Bottom’s Tale
Elizabeth Jewell
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Copyright ©2007 Elizabeth Jewell
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ISBN: 978-1-59596-623-0
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Publisher:
Changeling Press LLC
PO Box 1046
Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046
www.ChangelingPress.com
Editor: Maryam Salim
Cover Artist: Sahara Kelly
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Chapter One
The last few days had been the worst of Tad Merryman’s life. He should have listened to his friends and stayed out of the woods on Midsummer’s Night, but he’d gotten caught up gathering wood to sell around town. Besides, he’d had no reason to believe the ridiculous story floating around town about the King and Queen of Fairies and their entourage cavorting in the nearby woods. Everybody knew there were fairies in the woods, but the King and Queen, exiled from Greece due to a squabble with Zeus? That sounded more like a tale spun by the town bard who, though he himself was a good lay, didn’t exactly spin a good lay.
But, because he hadn’t heeded the warnings, Tad had spent one long night being far too enthusiastically used by Titania, the beautiful, beguiling, unbelievably horny Queen of Fairies, who had, indeed, been exiled along with her husband Oberon. Seemingly indefatigable, she had ridden him into exhaustion, then, spell broken, had tossed him aside like yesterday’s trash. Not to mention cursing him.
Many men of Tad’s acquaintance wouldn’t have minded a bit if they’d been forced into an extended tryst with the fairy queen. She was, after all, beautiful and beguiling. And indefatigable. But, truth to tell, Tad wasn’t particularly fond of girls. He’d spent the last few days putting up with general harassment about what had happened. And if he ever figured out who’d decided to start calling him “Bottom,” he was going to kill them.
Not that there wasn’t a perfectly good reason for the nickname to have taken hold -- he was just mortified that anyone had clued in to his habits well enough to figure it out.
He still wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve all this, other than be in entirely the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d done a reasonably good job of pleasuring the fairy queen, if he did say so himself, even if his experience pleasuring women was limited. It wasn’t his fault that fuck Puck, egged on by Oberon, had ensorcelled the two of them in the first place. In fact, the whole thing could have been avoided if Titania would just learn to get along better with her husband. So it was her fault, when it came down to it.
She hadn’t seen it that way, though. As soon as she’d come back to herself, she’d screamed, called him any number of vile names, then thrown enough fairy dust at him to choke a horse. He hadn’t worked out exactly what the magic had done to him until later.
It was probably the tanner who had told everyone. On his morning route delivering wood, as he did to make ends meet between harvests, Tad had cornered the tanner for a quick fuck. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it. It was, however, the first time he hadn’t been able to follow through.
It hadn’t taken long for him to work out what had happened. Tad had always been a top. He’d always preferred men but had never wanted to be taken. He did the taking. The thought of a slim, muscular body under him never failed to rouse him into flinty hardness.
Until now.
Now he tingled in a different way when he looked at the tanner, or the cooper, or the chandler in the next village over, all of whom had bent over for him more than once. Now he burned to have them inside him, and when he thought of topping them, his cock remained stubbornly limp.
That bitch. The spell she’d cast on him had turned him into a bottom. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
* * *
Tad had a horse named Nobbin of whom he was particularly fond. After a day delivering wood all over town, a few days after the Titania incident, Nobbin came up lame. Tad took him immediately into town, in spite of the high probability he would be mercilessly mocked there, and went to the blacksmith.
There was a new blacksmith in town, he soon discovered. His name was Martin, and he was huge.
Tad stood outside with Nobbin, who looked miserable. Nobbin nearly always looked miserable -- there was a certain droopiness about his eyes, and he had a black marking under the left one that looked very much like a tear. He was just a dreary, seemingly chronically depressed horse in general. Tad patted him soothingly on the nose.
The by-now expected sound of half-suppressed laughter came to him, and he looked up. Two men stood across the narrow, cobbled street, staring at him and murmuring to each other in between bursts of strangled laughter. The quality of the laughter made it obvious they were trying not to attract his attention, but of course in exactly the way most likely to attract his attention.
“What do you want?” he demanded, irritated.
One of the men fluttered his hands at his shoulders, mimicking fairy wings, and pursed his lips, making kissing noises. Tad rolled his eyes.
“Those boys bothering you?”
The impossibly deep, mellifluous voice at his elbow made Tad turn. He looked up -- and up, then a bit more up -- to meet the eyes of the blacksmith.
Martin the Blacksmith was a very large man. Tad was not exactly small of stature; he’d been the tallest man in the village for years, and was well-known for his strength and general, well, manliness, truth be told. But Martin put him to shame.
“They’re just…” Tad trailed off. “Well, truth is, they’re about mocking me a bit, you see.”
“I do see. Best we put a stop to it then, innit?”
“Well --” Tad broke off, seeing there was no point finishing the sentence. Martin was already stalking across the narrow street to chastise the men.
“What you about, mocking Mr. Merryman in so shameful a manner?” In spite of his brutish build and unrefined country accent, Martin seemed to Tad to be quite well-spoken. He also had a very nice ass. Tad tried not to stare at it unduly.
