Description Kurn, a mountain warrior with an unruly, mouth-craving cock, has been sent to offer a boon to the great Huuman, Lord Griffin, Defender of Kossh, for his help in expunging the scimitar-raiders. To his shock, however, Lord Griffin instead offers the valiant Kurn a gift that answers his most compelling need.
|Updated||17 Oct 2020|
The night was warm and a little too humid for Kurn’s mountain-bred sensibilities. He lay in bed naked with the covers thrown off, hoping the night-sounds of this bustling merchant city would lull him to sleep this time rather than keeping him long awake as they had so far on this strange visit. His cousin’s narrow but sturdy row-house was too near the river wharves where wagons trundled regardless of the hour, and moored ships creaked, and men, tickled by tavern ale or the fuck-men and fuck-women, or both, laughed loudly and cried out their pleasure even louder.
Kurn almost wished he hadn’t come to Scarfe. Almost.
Kurn’s village, the largest in the high passes, had fought alongside Kossh’s new-formed squadron of Sword-Elite in the recent wars to purge the northern mountains of a small, recurring horde of viscous scimitar-wielding raiders. In the last battle Kurn and his crossbow had stood alongside the Defender himself, the Huuman they called Lord Griffin with his three beautiful and fearsome swords, as they hunted and slew the raider-chief himself and his equally repugnant brother.
The villains had fought fiercely and with cunning, nearly striking down Lord Griffin’s fearless second-in-command, Ogan, in a lightning double-blitz; but Kurn had felled the brother with a swift arrow to the chest even as the brute had been raising his bloody scimitar for the fatal strike; Lord Griffin himself had dispatched the enemy chieftain with three mighty blows so inhumanly powerful the malefactor had been left in gory pieces on the snowy ground, his poisonous sneer having finally been turned to dismay at last. Lord Griffin had turned quickly away, covered in blood and strangely discomforted, as though the slaying of his enemies was new to him, but the brilliant smile of thanks he had given Kurn on seeing his friend unharmed had taken Kurn’s breath away.
Kurn returned to his village full of tales of the Defender’s heroism and the valor of the Kosshian Sword-Elite. The whole of the village was jubilant. The relief that came of knowing they were finally safe from the vile raiders for the first time in years had sparked three days of nonstop, barely restrained celebration. The elders declared a feast of thanksgiving to be held on the fourth day. Kurn smiled to remember the river of food and wine, which somehow didn’t keep everyone from a night of music and vigorous mountain dancing of one sort or another.
The elders had also elected to send to the Defender a gift in token of their extreme gratitude. The only problem was, they hadn’t quite known what a lord and Huuman might want or lack; so they had decreed a messenger be sent to Scarfe to see what bounty the Defender might ask of them, and Kurn, who had fought alongside the hero, had immediately volunteered as the obvious choice to go. After two weeks’ journey he had arrived in Scarfe and within days had gained an audience with Lord Griffin, only to be stunned twice over: not only was he unprepared for the swordmaster’s extraordinary beauty when not smeared with the mud and grume of war, but he also utterly refused to consider any boon for himself. On the contrary, in fact, he had replied with a heart-stopping smile, it was he who owed Kurn, for his unsurpassed bravery and for saving the life of his most valued captain. What did Kurn want, more than anything in the Seven Realms?
Lord Griffin had seemed supremely confident he could grant any wish Kurn might have, and the thought alone still made Kurn shiver as he lay in his bed, listening to the muted hubbub of the wharves and the soft rattle of wooden shutters being nudged and jostled by the gentle night wind.
Kurn’s cheeks warmed as he remembered his own reaction. Any wish he might have, Lord Griffin had said. What kind of person was he that such words of simple indebtedness and thanks had only heightened his awareness that they stood in the empty Citadel hall of Scarfe together, man before man? How base was he that at these innocent words Kurn’s blood had turned hot and his pulse had quickened, his unruly, unquenchable cock thickening rapidly in his taut breeches?
