Copyright 2015 by the author. For personal use only. Not for distribution.
garystayton@yahoo.com
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The characters and events exist in a fantasy setting and are obviously not representative of any realistic narrative.
WARRIORS OF GNOR
Chapter 1.
General Dordmender surrendered his division deep in the land of Gnor, pincered like a hapless bug between the two-pronged forces of that unhappy land, and how I did curse and spit at the name of Dordmender! He took a ransom to withdraw with all of his divisions, leaving only a selected few as prisoners. I was among them. Certain prizes were taken in the form of superlative flesh. Private buck-soldiers of the lowest rank were sold-off as mules, to serve in the methane-pits and haul rock in the Gnor hell-quarries. Six of us were taken to the Castle of Kraken for the dreadful purposes of Lord Direcaster. We ran naked, loaded with heavy yokes and tethered closely as we trod behind a victory-procession, miserable and sweating under our wretched burdens of oak. General Dordmender signed-off on our seizure, happy that he may return to the comforts of home.
Our particular captive-set was a fresh, young platoon of six muscled bucks, of proud breast and narrow ass. Our swinging cocks made a sight for the purveyors of healthy male meat.
Berek had been the model Buck-Private of our troop, always willing and always ready to sacrifice for the common good. He took his yoke and leash with a courage which inspired us until the gates of Castle Kraken were reached.
Laylor was a wild lad who had punked in the streets of Cinder City. He had the narrow eyes of a Wild-Plains native and nigger-black skin. He often had oaths against the rules of the military. Now, his oaths were for the fearsome ordeals under his captors.
Djeremi was the student of a very clever master. He knew the learned things which philosophers knew, and he had a handsome face which went well with his robust physical form. No doubt these things helped him while he was being skinned alive before a crowd invited by Lord Direcaster.
Gimofey was a sweet lad whom I had fucked in the barrack whilst we were supposed to be sleeping on our pallets. His bravery surprised me while we were prisoners of the Gnorean hordes. They very much seemed to want to see him suffer most hard, His face spake to me in wordless messages which I lack the skills here to dictate on a worthless parchment.
My name is Jevan. The Sergeants of our division had said my head and bearing to be most noble, and for these compliments I was thankful, never minding that these same Sergeants, Captains, and Corporals had gladly seen us stripped and taken by the enemy for their uses.
Jett was an unlucky younker who had been rodded most hard in the division for his stupidity at drill. His roars under the strop-whip had been manly and powerful, and he now bore his timber neck-yoke with the same stoic courage, his ass bared as the last in our close-formed line as he ran through the stone-throwing crowds of Methane City.
Thus, we were a formation of youthful, naked muscle, jogging and heaving under yoke and whip, roped in a line and following a decorated cart which drew us shamefully through cheering mobs. General Dordmender and his adjuncts and clerks who had so sternly trained us did smile and wipe their brows as they thanked our captors for letting them go so cheaply.
Berek did yell to the table where the capitulation was signed, hoping in earnest tones that the price was worth a jug of wine, and I could not but admire his dignity – naked and coated with a shining gloss of sweat – as he announced his additions to the contract.
"May ye consider for the rest of your lives the profane justice of your signatures, and the innocent soldiers ye have consigned!"
The others among us did raise a similar cry, and my cock rose to my belly with agitation and oiled itself with manly juice. Its hot milk did coil with energy and wanted urgently to spurt, but my wrists were locked in a loaded yoke at my neck and I was pulled by leash and shackle. Thusly, I bade to a pretty steward in our ranks who had previously done me service.
"Boy! Stroke my cock that I may feel relief one last time before these vile barbarians take me to my fate! My meat is hard and greased and waiting for your skilled fingers! Boy! Urge your masters immediately that ye be allowed to shoot this growing fern! Ye can see my craving and predicament!"
"Jevan!" Berek did call from the front of our tethered queue. "Ye are a soldier of the Legion! Quell your circumstances before these heathen and before your comrades!"
"Never mind it, Private Jevan," did cry Sergeant Jadson from the ranks of those who were to be set free. "It is well known that a brave, vital soldier will erect his meat in the excitement before battle and just before he is to be slain by his enemy. Ye are a good and hard warrior and your destiny will be a worthy one. When they flay you of your skin and nail thy parts to a crucifix, thy will meet with much credit for the Legion!"
Credit or no, we six Private Bucks did have tears in our eyes as we were hastened away in the heavy wooden beams which fixed our necks and wrists. Berek, being first, did have his balls tied with twine that he may be drawn like a bull with a ring through its nose, and he did suitably snort and splutter like that animal. Behind, the others did follow – Laylor the black, Djeremi the handsome, Gimofey the boy for whom my heart had pounded, then me, and last was Jett, who presented his ass for the flailing whip.
