Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/historical/the-heathens/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between young-adult and adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.
"Bite me with those sharp teeth, Kucuk my puppy. Scratch me with the edges of your jewel, my Dasqas. Rage and cry and wriggle and writhe, my perfect and precious little one. I deserve every nip and every cut. But you will not escape me, my wondrous little Kucuk. I will never be your master. You will never be my slave. But perhaps, just perhaps, we will be those things of each other."
The Heathens 19: The Hunger
By Bear Pup
The tussle, as one would expect, turned to lovemaking soon after. Again, Harcos began to pet the cleft of my ass and find my puckered rosebud, his fingers driving me slowly wild. Since my mouth was latched like a tick on the head of my master's prick, all I could do what whine and whimper. With a loud POP, he pulled me off my prize and I gave an entirely different kind of whine, then a cry of delight as Harcos sucked my balls into his mouth, tongue washing them round and round as his fingers still stroked behind.
Even if I had not been helpless in his powerful arms, I would have been powerless to move from the sensations he was dragging from my body. I felt more than saw him reach above him and both hand left my ass for the tiniest instant, and were back before I could move. This time, his thick forefinger was slick with what had to be that sacred rabbit grease.
Harcos pushed in and I moaned, first in delight then frustration. He still had my balls in his mouth but nothing touched my cock. I reached down and he slapped my hand away, but the pleasure was too great and I simple HAD to get to my dick. He pulled his finger out, causing me to gasp, then grabbed both my wrists, pushing them behind my back and securing them with one giant paw. And then his finger was back. No! Two fingers! I moaned and writhed, well, perhaps wriggled is better. With my nuts trapped in his luscious furnace of a mouth, his fingers up my butt and my hands held firm behind me, there wasn't a lot of room to do more than that.
I felt pain for the first time that night as his third finger entered me, but at the same time he nibbled on my left ball, distracting me with a different, far more wondrous pain. All pain, frankly all thought, vanished when his deepest finger began to poke and prod that magical spot at my body's sacred, secret core. My cock was so full it was actually painful, and yet not the slightest hint of sensation was there. The more I struggled, he harder he held me and the more-forcefully he pummelled that holy nubbin of flesh. I know that I was making noise, but the Final Trump could have sounded and I would never have known.
What started to build within me was nothing short of the power of the Almighty God, spreading from deep in my soul, slowly outwards to every finger, toe and hair of my body. He changed the tempo of his fingers and that power redoubled. He trapped that lump of flesh between two fingers and began to rub it from all sides and it redoubled again until I could no longer see the tent through the rays of His Glory. My master's hand now moved as fast as his tongue on my nuts and started to slide in and out at the perfect pace, slamming into, across and back over that spot.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Nothing, no sensation real or imagined, had prepared me for this. Without warning, that Holy Fire found and invaded my dick and my entire body exulted. The Glory, again and unbelievably, redoubled as well, blinding me entirely and setting my entire being -- body, mind and soul -- ablaze. But in His Grace, like the Burning Bush of old, I was not consumed but utterly fulfilled. And with that, I erupted, my voice a strangled gurgle as the Spirit seized every muscle and nerve.
I found consciousness slowly. Something inside knew that time had passed. I stacked the tiny fragments of my mind with great care, casting about the dark and formless void for each new piece and fitting it slowly into place. The first sense thus born was that which feels warmth. Wondrous, luxuriant warmth. I then had taste, the rancid flavour of a night spent sleeping deeply after much exertion. The next, texture. Soft but bristly hairs dragged rhythmically against my back. Next came sound, the soft snore behind me and the predawn hunters with their mournful hooting somewhere distant. Last was sight, or lack of it. I pried open my eyes slowly and with difficulty, they were glued shut with night-gum.
After sight, self began to fall into place. With it, words, memories. With that, I was full awake. I felt the warm slickness of Harcos' cock behind me, planted above the cleft of my ass. The memory of his fingers taking me came to the fore and I stifled a moan. With it can a sudden thought.
My master's barbarian paws were huge, each finger thick and rough. I remember the third entering me. His hand laid across my belly and I gently felt the digits. Could his... cock be that much larger? And with the slickness of the skin and the way it slides, would it not be even... easier to accommodate? The thought of having him inside me became a sudden obsession, to the exclusion of all else.