It was a problem Kurn knew only too well. The mere sight of a well-built fellow villager pulling off his shirt to wash his arms and chest in river-water, or of Lop the sinewy young tavernhand chopping wood like his body had been crafted for the task, would get his blood flowing and his cock hardening fully in an instant. Even a smile from the manly wainwright, Elo, went straight to his heart and his groin, too. Not only did he lay in bed every night as hard as stone and aching with need, he often went through the day in the same condition, thrumming with desire and longing for the simple ecstasy of mouth around cock. And though he was one of the best-looking young men in his thriving village, with a well-made body hardened by years of labor on his father’s farm and a long, handsome cock most men would envy, the sad truth was that the men of the mountains married young… and once married most sought to avoid making trouble with their wives, no matter how tempted they might be to sneak behind the mill and spend a few mutually glorious moments on their knees before Kurn.
That afternoon, standing before Lord Griffin in that wide, empty hall with all of Scarfe below them, Kurn’s curse had hit him harder than ever. His eyes had raked over the towering Huuman as if they had escaped his control, and everything they tallied on their extended journey up that impossible, beyond-human physique stoked his unwonted ardor hotter and hotter. He took in long, lithe legs that seemed like they might run a thousand miles without effort, and the massive, heavy cock between them, its uncanny size and girth obvious despite the loose, thick trousers the Defender wore; his endless, rippling abdomen, its seemingly countess ridges clear and tempting under his clingy, silver blouse; his three thick-muscled chests stacked liked corded wood, with all six of his long, sun-bronzed and sculpted arms hanging completely exposed by his sleeveless top (he’d heard the Defender had come to Scarfe with only four, but of course legend said Huumans could have as many arms as they wanted); and finally his extraordinarily handsome face, framed by long chestnut hair so inviting to the touch that even the light wind wafting through the open Citadel seemed to want to toy with it. Those vibrant, silver eyes called to him, too, as though many a man had lost themselves in their depths. But as arousal flooded through him Kurn’s gaze shifted instinctively to that for he longed the most: Lord Griffin’s beautiful mouth. His lips were full and red like Kalatian wine, and as Kurn stared they twisted into a knowing smile. Only when the tip of wide, flat tongue emerged, sliding tantalizingly along the breadth of those sweet lips, did Kurn remember himself with a start and drop his head, his cheeks aflame with mortification.
Lord Griffin had lain a warm, strong hand on his shoulder, sending a shiver of hot lust through his body and causing his hard cock to jerk in the restricted confines of his best breeches. “I think I know what boon I might grant you, Kurn of the mountains,” the Huuman had said cryptically. Then the interview was over, and Kurn was left alone with his arousal and a stiff erection that, so far, had not abated for a moment since.
As Kurn lay in his bed he chastised himself for dwelling on the Defender’s blood-quickening form, but the long, rigid cock laying warm and heavy against his belly wanted those lips around it even more than his hands longed to roam that inhuman expanse of long, limber, perfect muscle, from shoulders to chest and down, down, down. He licked his lips, imagining Lord Griffin’s leering mouth kissing his way down Kurn’s hair-dusted chest and tight, flat belly toward his urgent, desperate cock. The Defender let his lips part slowly, his warm breath gusting along Kurn’s sensitive shaft as he looked up at Kurn through long lashes, ensuring he had his full and complete attention before extending a playful tongue and, making sudden, shocking contact with his hot shaft, gradding it slowly along the pre-slicked underside of his—
Kurn was interrupted in his fantasy by something shifting in the bed next to him amid the cast-aside sheets. Kurn frowned. Did his cousin have a dog, or some other pet? There hadn’t been any sign of one so far. The nudge he felt a moment later against his bare hip felt more like cowhide than the cold nose of a dog or some other kind of animal. Kurn looked down in the direction of the contact he’d felt, but couldn’t make out much in the dim light: all he could tell was that there was a oblong shape, slightly bent, and dark against the light-colored sheets. As he watched, its front half seemed to rear up against the side of his hip and buttcheek, as if peering over the the lip of his body to see his magnificent, quivering erection.
Then the thing seemed to look up at Kurn, as if seeking… what? Confirmation? Permission?
