Birthday benefaction

by BRK   

Esmond is thrilled. His birthday has finally come, and he’s looking forward to the end of his year of service with the prickly, sarcastic mage in the tower. What he’s not expecting, though, is a birthday gift from the old man. Does he have an ulterior motive?

Esmond let himself into the mage’s villa and closed the heavy arched door behind him, whistling tunelessly to himself as he tossed his grandfather’s linen hat onto a massive cherry-wood chair by the door and proceeded down the narrow stone-block passage to the sprawling, dusty library that had swallowed the innards of the ancient, converted keep like some kind of bookish plague. There, no doubt, would be his reluctant quarry, the imperious, insufferable old man to whom his softhearted dam, in gratitude for healing Esmond’s ailing aunt, had recklessly pledged Esmond’s service and studentry each and every afternoon thenceforth from his eighteenth birthday, for the ludicrously excessive term of an entire twelvemonth… and a day beyond. For good measure, as the bakers said.

He’d long forgiven his excitable dam for thus handing over her third and lankiest son to boredom and distraction, but not the old man, a dignified, thought-wandering misfit known as Brandyn of Kent, for his perversity in accepting such an inapt and unwonted pupil. Sure, Esmond had learned his letters and the names and uses of a hundred plants, even excelled in what the old man called arithmancy; but what use was that to a troubadour and a lover? His lot was to don the tightest trousers and woo the fairest maidens and lustiest squires, earning his livelihood on the backs of his sweet and comely conquests. His brothers had been born brutish and burly, their futures as partners in the field to their lowly oxen evident even before their christening, and all the more so now; but Esmond’s slim legs, succulent cockstand, and perfectly rounded buttocks were meant for nothing but love and comfort. So his swains and doxies always professed, and who was Esmond to cast doubt upon their testimony?

Normally Esmond scraped down this long, cold passageway in slump-shouldered resignation, but today was different. Today his walk was jaunty and his shoulders square, because today was that day—the three hundred and sixty-sixth day. His birthday had come round again. Today he would be free of the old man.

Esmond was fond of birthdays. Local tradition was to spend the morning of one’s natal day in the bosom of the Lord, and the evening in the bosom of one’s choosing. Well, he had been to matins, and (he smiled as he danced down the narrow, curving stairs to the base of the library-keep) he had offers to choose from when it came to vespers. The baron’s swarthy, slim-waisted kitchenmaster had been casting him an appreciative eye the last three times he and the old man had gone into town bartering herbs, and Esmond had a feeling the handsome fellow knew just what to do with a good cock.

And why should he not enjoy his natal day thus? It happened that his birthing day was June the ninth, a day most auspicious for love and lust alike. From the day he learned his numbers he’d fancied the Roman six resembled nothing so much as a vagina and a hard prick, and the nine, again in his eyes, could easily depict the same prick and a puckered butthole. Such choices! When in an idle moment he had voiced this thought to the mage, Brandyn had gone on to claim that the heathen Arabs in Spain had their own numbering system, one in which the numbers of his birth added in an even more salacious manner! But Brandyn was always a purveyor of meaningless blather such as this.

Esmond scoffed. What cause had he to know how the Arabs counted, or fucked? He was happy to count, and fuck, and count his fucks, as his ancestors had done since before history was devised to wile away the hours of those with neither fields nor fieldhands to plow. Like a certain crusty, castlebound old mage he could name.

Esmond burst into the vast circular library chamber with a cheery “What ho, old master?”

Brandyn of Kent lifted his formidably bushy eyebrows from where he hunched over a tome at the large central table—the mage trimmed his black and white beard as well as a princely scion, but left his eyebrows to run wild, like a grass fringe along a house no one ever cut.

Esmond laughed as he skipped over to him. “Had any since we last met?” he asked brightly. “Because I have.” He plunked himself into the large heavy chair next to Brandyn—solid cherry-wood, like its twin in the vestibule—and beamed insolently at his soon-to-be-former tutor.

“My affairs are none of your affair, as you well know, young whelp,” Brandyn said patiently, a twinkle in his eye. He was wearing simple clothes, dark linen trousers and a light tunic that laced at the top, at the moment loosely opened to show a few dark chest hairs. Brandyn had apparently never favored the robes that were supposedly traditional for his profession.