“We was just wanting the answers to some questions, like,” one of the young men protested, his tone and expression petulant. “No harm in that, right?”
Martin grabbed him by the ear and dragged him back across the street. “Suppose we can let Mr. Merryman decide that one, eh? Seem fair enough?”
“Right. Right.” The young man struggled against the grip on his ear.
Tad took a step back, not at all happy to suddenly be the center of attention. But Martin’s expression remained firm and impressively glowery as he levered the young man toward Tad.
“Apologize,” said Martin. “And best do it right or you’ll no’ be having your ear back.”
The young man shook in Martin’s grip. His face had gone gray. Tad made himself meet the other man’s gaze, knowing Martin would insist.
“I’m right sorry, Mr. Merryman,” the man said. “Right sorry an’ all. Won’t happen again.”
Tad nodded. “Apology accepted,” he mumbled, then glanced up -- and up -- at Martin to see if the response proved sufficient.
Martin gave t
he perpetrator a shake and let him go. “You and your friends find better use of your time. And I’ll no’ be shoeing your horses so don’t bring them by.”
The young man rejoined his fellow hecklers. They mumbled amongst themselves a moment before wandering off, obviously disgruntled. Tad was left with no choice but to face the blacksmith.
“Um…” He started to stammer out thanks, but Martin interrupted him.
“Mr. Merryman, is it?” He thrust out a hand. “I’m Martin.”
Tad took the hand. It engulfed his, clasped it in a restrained but still powerful grip. He smiled shakily. “Nice to meet you. I’ve brought my horse --”
“Tad Merryman?” Martin broke in again.
Tad winced, feeling his insides -- and some of his outsides -- shrivel up in horrified anticipation of what he knew was coming. “Um… yes, that’s right.”
But Martin only smiled, nodded, and returned his attention to the horse, letting Tad’s hand go. “Your horse is wanting shoes?”
“He’s come up lame, in fact.”
Martin game him a companionable slap on the shoulder that nearly knocked him face-first onto the ground. “Bring him in and I’ll look him over. Can’t have the beast suffering, can we?”
“No. No, of course not. I’ll bring him in.”
Still hot with embarrassment, Tad fetched Nobbin. The horse limped dejectedly after him, eyes drooping. Tad had the distinct impression the animal would have moaned if it had been capable; as it was, the low, shaking snorts were a close approximation.
Martin took one look at the horse and shook his head, smiling. “He’s a bit of the dramatic in him, hasn’t he?” He patted Nobbin’s jowl and the horse seemed to sigh, as if put out at being caught in a charade. His hips shifted, easing more weight onto the lame leg. Martin knelt next to him to examine it. He spoke to the horse in a soft voice, his tone soothing, occasionally lapsing into a tongue Tad found unfamiliar, but which made Nobbin’s eyes drift shut in a manner reminiscent less of misery than of horse-style ecstasy.
It made Tad’s cock hard.
He tried to hide it, embarrassed at his body’s vehement response to the big blacksmith, but his trews refused to cooperate with that effort. There was just no mistaking it, even with a casual glance.
Martin, though, was totally focused on the horse. His huge but somehow delicate hands move up and down the slim leg as Martin kept up his musical mumble of reassurance. Nobbin cooperatively shifted his weight from leg to leg, looking happier than Tad had ever seen him.
Finally, when Martin had examined Nobbin’s legs to his satisfaction, and when Tad was certain he was going to drop over completely and irrevocably dead from the pressure of his erection in his pants, Martin straightened.
“I’ve good news,” he announced, then, to Tad’s complete humiliation, he looked at Tad’s crotch. He was silent for a moment, just staring at the all-too-obvious bulge, then he cleared his throat and returned his attention to Tad’s face.
“’Tis nothing serious. I’ll have him right as rain in no time.”
Tad nodded, grateful that the smith had been kind enough not to comment on his arousal. “That’s… very good news.”
“He’ll be staying here with me, then?” Martin’s eyes were twinkling now, and as he finished the sentence, he ran his tongue languidly along his lower lip.
Tad felt his hips jerk involuntarily, and for a horrified second he thought he was going to come in his pants. “If… if you think that’s for the best.”
“He’ll need some time off his feet.” He paused, smiling, then, with excruciating slowness, his gaze moved down Tad’s body. Not accidentally, or casually, but with sure intent, like hands. “Tell me,” he said, the sultry scan stopping at Tad’s painfully swollen crotch. “They call you Bottom. Are you?”
Tad turned and bolted for home.
* * *
He felt a bit guilty for abandoning Nobbin without so much as a goodbye, but the horse had seemed strangely content in Martin’s presence, so he supposed there was no reason to feel bad about it. The bedamned animal would probably prefer it if Tad just left him there forever, under the mood-elevating influence of Martin the Smith.
He really couldn’t blame the horse. Tad had found the blacksmith rather elevating, himself.
