This is a fictional story. The characters and events described herein are fictitious. The story and its contents are the sole property of the author. It has been posted on the Nifty Story Archives page with the permission of the author. If you are offended by sex or sexual acts between two consenting males, or by a relationship between an older man and a significantly younger one please do not read any further. For the rest of you who don't need this read on and enjoy. Let me know what you think.
Copyright 2006
The Barbarian and The Boy
The normally silent woods crashed and rumbled with the sounds of a distant battle. The cries of the dying and the wounded mixed and mingled with the cries of warriors coming together in bloody conflict. There was the stench of smoke and death in the air and none of the animals would venture forth. In this battle one side was being completely routed; there was no fairness in this conflict. The tides of civilization, with their breast plates and their organized rows of legions, had swept through the lands where men still ran free and lived in the wild and covered themselves with the hides of animals.
A cry of victory went up amongst the strict ranks as the last line of the barbarians fell before the onslaught of the mounted soldiers. The screams of the dying and the defeated mixed with the shouts and battle cries of the victorious till an unholy, dissonant harmony echoed hollowly through the woods. Minutes passed and the sounds began to fade. They were replaced, however, with another. Footsteps, coming ever closer, and someone breathing heavily.
Suddenly a bear of a man burst through the underbrush, his hide boots running nimbly over the ground. His hair and eyes were the brown of the earth he ran over, with flecks of green in his eyes and gold in his hair. He was a giant of a man, over six feet tall. The branches and bushes whipped at his face and arms and chest as he ran past but he was heedless of them. He was being pursued and the urgency in his feet was pushed faster.
At length he came to a small grove and decided that he must rest before continuing on. The barbarian man rested his back against an obliging tree, leaning his head back and breathing heavily.
Other than a fur skin girded about his waist and a roughly made fur cloak the man was naked. There was a broad sword in his right hand and strapped across his back was the matching sheath, a skin for water, a small pouch and a knife for hunting at his side, but other than that the man appeared to have no possessions. His skin was a deep shade of brown, made tough and leathery from the sun. Beneath his nearly bark colored exterior the muscles of his frame rippled about as he breathed heavy and deep. His arms and legs were thick with cords of muscle, as though it was rope beneath his exterior instead of layers of tissue and flesh. His chest and shoulders were broad and deep, heaving with the fatigue that the great man now felt. His stomach was all ripples, dips and curves like foothills in miniature, dappled with a light covering of hair the same color of brown as that on his head. His face was hairless, uncharacteristic of the men of his land, his features sharp but not harsh.
He leaned forward, using the hilt of his broad sword as a brace for one hand and his knee for his other. His body was exhausted, the battle had begun at dawn that morning and the light in the western sky was quickly fading. The man had fought valiantly; he had been the most skilled warrior on the field on either side of the conflict. But it takes more than one warrior to win a battle, and he had killed hundreds. Some would have thought it better to die on the field with the rest of his people. But what use was he dead? And his blade, which had the dried and drying blood of his enemies on it, could still take many lives on another day. And that he would, for the thrill of battle had been his only joy, the only mistress he had ever courted.
In the thirty summers of his life he had never known the touch of a woman. Not from lack of women fawning over him. The touch of a woman had never thrilled him as crossing blades did.
The fatigue was wearing at him, urging him that he should sleep. But his mind knew that come nightfall he should be miles away from this place.
A rustling in the undergrowth caught his attention. Despite his fatigue the man sprang to the ready, sword in hand. The rustling came again and the man moved towards it. His limbs ached and the wounds that crisscrossed his arms and legs stung, but he kept his focus and his attention.
"Come out and face me coward!" He challenged to the air and the fast approaching night. The rusting came a third time and the man dove towards it, dropping his sword for the time. He reached out and grabbed his unseen foe in the brush and his arms wrapped around a slender torso it felt like. Whoever it was was struggling but was obviously not a threat to the warrior. He eased his grip but did not let go. Instead, he took his captive back to the middle of the clearing by his sword. The man put the person on his feet but still did not release him.
