Scared Stiff

by Laura Baumbach, William Maltese, Josh Lanyon

  Luuk's cock seemed a perfect fit for Marl's moist mouth and throat. Marl couldn't remember a time, from the initial get-go, when he had even the faintest choking reflex when gobbling Luuk's dick—not when the suck proceeded nice and easy, not even when the suck turned a bit frantic with Luuk's nearness to orgasm seeing the king needing desperately (all delicacy and finesse out the door) to get off.

  Having estimated the time it would take for the steward to get to the vault and return with the already fabled candle-by-Delimar-Gloo, Marl had a good idea how long he had between first swallowing Luuk's dick and seeing it sucked dry. There was plenty of time for a nice lead-in, without having immediately to go into fast-motion head-bouncing to achieve the desired results.

  As Marl's face lingered over the plugging prick, his taste buds savored the slightly salty taste of it. His nose inhaled the essence of studly warrior king. He was almost sorry that he'd made such a big deal of having the candle brought to them. It wasn't so much that he wanted to see the damned thing (although, like everyone else, he did want to see it), more than it was a case of the prestige involved in being able to see it, and seeing it, when so few had access.

  No doubt about it, Marl thought, as he began his first real head-slide back up the cockshaft to slip his lips into the slight groove formed at the base of Luuk's circumcised cockhead, this flesh-and-blood dick obviously had more to offer than any wax one. Then again, if the wax one did contain some kind of magical...

  "No one sucks my cock like you do,” Luuk heard himself admitting and interrupting Marl's train of thought in order to focus the sucker even more entirely upon pleasing the king.

  In fact, Marl did such a good job at what he now did that Luuk often wished the handsome soldier and confident wasn't quite so good at it. Luuk would have liked to think that everyone around him was easily replaceable. Having it so made it infinitely easier for a ruler to rule. At a moment's notice, a king often had to make decisions as to who should stay and who should go, who should live and who should die. If Luuk would have had to, then and there, send Marl away, or—gods’ forbid—have him killed, there was no doubt in the king's mind that Marl would be sorely missed.

  Maybe it had something to do with physical opposites attracting, like two opposing poles of a magnet. Marl so blond, so blue-eyed, so hairless. Luuk so dark-complexioned, so ebony-eyed, so hirsute. Not that Luuk's body hair was comparable—say—to the natural fur coat of Henrilin Dub (who was so often referred to as the Henrilin Bear), but compared to the complete (except for his head) hairlessness of Marl (some natural, some from depilation, some from sharp blade and razor), Luuk was, indeed, furry. Although his back, shoulders, and ass (except for the depths of the latter's crack) escaped pelt-status, dark hair (although not as curly nor as thick as the black curls on his head), began at the top of his pectorals, fanned outward and downward to form a distinguishable dark line through his pectoral cleavage, over and around his belly button to the wiry strands V'd at his crotch. Unlike the Henrilin Bear's nipples, Luuk's (dime-sized and the color of unpolished copper), weren't completely hair-hidden and, when erect, made themselves even more evident. The thickness of his pubic hair, which matched in color the hair on his head, thinned as its growth patterns cascaded his thighs, calves, and ankles; to number, in grand finale, three lone hairs on each big toe of each large foot.

  * * * *

  A naked Glynen Gaval fucked the gwin tree. Actually, he fucked a tree trunk. Actually, he fucked a convenient hole in the tree trunk.

  The secret to successful and enjoyable tree-, trunk-, hole-fucking, was first finding the right tree, trunk, hole. Of course the hole could be made from scratch, using a drill, but a natural hole was usually the better bet, if for no other reason than that it saved a helluva lot work. Most trees provided at least one or more nature-made hole, although not every such hole was suitable for fucking. Since most people frowned upon the fucking of trees, the best holes were high among the branches and concealing leaves, thereby affording one privacy while ramming tree/trunk/hole to climax and not attracting attention from any less-than-liberated someone strolling the grounds below.

  Glynen's first such fuck-hole was discovered quite by accident. At first, he'd climbed trees merely to find places to get away from his mother (who always had some chore or other he was supposed to do, had forgotten to do, needed to do). Also, he'd climbed to get away from his little brother who had been harder to shake than glue; the time had come, after little Gorj had been carried away by the flash flood, later found dead amidst the resulting detritus, when Glynen had wished he'd spent more time with the kid instead of having devoted so much time trying to avoid his sibling.