Kurn stared back at it, his heart pounding uncontrollably in his chest. Somehow he knew not to be afraid. In fact mostly what he felt was total, unreserved awe, and a growing sense of giddy anticipation as he slowly understood what his night visitor might be. But—surely not? Everyone knew such things were impossible and purely mythical, right? Except, Kurn had heard whispers in Scarfe that the Defender himself had one, though where the tales had come from or how anyone knew of it were unclear. And if Lord Griffin had truly discerned his need…
The creature inched up onto the crease of Kurn’s thigh where it met the hip, its attention unmistakably on Kurn’s cock. It lingered a few inches from its prize, then paused, shifting once again to turn its “head” as if to look up the length of Kurn’s hard body, almost as though it were meeting his wondering gaze.
Kurn felt himself hovering on the brink of a precipice. It came to him suddenly what he knew about these creatures from the old stories and legends. It was said that they existed to give pleasure to the human (and, presumably, Huuman) cock, and found the resulting spurts of cum delicious and nourishing; that the cock in question was better off for the encounter, becoming lengthened and thickened through repeated exposure (could that possibly be true?—and did that explain the Defender’s massive appendage?); that to be ministered to by one of them felt like multiple hands and mouths and more striving cleverly and relentlessly to bring him the greatest, most amazing possible release; and… what else?
Consent. It craved his consent. To know that it was his.
Kurn listened to his own panting breath for long moments as he and the creature stared at each other, both of them acutely aware of his big, hard, jumping cock nearby, a mere palm’s-breadth away from the waiting beast. Kurn’s cockhead dipped suddenly into the little pool of precum it had drooled on Kurn’s belly and leapt up again, stringing a bit of liquid up with it until the connection broke, leaving a heavy droplet hanging from the underside of the hot, tongue-hungry tip. Kurn could almost feel the creature’s pleading desire. It wanted to do this for him. It was here for him. Would he let it bring his beautiful, greedy, nearly insatiable cock the utter gratification they both required, again and again and again?
“Yes,” he blurted out suddenly, his voice sounding loud in the quiet room. “Yes, always. You always have permission. Always!”
He smiled, and the little beast shuddered as if its greatest desire had been granted. Then, this thing, this mythical creature known as a cocksucking fleshsock that had somehow been gifted to him by the uncanny Defender of Kossh, leapt with relish onto the thick, hard prick it had been brought into this world to pleasure, and Kurn cried out with a joy he and his cock had never known before.
“How are you enjoying Scarfe?”
Kurn looked up in surprise. Standing on the raised platform that surrounded his deep, steaming, haycart-sized bath he was currently immersed in was a figure he knew well from the war, though until that week he had not seen him in the city: it was Ogan, the tall, burly commander of the Sword-Elite and the Defender’s own right-hand man, dressed in simple breeches and a sleeveless jerkin. The braziers kindled his planed face and bared, bulging arms in stark relief against the night’s deep shadows.
Kurn stared up at him for a moment, his manners temporarily deserting him. Kurn came to the public baths at this hour, late at night after the second hour of dark had already tolled, because he knew he’d have the place to himself. Scarfe, as it seemed, was a community of early risers, and those townsmen and artisans who came to the baths tended to do so in the bright early mornings, with a select few stopping by on the way home to supper; and whichever time they came, they gravitated toward the larger, almost pond-sized wooden tanks of the main room baths where they might visit and socialize while they submerged in the famous warm, fragrant, mineral-laden waters, if they bothered to bathe at all. By the late hours after nightfall the complex was reliably deserted, but just to be sure Kurn always took one of the smaller side rooms and arrived at the latest time the keeper of the baths allowed—all lest his longtime peculiar problem, and its more recent and unlooked-for aggravant, cause unseemly disruption among the good people of this riverside merchant hub nestled in the bustling northlands below the silent, snowcapped mountains of his home.
The first problem was at least one Kurn was used to dealing with. His too-ready prick had been hard to hide back in Aleff, the high alpine village he’d grown up in. From puberty onward the way a warm smile from a handsome man or a woodcutter’s tight trousers was enough to instantly stiffen Kurn’s long, tireless cock to the hardness of an iron club had inevitably become the subject of much ribald jest up and down the nearby slopes. Kurn wasn’t eager to acquire the same kind of reputation in Scarfe, especially since he couldn’t count on the relaxed, jocular attitude of the mountains toward such rude matters down here among all these sensible city folk.
