Time Nomads

Maiosara the nomad was tired. Even to the least discerning eye, she looked spent in contrast to her horse which labored to bring her sore body home before sunset. Her cheeks were lined with ashes for war-paint, giving her face a primitive militaristic aura. A bow was upon her back, and a lamellar cuirass of overlapping leather lames that looked like scales guarded her torso, and effectively concealed all of its feminine features. Like any Scythian rider, she wore trousers, and her familiarity with her horse was obvious despite the feebleness with which she handled it. She smiled and stroked it as its ears twitched nervously. She was “Oiorpata”, a man-killer. Warrior cultures inclusive to women were rare, but on the steppes of what would one day be Ukraine and Russia, one thrived for centuries.

In the far future, female graves would be excavated on this very land, full of bronze weapons and scale armor. On the whole, the flat grasslands could be a fairly miserable and freezing place to live, and certainly that’s how civilized people from warmer climates saw it. However, they may have been surprised at the quality of life that some enjoyed; the milk and meat of the cattle that traveled with the nomads promised a filling, high-protein diet. What they lacked in crops, they “taxed” from those peaceful folk who grew them. In a world where countless people were paper-thin half starved wretches, she was a goddess. There was sleek fitness to her that, in this era, emanated good health. Even the quality of her teeth would have informed the average peasant of the foods they had been used to grind. Another attractive testament to her familiarity with dairy and meat rested firmly in the saddle of her horse, stretching her hemp-woven pants tight around thigh and rear alike. Such were the benefits of being part of the upper caste, known as Paralatai.

In the distance, a man with a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, leather, and jeans watched on horseback. As the curious female approached, her eyes fell upon the three dead men he had shot. The glittering grey of her eyes was dispassionate, and perhaps impressed. He noted the bow upon her back, and placed his hand unconsciously upon the pocket watch that had brought him here. Should he head back to 1878? He had been reckless to accept the time-traveling device from the one who had brought it here. He was frozen by her colorless grey stare though, and by how right she looked in this harsh environment. She smiled and ran a hand over her long red hair, even though the cold Russian wind blasted the arrangement of her hair to shreds only seconds later. The post-civil war freedman realized she had probably never seen a black man, and for possibly the first time in his life, he saw grey eyes scan him innocently, untainted by the unfair preconceptions of the 19th century. He smiled back earnestly. His features were almost the opposite of hers; friendly, relaxed, daydreaming, and as the bodies around him showed, misleading. He was a cowboy, after all, and while these nomads were certainly tough, it wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with skilled archers who rode horses. That described many a native to the plains.

Part of the reason he had been told about the time traveling device by his friend Edward was because he was good with languages. He could speak Spanish, English, and the tongues of the Indians, and thanks to Edward from the future, he had received books on many ancient languages that he had sorted away in his brain with remarkable efficiency. However, knowledge of the Scythian language was still very basic, even in a post-time travel era book. He was still going to have to rely in part on his knowledge of the related modern Ossetian language to help him decipher it. “Hello, I am Marcus, and this is my horse, Salvadore.” He explained to her, pausing to wonder if he had declined the noun for “horse” properly. She laughed at his difficulty, noting that he had not used the genitive form of the noun. “Foreign?” She asked, following the reasoning he had predicted. Marcus told her she was sharp. Sarcasm might be an American thing, but apparently Scythians knew it when they heard it. He quickly apologized, and offered her some whiskey, which he could only describe to her as something stronger than wine. She relaxed as she drank him, and the leather armor came off to reveal a woven-hemp tunic.

Soon, they were getting along famously, and he was telling her everything. “I can go to the past or future with this device.” He said boldly, showing it to her. She eyed it skeptically, but widened her eyes when she saw the hands ticking on their own accord. It was amazing how a simple spring-loaded series of cogs could convince an early human of time travel, Marcus mused. The whiskey clearly had a hand in it, but the nomad who called herself Maiosara was looking at him like he was an angel who had descended from the sky, or in her case, a god. Maybe she thought he really was a god. No doubt the fantastic stories he told her had an equal share in her fascination. He was alien, and yet familiar to her. In places, their lives overlapped, and were strangely similar. They loved the untamed expanses, they loved freedom. They loved horses and beef. At some point when they had sobered up slightly, she stood up, and seemed to struggle with something she needed to say. With his coaxing, it came out; She wanted to challenge him to a race. The downside was that if he lost, she had to kill him. If he won… all was his. She was shaking, but the aptly named Ol’ Stoic Marcus was unfazed as always.