  Specifically, Glynen remembered his first tree fuck as the result of another visit from Marna-Sil who was far more annoying even than Gorj, what with her aggressively wanting, constantly, to steal kisses and/or take a look at what made Glynen anatomically different from her, and/or flash her naked big tits in his face (it taking a good deal of effort for Glynen to pretend the interest and appreciation other guys would have displayed at such “good” fortune).

  Glynen wasn't ordinary, though. He'd known that from the get-go. He'd confirmed it over the years. How many guys, after all, passed up getting their dicks into Marna-Sil's cunt and, instead, saw the preferable possibilities for sex offered by a tree hole discovered during a climb to escape her? How many such holes had Glynen bypassed, on other climbs, without a second thought, before the epiphany offered by that one?

  Eventually, of course, he'd fucked cunt, although not the one Marna-Sil had so blatantly offered up. Before, during, and after every cunt-fuck, though, he'd known full-well that he would have preferred dipping his wick into a tree-hole. Whether he would, then or now, really have preferred some guy's tight and funky asshole, in general—Krydon's asshole in particular—was something he couldn't say for sure. He'd never had the opportunity to dick-dive any buddy's butt, certainly not Krydon's butt. Not that Krydon was actually a buddy. Before the dallin-de invasion, Krydon and Glynen hadn't even run in the same social circles. Glynen's father was the king's steward; Krydon's father was an army sergeant; Glynen's mother was aristocratic Farlin-Zu clan; Krydon's mother was a camp follower. From afar, Glynen had always found Krydon crude, uneducated, unrefined, and decidedly backward in his harassment of gays, retards, nerds, and minorities.

  It was the dallin-de invasion that made for so many strange bedfellows. Glynen and Krydon had since shared many a bed, even if merely gathered tree bows and moss, during Krydon's recovery from his stab wound, and during the two's often dangerous journey to sanctuary among the gwabdi-din. If Glynen, on more than a few occasions, sported a boner during those bed-times with Krydon, he'd mostly been able to keep them concealed, or had been able successfully to explain them away by blaming them on screwing-pussy night dreams. More than once, Krydon (to be sure Glynen truly dreamed of cunt?) had made Glynen relate, in vivid details, the contents of any such dreams. Once Krydon had actually jacked off in accompaniment, so good was Glynen's lying. Afterwards, Krydon had been so genuinely embarrassed, though, by what he'd done, that he, took to masturbating in private after subsequent story-tellings.

  So, Glynen fucked his favorite tree-hole (he had several in the surrounding forest), and wished he was fucking Krydon now stripped to the waist, sweaty, and visible through a break in the foliage. The crude and uncouth, but admittedly handsome bastard (literally as well as figuratively), hoed a garden as recently tilled as his cabin was recently new, and as his slut of a wife, Hilda-Moore, was recently acquired. Glynen still had wet dreams and fantasies of that one time Krydon had wrapped calloused hand around thick commoner dick and had pounded it to comet-spewing climax.

  No doubt, it was Krydon who, married or not, along with the just-about-perfect tree-hole Glynen now fucked, which kept Glynen detoured from his original objective of journeying deeper into the hinterlands—not counting, of course, how the dallin-de invasion made it almost impossible for him, or for anyone
else, to travel. The gwabdi-din, often enemies of Glynen's people in the past, were exceedingly generous in their acceptance, now, of others less fortunate than they. Of course, there was method in their generosity, in that it was well-known that the dallin-de, having initially passed by the gwabdi-din, because of rugged terrain, would soon concentrate on wiping them out as completely as each and every other peoples who stood in the dallin-de's way. The gwabdi-din would very soon need all the help they could get!

  "Agghhunnngh,” Glynen growled softly into the segment of tree trunk against which his sweaty right cheek rested. In the distance, Krydon had bent from the waist (to dislodge a particularly recalcitrant weed from his new garden?), just as Glynen's big dick had made another delicious slide into the tree-hole he was fucking. For that brief moment, it was almost as if Glynen's dick slid not into a beeswaxed tree hole but up and into the funky depths of the muscled ass Krydon always turned in Glynen's direction in Glynen's best fuck-fantasies.

