LANCED-A-LOT
By: Silenos
This story is a work of fiction and involves teenagers in sexual situations. If that offends you, don't read it. If you are underage, don't read it (like that's going to happen). This story belongs solely to the author and may not be copied or reproduced in whole or in part without permission of the author.
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Those of you who are new to this tale, and explanation of where it came from is at the end. Those who have been following already know.
LANCED-A-LOT: Chapter 8
Michael's lance and loin hairs were not overall remarkable though the lance was girthy. It took little time before a blast of his thick come, followed by another, and then more steered themselves down my throat. Some men and boys spit this delicious repast out. I relish it: there is no greater delicacy to taste on this planet in my opinion and I would only relinquish it from my mouth if I could feel the spend up my bum.
I was surprised at the ferocity of the blasts that first time and I thought I might gag. He fired lightening bolts, repeatedly into me in great volume, which I attributed to the three great bollocks which fascinated me. I was fondling them with my hands as they pumped into me. They were full of man's milk, not the honey sweet dew of a watery boy. I relished the flavor tasting everything he had dined on a meal or two before.
I had to admit that as much as I savored the flavor, I would have preferred it deep inside my arse after a good pummeling; however, I sensed I would not have long to wait. Those three fine plum pits were sure to satisfy my nether end sooner than later. Or so I thought, until I pulled off his member and he said, quite matter of factly, "thank you, with the three I find a need to spend more frequently than other boys, almost hourly, and in truth prefer things up my rump when I spend, but as any boy knows a knothole will do in a pinch."
Damn! I thought, this was proof there was no God. I had enjoyed the perfunctory sucking and fucking of the previous few days. But, other than my night with Idris, the wart, knob, hard spot, whatever one chooses to call it which resides in a man's tunnel needed some real attention.
I find, as a man, there are three types of spending. Number one is the simple ejaculation of seed from the lance. That is a wonder that pleases all boys and men from before the first cock hair to the grave. That one is a need as much as pissing or evacuating the bowels. It is pleasurable as much as it is necessary. Without release or denial it can result in madness; but it is purely physical.
The second is the rectal. This release is achieved by the massage of the nut, berry, whatever one wishes to call that spot inside the arsehole where the sensation can often be un-ending. It penetrates all of a man's sensibilities from his skull through his bones and is tortuous to some extent. Some men are unable to achieve the glory of spending seed, and their lances grow soft from the sheer ecstasy of the other sensations rippling throughout their entire bodies. One might have to un-horse simply to gain one's breath from time to time at the never ending glory of all the worlds colliding at once within one's body.
The third is a combination of one and two. When such ecstasy is achieved the body is taken over, there is no turning back, the lance becomes a bow firing many shafts, and leaves one shattered in a way that is indescribable. Suffice to say; breathing and functioning are almost impossible after such an eruption of the body. Quite often the partner in crime becomes concerned he has hurt you and will paw you with goof intent and concern. If your body could respond in those few moments you might swat him away as touch is the last thing you want for fear of actual death. It is much like the feel of one's lance after it spends, tortuously sensitive, except it is one's entire body.
Such was my belief at the time and I'd only heard that all three could never compare to the most spectacular of all sensations, that of wonderful sexual abandon with someone you love. Love, at that time was alien to me.
Some men think the spending of seed is the penultimate sensation; only because they have not moved beyond the initial pain of being entered up their bums. I pity them, as they have missed so much they could enjoy. They tend to assume their partner is receiving no pleasure, nor do they know how to maximize the sensations. With men like that, all one can do is endure and hope they get it over with quickly so you can roll over, thank them for the privilege, and get some sleep. I believe, but only as witness, women can achieve all three but in a different way as I have seen their vents gush with fluids in their excitement and spoken to them of it. However, having not their parts, nor experience, I cannot speak for them and wish them the best. Women are fine, and underestimated (often smarter than their men), but are unable to provide a pole in my hole. To call them the "weaker sex," as many do, is to play a fool's game. Never, ever, underestimate a woman.
Going back to Michael: There was a boy who simply needed to spend regularly and as frequently, as one might need to pee. Normally I would put that down to his age. Boys from as early as eight or nine to their twenties having a need of release on a regular basis that is uncanny and seems to come upon them just before they have achieved hair in their loins and is persistent and all consuming until they reach their twenty fifth summer or so. That need, and denial of it, has caused wars and cost countless lives. It rules some men in ways it does not rule women, though they too are not completely without the need to breed. We are, after all, no better than cattle, the seasons and the sun affect us as much as the lowliest beast.