It was a boy, no more than fifteen or sixteen summers old it looked like, still just coming into his manhood. An even lighter speckling of hair than the man had was beginning to appear on the boy's lean torso. His limbs were beginning to thicken and loose the lankiness of his childhood years. But the boy's face was gaunt, as though he had not eaten for some time. His limbs were also weak and there was no strength in his struggling. The boy was beginning to cry from frustration and fear.
"Let me go! Please don't hurt me just let me go!" His voice was weak from dryness. The boy was dressed in a similar fashion as the man, with hide boots and hide about his waist. His face and body were covered in dirt and grime.
"Easy boy, easy," the great man soothed. The boy ceased his struggling, weather from weakness or the sound of his voice the barbarian could not tell.
The boy finally took a look at his supposed captor and, seeing this giant of a man dressed in similar fashion as himself, began to relax a little more.
"Good." The man encouraged the boy. "Now, what are you doing out here? Don't you know there is a battle going on?"
The boy shifted a bit and coughed dryly. The man took his water skin from his side and offered it to the boy, who drank greedily. The boy took a few deep breaths and directed his attention to the man in front of him.
"I," he stammered, "I don't have anywhere else to go too. The soldiers destroyed my village when they came through for the battle about three weeks ago. Everywhere else that I've gone I've seen the same thing. There, there's nothing left."
The big man studied the boy for a moment looking down at him from at least a foot and a half. He looked at those light brown eyes that were still half terrified, and made a decision.
"My name is Kreshtar, what's yours?"
"Tristan," the boy answered back with a small bit of amazement in his voice. He had heard the name Kreshtar before.
"All right Tristan," Kreshtar answered. "It's not safe to stay here, we need to get away. Can you run?" The boy hesitated. Kreshtar had already known the answer. "Alright then," he said, picking up his sword, "we must move quickly. So I will have to carry you on my back. Alright?" The boy hesitated a moment, then nodded weakly. Kreshtar turned around and knelt down to make it easier. Tristan wrapped his arms around Kreshtar's neck and felt the powerful back beneath him.
Kreshtar stood; Tristan was light, and started to run again. The small rest he had allowed himself brought out new reserves of strength and Kreshtar ran for two and a half hours. It was long after dark when Kreshtar stopped in a small grassy dell. Somehow Tristan had fallen asleep. Kreshtar set him down gently and woke him.
"Tristan," Kreshtar called softly, "Tristan." The boy roused from slumber and looked bleary eyed at Kreshtar. "I'm going to get us something to eat, can you start a fire?" The boy looked around the moonlit dell and nodded at Kreshtar. Kreshtar nodded back and smiled, trying to raise the boy's spirits. He pulled two stones out of the pouch at his side and handed them to Tristan. Kreshtar laid down his water skin and left to go hunting.
It was difficult without bow and arrows, but Kreshtar was used to having less than he needed. He managed to get three rabbits and a squirrel by the time he headed back. The fire was a risk Kreshtar knew, but the boy had to have food, and so did he.
By the time Kreshtar returned Tristan had a small blaze that was sheltered behind the dell so as to block as much of the light as possible. The boy had ripped off a few lengths of hide hanging from the stuff about his waist and was in the process of crushing some leaves over them when he heard the approach. He looked up for a moment, startled, but upon seeing Kreshtar he relaxed and went back to what he was doing.
Kreshtar removed his hide cloak and the pouch hanging at his side. He found the flint and steel he had given the boy to start the fire and deposited them back in the pouch. Then he found some dead limbs nearby and set the rabbits up to cook. When he turned his attention back to Tristan he was just coming over to sit next to him. The lengths of hide had some sort of pungent smelling poultice smeared across them.
"What are those for?" Kreshtar inquired.
