Strongman

by Denise Rossetti

  Fort changed sides, refusing to let his hand shake. Then his father would have dragged the tumbler to stand before the Ecclesiastical Court, his shoes filled with his own blood, swimming with it. A Crookedness befouling the Straight Way, that would be the accusation. Very little proof was required. Hysteria did the rest. And after that…

  Lurching to his feet, he poured a cup of tepid, bitter roberry and downed it in two long swallows. Fort’s hands clenched around the cup until the scarred knuckles shone white. He had a sudden vision, crystal clear. Himself, pulling Griff away from the old man, thrusting the smaller man behind him, seizing the whip, advancing on his father, murder in his heart…

  Sweet Lufra! His breath coming fast and choppy, he set the cup down with elaborate care.

  Even as a lad, he’d never been able to understand what was so evil about manlove, so threatening. Shameful it might be, furtive and somehow sleazy, but not evil. It was only later, when he was out in the world, that he’d come to see the Straight Church through the eyes of the Feolin, the rest of the Ten Nations. Bigots, hypocrites, sadists.

  Joyless bastards.

  He’d often wondered what his father would make of a son who’d adopted the worship of a goddess, a mere female, a creature of no value in the eyes of Ruler God. Lufra—Maiden, Mother, Crone and Harlot. Lust Dragon of the Feolin. He rather thought the old bastard would die of an apoplexy. Pity he had no idea.

  The door swung open, admitting a gust of cool air and savory smells, followed by Griff’s trim backside, clad in skintight, spangled leggings.

  The tumbler spun around, grinning, his hands full of covered dishes. Fort’s problem returned with a vengeance.

  Chapter Four

  The Straight Church—Religion—Moral Teachings:

  Of the Ten Nations of Phoenix, only the Brethren of the Straight Church take a moral standard on manlove, castigating it as an evil Crookedness befouling the Straight Way, abhorrent in the eyes of their Ruler God. No figures are available, but there is evidence that in the last fifty years, the Ecclesiastical Court of the Straight Church has had an estimated twenty men hung for the crime of sodomy.

  Outside the Straight Church, such relationships are not a matter for remark.

  Excerpt from the Great Encyclopedia, compiled by Miriliel the Burnished.

  Griff patted his mouth with the damp cloth Fort handed him, careful not to get grease on his costume. He hadn’t taken the time to change after the performance. Sourly, Fort reflected the outfit had obviously been designed to showcase and flaunt the body, with a standing collar to frame the tumbler’s lively face, the smooth, strong muscles of his shoulders and arms exposed by the scooped-neck, sleeveless vest. Golden-brown hair curled rakishly over his brow, tumbled over the collar. It needed cutting. A light mat of hair furred his chest and golden down dusted his forearms, glinting in the lamplight.

  The tights were so positively, gloriously indecent, Fort had to keep dragging his gaze back to Griff’s knowing eyes. He could swear the other man was laughing at him, completely unabashed by the outline of a more-than-adequate cock stretching the knit fabric, clamped against his flat belly by the material.

  But his face was almost worse, because he was still wearing stage makeup, his eyes dark and mysterious, the lashes as thick as a girl’s, bold slanting eyebrows giving him a vaguely satanic air. Together with killer cheekbones and a gloss on his lips, the effect was ironically devilish. Deliciously, disturbingly so.

  “So the deep-fish pie was all right?” inquired Griff politely. “I wasn’t sure, but Ember loves me, so I begged for noodle cakes as well.”

  Fort frowned from where he sat on the edge of the bed, conscious of the shaving lather drying on his face. He’d bolted the food and made them a cup of hot roberry to finish the meal, keen to get rid of Griff’s confusing presence. He tightened his grip on the razor. Nothing like a cutting edge to focus the mind and keep the hand steady. “She loves you?”

  “Sure.” Griff grinned. “All women love me. It’s part of my peculiar charm.” He blew on his roberry.

  “Peculiar is right,” grunted Fort, grimacing as he scraped. “Who’s Ember?”

  “The glass-blower. Makes all sorts of baubles. And she can cook.” Griff sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Immediately, it tumbled back over his forehead. “She’s a lovely woman, but so sad. And she won’t tell me why.”