But that wasn’t even his biggest concern. His old surefire tendency to spring rigid, unstoppable erections at the slightest sign of male beauty, even his own, was nothing next to the unexpected side-effects of having acquired his very own cocksucking fleshsock: a strange tubular creature, long presumed mythical, that actually delighted in driving stiff, desperate erections to cataclysmic release. Not only had he come into possession of such a beast, by dint of the Defender’s gratitude for his valor in the bandit war combined with an unnerving insight into Kurn’s secret need, but in a moment of mad lust he had given the creature open consent to seek its pleasure with him without restriction.
What he hadn’t known, what he could not have dreamed, was that the creature was almost as insatiable as Kurn himself.
As near as Kurn could tell, the beast barely slept. At most it tended to curl up and doze contentedly for a half hour at most after feeding, only to wake up horny and ready for more. And the strange thing was, Kurn found himself deeply aroused by the very fact of the beast’s relentless, unslakable desire for cock and cum. Just gazing on it in bed beside him, waking from its nap and turning its avid mouth toward him, was enough to make Kurn hard and longing to feel its hot, constricting, twisting, cock-lathing insides wrapped firmly and happily around his rigid, unflagging tool.
At first this state of affairs had had little practical consequence, as Kurn had been staying in and had had little to occupy him day and night beyond the creature’s delightful ministrations. But then the Defender had sent word asking if he would be willing to lead twoi weeks of half-day training sessions in the mountain crossbow for those of his men that were interested. Unable to refuse such a polite request from the man who’d helped save Aleff, Kurn had reluctantly agreed. But when he arrived on the training grounds the next day, he realized he was in deep trouble.
The Sword-Elite were all there, every one. One hundred of the finest specimens of masculinity, culled from the length and breadth of Kossh and even beyond, their forms honed and firmed by a lifetime of soldiering and the rigorous drills of their honored company. A hard-packed courtyard full of such men would have been trial enough for the hot-blooded Kurn. But on that day, as he entered the grounds and saw them standing in rigid formation, he discovered that the Sword-Elite trained completely stripped to the waist. He stopped and froze as the midmorning sun beat down on a veritable sea of solid, limber muscle… rank upon rank of manly flesh of all colors, all degrees of hairiness, plain and wickedly handsome, from grinning, impossibly fit youths five years Kurn’s junior to dour veterans with silver chest hair and rippling thews that seemed made of stone. They all stared at Kurn, the well-made mountaineer, with an avid, stone-faced curiosity, as though assessing his manliness and finding it insufficiently proven. Or maybe that was just Kurn.
A hand slapped on his shoulder, startling him, and he turned to see Ogan, the towering, hairy, thick-muscled ex-guard who now led the Sword-Elite on the Defender’s behalf. He was shirtless like the rest, almost glowing in the warm morning sun, even under the dark hair the covered his powerful chest and stone-hard abdomen. Kurn’s jaw fell open slightly as he found himself all but bewitched by the very monument to strength and rough beauty that was this man. His hand slackened, almost causing him to drop the crossbow he was carrying, and he tightened his grip only just in time. Though his undergarments were tightly wrapped around his troublesome equipment, Kurn felt his cock squeezing itself free from constraints and straightening to total hardness.
“They are an impressive bunch, aren’t they?” Ogan said knowingly.
Kurn swallowed as heat raged throughj him. And then, to his utter dismay, he felt it, like a tickling at the base of his mind: the beast. It was coming.
Surely that was a just a legend? That it would appear from nowhere like a green fairy, the moment you had need of it? But then, the cocksucking fleshsock was itself a legend, a crazy myth no one thought was real, and yet there it had been in his bed that very morning, wantonly spending an entire hour to drive Kurn to an orgasm so delicious he had barely managed to force himself from his bed to fulfill his promise to the Sword-Elite.
And he had already given his blanket consent. In mere seconds it would appear and start pleasuring Kurn in front of the entirety of the Sword-Elite and their heart-wrenchingly alluring commander…
Kurn’s long cock bucked eagerly in his thick trousers, loving the idea. No! he told it. He tried to tell the beast, too. No! Not here!