"They're for your wounds." Tristan motioned to the gash running the length of Kreshtar's shoulder to his elbow, and the four others on his legs, chest and other arm. Kreshtar gave Tristan a quizzical look but let the boy do what he would.
"This may sting a little." Tristan warned apprehensively. He laid the biggest strip of hide across the wound on Kreshtar's arm. It stung more than just a little, but Kreshtar resisted the urge to pull away. Tristan held the dressing in place firmly for a moment then took his hands away slowly. The bandage stayed in place and Tristan gave it a satisfied look. He then proceeded to dress the four other wounds that needed attention, repeating the same process. He also took a small dab of the poultice and smeared it over most of the minor cuts. At length he finished.
"Where did you learn that?" Kreshtar asked, inspecting the bandages and then rotating the rabbits.
"My... mother was the... village healer..." Tristan said slowly. The boy's face was blank, then slowly tears formed at the corners of his eyes. One fell, then the next. Kreshtar forgot about the rabbits for the moment and wrapped his arms around the boy. The sobs started to come freely then. Kreshtar rocked the young boy as he finally let go of what he had been carrying for weeks. Kreshtar's heart went out to him. At length Tristan mastered his emotions and the sobbing quieted. By that point the rabbits were done, in fact overly so. The two ate in silence.
At long last the time for sleep came. Kreshtar retrieved his cloak and spread it on the ground. He laid himself on it after stomping out the remains of the fire. He looked over at Tristan expectantly, the young man hesitated, as if not entirely sure what to do. Kreshtar patted the fur beside himself.
"Com'on Tristan," he urged, "we don't have another one of these for you and you will freeze without some kind of warmth. We must keep each other warm tonight." Tristan laid down next to Kreshtar without further deliberation. The only way to lay in the cloak and have it cover both of them was for Kreshtar to lay on his side, have Tristan in front of him, and put one arm over Tristan.
As they fell asleep Kreshtar felt a strange sensation coming over him. His body ached with fatigue and exertion, but another ache overcame it, and he started to feel vaguely protective of the young man in front of him. The urge came over him to gently kiss the back of Tristan's head as he slept. After watching the young man's breathing for a few minutes Kreshtar gave into his urge. His lips felt dry and he unconsciously licked them. Kreshtar leaned his head forward, gently pursed his lips and softly kissed the back of Tristan's head. The smell of the light bark colored hair was inexplicably intoxicating. Kreshtar left his head there, his nose buried in the soft fields of Tristan's hair. Kreshtar felt something stirring form deep within him. This longing, this need, had never entered into his being before. He wrapped his arm more tightly around Tristan. Kreshtar was pulled out of his thoughts by Tristan's voice.
"Kreshtar?" Kreshtar went rigid suddenly, startled by his own name being called at that particular moment. Tristan paused for a moment, waiting for a response. "Kreshtar? ...Could you do that again?"
Kreshtar raised himself on one arm so he could look at Tristan's face, leaving the other arm around him. For a moment the two only looked at each other. Then, slowly, almost timidly, as if physical contact might break the spell of what was happening, Kreshtar lowered his lips to Tristan's. For a moment their lips touched just barely, brushing against each other as gently as butterfly wings. Then Tristan reached his arm around and gently pushed his hand against Kreshtar's head, pushing their lips together sealing the space between them.
Kreshtar felt heat like he had never like he had never felt before, and desire so strong that his limbs were weak with it from the pit of his stomach, from the depths of his loins. The only way to quench it was to drink Tristan's mouth, to taste what he had tasted, breath the air he breathed, to speak with him in one shared voice.
Tristan parted his lips and gently extended his tongue; Kreshtar opened his mouth and met Tristan's tongue with his own. Each one rolled his tongue over the other's, feeling the rough texture and exploring each other's mouth to the fullest extent. Kreshtar wanted to explore deeper, he could not seem to get deep enough, could not get close enough. Without warning Kreshtar lifted Tristan off the ground, cinching his arm tight around Tristan's waist, then he lowered them both to the ground and slid his other arm through the hollow of Tristan's neck, pulling him in even more. The sudden movement, combined with Kreshtar pushing his tongue as deep as he could, elicited a moan from deep within Tristan's throat.