We were fixed closely, one oaken pillory being attached to the next with short, nailed straps of leather. We found that we must swing in a precise dance that our yokes not knock together and make us fall, and Laylor did call to Berek that he sing the Division Cadence Song that kept our time and which we had used to incite us during punishment-drill under laden pack.
"One, two, three, four!
"Swing yer cocks for the sake of the Corps!
"Fuck the milkmaid after the war!
"Now is the time to answer for!"
And no doubt we made a very heroic squad for the Methane-City mobs to see, but our devotion to the Division and its song was uncertain, for the men of that Division were on the trek back to Cinder and we were surrendered to the mercies of the enemy. Berek tried, but his voice was hindered by the knotted rope which held his balls and the dust which coated his throat. Punishment-drill under laden pack was performed in an upright manner by professional men, but we were now prisoners, stripped to our sweating muscles and bearing the yokes of our captors, dancing a dishonorable jig behind a cart full of waving flags and cheering men. In the dirt, our bare feet did make a gruelling step.
The rear of Gimofey's skull was almost at my nose. I saw the clipped platinum of his shining hair and his beads of sweat, and heard him puffing with effort and trying most valiantly to sing. I was close enough to whisper in his ear; "Gimofey, most pretty friend! Though I lust for your fine, rounded ass, I also think thy face a beacon of delight and wish to suffer a thousand burdens that thee might suffer none, but I am tethered like a dog and must follow thee in the manner of this baying throng." But my breath was not to be wasted and Gimofey heard none of these words.
The wooden joists at our necks and arms were long, awkward, and heavy. They had been nailed shut with strips of tin, and thusly we were fettered in our sprightly boogaloo.
"Keep up! Keep up!" Berek ordered us most fierce as we dragged at him from behind. "My balls are tied hard and I must run!"
His voice was almost lost in the noise of a throng which drew all manner of person. Glancing this way and that as I swung my oaken planks, I saw men, women, children, and beggars. Rotten fruit was thrown upon us and lewd things were shouted as the six-set of naked, sweating studs made its progress in a tango-dancing formation in the street. There was banjo-music to enlighten our step, and my ears did glow hot as I heard the celebrations of Methane City.
"Six bare, pumping rumps – prizes for the King!
See them small and hard and fast – full of vim and spring!
Six slapping male cocks – metric in their swing!
Keep your women, lest it rude – and pierce that meat with ring!"
The talents of the Methane-City minstrels did get to me. The refrain was repeated over and over and over, as if it were not a witless limerick, and I did wish badly that I may be freed from my timber yoke and be allowed to go into the crowd and punch hard, meeting with the authors of the stupid song and teach them something.
"Six bare, pumping rumps..."
The ditty stuck in my head, and honoured though somebody may be because some foolish pop-song be written just for them, I did spit at the sound at it. Spit I did, my chin held high in the thick yoke and my hands forming fists in their wooden holes. My sweat did stream from my pits and gather dirt on my flanks, and run to my rear-crack and make a moist mixture.
We were hauled for half a mile in a sewer-trench, neck-high in shit, swimming and gasping for our lives. It was a waste-pool of floating turds and the submerged mud of Methane City's plumbing. The surface had been left carefully undisturbed under a thick carpet of green moss, for no person wanted to break that sheet and discharge the foul stink which lay underneath it. When we entered it, there was an unholy cry from the crowd and the amused holding of noses. We swam at their feet, our heads below the cement platform, struggling and spluttering in the cess-gutter with the discharge and unspeakable things which people had sent for disposal. As a cloth tampon floated past my nose, I heard Berek utter the words which we all bethought;
"By the Gods! By the Gods! I am sunk in shit! Get me out and drown me in a barrel that I may drown in something other than this!"
We emerged on the banks of a canal where nobody ever visited, such was the polluted nature of the district we were in. Cried Laylor;
"God! My brothers and sisters have slaved in the plantations and served as pack mules, but none have been subjected to this rank indignity which ye citizens of Methane City have sought fit to subject me! If ye think my black skin maketh me an animal, then harness me and whip me and do not drag me through your sewer, for even ye would not make a dog or cat or goat go into that shit-drain!"
Djeremi offered the words of a learned scholar, taught as he was in the clever things;
"Gladly will a cultured man shovel pig-shit or cow-shit or bird-shit, after he has been made to swallow gullets of human-shit! Give me a shovel and I will move piles of shit! But don't make me go in that sewer again!"
Gimofey spluttered clods of brown dirt, hiccupping and coughing so that I said to him;
"Gimofey! It will do naught for me to tell you now how beautiful is your mouth and nose and eyes. But suffice that we are nailed together like this in great distress. Carry your yoke and covering of filth like a true man and let me be near to you always!"
Then said Jett;
"You five bucks who are strung with me in line! Cease wailing and be men! We are destined for the cooking-pots of Methane City! So carry your naked schlongs proudly and submit only to the ridicules which you must by shackle and chain. They might force your body to any contrivance, but your mind remains your own!"