“No doubt,” Esmond said. He was convinced the old man’s affairs were entirely imaginary and involved no living man, woman, or beast. Though there were a few sheep in the fields beyond the keep, he thought wryly, not hiding his smirk. As men old enough to be his father went, Brandyn was adequately built and decently handsome in a dark-eyed, Kentish sort of way. Certainly enough to woo a ewe or two, he thought, holding back a snicker. “So,” he said, tossing an arm over the back of his chair, “what is to be my final lesson, great sir?”

“Only this,” the mage said. He reached past a pile of unrolled parchments and found two parcels wrapped in brown cloth. One was wide and flat, the other smaller, the size of Esmond’s fist. He turned and set them both on the heavy table in front of Esmond, expression inscrutable. “For your birthday,” Brandyn said, “I offer you a choice of gifts.”

Of course, Esmond thought. Nothing is ever simple with this old fart. He looked over the two objects, then glanced at the old man. “Am I to open them, or—?”

“Guess first,” Brandyn said. “Use the wisdom I have taught you.” Esmond groaned out loud, and Brandon’s trim beard moved in a slight smile. “I will give you a hint,” he said. “One is a blessing from Athena, the other, Eros.”

“A conundrum indeed!” Esmond laughed. He nodded his chin toward the larger parcel. “That is clearly a book, and—”

“A book of?”

Esmond rolled his eyes. “You tell me every day my skills in herbology and maths would do me well as a master apothecary,” he said. “If I had to guess, and I do, it is… a codex of elixirs and materia medica.”

From the twitch of his mighty brows Esmond knew Brandyn was genuinely impressed, though as usual he did not say so aloud. Inwardly, Esmond preened. “And the other?” Brandyn pressed.

Esmond considered the smaller bundle, twisting his lip in thought. “A blessing of Eros,” he mused. He glanced up at Brandyn through his lashes. “You consider me to be obsessed with fornication,” he said with a sly smile. “Is it, perhaps, a portion to retard the sexual animus?”

Brandyn shook his head, amused. “The opposite,” he said. “It is the potion of willow-goat’s tear, a powerful… augment… to a man’s special prowess.”

“You don’t say,” Esmond said, trying not to react too obviously. “And you said I must choose?”

“Call it a Kentish tradition,” he said, gesturing toward the two cloth-wrapped parcels. “Esmond, son of Edmond, for our last meeting I offer thee a choice of paths. With you be scholar… or satyr?”

Esmond frowned. He leaned forward and considered the old man closely, eyes narrowed. “There is some trick here,” he said after a moment. “You do not lie, not as a rule; but there is some subterfuge in this.”

“No trick,” the old man said calmly.

“Hmph,” Esmond said. “Only the schemer says there is no scheme.”

Brandyn’s dark eyes twinkled again. “Logic was never your strength, whelp,” he said. Indicating the bundles he went on, “These are your natural strengths. With these you can shape your life, in this direction or that. Which will you choose?”

Esmond dropped back in the sturdy, nodding slowly. “You expect me to choose the potion, because you believe me to be insolent and ruled by my prick. That… that would make you unbearably smug, would it not? That I proved the truth of my base character?” He smirked, standing and reaching for the larger parcel. “Therefore, I will choose the book,” he said, holding it up. “Just to fuck with you.”

The brows went up. “I am indeed surprised,” he said. “But I think you have chosen well.”

Esmond waved the book in his right hand. “Shall be part as friends, then?” he said.

Brandyn grunted and stood, rather laboriously—his knees had been bothering him lately, he said. As he rose Esmond transferred the book to his left hand and held out the right to shake, and Brandyn took it, standing only a little taller than the lanky youth but slightly broader in the shoulder. “Thank you for teachings, old man,” Esmond said as they shook, barely taming a wide smile.

“Good luck with your chosen path, whelp,” the old mage replied, the light in his eyes as big as a grin.

Esmond turned and traipsed out the door with the still-wrapped book in hand, barely able to keep from patting the second package with the potion he’d pocketed under the old man’s very nose, his hefty cockstand already rising in anticipation.