Kreshtar rolled on his back without breaking contact, pulling Tristan on top of himself. Tristan gave another startled moan. Kreshtar ran his hands over Tristan's lean torso almost hard enough to bruise the supple skin beneath his fingers. Tristan guided one of the hands down to the folds of the fur hide secured around his waist. Kreshtar hesitated for just a moment and no more. He began to knead the folds of the loincloth and what lay under them. Tristan began to whine with pleasure. Kreshtar felt Tristan's newly matured manhood begin to get hard. Kreshtar could feel the symbol of his own sex going rigid, getting so hard it was almost painful, aching and begging to be freed.
Tristan finally broke off from kissing Kreshtar, gently but firmly pulling the hands on his torso off. Kreshtar was reluctant to let go, but in the end Tristan won over.
Tristan sat up and turned around to face Kreshtar. He looked admiringly and hungrily down at the man laid out before him. This was Kreshtar the Beast, Kreshtar the Untamed, Kreshtar of the unfaltering, unwavering, tireless sword. Before him was a man his father had told stories about when he was alive, one of the earliest things that Tristan could remember. And now, impossibly, when Tristan felt he would have died from total despair, came this figure of his boyhood fantasies, normal and secrete.
Tristan decided that his imagination had not done the man justice, not by a long shot. Kreshtar's pecks were two giant mounds, almost globes, and topped with a perfect brown nipple each, which were hard and erect at this moment. His arms were like the branches of an ancient oak tree, ribbed and gnarled with cords of muscle laying beneath the skin, powerful and tireless. If Kreshtar's arms were branches then his legs were the trunks, each one of them almost as thick as Tristan's shoulders. Kreshtar's torso was all bumps and ridges, and Tristan remembered the ride on Kreshtar's back from earlier in the day, how the man's back had looked like what Tristan imagined a mountain rage might look like to a bird. All sinuous peaks and valleys that seemed to go on forever. And all across Kreshtar's body veins stood out in bold relief, running down his arms and up his legs, running across his chest and up his neck. All this was lightly speckled with a fine dusting of hair, not so much that Tristan lost sight of the hard lines, smooth plains and sharp curves of the man's body, but enough to make them stand out all the more. But the crowning glory had to be what lay beneath the man's loincloth. The 'sword' that every man carries, and this man's matched the sword he normally carried on his back. It had to be as long as Tristan's forearm and at least two-thirds as thick. It made Tristan's heart race with a touch of fear and a healthy dose of lust.
Kreshtar saw the young man's eyes devour his body. A realization suddenly hit home with Kreshtar, that he would do anything for this young man, even if that meant giving up the blade. He truly hoped it would not come to that, but he knew that if it came down to a choice between one or the other that this boy, this young man, would not be the one Kreshtar walked away from.
Tristan lowered himself down so that he was on his hands and knees, his chin hovering over the waistline of Kreshtar's loincloth. He very slowly pushed his way up Kreshtar's crotch, rubbing the length of his body on it. Tristan insinuated his torso up the line of Kreshtar's body, keeping his chest and stomach in contact with Kreshtar as he worked his way up. He ended with the two of them face to face and with Tristan straddling Kreshtar's stomach, his own manhood hard and firm against the dips and curves of Kreshtar's abdomen, the checks at the swell of Tristan's legs spread tantalizingly just a few inches above Kreshtar's rigid sex.
Kreshtar ran his hands up and down the length of Tristan's back, cupping the swell of the boy's legs, pinching them, kneading the flesh of his lower back, massaging his neck and shoulders and arms. Tristan kissed Kreshtar passionately, devouring Kreshtar as Kreshtar had devoured him only a few moments ago.