Climbing into his bed, he felt absurdly lonely, knowing Nobbin wouldn’t be there to stick his head through the low window right at sunrise and drool on him. He pulled his blanket up over his head and went to sleep.
Chapter Two
One night. Just one night without the dreams. That was all Tad asked. But it wasn’t to be tonight.
Titania, Queen of the Fairies, had the most perfect breasts Tad had ever seen. He really didn’t like having them pushed in his face, though. Breasts didn’t do much for him. Unfortunately, the spell that had captured both of them left him little choice.
She’d spirited him off to her bower, all arranged with flowers and soft ferns, a womanly place of great femininity with the soft hues of a summer sunrise, and she had laid him down in sweet moss and rose petals and fucked him unconscious.
That was what came back to him in the dreams -- her soft, sweet body pinning him to her frothy bedclothes. Her mouth devoured his cock, the suction so intense he thought she was going to suck it off his body and swallow it. She had sucked and licked and laved him, fingers rolling and pinching his balls. His cock went hard and hungry down her throat, his hips pulsing under her against his will. He fucked her mouth, hard and deep, half-strangled sounds of encouragement coming from her mouth, vibrating against his head. He came down her throat in violent, painful spurts, but his cock remained hard and thick, unflagging. A wider effect of the magic, pumping him full of unquenchable energy. She pushed her fingers into his ass and he came again with an intensity that made him see stars.
And still he remained erect. She was going to make him come, and come, and come, again and again, until there was nothing left of him, until everything of him had emptied into her body.
She climbed on top of him, and he pictured himself turning inside out, the last of his insides being dragged out with his next orgasm. It was an unpleasant picture, but it didn’t matter; he was hard and horny beyond belief, and when she straddled him and pulled his cock inside her, all he could do was gasp with the lovely grip and heat of her.
He had no idea how many times he came that night. He lost count at five, and he was pretty sure he passed out several repetitions later when he returned to consciousness with her splayed under him on her stomach, his dick lodged deep in her ass.
Knowing what was expected of him, he thrust into her, the tightness of her ass strangling his cock to yet another orgasm. His body bucked, his back arching -- it ached now, all the way from the base of his neck to his tailbone -- as he spilled into her yet again. She was so tight, so hot, and holy hell he was going to come again…
He woke abruptly, crying out in protest, straining for release, balls drawn up tight. But his mind rebelled, afraid the orgasm would make him stop breathing. His whole body ached, just as it had after the night with the Fairy Queen.
He lay for a time staring at the ceiling, feeling his erection twitch against the rough-woven bedclothes. He wondered why Nobbin hadn’t awakened him, then remembered that Nobbin was with Martin.
His cock jumped again, made much more enthusiastic by thoughts of the big blacksmith than of the Queen of the Fairies. Reflexively, he reached down under the blanket to take his hot shaft in hand.
He thought about Martin as he touched himself. The impossibly wide shoulders, his almost intimidating height. His hands, though gentle on Nobbin’s delicate legs, had been massive, with wide palms and long fingers. The size of his hand, the size of his feet -- Tad could only imagine the size of the blacksmith’s bulge.
He stroked his own bulge, feeling the eager heat. His shaft stiffened against his palm. Gently, he teased the foreskin back with his thumb. Rough skin slid over slick membrane, and he swallowed his own strangle
d breath. There was no denying the intensity of the pleasure, but it would be so much better plunging into the heat of another man’s body…
His erection flagged immediately. He sighed. He could kill Titania for this, if he had a clue how. He would continue to dream of her, and continue to blanch and stammer in the presence of the blacksmith. Neither of which would get him laid. And if he did want to get laid, he was going to have to face the fact that he was going to have to rethink his position. Literally.
Disenchanted now even with his own talented hand, he rolled off his pallet and into his clothes. Time to fetch Nobbin.
* * *
Nobbin had never been so happy. Even with his leg still twinging with pulled muscle, he was warm and drowsy and content.
The big man’s hands had been magic. Big and warm on his sore limb. He’d taken off Nobbin’s shoes, smeared some sort of ointment on him, then had rubbed his legs, finding the sore spot, gently massaging it. By the time he was done, Nobbin had been a very relaxed, limp and happy horse.
Now, belly full of warm mash, he was resting comfortably in a clean, fresh stall, leg wrapped in bandages. The pain was almost gone.
As much as he loved his master, Nobbin wasn’t sure he ever wanted to go home.
* * *
Tad made his way back to the blacksmith’s, his erection growing longer and harder the closer he got to Martin’s workshop. He should have finished abusing himself this morning. At least then he would have had a bit of release, though something in him doubted it would have decreased his arousal by much.
He supposed he was just going to have to accept the fact that he was going to have a hard-on every time he saw the blacksmith. With a sigh reminiscent of Nobbin’s most self-pitying sounds, he headed toward the smith’s work area.
Martin the Smith stood in front of his anvil, holding an unfinished blade. He wasn’t actively working the blade at the moment, but held it up, examining it in the light, lips pursed as he perused -- and apparently passed judgment on -- his work.
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