The Emerald Knight

by Diana Sheridan

  “My, you’re the impatient one,” Wynfarad teased. “Have you got an appointment with the king to keep? What’s your rush?” He attacked the seething dick sideways, wrapping his lips around the stalk but letting the head stay out in the air. Then he ran his lips up and down the shaft, as if he were playing the flute, trailing his tongue up and down as he did. His dancing tongue tantalized Randour’s surging shaft, but Randour simply couldn’t bear to be teased any longer.

  Whipping around, he pinned Wynfarad down and poised the tip of his dick above Wynfarad’s surprised mouth. “Now you are going to get it, you little dicktease,” Randour threatened.

  “So I see,” Wynfarad observed wryly, an anticipatory smile wreathing his features. Then he couldn’t speak anymore. His mouth was stuffed too full of Randour’s steaming dick. Happily gobbling Randour deep into his gullet, he ceased his teasing and went after Randour full-bore, sucking him deeply down his throat until Randour’s corona tickled Wynfarad’s tonsils.

  Then he tightened his throat muscles around Randour’s rampaging dick while Randour drove deep, as if trying to see how far toward Wynfarad’s belly he could burrow. Wynfarad’s mouth sucked avidly, insistently, and demandingly. The sheer power of his suction increased. His tongue flickered all over Randour’s shaft as Wynfarad taunted him with it while sucking.

  Then he turned up the suction full blast. Suddenly he was all-out sucking Randour as if to drain his balls dry by dint of sucking the cum right up and out of them. Randour began humping wildly, driving his dick ferociously down Wynfarad’s throat, and Wynfarad cupped Randour’s ass cheeks and pulled Randour tighter to him as if trying to swallow him whole. Randour exploded in a rampage of ball-draining sperm shots, cascading his seething semen into his lover’s avaricious maw. Then he collapsed limply onto the grass in a satisfied heap.

  Well, one of the pair of lovers was satisfied. Wynfarad, however, hadn’t gotten his satisfaction yet, and now that he’d taken care of Randour, he was eager to be satiated himself. Gone was his what’s-the-rush attitude. Now he was in as much of a hurry as Randour had been. Suddenly, a demanding dick was knocking at the entrance to Randour’s mouth, and it wanted in. It wanted in now!

  Randour opened his mouth tiredly yet happily and gave entrance to Wynfarad’s demanding cock. It was etched with thick veins. Standing up in strong relief, they snaked all over the surface of his shaft. Randour ran his tongue around and around and up and down on the skin of his lover’s dick and felt the contours of those boldly etched veins as he finally, finally closed his lips around that swollen dick and prepared to suck.

  Wynfarad, however, was too eager to be able to lie back and merely let Randour suck him. Taking the lead, he fucked Randour’s face with a fervor that brooked no delay. He thrust in and out of Randour’s mouth with insistent enthusiasm, plunging deep into his gullet and feeding him his scorching erection. Randour suckled and strained at it, sucking with all the energy he had at his disposal.

  “Rub my little gland inside my ass,” he begged in a cracking voice. Spit-wetting his finger, Randour wormed it under Wynfarad’s tautened butt cheeks and worked his way up into the tight clench of his anal pucker. Randour probed for Wynfarad’s prostate, sliding his finger back and forth within Wynfarad’s anal chamber until he found the little gland and began to massage it with his prodding finger. Then Wynfarad began to pant like an overheated dog, and his churning hips geared up into a wild rhythm.

  Randour’s finger plunged. His mouth sucked. His tongue flickered. And Wynfarad’s dick drilled deep into Randour’s mouth and throat. They worked well in tandem. They were in synch. Their desires were in synch, too, Randour noticed. His lover was happy with oral action, not demanding that Randour fuck him or be fucked. As Randour continued sucking, he reflected on how well suited he and Wynfarad were to each other in their sexual desires, and that in turn led him to realize how well suited they were to each other altogether, not just sexually.