Tristan ran his hands through the fine locks of Kreshtar's hair, wrapping it around his fingers. Suddenly Tristan yanked back on Kreshtar's hair, bringing a small grunt of pain from Kreshtar, who involuntarily dug his nails into Tristan's back, not that that was a problem with Tristan. Kreshtar had a moment where he almost followed his gut reaction, which would have been to toss Tristan off him. But he was coming to understand that the boy, the young man, was far more experienced in some matters than himself. Tristan saw the reaction and noted it, he was going to have to take things a little more slowly than he might like.
Tristan proceeded to lick Kreshtar's neck, sucking at the lump in his throat and biting gently while maintaining the grip on Kreshtar's hair. Well, Kreshtar thought, if he wants to be a little rough then I can be too. Kreshtar started to dig his nails into Tristan's back, scratching not exactly lightly up and down the length of it.
Tristan stopped licking Kreshtar's neck, where he had left his love mark, to revel in the sensation, letting a soft moan escape his throat. He looked back down at Kreshtar, giving him a wicked grin. Kreshtar looked up at Tristan with heat in his gaze, the world seemed to have pulled away, leaving just the two of them.
Tristan lowered himself back down but did not go back to kissing Kreshtar. Instead, he let go of Kreshtar's hair and licked slowly and sensuously down the line of Kreshtar's neck continuing down farther. He licked the cleft between Kreshtar's pecks, the valley between two peaks where sweat was now collecting. He licked slowly to his left up Kreshtar's right peck, biting and kissing, up to where the peck peaked at Kreshtar's nipple. Tristan licked long slow circles around the nipple, teasing it and blowing on it. Kreshtar was lost in the sheer sensation of it all, his head thrown back, his eyes closed in sweet bliss, his lips parted, his breaths coming quicker and shorter. Tristan finally licked the length of his tongue against the nipple, feeling it harden even more. Kreshtar let out a long sigh, cupping Tristan's head and wrapping his fingers in Tristan's hair with one hand while the other still caressed and clawed up and down Tristan's back. Tristan took the whole nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting on it like a child would at its mother's breast. Except that he was no child and this was no mother. Kreshtar groaned as Tristan worked his nipple over.
There was a flavor to Kreshtar's skin that Tristan was enjoying more and more. The man had been fighting all day and had to be covered in several layers of sweat. The taste was delicious, seasoned with a little dirt and, a very faint metalic tang. Almost like iron. Tristan realized that the tang he was tasting was probably blood from the battle. There was not any visible on Kreshtar, it must have been, for the most part, sweat off. But there was still enough that Tristan could taste it, it only drove home to him what the man laying on the ground before him was.
Tristan finished with Kreshtar's right nipple and proceeded over to the left, repeating the process. Kreshtar's breathing was in a frenzy. Where in the world had the boy learned to do what he was doing? He had heard that sex was intense, but this was above and beyond anything that anyone had ever said. Tristan finished with the left nipple and licked his way farther to Kreshtar's left, lifting the arm out of the way. Tristan licked and bit the armpit, wrapping his tongue around the hair and biting the vein just below the surface.
Kreshtar was going insane; the boy was going to turn him into a lunatic if this kept on. His skin felt on fire, his mind couldn't focus and his sex, oh gods, how his spear ached. For the first time in his life Kreshtar felt powerless to stop what was going on. Not that he would, he was completely at this boy's mercy and he seemed an experienced torturer.
Tristan sensed that Kreshtar was blind with lust; that he couldn't think beyond what was going on. Tristan made his way back to the middle of Kreshtar's chest, then he proceeded farther down, licking in the valleys and sucking on the crests of Kreshtar's stomach, taking a moment to fully explore the birth scar that every man or woman receives upon separating from his or her mother. By this point Kreshtar did not know which way was up and which way was down. One hand still lay tangled in Tristan's hair while the other went to his own nipples, pinching them as Tristan had bitten them earlier.
