CHAPTER 13: CHAPTER 13: SWEAT DRENCHED PRIMAL BEAUTY

Soon, Aunt Lyra came back holding a folded set of fresh loincloths. They were simple...rough-spun, uneven, dyed with crushed bark, but clean, tidy and smelling faintly of smoke and herbs.

"Here," she said, kneeling beside him. "You still can’t move much, so I’ll help you."

He gave a small, embarrassed nod. There wasn’t much pride left in pretending he could do it himself. His body felt like it belonged to someone else... weak, clumsy, heavy.

Lyra worked quickly, her movements gentle and soft. They looked rustic, sure, but when he slipped them on, they were surprisingly soft against his skin, warm and comfortable. The fabric had been washed in river water and rubbed with oil, the fibers smoothed by use. As I have said before, primitive or not, they were still humans who had common sense and finding comfort is in the genes of humans.

When she was finished, she stepped back and gave him an approving look. "Better. You look like someone alive now."

He managed a faint smile. "Yeah... better."

She slipped an arm around him again and helped him stand, he leaned on her soft and mature body, as she helped him inside. Feeling his arm sandwiched between two soft mounds, he couldn’t help thinking, ’it’s not too bad being like this.’

Together they crossed the short yard back toward the hut. The air was filled with even more scent of smoke and damp clay. Birds called somewhere in the distance.

Inside, the hut was simple but alive. The main hall was wide, a space meant for both living and sleeping. Dying sunlight entered through small windows like openings in the walls, falling over woven baskets, clay pots, and neatly stacked hides. Four small rooms branched off... a kitchen-corner with stored roots and dried meat, one filled with pottery and tools, a sleeping room for the head of the house, and another smaller one lined with woven mats that must have belonged to children.

She eased him down onto a soft pile of woven grass and fur in the main hall. It wasn’t a bed by modern standards, but compared to the ground outside and the inside of his skull an hour ago, it felt like a luxury mattress.

"Lie down, my dear," she said, smoothing the cloth over his legs. "Your strength will return, but not if you fight your breath."

He nodded, sinking into the bedding with a long, shaky exhale. Every muscle complained, but at least they were his muscles now. At least he was alive enough to feel them.

Then she turned to the low table near the wall and pick up a half-shaped lump of clay.

Without ceremony, she began working... shaping wet clay with both hands,

Hands moving slow, steady, sure.

Press, turn, smooth.

Press, turn, smooth.

The dim, dying sun cast shadows that danced across his sweat-slick skin like restless spirits. As she set to work at her pottery wheel, the rhythmic spinning sending her body swaying in a sensual dance. And her sweat-drenched body glistened with a primal beauty. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a haphazard braid, wisps clinging to her flushed skin.

He drank in the sight, his gaze roaming over her curves as if branding each contour into his memory. The soft clacking of her tools against the pottery served as a tantalizing counterpoint to the rhythmic thrum of his own heartbeat. As he watched, transfixed, a droplet of sweat trickled down her collarbone, pausing to glimmer like a precious gem before continuing its seductive path toward the valley of her breasts, barely contained by a deerskin loincloth.

He imagined tracing the lines of her sweat-sheened skin with his tongue, tasting the salt and musk that clung to her. His hunger for her body rekindled by the sight of her flushed, rounded form. He sat up, his arousal evident beneath the loincloth, as the tantalizing scent of her arousal wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the hall.

Every movement she made - the flex of her sculpted thighs, the bounce of her breasts as she leaned forward - seemed like a deliberate tease, a seduction designed to ignite his passion once more. His eyes roamed her sweat-slick skin, imagining the feel of her slick heat enveloping him as he watched her shape the clay into erotic forms that mirrored their own carnal desires.

Sol’s eyes never left her straining body as he watched, enraptured by the seemingly erotic display. Finally, he closed his eyes, savoring the lingering scent of her, a heady mix of musk and fertile earth that made his loins throb with anticipation.

...

After some time he finally managed to rein his desire, by continuously telling himself that, she will his soon, then he could enjoy every single pore of her body and fuck her senseless as much as he want.

He heaved and opened his eyes again to look at her seductive body one last time, before laying back down, as to not to be continuously tormented by her primal beauty.

He closed his eyes and focused his attention back on the fragments of memories, waiting to be organized.

The air was filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of clay meeting palm, the faint crackle of fire, and the distant voices of other villagers outside.

This was her world ... the quiet labor between hunts, the endless work that kept people alive when everything else was falling apart.

This was her normal and of most women in the primitive era.

From the fragments of memory he carried, he knew her husband had died years ago, during a hunt that went wrong, one of the many hunters who never came back.

A completely normal story here.

Went out one morning with the others, chasing something through the forest, and the forest chased back, one moment you are the hunter and the other a hunt.

That was how it went in this world. You didn’t get heroic deaths or final words... just silence and a body that never made it home.