He felt the press of it in his mind. There were no words, no thoughts, just an animal insistence and an implacable urgency.
Ogan was giving him a funny look. Kurn was still staring—at Ogan’s throat, as it happened. Though Ogan wore no beard and started each day clean-shaven, deep-brown bristles were already starting to creep along his firm jaw and along his cheek and throat.
Kurn coughed and turned away. Not trusting his voice, he gestured for Ogan to take his position before the company, and Kurn would follow. Not now! he begged the beast in his mind as he followed Ogan, acutely aware of his needy erection. It was not the first time he had appeared (and had to walk around) with a rigid cock, but never had he stood engorged and aroused before so many sharp and penetrating eyes… so many skilled and desirable men. His cock seemed to swell and harden even more as the thought of such a company hounded him. A hundred men… a hundred hard, eager men, trained in agility and action… their eyes fixed on him and him alone…
The urgency did not relent. Maybe if he tried making it conditional? Not while people can see you! he thought.
The press of the beast on his mind seemed to hesitate, then step back… but it did not withdraw. It was waiting. Like the beast it was, it lay coiled in suspense, poised for the moment it could strike. A sudden thought struck Kurn—but no, his snug trousers had no room for the beast. Otherwise it would have appeared around his cock at once, under his clothes. As he stood beside Ogan, who was introducing him in his loud, rich voice to those who had not already encountered him in the mountain battles, he thought he should make a vow to himself never to always wear tight clothes from now on. And yet—the thought was intensely beguiling. Sitting somewhere in public, the city plaza perhaps, people milling all around, and, under a slack pair of pantaloons or even a flowing skirt such as southern men wore, the beast, giving him endless pleasure…
Ogan’s introductions were done and he, too, was looking at Kurn expectantly. How could a hundred and one men be so silent? It was as if the only sound he could hear was the burning of the sun high in the blue midmorning sky. Kurn forced himself to focus. He exhibited his crossbow and explained its parts and principles to the company, all the while feeling their hot stares on him while the broad, imposing figure of Ogan loomed palpably in his peripheral vision. He demonstrated a few shots on a target that had been set up, trying as best he could to discuss tactics and accommodations for wind, weather, and distance while his cock throbbed and his beast began nudging at the back of his mind.
With the help of Master Wass the blacksmith and his fellow artisans, arrangements had been made for ten sturdy yew crossbows of the northern mountain type and a mess of iron-tipped arrows of like kind to be constructed in the time Kurn had been in Scarfe, in hopes that just such training might in fact come about. As they were being distributed and the company reforming in lines to take turns with the bows, Kurn decided could not wait any longer. Muttering a quick apology to a surprised Ogan, Kurn rushed into the long barracks facing the training ground. He found an empty room used for storing stacks of thick straw mats and other odds and ends near the main doors and dove into the darkened space, all but ripping his trousers open in his haste.
He barely had a chance to see his prick spring free and marvel that it appeared unusually large—perhaps it was the unfamiliar surroundings?—when the beast appeared all at once around it, as though it were protecting it from exposure to air by engulfing it in itself. With his trousers and undergarments around his boots Kurn collapsed bare-assed onto the nearest stack of matts and gave himself over to pleasure. “Yes,” he praised, “that’s so good. You really are a fucking beast!” Already he felt his climax quickening and growled. Normally the fleshsock did everything it could to draw out Kurn’s arousal and hold off his orgasm as long as possible, ensuring it was as explosive as the beast could make it, but this time Kurn was just too aroused. “Yes, you fucking beast!” he grunted. “I’m going to shoot so hard…!” In seconds Kurn was spitting massive amounts of cum deep inside the writhing, hungry fleshsock, shooting his seed again and again until finally his balls felt emptied of a whole cask of hot, heavy spunk. Utterly relaxed and swimming in warm gratification, he watched as the happy beast vanished as quickly as it had arrived, leaving his thick, not-quite spent cock laying sticky, pink, and sated against his thigh.