  Beeswax, of course, was one secret to a good tree-fuck. Glynen's initial efforts at arboreal screwing left his poor dick scratched, bruised and, once, even bleeding. Beeswax, kneaded to workable consistency and liberally scooped into any hole and, then, molded into correct shape by cock-insertion for only as long as it took the wax to begin re-setting, later provided a sensuously slick corridor sure to coax any inserted dick to grand-mal eruption of steamy cream.

  Glynen had good footing on two branches perfectly distanced below the branch on which his ass sat and which his legs straddled. His tree-hole, the result of a damaged limb having rotted off, was perfectly distanced so that Glynen, by hugging the trunk and by raising and lowering himself, bouncing on the balls of his feet, worked his dick in and out ... in and out ... in and out ... of the canal he was fucking. If, as he sometimes did, he wanted to interrupt his building passion, he needed only to drop his ass back into a sitting position; his cock would still be more than halfway inserted into the hole but not moving while Glynen waited for near-peaking pleasure to abate before continuing.

  Glynen, though, wasn't out for any abatement of his pleasure at that particular moment. Krydon was suddenly bent from the waist, again, in the garden, his ass presented; Glynen took full advantage of the resulting fantasies that had Glynen's big cock fucked hard and fast up Krydon's seemingly service-me-please rectum.

  "I'm screwing your hypocritical, bigoted, uncouth, shitty, straight asshole,” Glynen vocally carried through with his make-believe. “What, my friend, do you think of that?"

  Of course, Krydon wasn't really a friend, even after Glynen had rescued him from certain death in that gutter by the side of that forest road. What Krydon felt was a begrudging sense of indebtedness to a member of the once-despised aristocracy, and a fierce self-loathing that Krydon, he-man commoner, had been unable to save himself. Then, of course, there was their connection in being two of the so few of their Riin countrymen who survived the ongoing dallin-de invasions.

  Krydon would have been rabid-dog livid had he known that now, or ever, he, his cock, and his ass were objects of another man's unbridled lust, even if the latter was only getting fantasy-fucked in Glynen's imagination.

  "Stay bent over for servicing, stud,” Glynen whispered to the tree-trunk but really talked to Krydon whose anal gyrations were in accompaniment not to Glynen's screwing of Krydon's ass (although that's how Glynen fantasized it), but because of some unwanted weed's root system so obviously clinging tenaciously to remain implanted in the soil around it. “I only need a couple more seconds and...” Glynen moaned his disappointment as Krydon won his wrestling match, stood straight, and tossed defeated flora off to one side.

  Not that Krydon's premature repositioning kept Glynen's nuts from erupting. Glynen's testicles were too far primed to be kept from doing what they had to do, come hell or high water.

  "Fuck you, you sexy bastard shit-hole!” Glynen made do and provided a final thrust of his dick into beeswax-lined tree-hole, imagining the snugness of tight asshole as his cream-containing nuts began letting go their reservoir of pearly sperm.

  It was definitely time for Glynen to hold on tightly. Past experience, and a few near falls from the treetops, at such mind-blowing moments of sexual oblivion, kept him determined to maintain his balance among the leaves and limbs. His equilibrium was little helped by his dick refusing to stay deep-hole anchored but, rather, proceeding into grand-finale rabbity punch-fucks that—had Glynen really been fucking a bent-over Krydon—would have seen the commoner knocked completely over by the aristocrat's poke ... poke ... of battering-ram dick ... up ... commoner asshole.

  Finally over and done, Glynen plopped his firmly muscled ass down upon the limb he straddled. He hugged the tree trunk, his cheek tight against it as he breathed gaspy post-orgasmic breaths. His skin gleamed with its slick of sweat.

  "Damn, that had to be better than the real thing,” he tried to convince himself, since it hardly seemed likely he would ever get the opportunity to stuff his dick up Krydon's tight rectum, although miracles, even in the present day and age, were still known to happen (fewer and farther between as they might be).

  Glynen's dick began to soften and, as a result, slowly withdrew even more from the fuck-hole's cum-sopped interior.