I moved slowly, carefully, and got to where the crack of my ass now was above the head of my master's dick. I rocked slowly, silently, intently until I felt it finally nestle where I wanted, needed, thirsted for it to be. I gasped aloud when the spongy, sex-slick knob met the still-greasy lips of my ass. I bore down and he slipped. I tried to swallow my own moan of frustration. I repeated the process and finally, finally felt the slightest bit move inward, spreading me. I started to bear down and the pain began, but what was pain compared to my goal? An irrelevancy at best.
I nearly screamed in surprise and frustration as Harcos spoke, simultaneously pulling back from where I so desperately wanted his cock to be. His voice was muzzy but indulgent, "No, no, my puppy. That bone is not for you this day. It will take much work to bring us both that supreme pleasure." I groaned in frustration, "But that you want it, my Kucuk, my Dasqas, fills me with joy you cannot imagine." He pulled me around and devoured me in kisses.
I finally pulled free and took my morning gifts, his night-urine and his morning seed. The taste of my ass on his cock filled me with need and I tried to pull even single drop of jism from him as he laughed, then yelped at the overstimulation. He sent me out with a sharp slap to my ass. When I returned from making mud, I was in time to braid his sandals. I saw with dismay that he had again donned the breastplate that covered all the way to below his balls as well as the guards on arms and shins. He expected battle again. I equipped myself as well and came out to find Pyrkagia tending the cookfire.
He gave a me a long, slow smile and I returned it heartily. He was preparing a different kind of grains-and-fruit gruel than Harcos carried, but the scent was delightful. Volot came out and looked me up and down. "Ah, so you survived after all. Between Pyrkagia's demon voice and the prolonged sounds a slaughter echoing from your tent, I would guess there is not a savage within a dozen stadia this morn." I blushed furiously, but laughed as well.
Pyrkagia's rarely-heard voice admonished. "And the terrible, lengthy and highly-vocal death encountered by an ox a bit later in your tent, friend-Volot? Surely added several stadia to their flight?" Volot was mortified, not yet comfortable with the banter about what he dearly wished would be a far more private (and quieter) pastime.
The three warriors strode into camp as the gruel was setting. Each bore a pile of misfit weapons. Those of wood went into the fire. With the exception of a rather nice sickle which Pameten loaded and a dozen iron spearheads gleaned by Stelio, all other pieces of metal went into the flowing river. Only the arrows, perhaps three dozen, and fur wooden bows were spared, along with several lengths of twine well-suited to snares. Arrows were driven butt first into the dry soil to create a tight, round picket next to which the bows were stacked. I turned to Harcos with questions in my eyes.
"The men were starving. We will not take that which feeds them, only that which threatens the next band of travellers." He was back to curt and grumpy; I understood why. We ate and packed and were ready to move out when the three warriors went into quiet council. Volot and I shared a stunned look as Pam portioned out perhaps a third of the venison, stacking it neatly in the picket of arrows with the bows atop it to keep craftier animals at bay, at least for a while.
When we started out, Harcos spoke low, "We are unlikely to need all of the meat. Perhaps our generosity will ease their hearts as well as their hunger."
Compared to the night, the passage through the actual cleft in the ridge was supremely anti-climactic. The rushing river to our left was deep and strewn with boulders, making a roaring music that delighted the ears. The day was bright and would later be insufferably hot, but then was still cool and pleasant. We did not see a living creature, human or otherwise, through the passage nor even as we trekked across the plain beyond.
The area between the ridges was a barren, blighted place as bereft of God's bounty as it was of His followers. There were low, ankle-deep grasses of a type I have never seen. Rough-edged, sparse and stiff, they were not painful but far from delightful to wander through. They also clawed at the cart wheels. We could see the cleft in the other, larger ridge as soon as we set foot on the plain. It should have been less than a day's distance, but the vile grass meant slow going. Worse, we could not simply cross the cursed grasses quickly, cutting across a narrow point and paralleling one ridge or the other for the majority of the trek. The inner faces of each ridge were deeply score by erosion, a sea of gouges and prominences.
We finally found respite for their clutches and were initially wary as the grasses ended in a vague and inconstant line on the edges of cultivation. Cultivation meant people and people meant potential danger. The fear died quickly, though. The fields were long-fallow and only the random scatters of tall grain-grasses appeared, most stunted with thirst. It was clear that things grew in that valley only if men could provide the water. The pass we sought was no more than an hour's walk from there.
We found the ruins of the hamlet, a cluster of six small stone houses surrounded by an inner, protective wall and an outer one intended to constrain the livestock. Only one structure still provided shelter, and that was tentative at best. It had probably been the house of the clan-chief or family-elder as the floor was about a man's height off the ground and made of thick (and thus precious) beams. It was the floor that remained and held the feeble structure together. It was utterly clear that a strong wind would collapse it fully. Directly in front of the ruined house sat the reason for the ruin of the settlement, a well long dry and dust-filled. The water had failed and thus the viability of the group who once lived here.