I was disappointed, but not put off by the fact he preferred a lance up his rump. I could be happy with the simple act of rutting in its most basic forms. One takes it where one can get it in whatever fashion. The previous few days, however, had left me with a longing. Perhaps it is just me, but the more sex I get the more I want. Not just for the welcome satisfaction of the physical act, but the burning desire of satisfaction, complete satisfaction. I loved taking Idris' lance in my mouth (on its own act an erotic act and stimulant) and felt completed and needy for more at the feel of him buried in me later, bringing me to number three, which only left me wanting more. The Smith and his boy had been fun, but we'd had no time to make it truly satisfactory and achieved only number one. Do not mistake me, spending is always fun (ask any man), but it often leaves one wanting more.
Regardless, shedding my tunic and bandages (reasoning the water would cleanse my wound) I launched myself out into the stream's cool eddy and swam for a bit until I noticed Michael, waist deep in the water, staring at me agog. I powered over to him, filling my mouth with water as I did, submerging and then popping up in front of him to squirt my mouthful in his face. He gleefully attacked me as boys do, shouting "Oh, is that the only way you know how to squirt?" I pushed him off and stroked out into deeper water.
I could not help noticing he was hard again, as was I, determined now, in my own way, to see his member in repose; for it did not seem the thing ever was. "You wish to see me squirt BOY?" I challenged, swimming away, "I only do that in worthy sheaths."
"Not fair!" he proclaimed with a pout, "you're swimming away!"
"So swim after and claim the prize of my sheath" I challenged. He pouted, turned and began walking toward the bank. "Michael!" I called "Michael, what is the matter?" Then it dawned on me, I often take what I can do for granted, forgetting others have not the knowledge or abilities. Like most, he could at best bathe, perhaps paddle, but he could not swim.
"There's no shame in it Michael," I told him. "Most don't know how, but I can teach you."
He thought for a moment, Michael was not a quick study, but if you gave him a moment he could do his sums. "I'll wager you can teach me some other things too," He grinned before lunging at me, hard lance forward, and we began another boy tussle. It was the beginning of a wonderful, and intimate, friendship of the kind few ever have. The kind that extends beyond brotherhood and surpasses lovers in that our trust in each other was to become too great for jealousy; a thing simply called friendship.
After our little tussle he received his first lesson in some basic stroking and kicking. Then we adjourned to the bank where there were more lessons in stroking and kicking, only of a more intimate nature. As would happen he liked to be ridden forcefully and violently, as a Destrier would ride a mare. While this can be fun, it is momentary, and I resolved to teach him the delights of a long ride. He also discovered his own teats, none of his previous partners had ever touched them! That had been one of my first lessons from Brother John and my father. A man's teats are sensitive, but a boy's teats are like a lightening bolt to the lance. Indeed, the first time my own shaft spat was at the mere manipulation by tongue and finger.
I shall digress here: I had been fingered, fondled, sucked from an early age. I had even returned the favor and been allowed to fuck, but none had pierced me until my eleventh year when my father first saw my watery spew while Brother John was dining on my breasts.
"Well then," my Da said "If you are now old enough to spew, you are old enough to screw." So he did; with much preparation to ease my young but eager hole (I believe I had about 11 summers at the time). When done, with me panting in ecstasy, Brother John followed. Both of them hit my "boy berry" (as they called it). The first time was painful to start, as I had been warned, but the pain gave way to passion and a never-ending desire to be filled. I knew then my feelings for those of my own sex would always surpass those for the opposite which attracted me not anyway.
That afternoon with Michael was spent with spending in and on each other. Thankfully I had a vial of oil in my sleeve I try, then and now, to never travel without one. I buggered him once with him on his back while I slavered over his teats, pinching and kissing, until he gushered hands free. It must be marvelous, I thought to myself, to have an extra ball. He mounted me as well to return the favor and gave me a royal, if somewhat perfunctory, ride coming again forcefully to the extent I thought I felt it hit my teeth.
I would have gladly spent the evening with us going back and forth but duty called. It was time to rouse our masters from their rooting and prepare them for the little feast of the evening. It was, after all, to be the first time Idris would meet his bride to be.
This tale came to me from a wealthy friend who found it bound in his family's extensive bookshelves. Nobody could read it as it was in a strange hand and written in a mix of the common tongue and Norman French of its day. His family has lived in the same place, if not home, for centuries and are what one might consider landed gentry. My friend brought it to me in hopes I might be able to transcribe it into the English of our own time as that sort of thing is what I do. I have updated it only in that I have made such things as measurements, expressions, and such understandable by our reckoning today. What I found in my labors was quite startling. It would be wise for the reader to remember that mores were different then, and that the perception of "age" was as well. Average life expectancy was about 33 years, and people were smaller too, the average height being about 5'7". Insofar as I can tell these pages were written after the Norman conquest, but not by much. England, Scotland, Wales and Cornwall were all very much their own kingdoms, with petty kingdoms within, and Vikings could still be something of a nuisance in some parts even though history says their terror ended in exactly 1066.