  Then suddenly, Randour’s thoughts were wrenched back to the present action as Wynfarad’s rhythm went to hell, and his body strained to climax. Randour realized that his lover was mere seconds from jettisoning his cum, and he helped him along with his free hand, which now busied itself on Wynfarad’s left nipple. Tweaking and pinching, Randour toyed with Wynfarad’s tender, stiff little nubbin until his whole body yelled uncle and gave up his boiling load.

  As Wynfarad spewed his thick, steamy stuff into Randour’s mouth, Randour not only tasted the slightly salty flavor but also felt the heat of his mouthful. Easing Wynfarad’s still-quivering dick back out of his mouth, Randour rolled the mouthful of sperm around, savoring the flavor before he swallowed. Then he let the rapidly shriveling dick flop out from between his lips.

  They shared a kiss after that, their bodies pressed together as they lay on the soft, green grass. It was not yet the accustomed bedtime for either of them, but there was little besides making love that they could do in the darkness outdoors, and especially with their uncertainty regarding Gwylldahr’s whereabouts. Perhaps he was lurking nearby? Did he have the night vision of a cat or an owl? Could he see them better than they could make him out in the darkness? It was surely far safer to stay put than to roam around by night with those questions unanswered.

  As had become their custom, they talked before going to sleep. They kept their voices to low murmurs so as not to attract the attention of the beast if it happened that he was prowling nearby. Randour spoke of the glorious accomplishments he hoped would be his as a Knight of the Round Table. Even as he spoke, though, he knew that that future was not to be his unless he first vanquished the beast. As for Wynfarad, he spoke of his desire to learn how to do great feats of sorcery. Randour wondered if Wynfarad, too, was troubled by the knowledge that things might not work out as he wished.

  What if they could not slay Gwylldahr?

  What if, in fact, Gwylldahr slew them?

  Chapter 4

  Despite their going to sleep earlier than was their custom, and despite the fact that they were sleeping in the outdoors, both men slept well. It was their good fortune that there was no rain that night and little dew in the morning, and that the temperatures remained moderate. They had slept naked, a decision that, in retrospect, struck Randour as imprudent. What if they had suddenly had to flee from the beast or from some other threat? But no such circumstance presented itself, and they slept undisturbed until the first light of morning.

  They relieved themselves amid some bushes and then hastily pulled on their clothes. Although they were secreted in the copse, there was always the chance that some wayfarer would wander into the copse as they had, perhaps on account of spotting their tethered horses.

  After feeding their horses from their bags of provisions, they filled their own bellies next. There was bread, cheese, and dried meats in their sacks, and they partook of all of these in measured amounts, making sure not to eat so much that they risked running out of food too quickly.

  By now the sun was well over the horizon, and though it was not yet high in the sky, the day was well lit enough that they could readily make their way. Having been advised to take the north fork, this was their path as they set out in quest of the beast.

  They passed several burnt houses and the charred body of what once had been a horse. “These must be what the man we spoke to yesterday was talking about,” Randour said.

  “Surely we are on the right path,” Wynfarad agreed.

  Farther along, they encountered a small group of people hastening toward them from the direction Randour and Wynfarad were headed in. As the first of these people approached them, a man warned, “Turn back before it is too late. The beast is here!”

  “Where is he?” asked Randour.

  “Just up ahead when last we saw him. Turn around! Save yourselves! His claws, his jaws, and his poisonous tongue are deadly. Turn around!”

  “No! We have set out deliberately to find him. We mean to dispatch him and rid the land of this scourge.”

 
“You are surely addled. No man can defeat the beast.”

  “Someone has to, and King Arthur has named me for the job.”

  “Good luck, and good fortune. It will be amazing if you succeed.”

  The group of villagers swarmed past them, with all due haste, while Randour and Wynfarad resolutely made their way up the road. What if we fail?

  Wynfarad seemed to have the same thought, for he voiced his concerns, saying, “We still don’t have a plan.”

  “I know,” said Randour, sighing heavily. “We shall just have to see what opportunity presents itself.”

