The Warlord and the Bard

by Eric Alan Westfall

  The next touch is a shock. Warm breath blowing across my hole as his palms press my cheeks open. Followed by a lick of his tongue, which causes me to jump. He lifts his hand and his right hand slaps my ass hard. That shock shocks me into stillness again.

  “I can’t fuck you if you’re going to be jumping and twitching all the time.”

  “You’re not fucking me now. Can you please just stop this...whatever it is you’re trying to do, and get on with it?”

  “No.” I can hear his Goddess-damned grin.

  And then I’m not speaking. Making noises, yes, though not immediately. Nothing comes out of my mouth but the sound of a sharp inhalation as he starts tonguing my hole. Licking, lapping, teasing, pushing, pausing to lift his head and use one thumb after the other to caress, and push, and push, and push in, and slide out. And repeat. And then it’s his tongue again, my ring relaxing and letting him in. Hells, for something that feels so good, my ass better cooperate and let him in. I am whimpering and panting by the time he stops and lifts his head.

  His breath is hot on my ass cheeks and dripping hole as he murmurs, “Still think oiled-fingers-oiled-cock is the best way?”

  I am nothing, if not stubborn. “Hells, yes.”

  I am nothing, if not not-stupid. “But if you want to do this your way....”

  He does.

  The oiled fingers are next. Just one at first, slowly breaching me, touching that bump inside me lightly, jolting me. Slow strokes with pauses to drizzle more oil on my entrance, on his finger, coating my insides, making me slick. Two fingers and a twinge of pain when they start in. Gone and forgotten when he uses one fingertip and then the other to rub that bump and bump up my breathing. Three fingers in a triangle shape I can feel, and once all the way in, they spread and twist and turn...and rub and rub and rub until I am moaning loudly.

  Doing more than moaning. Begging him to fuck me. To let me feel his cock inside.

  He does.

  But not the way I expected. Not the single fast punch in, the way I did him, for a payback howl from me. Slow, careful, easing in until he is indeed balls-deep. He lowers himself over my back. I love the feel of that red fur across the sweaty smooth flesh of my back and ass. He rests his weight on me, his cock just barely moving.

  “I’m going to fuck you now,” he whispers into my ear.

  I am nothing if not agreeable. “Yes.”

  He raises his upper body, braces his hands on my shoulders, tells me, “I’m going to fuck you through the mattress.”

  I am nothing if not eager, now that I know how extraordinary a cock in my hole can feel, how good instead of terrifying. “Goddess, yes! Get on with it!”

  He does.

  He starts fast and just gets faster, pounding and pounding and pounding into my hole, my whole body tingling as I gasp for air, as I writhe and press my cock into the sheets, my sweat streaming out of my body, making me slick.

  “Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” he chants above me, blending with my own desperate pleas to him to do just that.

  And then without any real warning I am coating my belly and the sheets with seed, my ass muscles doing their very best vise imitation in clamping down on him, and with a loud cry of “Goddess, yes!” he seeds me.

  Jerril

  I collapse on his back. Fortunately he can readily support my weight, despite the difficulty we are both having with breathing.

  That was the best fuck of my life, not that I’m going to share that with him just yet.

  I slide out of him, and it is my turn to drop on my back next to him.

  When we are finally breathing more normally, I weakly lift my hand and stroke his back and down to his ass, between his cheeks, my fingers teasing his hole, but not going in.

  “Two down,” he says, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Three to go. Or four.”

  His voice is not as cold as it once undoubtedly would have been. A warrior calculating precisely what is needed to achieve a goal, and then simply doing what needed to be done, with pleasure a concept not remotely involved. His voice lets me know how very much pleasure was involved, and though we are doing this as an experiment, a test of a way to get home again, his voice also lets me know how very much more pleasure he is expecting.

  He is right.

  As we do, so will be done to us.

  Getting fucked through the wall was glorious, and with the speed with which his hips were moving, I even expected the wall to break and the two of us to go hurtling through into the fresh air, still connected, still fucking.

  I discover I like getting fucked through the wall better than doing the fucking, and getting bare and bending over the chair is nearly as much fun as the bed.

  That third time for me getting fucked doesn’t send us back. And now there is my DarkFire’s third fuck. We both do our best to keep the other from seeing how concerned we are, frightened even, though he will never admit to fear, that it won’t work.

  The Hells with the plan on places. If this works, it will be because of three fucks not the fact of three locations. I tell him to get on the bed, on his back.

  We are reeking with the smells of sweat and sex and oil; we have not bothered cleaning ourselves or each other since the first time. We recover rapidly, far faster than I ever have before, not even when I was young and seeing how many times I could seed in the shortest amount of time.

  It only takes a little lapping at his hole, a small reapplication of oil from the nearly empty bowl, and I slide into him, with only a loud grunt on his part. Some might laugh to see his enormous, long legs spread wide, hooked on the inside of the elbows of a man so much shorter. But it is a position which nevertheless works, though I wasn’t at all certain it would. I like looking into his eyes as we fuck, whether he is in my ass or I’m in his.