With a resigned but thoroughly contented sigh, Kurn used a stray rag from a nearby bin to clean his cock and groin of stray spunk and set about restoring his clothing. Finally checked himself over, decided he looked presentable and not too much like someone who had just released a massive climax in a side room, and headed out to oversee the crossbow training—only to find the entire company of the Sword-Elite standing right there, not lined up in front of the targets as he’d left them but instead ringed around the entrance to the barracks, bent as if to listen; and when Kurn stepped out of the building and into the bright sunlight the whole crowd of them straightened up and began applauding enthusiastically, with hoots and cheers as well.
Kurn felt himself turning beet red as Ogan stepped out of the crowd, once again smacking a meaty hand down on his shoulder. “I trust now your ‘beast’ is… satisfied?” the large man asked with a smirk, his deep, comforting voice effortlessly carrying over the whole of the training grounds. A chuckle rippled through the happy crowd. Kurn stared at him, hot-cheeked and mortified, then wrenched his gaze away and stared hard at the ground, hoping desperately that it would tear open under his very boots as it had for Kaakan of Zeg in the battle of the seven ravens, or so the legends said.
“Your mountain ways are interesting,” Ogan continued, his hand strong and warm on Kurn’s shoulder. “Perhaps the Sword-Elite should consider adding similar training breaks to its routine as well.” There was more laughter at this, and a few shouts in the affirmative. Before Kurn could find any words to respond, though, Ogan turned and called out, “Company! Form ranks!”, and a moment later Kurn was standing in front of the barracks, alone, embarrassed, and already back to being as rock-hard as if he’d never cum that day at all. Oddly, he found himself smiling even as his cheeks remained red. At least they weren’t so dour now, he thought. He hurried over to guide the first round of target practice, his thick, heavy cudgel of a cock rubbing impatiently against the fabric of his underclothes as he ran. And the psychic press of his insatiable beast at the back of his mind was never far away.
The whole week went like that. Kurn would show up at midmorning, already completely aroused no matter how much he had let the beast pleasure him beforehand, and the company would greet him with knowing smiles as they formed up for target practice. After about a half hour of watchful tutelage, in which the glistening sinews of the elite warriors as they hauled and locked their strings and fired, their bolts thwapping against the straw targets, stoked Kurn’s lust almost beyond endurance, Ogan would call a break, and the company and its commander would pretend their new bowmaster was not fleeing for the privacy of the barracks to satisfy a need that could not be denied another moment. After that first day they did not gather and listen—or so Kurn thought, though it seemed that when he returned the men were forming up into their rows again with suspicious haste.
The men all treated him as one of their number, smiling and slapping his shoulder as they left the grounds for their mid-day meal (after which would come their more customary sword-training with Ogan and the Defender); some even hugged him, thrilling him with the embrace of their sun-warmed, sweat-slicked bare physiques. Kurn felt he must seem ungrateful if he did not make some gesture in return, so on the fourth day he arrived in the training grounds stripped to the waist like all the rest of the company. The men were delighted and greeted him with a unison cheer Kurn did not understand, Duuriy!; but Ogan explained it was old Kosshian soldiers’ slang for “brother”. Grinning, Kurn shouted the word back to them, and then they all shouted Duuriy! together.
At first the novelty of being stripped above his waist distracted Kurn from his customary welling lust in the presence of so many virile men going about the exertions of crossbow archery under the warm Kosshian sun. But at some point he glanced down at his firm chest, his rigid cock visible in the dark trousers below, and Kurn had a sudden flash not only of his mighty fleshsock appearing to engulf his equally mighty club of a cock, but also two baby fleshsocks appearing with it to minister just as avidly to his hard, sensitive nipples; and all at once Kurn was cresting the edge of orgasm. His beast rose the back of his mind, clamoring to be let at his cock, and before he could even discipline himself to proceed with the training Kurn’s feet had already sent him running for the barracks, the laughing whispers of the men ringing in his ears.