Volot's voice was low and worried, and deadly certain. "There are ghosts here."
Pameten's contemplative voice responded, "Yeeees. And those ghosts might smile and make this a safer night indeed." He shared a look with Harcos and they turned each to slowly scan the walls. None were as tall as a man, but all where stills standing, and only three points -- the original gate and two subsidence-collapses -- broke the protective ring.
Volot's eyes grew wide. He hissed to me in our own tongue, "Kucuk, brother, please don't let this happen. This is a cursed and dangerous place. Please, please make them move on!" I felt so as well, but when I thought deeply, it was the quiet emptiness that stoked the fear, not the fullness of demons and ghosts. I watched Harcos for some hint and saw him being to loosen his stride, relaxing and rolling his sore shoulders. He felt safer here.
"Yes, my brother, but we have two things that others would not." I spoke slowly and confidently. I had no scruples against playing to prejudice and calumny if it would calm and soothe my simple friend. "We have a sorcerer," I glanced to Pyrkagia, "and we have a Christian who can destroy the ghosts of other's ancestors." It was a common myth of the mountains, that we followers of the One True God possessed such a frightful (to them) power.
The ability of the Holy Word to cast out the fiercest demons was widely known (if restricted to the holiest and most God-favoured, a detail we chose not to mention). Volot and most Heathens of this arm of the world relied upon the spirits of their forbearers as much or more than any gods to protect the hearth and home. The fact that we could banish or destroy them was a perpetual protection/danger as caution and fear fought for their hearts.
I freed myself from the chafing straps and began to twist life back into my back. Volot, trembling visibly, did the same. I moved to Pyrkagia who had already started assembling their tent. "Friend-Pyrkagia," I whispered, "our brother is terrified of the ghosts of this place. What you know and I believe as craft he sees as sorcery, and he believe the faithful of my tribe as dispeller of demons. Have you some simple but flashy thing that is not precious?" The slow, conniving smile alone would have proven beyond all other evidence that this was a man of many years; no child could have worn such an expression.
He nodded and I spoke briefly. I got another nod and left him, quickly assembling our own cart-tent. The warriors returned, having set a different sound-trap this afternoon and I muttered to Harcos, "Volot is petrified of this place. Pyrkagia and I will fix this at true-dark if I have your leave, my Aldus." Harcos got an odd look and nodded curtly, then set about pulling a variety of lethal-looking weapons from his store. Stelio was doing the same as Pam worked on his shelter with little real help from his trembling servant who startled at the slightest noise.
The afternoon was one of weapon-repair and treatment, Harcos and Pam teaching Volot and me the subtle differences in sharpening various blades and edged weapons, then how to protect each type of metal once the knife-shine showed the hone. It was tedious but fascinating work. As dusk neared, Pyrkagia prepared the meal.
Dinner was the venison again, this time dressed with grains and a half-cupful of precious wine taken from the bandit leader three days before. It was wrapped, then allowed to create its own sweet wine-steam as it heated over the slow coals. It was beyond simply delicious, it glowed with the life the beast had held, that the grain potentiated, that the wine preserved.
By the end of the meal, though, Volot looked ready to vomit. He was so scared his breath was in short pants and I could see the white between his eyes' irises and lids. I made sure to approach him where he could clearly see me. He was obviously ready to bolt, and I could tell his master was worried for him, even though Harcos spoke to Pameten with a clam and quite voice.
"My brother, my strong ox, my brave and steady friend. I know you feel both the ghosts who welcome us and those who wish us destroyed." He nodded spastically. "I will remove the latter ones from us, my brother. Have no fear at what you hear and see for the One True Gods protects me and all with me in this."
Pyrkagia's head whipped round and Stelio started in surprise when I began to speak. Pam cocked his head and listened closely as if he could make some vague sense of the words. The reason was simple, I spoke as I'd been taught the passage and the language in which the Apostle Luke had written the Holy Word, Greek. I knew the meaning from my own tongue, but we'd been forced to recite in Greek as well.
So, I intoned the story of demon-ridden child Christ met after coming down from the mountain in Luke the Evangelist's ninth chapter. Greek lacks the majesty of Latin, but it had one saving grace: Volot could not understand more than a few words. I was clear that one such word, pneuma -- the one Luke used for demon spirits -- was among that handful. As I reach a false crescendo more-or-less mid-verse, I made a quick hand gesture and the air above the fire suddenly erupted in golden sparks. The glitters danced for an eyeblink and were gone.