  I start stroking. There is a sense of desperation in our movements, an almost-frightened what-if-what-if in the near-frantic coupling; there is that same near-desperation in our eyes though we try to hide it.

  This has to be it. The third time I fuck my DarkFire has to be what gets us back.

  I shut my eyes so he won’t see the despair. If this doesn’t work, what else is there? What more could there possibly be?

  And I stop fucking him.

  DarkFire

  He stops fucking me.

  The Goddess, or Someone, damn him eternally to the Nine Hells without rebirth, he stops fucking me!

  He is still inside me, still hard, as I am still hard, but he isn’t moving. The three times I fucked him in the last several hours...time appears to fly by without markings when you are forever fucking and coming and fucking and coming...were not the three touches of the fucking prophecy. We’re still here.

  We have literally touched each other an uncounted number of times in this fucking place, so it is not just the quantity. All we can hope is that the fucking three refers to types of touch. Only...if this doesn’t work, I’m not sure what more we can do.

  # Have you ever linked during sex? # His link-voice is delicate, only in the sense that his touch is light and he is not intruding into my mind.

  I have been fucked twice today. The second time was better than the first. I fucking expect this fucking to be even better. But, Goddess damn! # You fucking want to stop fucking to have a fucking conversation? #

  # No. Not...exactly. # And now he sounds hesitant. # Have you ever mind-linked, rather than voice-linked? #

  I have. When I was young, before I realized I was the crippled prince I heard people talking about, I would have given anything to be able to voice-link, much less mind-link. I would joyfully have shared all that I was, a sense-link, even a deep-link, if only I could have been like everyone else. But I have never been like anyone else.

  Since that day, I have, of course, voice-linked countless times for the conversations that are just words heard in your head, sometimes over vastly greater distances than your voice could ever carry.

  I have mind-linked for business reasons, since my business is
the efficient dealing of death and destruction; mind-linked to see through someone’s eyes, observe through all their senses, but with our minds remaining separate. Most often, that’s called spying.

  I would under no circumstances mind-link with the King-Emperor. Mother? Probably, though she has never asked. My sisters? They are actually the only ones who have ever view-linked with me, to watch through my eyes, or a sense-link to observe through all my senses. All carefully controlled, all ensuring they could never touch my mind, my memories, be tainted by either or both. Never anything deeper. Nor have I ever found reason to view-link or sense-link with them.

  I tell him so.

  There is a long, long pause. I contract and release my ass muscles, contract and release, to remind him that there is still a great deal of remarkable fucking yet to do. We are both still hard.

  # Do you trust me still, my...DarkFire? #

  It is my turn to pause. And think. Back there, when he asked that question, in just that way, I said, “Forever.”

  That decision was an instinctive one, based on no real knowledge of each other, other than what we had experienced, felt, in that so very brief, so very astonishing, conversation, and then in the dance itself. Here, I...we...know so very much more than we did before, about each other, and, perhaps, ourselves.

  I know, too, what he is about to ask of me. I have heard of the risks of a deep-link, that the two can become so entwined they can never separate, and unable to separate, their bodies can no longer function. No one has ever said whether they go mad before they die.

  But there is no real question here. My answer is still the same.

  # Forever. #

  As he begins moving inside me again, that so very wide cock spreading me so very wide; the oh-so-slight downward angle of his knob acting like several curled fingertips as each stroke in and out precisely strokes that bump inside and sends bolts of ecstasy shooting through my body.

  He is still hesitant, his mind barely touching mine, as if all we are linking are our voices, and then he opens himself, I open myself, to a full sense-link. We are simultaneously feeling, sensing, experiencing, every sight, sound, smell, taste, touch of our fucking. Each time he rams his cock inside me I can feel the walls of my ass grabbing and releasing his cock exactly as his is feeling at that instant; when I stroke my own cock, it is his hand, our hand, that moves. I, we, know this cannot last much longer; it is far too intense. My cock and balls, his, ours, are clamoring for release, as is every point on our bodies. Single hairs on head and arms, in pits, on legs, in ass creases and around cocks, are experiencing this wonder.

  But there is more. There has to be more.

  # Forever? # He, I, we, say.

  # Forever. # we agree.

  And so we deep-link.

  All that I am, ever have been, all I have ever known, thought, felt, experienced, each and every one of those damnable memory crystals becomes his. Every time I fucked the ass or mouth of all those red-headed men who were not and could never be him, become his. Every battle, every death, as warrior in the field, as silent assassin, as Warlord commanding armies, becomes his. He experiences each scar coming into existence, and knows why I will not have them healed away. He is, becomes, me and we are indistinguishable.

  I live his every joy and sorrow, every bleeding finger as he practiced on and on and on, on stringed instruments, because he could not stop until he got that one note, that sequence of notes, precisely right, every song he sang or heard inside his head and bemoaned the loss because he did not wake and write it down. I feel his shock at being offered the position of High Bard at such a young age; the fear during the storm in the Delassit Sea that he might die; the held-in-check hurt he was dealt back there by certain members of the High Houses and Families who will not, if we get back, regret they day the were born, but most certainly will regret what they did to him. I am, become, him, and we are indistinguishable.