  “Some people actually have dignity, reserve.” Fort pulled the skin of his cheek taut. “You wouldn’t understand that.” The razor whispered over it, leaving a chill in its wake.

  “Mmm. But everyone needs someone to love.” Griff drained his cup.

  Fort laid down the razor. “To fuck, you mean.”

  “That too.” Griff examined his features so boldly, a wave of heat rolled through Fort’s belly, washing over his aching cock, his balls lifting in automatic response. “You missed a bit.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Here, hold these. I’ll get it.” Griff thrust the shaving brush into Fort’s left hand and the soap dish into his right. “Lean back a bit.” He raised a knee and planted it on the bed between Fort’s thighs.

  “Griff—oompf!” The tumbler pushed Fort’s chest with the heel of his hand, and to his own bemusement, Fort felt his shoulders hit the wall behind him.

  The chill of the razor iced across his neck. “Lift your chin and don’t move.”

  His stomach knotting with apprehension and arousal, Fort did as he was bid. Controlling his problem absorbed his entire attention. So did the heat of the tumbler’s body, his clean scent, of soap and flesh and muscle. Nothing like a woman’s soft feminine smell.

  A woman. Desperate for balance, for normalcy, he lassoed a random thought while he waited for Griff to pause. “Can Katahaya really wrap her ankles around her ears?”

  “Don’t know.” Humming under his breath, Griff drew the razor over Fort’s chin, one strong hand cradling his jaw, holding him still. “But she sure wrapped them around mine. Don’t move, I said!”

  “You’ve had her? But I thought—”

  “I only fuck men?”

  This time, the flush felt like a fever. Fort knew he reddened, clear to see without the protection of the whiskers. He made an indeterminate noise in his throat.

  “Then you’d be wrong,” said Griff calmly, but a drop of sweat coursed down the side of his neck. “Usually, I prefer women. I’m making an exception for you.” He ran the razor under Fort’s chin.

  Fort could scarcely believe his ears. Or his reaction. The surge of his blood was so violent, it made him lightheaded, stupid. When the other man drew back, passing a considering thumb over freshly shaved skin, he said, “Gods, Griff, you’ve got balls.”

  As soon as the words were out, he could have taken the razor and sliced his tongue off at the root. “I mean…ah, hell. Get off!” He heaved with his hips, but all that accomplished was to press his hungry cock against the tumbler’s hip.

  Griff froze, exhaling in a gusty rush. “Not yet.” He plucked the towel from around Fort’s neck and wiped away the last of the foam, taking his time, grinning when Fort swore at him. “There.”

  He shifted back a little, his right hand braced on Fort’s shoulder, the razor still between his fingers. “You look… Uh, lots better. That’s how you look. Your eyes have gone all dark and smoky.” His hands clenched, closing over muscle and bone. “Fuck, I can’t do this slow anymore.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Remember the razor.”

  Griff’s lips came down on his, surprisingly soft and hot. Gods, so hot!

  The shock stiffened every muscle in Fort’s body. Especially one. In panic, he tried to jerk his head away, but Griff murmured, “Nu-uh,” into his mouth and something cold pressed under his ear. Shit, the razor! He froze and Griff chuckled.

  When he opened his mouth to curse, Griff slipped his tongue inside, humming with delight. Hot chills raced up and down Fort’s spine and then Griff curled his tongue around his and the world went away, lost in some so
rt of soft red explosion of lust. His fingers relaxed and the soap dish bounced to the floor. The shaving brush followed with a wet splat. Dimly, he heard a clatter as Griff tossed the razor aside, but he was completely preoccupied with the amazing sensations careering through his body. He’d never been kissed like this before, with such strength and ruthless expertise. Griff seemed to read his mind, knowing exactly when to push and when to pull, when to lick, when to suck.

  Strong fingers speared into his hair, gripping the back of Fort’s skull, tilting his head for better access. Griff pressed hard into his body, chest to chest, his cock mashed into Fort’s stomach. He shifted his hips, enough that his stiff length rubbed all along Fort’s. The coarse fabric of Fort’s working trews rasped over the sensitive head of his cock, Griff’s shaft throbbing against his, right through two layers of clothing. The other man did it again.

  Ruler God!