By the time he’d got to the vestibule, he couldn’t wait any longer. Jerking to a halt by the big chair where he’d tossed his hat on the way in, mere feet from the main door, he hurriedly pulled the brown sackcloth off the book—sure enough, it was a book of elixirs, poultices, and other healing arcana. He set it aside on the chair and pulled out the other bundle, adjusting his prick to its full iron length as he did so. Inside the little cloth bag was a finger-sized vial of blue liquid the consistency of mare’s milk. Without hesitation he pulled the stopper free and downed the entire contents.

His body shuddered, and, feeling slightly woozy, he thunked his back against the cold stone and let the wall hold him up for a minute. After a moment a knot of heat flared in his lower groin, behind his prick and balls. What was that? he wondered. Though he hadn’t questioned the mage’s word—that this “augment” his “prowess”—it occurred to him somewhat belatedly to wonder what exactly was in his birthday potion, and how permanent were its effects.

His gaze drifted to the book. Herbal potions counted as elixirs, right? He grimaced. And it would be just like Brandyn to include the very concoction he’d offered as a blessing of Eros within the pages of the blessing of Athena, he thought.

He flicked through the leaves and eventually found it on the next-to-last page. “Potion of willow-goat’s tear,” he read. There was a list of ingredients and the ritual of formation, but what struck his eye was the last section. “Effects,” he read. “Effects are permanent and lifelong. Effect one: growth of the measure of the cockstand with each orgasm, in the amount of one part in ten-thousand at the time the potion is taken. Effect two: growth of the measure of sexual release with each orgasm, in the amount of one part in ten-thousand at the time the potion is taken. Effect three: growth of the measure of libido with each orgasm, in the amount of one part in ten-thousand at the time the potion is taken. Effect four: slowed aging and increased attractiveness to both sexes. Effect immediate.”

Esmond stared. That was… amazing. Awesome. His size and libido would grow? And keep growing! With every orgasm!

Every orgasm.

Every… orgasm…

Esmond’s heart raced. He was young enough to be excited about the prospects of enhanced sexual experiences, but he was also smart enough to know that as a young man he had a shitload of orgasms ahead of him. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up with a dick the size of Brandyn’s keep, and a libido so insatiable he’d be spending milk-pails full of seed every hour of the day. Hell, not just every hour—every minute!

Orgasm management. That was doable. Right? He didn’t have to cum every time he got a cockstand or saw a sexy ass on a passing ostler. He was young and horny, but not… not…

He was panting lightly, his cheeks warm and flushed. He eyed the book he was still holding in one hand. Maybe apothecaries fucked less than troubadours. They had to, right? Biting his lip, he donned his hat and left the villa, as conflicted and as horny as he had ever been.

At least he could have his birthday fuck, the now-eerily attractive young man thought as he strode distractedly toward town. No one could deny him his traditional birthday fuck!

“I thought he’d never leave,” Linton, the baron’s swarthy, slim-waisted kitchenmaster, said as he entered through the far door on the opposite side of the room from the one by which Esmond had left. Grinning, Brandyn quickly closed the distance between them and they embraced, kissing passionately.

“Did he take both, as you predicted?” Linton asked when they broke, his nose nuzzling Brandyn’s slightly longer one.

“Of course,” Brandyn said, nibbling at Linton’s clean-shaven chin. “The whelp.”

Linton snorted, eyeing the door leading out toward the main entrance and the village road. “I’d like to see him in ten years,” he said. “His prick will be a sight to behold.”

“A true Colossus,” Brandyn said, making his way onto the side of Linton’s neck, “worthy of Apollo himself.”

“Shall we go find him then?” Linton asked, his voice getting lower and growlier as Brandyn worked.

“He’ll probably find us,” Brandyn murmured. “By then his libido will be so high he’ll be working his way through every man, woman, and goat in the kingdom on a daily basis.”

Linton laughed, grabbing Brandyn’s firm ass through his dark trousers. “Speaking of goats,” he teased.

Huffing, Brandyn clutched Linton to him in pretended indignation. “I am no old goat,” he said. “I am a stallion!”

They laughed and playfully began undressing each other, the plight of the mage’s horny ex-apprentice already forgotten.

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