When he returned, flushed and shamefaced, the company were lined up as before, but their faces were mostly creased with smirks. Ogan politely offered him a shirt, since, he explained, Kurn’s comeliness seemed to be a distraction even to Kurn himself; but Kurn gamely refused, and returned to the training with his cheeks still pink. On the fifth day he managed the whole half-hour until the break, though he thought his cock might tear through his pants; and the men seemed to love him more than ever, so much so he got a hundred and one sweaty hugs at the end of the training session. It was possibly the most sensual experience outside of actual intercourse that Kurn had ever experienced. He could still feel those hugs as he’d headed for the bathhouse late that night, and it was almost with reluctance that he lowered himself into the scented, swirling waters of the large, dark bath. Perhaps some of that sweat had soaked into him, and he wasn’t washing it all away, he though. His stone-hard erection certainly hoped so. It felt massive in the oiled and heated waters—why was that, anyway?
He didn’t have long to think about it before he realized he wasn’t alone in the bathhouse after all.
Ogan set about unbuttoning his jerkin as he watched Kurn, waiting for a reply. His lips were curved is silent acknowledgement of what all men of Scarfe must know by now: that Kurn was a drunkard, only his liquor was not wine or spirits, but men. Strong, capable men with deft hands and broad shoulders and bright, knowing eyes. Men like Ogan, Commander of the Sword-Elite, a man who now knew the intimate sounds of Kurn’s climax better than all of Aleff.
“It… has its appeal,” Kurn said weakly, watching Ogan undress. The jerkin came with a shrug, dropping out of sight to the shadowed platform, and Ogan became a granite edifice of thick, sculpted muscle overrun with thick, short hairs of the same dark-earth brown as his close-cropped hair and his day’s growth of beard. Kurn’s breath seemed to desert him. “Are you… bathing? Also?” he almost whispered.
Ogan’s curled lips bloomed into a smile. “You may not know the ways of the city, Kurn of the mountains,” he said, reaching for the fastening of his breeches. “But I think you know this a public bathhouse.”
Kurn gulped. If he kept talking, he would not be simply ogling like a mindless creature of… even in that moment, the pressure came to him. The beast knew his need—and because his mighty erection was hidden by the dark water and wafting mists there was nothing to stop it. It would be here in moments. Kurn slid down as little in the water, so that only his upper chest and above were exposed to the light of the braziers.
Ogan was still working the fastenings of his breeches. Kurn couldn’t quite believe what was happening. “You came to bathe here, now,” Kurn said, feeling as though his wits must be occluded by the bath vapors. Then he remembered he had been told Ogan’s address by the messenger who had arranged the training sessions, in case Kurn should need to meet him. “You do not even live near here!” he exclaimed. “Your house is on the other side of the city.”
Ogan nodded. “I found the bathhouse nearest your rooms, and bribed the keeper to tell me your habitual bathing times,” he said, as if such inquiries were both customary and trivial. He looked around at the empty rooms and the sliver visible through the curtains of the equally empty main space beyond. “Very late,” he observed. “Another habit of the mountains?”
“But—why?” Kurn asked, mystified.
Ogan dropped his breeches, revealing his complete, nude form in all its towering, brawny splendor. “I came to find you, bowmaster,” Ogan said.
The beast came upon him then, and Kurn gasped loudly as it swallowed his cock under the water. Ogan reacted viscerally, a shudder of pleasure seeming to run visibly through him. His cock, already heavy and half-aroused, started swelling rapidly to a stiff, engorged state until struck straight out from Ogan’s stone-carved form like a wide, flat precipice. In his current intensely aroused state, as his beast began his slow torture upon his own sensitive, stone-hard price, the expanding presence of Ogan’s cock seemed to fill Kurn’s vision. His eyes followed it as Ogan moved, lowering himself effortlessly into the heady waters and shifting to stand directly over Kurn, the rippling bath lapping at the soldier’s thick upper thighs and hairy balls.
Kurn was panting now, his muscular chest heaving from the dual stimulation of the fleshsock’s expert attentions to his cock below and the momentous, ball-churning, heart-quickening presence of Ogan looming over him, his massive cock jutting straight at Kurn. He swallowed again, staring wide-eyed and unable to speak or even to think.
“I find you beautiful, Kurn of the mountains,” Ogan said. “I am drawn to you as to no man I have ever lusted for, not even the Defender. I am obsessed with you. My cock hardens for you as instantly as yours does for me and my men. I think about you when I take my training breaks, alone in my quarters, five or six or ten times a day. It is you I want. Do you understand?”