And with these words of Jett, we made gallantly under reign and whip. Big blue flies did swarm upon us, attracted as they were by the stinking shit-slime which coated us. Our leash-line was drawn onto a road of dirt, and the men of the prison-party did allow a great distance between the knotted cord of the vehicle and the place where it pulled Berek at his balls. This was due to our sewer-stench. Thusly, leaven alone under a hot sun, we were allowed to jiggle at the speed prescribed by Berek as his ball-line dragged ahead to the distant cart.
"Keep up with me! Keep up with me!" he rallied. "For my testicles are hewn to this hawser which yanks me thus! Do not distract me with jibber-jabber, and do not drag me backwards by your dalliance in the yoke!"
"One, two, three, four!
"*Swing yer cocks for the sake of the Corps!"
Crusted shit on me from the sewer did help me bake on that road as I worked the neck-yoke in my forward disco. We all danced the same step. One. Two. Three. Four. Poor Berek was the one who must make us go – at the cost of his hitched nuts which were attached by line to the cart ahead.
Luckily the fittest and biggest soldiers were taken from the surrender, for the yokes were heavy burdens and the speed was dictated at an inhumane pace. Together, we practiced a regulated dance routine, swinging and lifting as if we were under a very hard Sergeant. We knew when the line was tight, for Berek called in authoritative terms for us to pull harder.
"Speed up!" he bellowed. "They have lifted the stride and you must follow me closely!"
The six of us made co-ordinated, rasping breaths as we danced along that winding road with curious farm-hands and maids to look at us over fences. The pounding rattle of our voices enveloped me as I swung behind Gimofey.
"Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!" we all emitted in unison, committed to the cause of keeping Berek's ball-rope slack. It was a hot, sweating, speedy jig-jog, and we were followed by a cloud of flies which clung to the wet shit on our bodies. I felt them crawling and buzzing in my ass-crack and in my armpits. They were in my gasping, open mouth, reminding me of my need for water. A village was passed. I saw the people staring as I swung like a go-go dancer though their street. Their eyes were wide and surprised, and they settled on the sight of our wetly smacking cocks as they flung from side to side. I presented them also with my tongue as I panted harshly and hauled air into my dry lungs. When we slowed and were given breath to speak, there was one word on our cracked lips:
"Water!"
The itch of dried shit and the ache of the horrid yoke-frames could be borne if it were for one thing:
"Water!"
A jug was poured and tin mugs were passed around. We received none. The captured soldiers of the Wild-Plains Wars, it seemed, were to given nothing. Our gasps were desperate cries on arid throats. The dust of the road settled and coagulated as we made headway in a blitz of oil, sweat, and effort. How I wished to lick the moisture from my own butt-crack, or that of another! When water came, it was a mouthful. Canteens of the stuff were spilled and pissed before us while we begged. We were not allowed to kneel, being too closely formed with tackle and leather, and so we stood in the road while we heard refreshments taken.
"They stink like a forgotten carcass of meat," said a small boy. "The first one's nuts are tied to the pommel, and the second one is an ivory-black. My mother told me that blacks are stinkers. Pheew!" He held his nose as he marched away. I did wish earnestly to tell him that Laylor's skin and whatever stink might come off it was also my own, and that Laylor's blackness was no part of his being, and that I shared with Laylor the sweat and effort of a Division upbringing and that Laylor's color may be blue, green, or yellow, and regardless he was worth more than a hundred of this village's inhabitants. My cock surged, and thrust itself into the ass of Gimofey who was tethered before me.
It was a tight-muscled rump, for we had all been exercised on the drilling-field – the Privates especially so. As Gimofey and I had sweated in naked embrace on our sleeping-pallets in the barrack, so now we fucked in earnest desire. His trilling bird-calls which had echoed round the barrack sleeping-room did now make themselves known in the dust of a village street. Thusly I fucked, and I fucked hard.
"Gimofey!" I grunted. "Who knows where we might be next and where and how I might meet your snug channel? Take my cock and bear down on it hard so that I may come with force and feed you the milk of my manhood... Gimofey!... Fuck hard!"
We lunged with energy in the middle of the village street, and Gimofey sang like a choirboy as his ass was cleaved in public. I panted with much exertion as my desires were expelled into that fitting tunnel. I wanted to stroke his hair and touch his face, but we were captured prizes of war, awaiting our designated providences.
"Jevan!" he called. "Jevan my love! May I be nailed to a cruciform and hung over an open pit-fire to roast, that we may meet in our sweet Valhalla! Sling me now over the oven whereby I may meet my Jevan forever!"
"Har! Har! Har!" said a soldier. "The twinky-boy wants to be roasted on a griddle! I'll taste that any day! Make a slow fire with plenty of coals! And fetch a grille! Tasty young meat is on the way!"
garystayton@yahoo.com