Marcus had marveled at the innocence with which this white girl had regarded him, but as her slate grey stare impaled him, he found that “innocence” was no longer the word. He saw raw need. “As selfish as it is, I urge you to accept.” She whispered. “If you win, you will not regret it.” She promised, and did not break eye contact as she began to remove her clothes. The shirt revealed her pale white belly at first, then her breasts, girlish but far from starved. Her nipples were responsive to the chill, and Marcus would wager they were responsive to more than that. “Sure thing. Fairest deal of my life.” He boasted offhandedly, not a trace of worry on him as he undressed.

The Scythian examined the cowboy’s body, and was pleased. It had been hardened by labor in youth, and even now it kept its form. His hand brushed her cheek, dark indeed against the backdrop of her creamy skin. He was breathless when she turned smiled, and when she turned around for him, flaunting what she exposed as she did preliminary stretches. She arched her back, bringing her ass up high. Suddenly, Marcus no longer felt like a future man. He wasn’t a reasonably intelligent 19th century man anymore; he was a caveman. He ceased to think and lusted, and paused only to marvel that a posterior of perfection could bring him to this. She dangled it like a carrot for a donkey, something guaranteed to motivate. “Race me to my bow. Catch me!” She shouted breathlessly, and then the race began. He was horrified briefly at her speed, but kept his eyes trained on her sleek, fit form, and on other attributes as well. He never slowed, and never speed up, but when Maiosara tired and slowed, he leapt onto her. He would have worried about hurting most woman, but Maiosara only kissed him passionately as they hit the grass together.

Maiosara exulted at the force with which she was pinned down- it was forceful, but nothing she couldn’t handle. At the age of seventeen, she had only become eligible for men two years ago, when she had finally killed her first opponent. In that time, many races had been won, and many more killed by her hand. Lifting her rear, she held the bait that he had chased high in the air, and clenched her moist, molten pussy hungrily as she saw his arrow-straight dick, which was now toweringly tall, much like he was. She was ready for the pain as her girlhood was broken. Even the pain, she could exult in. Pleasure and comfort overtook the pain as her lover kissed her neck and reached to stimulate her sensitive breasts. She had ached since the age of twelve for her first kill, and ached to be deflowered almost as long. Maisoara clenched her teeth, and closed fingers tightly around the bases of tall grass stalks, involuntarily pulling clumps out as Marcus pounded home from behind. Two words, exploded from her mouth, one of which Marcus understood; “*blank* me!” She shouted. Some things were the same everywhere. The word she used was not the formal term for intercourse. Clearly, she wanted a more powerful word. A dirty one. On cue, their lovemaking transitioned into true fucking. She repeated herself as her soaking pussy coated his shaft, gazing half-lidded up at him with fierce desire. Marcus’ passions were unleashed too; he moaned, feeling slippery female flesh milk the length of his manhood. He closed his eyes and pumped his hips with mechanical, almost piston-like force and speed.

He reveled as he emptied his seed into the fiery white nomad. Maiosara turned around and licked him off, not seductively, but out of unrestrained instinct. It was not a show or a favor, it was no more calculated than the lick of a dog. She closed her eyes, immersing herself in the smell and taste of both of them as she sucked. There was the hint of iron from blood, but it was drowned by the aroma of sweat and the flavor of cum. Maiosara never forgot a scent or a taste. She refrained from permitting him all the way into her throat, but made her way to the base of the shaft with her tongue. She made sure to keep him hard, then rolled onto her back and spread her legs for a second round. He plunged into her wordlessly, pressing his hard broad chest against the softness of her bosom. He ran the head of his dick over her clit, and teased her, confirming for him again that they all bucked for him in the end. He gave a triumphant exhalation as he again emptied the last of his long-repressed seed into his Scythian lover’s womb.

By the end of the day, Maiosara had had a lot of Marcus’ seed pumped into her. It was too much for Marcus to stay awake much longer, and virtually too much for her to not become pregnant. The whisper of a slithering serpent in the grass was a clear omen to her that she had taken child. In Scythian culture, now was the time for her to have dalliances, to sleep around; when she knew her womb was taken. Against all logic, it was a time for adventure- for enjoying a journey before she was weighed down. The man-killers had odd customs, and the nomads of Sarmatia had long argued that if this custom seems unromantic, it is because you are overcomplicating the definition of romance. She now knew sex, and hungered to experience more. With a grin, she fished the pocket watch out of Marcus’ discarded jeans, and sought a night-long vacation to the future. Of course, she assumed she could take as long as she wanted as long as she traveled back to this night. She struck the pocket watch and chose a number on the dial she discovered on the side. She was unfamiliar with Arabic numerals, which did not yet exist, but when she spoke a number, the digits snapped into place. She wanted to see what happened after Marcus’ time. She did not wake him, thinking that her play was only youthful mischief, but if she had, she was certain Marcus would have understood well enough. After all, from what he had told her, he was a libertine himself. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and promised to return. Marcus did not stir, nor would he all night.