  White-hot instinct obliterated conscious thought. Rearing up, Fort wrapped one arm around Griff’s waist, the other around his shoulders. He took them down to the mattress, rolling so the other man was pinned beneath him, taking advantage of his weight and size. Bracketing Griff’s head between his forearms, he nipped at his lips, ran his tongue over the tumbler’s crooked tooth, growling deep in his throat.

  Griff growled back and one hand clamped on Fort’s buttock, the fingers digging in hard.

  The sound of it, so deep, so masculine, hit Fort like a shower of cold water. Fuck, fuck! What the hell was he doing?

  He wrenched himself away. Panting, they stared at each other.

  Fort’s head felt curiously empty, wiped clean of coherent thought. Finally, he said, “You’re shaking.” He’d get up in a minute, of course he would, but Griff had spread his thighs to accommodate his hips and he wasn’t particularly uncomfortable. Not physically, anyway.

  “That’s because you’re going to kill me. But I’ll die reasonably happy.”

  Strangely, Fort had to fight the desire to laugh, though the fact there was no air left in the wagon made it easier. “Only reasonably?”

  “One lousy kiss isn’t worth dying for.”

  Fort blinked, stung. “It wasn’t lousy!”

  “We can do better.” Griff smiled like a hungry fellwolf and ran his hand into the open neck of Fort’s shirt, the pads of his fingers brushing a nipple. Fort could have sworn the tingle coursed all the way from his chest down to his toes, with a significant detour to the groin area. Under him, Griff murmured, “Care to try again?”

  “No.” He’d felt like this before—every time he’d been wounded, in fact. First, the emptiness of shock, the disbelief, then the flood of pain. Gods, Griff had taken him. Taken him as if he were a green girl! This wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t—

  Fort stopped the thought cold. A commander accepted responsibility for his own actions, first and foremost. He couldn’t say he hadn’t wanted it. Fuck, he’d enjoyed the hell out of it! Best kiss he’d ever had.

  “You little shit. You set me up.” He wrapped long, strong fingers around Griff’s throat and squeezed hard, waiting for the fear to flare in his eyes. “I should beat the crap out of you.”

  The fear didn’t come. Griff lay quietly beneath him, the trusting fool. “But you won’t.”

  “No.” Feeling unaccountably depressed, Fort peeled himself away. He sat up and buried his head in his hands, but Griff simply lay, completely at home in his bed, on his silken bedroll. Fort knew he’d take the image of the tumbler’s lithe, rumpled beauty with him to the grave.

  “I’d give you a run for your money.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll take you on one day.” Griff propped himself up on one elbow. He dabbed at his swollen mouth with a cautious forefinger, as if looking for blood.

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Fort roughly. “You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  Griff bared his teeth. “Don’t bet on it.” He swung his legs around to sit next to Fort, thigh to thigh. Stretching up, he brushed Fort’s hair out of the way and placed his lips against his ear. “Naked,” he whispered, his breath hot and moist. He slid an open palm up the inside of Fort’s leg, the fingertips coming to rest a hairsbreadth from his quivering scrotum. “We’ll do it naked.” His tongue crept out, licked the upper curve of Fort’s ear. “Winner takes all.”

  Fortitude McLaren very nearly came in his trews. Offered to his Goddess, then and there.

  “Aaargh!” He leaped to his feet, chest heaving, fists clenched. “Stop it, you dirty little shit! Stop it!”

  Griff uncoiled and stood, graceful as ever. “Fort?”

  “What?”

  “You’re shaking too. Did you know that?”

  “No.” Fort dragged in a breath, counted his heartbeats. By the time he reached six, he was able to say it again, with some semblance of control, “No. I’m all right.”

  Griff laid a hand on his forearm. “It won’t be so bad, truly.”

  Fort jerked away with an oath. “Don’t patronize me!” he snarled.

  Griff’s expression grew stiff with offense. “I’m not.”

  “Gods, why? Why me? I’m not, not—” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Get out of here.”

  Completely unselfconscious, Griff reached down and adjusted himself in the tights. He put his hand to the latch of the door. “I don’t know why,” he murmured. “I honestly don’t. I only know I want to fuck you so bad I can hardly stand it.”