Tristan stopped at the loincloth. There was Kreshtar's sex laying just beneath, rigid and straining at the confines, at least as long as Tristan's forearm and nearly as thick as his wrist. Without further hesitation Tristan undid the clasp on the side with his teeth and tossed it away in like fashion. There it was, in all its glory, thick and hard, veins running up and down the throbbing shaft, foreskin partially pulled back from the engorged head, which was leaking the clear fluid that was the precursor to a man spilling his seed. It sat in a dusting of hair just as fine as on the rest of Kreshtar's body. Just below hung tow walnut sized balls in a leather sack that had little to no hair on it and hung almost to the ground. Tristan took a few moments to visually enjoy the look of Kreshtar's manhood, perfect was the only conclusion he could come to.
It was believed to be common knowledge that Kreshtar the Beast had never known a woman's touch. That at least one part of his ferocity and prowess on the field was the fact that his potency was not diminished, nor had it ever been, by any woman. Some said that he had taken a vow of celibacy, others claimed that the only woman to ever satisfy such a man was battle, and so his wife was a blade of cold hard steel and death his mistress. Between courting the two of them no man could best him on the field, for he would do anything to impress and please his lovers, and that his wife of steel and mistress of death would never let him be bested for he satisfied both their voracious appetites. This man in front of Tristan was all that, and yet the stories were only part true, or wrong altogether.
Tristan took all of this in in the space of a few heartbeats and made a decision of his own. This man would be his. The only other lovers he would tolerate would be the blade and death.
Kreshtar watched Tristan's eyes take him in once more, saw undecerinable thoughts pass behind those eyes, and saw the resolve of some conclusions solidify in those nearly amber pools. He watched Tristan study his sex, wondering what he was going to do. He was not completely unknowledgeable in these regards, but what works in theory does not always work in practice.
Tristan began by blowing on Kreshtar's manhood and the balls below. Then he licked it ever so slightly with the tip on his tongue. Kreshtar let out a helpless sigh; he came to the conclusion that he was in trouble. Tristan started to make broader strokes with his tongue working his way down to the base. Then he started to lick the walnut sized balls. He had never seen anything like this. This had to be the most impressive set of manhood that Tristan had ever seen. Granted he had not seen that many but he had seen his fair share. He started to suck on each ball individually, taking each one in turn. Kreshtar was grunting out loud now, moaning and gasping at Tristan's ministrations.
Tristan figured it was time to move to the next step, leaving the nuts and moving to back to the now aching shaft. He placed one hand at the base getting another moan from Kreshtar. Tristan started to lick the partially exposed head of Kreshtar's manhood. The head was now marinated in a combination of sweat and juice leaking from the slit. It was intoxicating, salty and bittersweet. Kreshtar was starting to make helpless noises. Tristan slid his tongue under the foreskin, rewarding himself with more of Kreshtar's 'marinade', running his tongue around the head under the skin. Kreshtar tried to control his breathing, tried to regain some control, it was a futile effort.
Tristan took the head in his mouth sucking on it, pulling the foreskin back with one hand while the other was still wrapped around the base. He worked the on the head like he worked on the nipple, sucking and ever so gently grazing with his teeth. Tristan began working his way down the shaft, working the rigid spear with his lips and tongue, lubricating it with his saliva inch by delicious inch. About one third of the way down Tristan felt the head pressing at the back of his throat. At this rate he knew he would never be able to take all of Kreshtar's manhood but he wanted to take as much of it as he could. Relaxing his throat Tristan took still more of the shaft, he couldn't help now weather or not it grazed it teeth, he couldn't open his mouth any wider. Kreshtar was lost, he was someplace warm and wet and soft, and oh gods, the fire. His skin burned, his nuts ached and his shaft was lost.
