger behind her, occupied by some sight just over the ridge. Anya slipped her bow from over her shoulder but grabbed no arrow from her quiver. She held it in front of her, arms poised to lift it.

The girl moved suddenly, to stretch, and a yawn escaped her mouth in a white puff of breath. It was the last breath she took, for Anya's bowstring looped around her neck and yanked her back. She fell back with a strangled yelp and stopped short in the air, unable to fall all the way back in the snow. Anya had forced her boot into the small of the girl's back, forcing her spine to bend while she pulled her neck back with the bowstring. The result left her torso and arms dangling while her knees bent forward, utterly helpless to either stumble away or flee from the punishing chokehold.

A wicked grin crossed Anya's lips. She delighted in watching the redheaded sentry claw at the string on her throat, at her futile resistance to a death that would surely come. "Yes, struggle for your life, slut. It won't save you. It only makes me wet."

The girl answered her with a choked growl and tried to push off against Anya's boot. The archer smirked and pressed her boot deeper into the sentry's back. "Does it anger you that you can't kill me? Snarl all you want, bitch. Your life is mine." She pulled back harder on the bowstring, tightening the pressure on that slender throat. She felt the same rush of power, of arousal, as when she had strangled the sorceress. Her cunt ached with the sore need for release. She slipped a hand under her breeches and fingered the damp slit, maintaining her grip on her bow with her free hand.

Her prey fought on in a pathetic struggle for her own life. Her body jerked, her chest heaved from the labored attempts at breath and her pained gurgles mingled with Anya's frosty moans. Foamy bubbles of spit dribbled down the sides of her mouth, plopping silently in the snow. She shivered and shook, dangling uselessly in the binding suspension, unable to do anything but choke on the wire.

Anya withdrew her hand from her cunt, licking her own sticky release off the tips of her fingers. She laid back and enjoyed the show. "Still got some life left. You're a feisty one, aren't you?"

The sentry's struggles had grown weaker. Her hands no longer clawed, merely pawed at her damaged throat. Soon enough, her arms fell to her sides, dangling limply in the air. Her gurgling had ceased and her chest heaved silently for breath that would not come. Anya held her relentless stranglehold; she would not relent until the girl was well and truly snuffed.

The moment came not long after. A telltale yellow stream trickled down the girl's leg, staining the flawless white snow with dark splotches that misted in the frosty night air. Anya laughed low as she watched the sentry twitch and quiver, bent back like used whore. The archer maintained her tight grip for a few seconds longer before letting go. She looped the bowstring over the redhead's throat and let her collapse in a crumbled heap.

Anya stood up and brushed snow off her breeches. Bow slung over her shoulder, she began her descent down the ridge to the mercenary camp. There were still three women left to kill before she could consider herself finished.

I hope Enyara hasn't ended up skewered on the end of a sword, she thought, as she disappeared in the thickets.