The beast understood, too, it seemed, and approved, because in that moment it did that strange internal double twist with the tongues that Kurn could not even describe but that always drove him to a near frenzy.
“I want to fill you with my cock,” Ogan said brutally. “First your mouth, and then your ass.”
“Y-yes,” Kurn said. It was the only word left to him.
Suddenly Ogan was straddling him, the musky scent of his erection right in Kurn’s face. Kurn whimpered, and the beast increased its tempo, knowing that it must now work in concert with Ogan and that Kurn would not, could not possibly last, though even if they spent now it was clear the night would be far from over. Ogan leaned forward, positioning his meaty hands on the rim of the wooden bath to either side of Kurn’s square shoulders. Inch by inch he moved his crotch forward, until the moist tip brushed against Kurn’s lips.
Against his own cock, the beast stilled, then mimicked exactly the same sensation: the head of Kurn’s raging cock brushing against lightly bearded lips. Kurn shivered, already anticipating what he was about to experience.
His lips parted and he mouthed the tangy head. Below, the beast did the same, pressing invisible lips over the head of Kurn’s cock. He whimpered again. His tongue lolled tentatively around the head and upper shaft in his mouth, and, at exactly the same time, around his own cockhead and upper shaft.
“That’s right,” Ogan said. “That’s good. You’re going to make me cum soon, and then I’ll be ready—ready to fuck you hard and long and deep.” As if to emphasize his words, Ogan slid his giant cock steadily into Kurn’s mouth, and Kurn felt his big, heavy cock seeming to slide into his mouth at the same time. He sucked on Ogan’s huge cock and in effect on his own. His tongue twisted around Ogan’s shaft and his as he sucked, again, and again, and he and Ogan groaned in unison.
“That’s good,” Ogan repeated huskily, and Kurn felt a thrill that he could have an effect on such a man. “So good. I’m close already, Kurn. I’m going to give you my seed, so much seed. So hard, so much,” he babbled.
Kurn took the cock deeper, and he felt himself swallowing around both cockheads as he sucked and twisted his lips and tongue. “Yes!” Ogan said. “Yes! Do that!” Kurn kept it up, bringing both of them closer and closer to orgasm, until suddenly Ogan shouted Kurn’s name. Kurn pulled back and dived onto Ogan’s cock and his own desperate prick all at once, sucking hard and drawing his tongue up the shaft in the way he liked, and then suddenly they were both cumming, releasing geysers of hot seed in utter unison. They both orgasmed hard, again and again, and it seemed like minutes passed before the euphoria settled over them and the release tapered off. Panting hard, Ogan eventually pulled his heavy, barely-limp cock out of Kurn’s mouth and fell to his knees on either side of Kurn’s jips. His hot breath gusted across Kurn’s face, and then they were kissing, though incompletely and with mouths wide open, as they were both still out of breath.
After a while of this Kurn found that they weren’t kissing anymore and that Ogan was instead nuzzling at the side of his face, his thick stubble surprisingly soft against Kurn’s cheek. Kurn checked the status of his private parts and discovered his cock was floating free in the still-warm water: the beast must have gone home to sleep, despite the fact that it must have sensed another round was coming even if it hadn’t grasped the exact meaning of Ogan’s promised two-pronged attack.
Kurn found himself strangely disappointed. He realized, to his surprise, that he wanted Ogan to have discovered the beast on him. He wanted to be caught.
Ogan was murmuring along Kurn’s jaw—guttural, half-articulated promises of giving Kurn a good, soldierly fuck, Kurn realized. Kurn found a hairy spot just below Ogan’s ear and kissed it.
“Let’s go back to my rooms, commander,” he whispered roughly. “You’re not done with me yet.”
Ogan pulled back enough to leer at Kurn. It was a leer that communicated not merely an ordinary, passing lust, but a consuming desire, to be pursued relentlessly and inexhaustibly, possibly for weeks and months and years to come.
“I’m not even started with you, bowmaster,” Ogan growled. Kurn smiled so wide Ogan couldn’t help but kiss that smile right off his face; only they both found that he wasn’t completely successful in that endeavor, Kurn’s smile being not only persistent but infectious, too.