Tristan continued down till he met his hand and that was all he could take. He felt himself almost gag, which told him a lot. That particular reflex had been mastered for some time now. He massaged the the head by working his throat, massaged the smooth underside with its hollow area where seed and piss came out with his tongue. The smell and taste were intoxicating. Tristan began to slide his mouth off, stopped midway and started back down till his mouth met his fingers, then started to repeat the process, picking up speed.
Kreshtar's head was thrown back, his chest was heaving, every muscle in his body wanted to simultaneously flex and relax at the same time. His hips started thrusting unconsciously, he groaned and grunted and gasped as this boy, this young man worked up and down the length of his shaft. Kreshtar felt his nuts filling up with something, felt them draw up close to the base of his manhood. He could feel his balls churning, as if ready to boil over.
Abruptly Tristan stopped. The shaft slid out of his mouth and he pulled away from Kreshtar. Tristan could tell that Kreshtar was close, so very close, but he wanted something more for this coup de grace.
Kreshtar lay in bewilderment as Tristan walked towards the remains of the fire and started picking over what was left of their supper. What in the name of all the gods was he doing?
Tristan picked over the bones till he found four that were sufficiently greasy from fat. He brought them back over to Kreshtar and knelt between his legs. Tristan took Kreshtar's shaft in hand, giving slow, firm strokes, pulling the foreskin back and forth over the head. With the other hand he put the greasy bones from the dinner in his hole, the fat and grease left over lubricating the pucker hidden between the cheeks of his gluteus.
Tristan took a moment to look the man over once again as he sat there lubricating himself, the man's face, high cheekbones, and a sharp, angular chin with no beard. Uncharacteristic of the men of these lands, but not unheard of. His hair and skin had both been forever marked by the sun, his skin now the deep brown of rich fertile soil and his hair with flecks of spun gold shining amongst the softer brown strands. His eyes, oh goddess his eyes, his eyes were like a grove of trees, with browns and greens so dark the two seemed interchangeable, looking brown one moment then green the next. A bold nose with a mouth that was fierce without being cruel brought the man's face to a point.
Kreshtar was recovering a little, his head still spun, he had enough presence of mind to wonder what in the world Tristan was doing with the rabbit bones.
Tristan sat there enjoying the feeling of the rabbit bones inside him for a few moments. Finally he considered himself lubed up sufficiently. He proceeded to take the last bone in hand and got the grease all over his fingers. When that was done he took Kreshtar's manhood back in hand again and rubbed the grease up and down the length of the shaft.
This was something new for Kreshtar, almost like being inside Tristan's mouth but not quite. This entire encounter was an agony that he did not want to end. Little did he know that the best was yet to come.
Tristan stood up and put a foot on either side of Kreshtar's hips. He had to spread his legs a considerable distance to do this but he had always been flexible. He lowered himself down till the head of Kreshtar's sex was pressing against his puckered hole. He took a moment to enjoy the feel of Kreshtar's shaft pushing against him, and to enjoy the confused look on Kreshtar's face. Then, ever so slowly, Tristan relaxed the muscle in his hole and let gravity do the rest.
There was pain. Goddess, but this was the biggest shaft he had ever taken. It felt like it would split him open right up the middle. Tristan let out his breath in a hiss. This was always the hardest part, pushing the head past that ring of muscles. The grease from the bones helped, but it wasn't his first choice. Tristan made himself relax against that initial stab of pain, and finally made the push past. Tristan felt his body relax willingly now, and he slid lower on Kreshtar's shaft. Inch by deliciously agonizing inch. Six inches, seven, eight, nine, ten, and there was still at least another hand-span to go. The man beneath him was a monster in every way.
The pain was nearly unbearable; Tristan could hardly breath around it. It was almost like his first time all over again. But that had been very different; he had been different, still very innocent, almost to the point of being naive.