  And as we fuck and stroke and move inevitably to some final explosion, as we reach that point and I/we feel his/our seed filling my/his ass, feel my/our seed race from my/his cock to coat the bed, we fully merge. No DarkFire, Jerril, Crown Prince, Heir Presumptive, Warlord, battle mage, Speaker. Just O....

  Jerril

  ...ne. Us.

  And then there are two.

  We two.

  Back where we belong.

  And the deep-link is gone.

  The Music is gone, as well. The Voice that used me is silent. The Song is over. Yet the vibrations linger and the two of us, tired beyond human measure, trembling, drenched in sweat, simply stand here, still holding the audience to us as if bound with chains of Power.

  My blindfold is back on again. So are the rest of the clothes I was most definitely not wearing when we came...and came back. From the fact my trousers are not around my ankles, it appears She must have sewn the buttons back on. I hold back a smile at the image of our Goddess sitting in an attic room lit by candles, carefully selecting matching thread from a large reed basket that I know contains spools in an infinite variety of color, threading the needle. She knots the ends, and then industriously, peering through wire-framed glasses at the tip of Her nose, makes the needle glitter in the candle light as it rises, falls, rises, falls, until all my buttons are back. For a moment She looks directly at me in this fantasy, Her eyes are warm with the warmth, the ever-present smile of my grandmother, who so often had to sew up my clothes after one of my many adventures.

  There are no gasps of horror, so I must assume DarkFire is not as naked as I would prefer him to be, baring and bending—such a wonderful phrase—in the middle of the ballroom floor. He must be dressed, and blindfolded, as well.

  So why are we not just taking the blindfolds off, taking our bows, or social punishments or whatever the Hells might happen?

  Because...because there is something not yet done.

  I run the words of the prophecy through my mind again. And again and again, comparing the words to everything that has happened since I first opened my mouth and the Goddess made me ask him to dance. Yes, it is all Her fault, everything is Her fault.

  Thank you, Goddess.

  Now perhaps You could provide me with just a hint? Or provide him a hint?

  Silence.

  Well, Hells, where’s a Goddess when you want one?

  Oh.

  She is there, or here, when you need Her, not merely want Her. Which means we are going to have to figure this out on our own. Seven times heard. Seven times said. Done. Touches? Countless more than three. One, then the other. Which is what happened when we began to Dance. Two as one. Also part of the dance. And part of that...incredible...deep-link. But...wait. Touches. There were an infinity of touches...there. But here?

  Yes.

  I know what is needed. Does he? or will he do as he did when the Dance began?

  What the Goddess wants, the Goddess will get if I can provide it.

  I raise my bare arm upright, palm toward him.

  DarkFire

  We are back where we belong.

  So very still. The room is still so very still. All of them, watching us in silence, waiting, knowing there is something more. The weight of their regard presses down on us, demanding that we show them.

  They can wait a while longer to find out what that is. Part of that something more is that I once again believe in Her—a choice made of my free will. Only She could have provided us with that space—and the time that was no time at all, here—to learn all that we did. To do all that we did. To become all that he, and I, and we became.

  I am dressed again, so She must have waved Her hand and repaired my clothes. Jerril’s as well, since there are no shocked gasps at the sight of the impressive cock that only I will get to see in the future. And at least my brief recall of how that cock felt in my ass, and mine in his, has not created the display that went hand-in-hand, cock-in-hand-and-elsewhere, with all those doings.

  The second part of that something more is this: She wants this prophecy fulfi
lled. Tonight. But She won’t just hand it to us; we have to earn it. I am so very much not touched by Her faith in us.

  Wait.

  Touched.

  All those touches...there...wherever we were, including the ones that left my ass aching, must not have counted. Because with our return, everything else is done.

  Except one thing.

  I raise my bare arm upright, palm toward him, confident he is doing the same.

  Jerril

  I assume, I pray, that he has figured this out as well, as my single upraised arm will look extremely odd if he has not.

  No chuckles about the blindfolded man raising his arm to ask permission to leave the room. He does understand.

  Our arms, and I know it is our arms, quiver with exhaustion, but in matching movement we unerringly reach out, and with our palms, followed by fingers curling tight, we...touch...for the third time.

  DarkFire

  Goddess...bless. It is done.

  Seven times said.

  Seven times heard.

  Touches three.

  One.

  Then the other.

  Then two as one.

  Then One.

  Then two.

  And love.

  Oh, yes, that last. That last most of all. I hope and desperately pray to the Goddess that this is not just me, that what this is, is real for both Jerril and me.

  I never before realized that a bit of dancing, very well, a great deal of dancing, followed by a bit...oh Hells, a lot...of fucking, could be so exhausting. If he has any energy at all, or even the tiniest increment more than me, I will kill him. As soon as I recover some ability to walk and talk and think and...whatever else it was I was just thinking about.

  We are too tired to move, yet we move. Slowly we remove the blindfolds, drop them on the floor, for a servi...no, for some greedy, which is to say normal, member of a High House or Family to grab as a souvenir. My hands are on his shoulders, his hands are curled around my forearms, as we brace ourselves to stop an imminent ungainly sag...even outright collapse...to the floor.