  Clean-up consisted of utilizing what Glynen had carried into the tree with him. His tote bag hung on a nearby limb. From it, he took a soft cloth to wipe his dick dry. He used the same rag, fingers-guided, to sop up the man-made sticky mess in the fuck-hole. He wanted the hole ready and waiting for his next time, not wanting to put his dick into a space crusted by stale cum. Too much spunk, this time, to be sufficiently mopped up by the one rag, he used the second he'd brought as back-up. Both rags went back into his bag to be carried down the tree and away with him. He had no intentions of betraying this special tree-fucking spot by being as careless as the lazy whintel bird that always just hung its feathery ass over the rim of its nest, every time it had to dump. The whintel bird's inability to fly even as far as the next tree to shit, marked his location for any hungry hunter.

  Glynen cleaned and buffed the beeswaxed fuck-hole, and then plugged it with a hand-crafted wooden stopper. No way did he want surprised by one day inadvertently sticking his dick into a hole occupied, during his absence, by a wasp, or an ant, or by any other creepy-crawly.

  His senses more about him, now, than but minutes before, he successfully maintained his balance while he re-dressed. Krydon, still naked to the waist, and still laboring in the garden, wasn't nearly of as much interest as he had been while Glynen was playing hard dick to climax. In fact, big balls cum-drained of their copious spermal reservoirs, Glynen, as he often did at such moments, wondered why he even got off while fantasizing sex with such a genuinely boorish shit, and commoner to boot. Possibly, the aristocrat thought, as he gathered up his things, proceeded down the tree, with a final glance in Krydon's direction, it was because the commoner bastard was built like a brick shithouse and, despite decided crudeness, provided a genuinely masculine aura to which Glynen, and others, were drawn.

  Glynen was into thicker leaf cover, still on the way down, when the whole forest seemed to vibrate. The trembling provided just enough vertigo so Glynen found it necessary to pause in his descent and hold on until the quickly ended vibration ceased and desisted.

  Earthquake immediately came to mind but only for as long as it took Glynen's ears to hear the distant but distinct sound—puk ... puk ... puk ... of whizlin-whip weaponry. And ... a human cry of pain?

  A quick return to his stoppered tree-hole, and a glance through the trees, showed Krydon belly-down. His head had been completely removed (by a whizlin-whip?), and plopped lackadaisically beside him. It appeared as if one man's torso mimicked a torlup bird, head buried in the sand; another man buried to his neck within the same grouping.

  Puk ... puk ... puk. Smoke and fire (Krydon's cabin?). Someone distraught. Female? Krydon's cunt of a wife?

  Glynen knew what was happening, having once before gone through a
similar scenario when he, later with Krydon, had been forced out of their country by the dallin-de invaders. Having once passed up the gwabdi-din, without finishing them off, it had always only been a matter of time before the dallin-de returned for mop-up operations. For Glynen, the gwabdi-din no longer offered sanctuary but suddenly only increased his chances to become a victim of dallin-de slaughter. He had to move, and move fast, if he were to escape Krydon's fate.

  He had no way of knowing whether Krydon, Krydon's wife, and/or Krydon's cabin, had become victims of a mere raiding party, in preface of a main advance, or whether the majority of the dallin-de was already stealthily upon him. The latter, of course, was the more dangerous alternative; he couldn't dawdle on any account.

  He paused only long enough to see what, if anything, he could view through other breaks in the foliage of the tree amongst which he perched. He looked for human movement, but saw none—a good sign, at least as far as his potential for escape.

  He knew, too, just where he would go. North. Through the swamp. Where he'd been headed, in the first place, before he'd teamed up with the wounded Krydon, before they'd become complaisant in the company of the even-then-doomed gawbdi-din, before Krydon had married, before Glynen had given up his original objective in order to moon over the unavailability of Krydon's cock, mouth, and ass (instead fucking holes in trees and pretending they were Krydon's tight orifices).

  He came down the tree slowly, cautiously. If all he had with him was his tote, filled as it was, at the moment, with cum-soaked rags, half a sandwich, an orange, a bottle of double-oxygenated water, and a candy bar, those were all he was going to be allowed, by way of immediate traveling companions.