  “You mean you want me to fuck you,” said Fort crudely. “In the ass.”

  Griff’s chin went up. He returned Fort’s glare. “Yes. I want that, your cock rammed so far up my ass I’ll think I’m going to die. I want to suck you down my throat and swallow every drop. I want your mouth on me, on my cock, my balls, my ass. I want us to do everything to each other we possibly can. That clear enough?”

  Speechless, Fort nodded.

  Griff took a step toward him. His voice dropped to a shaky whisper. “And when you’re ready, when you beg me, I’ll fuck you the way you’ve fucked me. Hear you groan, hear you cry.”

  Fort found his voice. “In your dreams,” he grated.

  “Oh yes, I’ll dream.” The other man smiled, so brilliantly his eyes shone as though they were sheened with tears. “I’m going now. But you know what I’m going to do, don’t you? As soon as I’m alone in my wagon. And I’ll be calling your name with every pull.”

  The door closed gently behind him. Then it opened again and Griff’s head reappeared. The cocky grin was back. “So what are you going to do now, love? The dusting?”

  With a roar of rage, Fort slammed the door in his face.

  He threw himself down on the bed so hard, it shuddered with the impact. Ruler God, he wanted to rend and tear! He sprang up again. The angry bonfire in his gut was so fierce, the skin of his stomach felt inflamed, but where his breastbone had been was a chilly, sickening void. Gods, he had to do something, had to move!

  The filthy little shit! He couldn’t shake the image, the picture of Griff peeling down those leggings. They were so tight, it’d take a wriggle and a curse. Then Griff would spread his legs wide, reach down to cradle, to stroke. What did his cock look like? Was it straight or curved, cut or uncut?

  He’d be doing it now, this minute, this very minute.

  Fort clamped a desperate hand over his genitals, ground them into his pelvis. He was so close, all it would take would be the merest touch. Like a gift of the Goddess, an idea popped into his head. He’d run it off, that’s what he’d do.

  Hurling himself out the door, he pelted the other way down the concourse, threading his way between clumps of straggling Fairgoers, toward the road leading to Valaressa, ignoring his stiff cock. A hundred yards into the cool dark, the discomfort in his groin became such that his erection shrank to a nub.

  Sweet Lufra, that was better! Now he could think straight.

  Fort slowed, lengthening his stride to an easy lope. By the time he reached the first bridge leading from the mainland to the island city,
he’d come to a decision. He still had to collect his strongbox from old Barnaby in Valaressa and pay the Aetherii for Fledge’s wagon. He’d face Griff tomorrow, just to show he could, and then he’d leave.

  When the old scar on the back of his thigh began to pull, he braced his hands on the parapet to stretch. Stupid to run cold like that. If he didn’t watch it, his leg would cramp up.

  And while he was at it, he’d get himself laid. Properly. There was a house he patronized, not often, but every year or so when the need became too great. The whores were clean and old enough to know what they were about, but still tasty. And they were independent operators, businesswomen. If you paid enough, you could keep your partner for the night, for whatever purpose you could negotiate between you. He liked that. Virtuous women though they’d been, his mother and his sisters had been nothing more than his father’s chattels.

  Fort turned back to the cluster of lights on the horizon that was the Ten Nations Fair, settling into the jogging stride he could keep up for hours. His lips curved with the memory of pleasure. Last time, he’d selected a pretty dimpled woman, all plump tits and lush hips. After he’d fucked himself to a standstill between her white thighs, she’d stroked his hair until he fell asleep, his head pillowed on her ample breasts. When he’d woken, they’d talked politics and drunk a little wine. Then he’d fucked her ass, something he did rarely, but truly savored. For an extra fee, naturally. He’d wanted to bind her to the bedposts while he did it, spread-eagled and helpless, but the whore had cast a sideways look at his massive chest, the muscle in his arms, and demurred.

  No doubt she was a sensible woman, but it was disappointing. Nonetheless, she’d sworn he’d given her pleasure and he’d taken care, though the cramping heat of all that strong, smooth muscle had nearly driven him crazy. She’d cried out enough, the creamy globes of her bottom quivering as he’d powered home, reaching under her body to rasp her prominent clit with his thumb. Quite a feat of concentration, on the whole.