There are times when a Christian thinks that he is working WITH the One True God only to find out that he is working FOR His great and unfathomable plan. Thus it was that night. Before the afterimage of the sparks had cleared from our eyes, the hovel behind us, the one with the intact floor, erupted in a flurry of ghostly shadows and flicking wings. Ghosts and demons driven out by the force of the Holy Spirt and the Word of God? I mean, I knew they were bats, startled by the flash of light... right?
Regardless, Volot was suitably amazed and hugged me so tightly I thought he'd break me. He then flew into Pameten's arms, begging forgiveness for ever doubting the man's vow that he would be kept safe. Pam was utterly bemused, but more than open to accepting this unexpected boon. They left the fire immediately, and the noise of their jubilant rutting made my master beam with pride. He pulled me into his lap and began to diddle under my tunic. I was squirming and giggling in minutes.
I watched Pyrkagia's head roll languidly where he sat between his 'master's' thigh. It took a moment to realise that he was doing to Stelio with his head what Harcos was doing to me with his fingers. I watched as Stelio's face got tighter and tighter and his breath shorter and shorter with the effort to hold his composure. When there was no doubt that he was at the knife's edge of losing that battle, Pyrkagia stood and Stelio followed, his need now clear, apparent and (based on the spreading stain) apparently leaking copiously.
I was approaching my own climax as well when the faintest tinkle rang out. Harcos jumped, dumping me on my ass. He threw wood on the blazing embers. They flamed up and I could suddenly see the pinprick of... eyes. Harcos roared, "PAMETEN! TO ME!"
If the situation had not seemed so immediately dire, the sounds from the two other tents would have been uproariously funny. Cursing in at least four languages and various slaps, yelps and squawks were instantly followed by three naked and very well-armed bodies (Pyrkagia, as he had told, had little proficiency with 'mundane' weapons). Harcos had thrust a spear with a wicked, three-pronged head into my hands just seconds after I had Agyar from his sheath. Harcos himself had two swords, short and long, flashing from the neat row where he had laid them to dry after honing and oiling.
A screaming snarl told us in no uncertain terms what foe we faced, just at ghostly grey-brown shapes boiled through the three gaps. Perhaps seven wolves, one trailing the now useless sentry-string with unnecessary bells bouncing everywhere, faced us, snarling. Wolves rarely attacked men in the mountains and certainly never a large group around a fire. The reason, though, was painfully, excruciatingly clear, and identical to the previous night's cause; the beasts were clearly starving.
Stelio's weapon of previous days was useless in such a tight space. Instead of the whirling death of his chained disks, he held two strange... knives? Not completely unlike the trident of the false-god Poseidon, it had a long central spike and two shorter ones, each perhaps a third the length on either side. The creatures circled for perhaps ten seconds before rushing us in their desperate, gnawing hunger. I fancied I could see the despair in their eyes, knowing that they were choosing a fighting death over a sad and lingering starvation.
I accounted for one wolf. My triple-prong spear pierced it in the chest as it rushed from the side, snarling and snapping. My Agyar finished the beast with slash after slash under its slavering jaws. Harcos and Stelio took one apiece as well. Pameten, again, was Death come calling. His adzes ripped and shredded the wolves that came within range. As each fell, Volot was on it with a razor-sharp, sickle-like blade, either at throat or belly, killing quickly and as painlessly as possible. It was over in minutes, the shrunken, emaciated creatures lying dead and sad amongst us.
Harcos suddenly cried out and I looked at him in alarm. He dropped his longer sword (I doubt anything could part him from the shorter one) and rushed to me. It was then that I realised the wolf had done more than snap and snarl. The hand that held my spear was running with blood from my forearm where the wolf had ripped at me. I stared at it in wonder, unable to reconcile my eyes with the signals from my body that seemed, briefly, to be all about well-being. With a crashing wave, the lance of pain for my arm now presented itself for consideration. "That HURTS!" I complained to Harcos as I fainted into his arms.
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 26 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 17 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 19 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Off the Magic Carpet: 12 chapters .../military/off-the-magic-carpet/ Lake Desolation: 11 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/ Dear John Letter: 3 chapter .../military/dear-john-letter/ Shark Reef: 4 chapters .../adult-youth/shark-reef/ Culberhouse Rules: 2 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/
Special collaboration with Brad Borris: In God's Love (4 installments) .../incest/in-gods-love/