Slowly, steadily, Tristan finally had the whole length tightly held inside him. The pain was less now, it was more of a dull ache instead of a sharp stabbing. He took a moment to catch his breath and let his body further relax. Tristan looked down at Kreshtar the Beast. Kreshtar's head was thrown back, his eyes closed, lids fluttering, his lips parted and his breath was coming in rasps. Oh gods, oh gods! There was nothing to compare. So tight, so warm, so smooth. This must be the finest thing the gods had ever created. It was ecstasy; it was pleasure beyond his wildest imagination.
Kreshtar knew that he could not get any farther inside Tristan, but that didn't stop his wanting to. Kreshtar started to push up with his hips; the sensation of moving his shaft inside Tristan was like nothing he'd ever felt.
The sudden but tentative motion upward brought an unexpected gasp from Tristan. Just at that moment he reached the point where pain turned into pleasure. The movement sent ripples through Tristan's body, waves rising up from his guts. He started sliding up and down the thick shaft, matching his movements to Kreshtar's hesitant thrusting.
Kreshtar started to growl. A guttural sound starting in his chest and working its way up his throat. He started running his hands up Tristan's body, caressing Tristan's thighs and hips, running his hands up Tristan's torso. Kreshtar came to Tristan's own budding manhood, not nearly the monster that Kreshtar was equipped with but far from small, and started to work the shaft back and froth, mimicking the movement that Tristan had done to him earlier.
Tristan had his head back, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps in between load moans of pleasure that were almost shouts. Kreshtar's thrusts were coming progressively faster. In and out, in and out. Again, and again, and again, and... there. Kreshtar's manhood hit the pleasure point inside Tristan's body. A cry, nearly a scream, tore its way from Tristan's throat.
The sudden sound surprised Kreshtar, but his rhythm never faltered. There was no thinking, reasoning, logical part of his brain functioning at this moment. All that mattered, all that existed right now was his hardness lodged inside Tristan.
Then something changed. Tristan's moans and breathing started coming faster, started being more desperate. Kreshtar could feel something building inside the two walnut sized globes at the base of his shaft. Something was going to burst, just explode out of him.
Tristan couldn't take it anymore. The combination of Kreshtar plunging his throbbing manhood against that pleasure spot and stroking Tristan's own shaft was going to bring him. He could feel his own orgasm building. Tristan threw back his head, arching his back, pinched his own nipples and let a guttural cry that nothing to do with pain tear its way from his throat. His entire body convulsed with the force of his climax.
Kreshtar didn't know what was going on. Tristan's hole had begun flexing around the entire length of his shaft. Whatever it was that was building finally crashed like a great wave smashing against the shore. He let loose a howl of his own, almost a war cry. Something came shooting out of his nuts. His manhood started spewing something. He could feel it travel up the length of his manhood. At the same time Tristan's manhood started to spew as well. Some thick white fluid came squirting out of the head and landed on Kreshtar's cheek, neck, chest and stomach. Rope after rope.
Tristan finally collapsed on top of Kreshtar. He felt the giant inside him convulse once, twice, three times more. Tristan knew that some of seed would be dripping out of his hole. This had to have been the best lay that Tristan had ever had, bar nothing.
Kreshtar felt hazy, as though he had drunk too much mead. He wrapped his powerful arms around Tristan's slender frame. The boy, the young man, looked at the god made flesh, looked into those wonderfully hazel eyes and knew that this man was now his, just as he belonged to this man.
Tristan kissed Kreshtar again, full and deep. He licked the side of Kreshtar's face where some of his own seed had landed. It tasted salty and sweet. He kissed Kreshtar again with the taste of his own seed still on his tongue. Tristan started to drowse with the feel of Kreshtar's quickly softening shaft still inside him.
"Think we'll stay warm enough tonight?" Tristan inquired mischievously.
All Kreshtar could do was grunt his assurance. Higher thought was beyond him right now. He had enough presence of mind to wrap the fur cloak around them both. The two finally dozed off in each other's arms, Kreshtar's sex still lodged inside of Tristan.
End chapter 1