  Farther along the road, they met a larger group of people fleeing Gwylldahr. Again they were urged, “Run for your lives! Turn around before it is too late. The beast is nearby!” Again they explained their mission and rode determinedly onward, though fear now gripped Randour’s heart at the thought that a confrontation was imminent.

  “We are nearing Holmdemarle,” Wynfarad advised Randour.

  “I suspect we are nearing the beast, too.”

  Indeed, as they came around a bend in the road, they found themselves facing a village square, and in the middle of the square was the beast. He was every bit as fearsome as they had been told. His eyes blazed as if they contained lightning. His forked tongue, dripping poison, darted out in search of a victim. His claws raked the air as if he were shredding fabric. His long, sharp teeth glistened in his open mouth. From out of his open mouth, flames rolled like wild waves at the shore. And also from his mouth emanated a terror-inducing roar.

  “He sounds and looks angry,” Randour observed. “I wonder if a beast truly has the capacity for human-style anger?”

  “Do not be frightened,” said Wynfarad soothingly.

  “Why do you say that?” asked Randour.

  “Your amulet. I can hear it beating. Your heart must be pounding dreadfully.”

  “I had not noticed the amulet. I was too focused on the beast. In truth, my heart is beating faster than usual, but not as fast as the amulet would indicate. It is the first time they are out of sync with each other. I wonder what is causing that?”

  “Curious indeed.”

  And indeed it was curious, but Randour had no time to mull over possible causes and meanings. They were nearing the beast, and though Gwylldahr had not yet spotted them, there was no question but that they were in grave peril from their proximity to the beast.

  Across the square from them, on the other side of the beast, a short man with a beard was stirring something in a bowl. It hardly seemed the time to be preparing food or eating it! But no, that wasn’t the case at all. “That’s Malachi, my old mentor,” Wynfarad said in hushed tones, so as not to attract the attention of the beast. As they watched, Malachi continued to stir, then dribbled some of the potion from the bowl onto the ground, with the aid of a spoon. Continuing in a curved line from where he stood and working his way around the beast, he described a huge circle, created out of drops of dribbled potion.

  Gwylldahr was terrorizing a crippled old man who couldn’t get out of the way fast enough, and he paid no attention to Malachi, who completed the circle and hurried out of the reach of the beast. Randour stood at the outskirts of the sparse crowd of remaining villagers, most of whom had already fled, watching to see if whatever magic Malachi had wrought had had any effect on the beast.

  It had not. Whether the potion had been intended to kill the beast or merely confine him, it seemed it had had no effect at all. Gwylldahr crossed the circle, stomped toward a thatched-roof hut nearby, and set it afire with his flaming breath. Then, for good measure, he clawed at some sheep that grazed in the yard, maiming them all until they lay on the ground, bleeding their last drops of blood.

  Randour’s heart was beating faster, but still, the amulet, out of step with his heartbeat, beat loudly and audibly even through the suit of armor he was wearing. “Now is our time. Victory or death!” he said to Wynfarad.

  “Godspeed,” Wynfarad replied.

  Gwylldahr turned, noticed the knight and his companion for the first time, and raised a paw with the clear intent of raking his claws over Randour. Randour, now afoot for better mobility, ducked as agilely as his suit of armor would permit, and the beast’s claws raked harmlessly over his armor. This seemed to enrage Gwylldahr, for he roared ferociously and took a stomping step closer toward Randour.

  Randour ducked away again and made for the beast’s hindquarters. With an inspiration born of desperation, he took aim at Gwylldahr’s tail. Maybe that was the beast’s weak spot. Raising his sword, he brought it down as hard as he could at the juncture where Gwylldahr’s tail met his rump. The blade bounced harmlessly off the beast, who remained untouched and unfazed. Randour tried yet again, but again he had the same result, or rather lack of results.

  Angry and determined, Randour aimed the sword’s point at the beast’s flank and tried to drive it in with all his might, but again the brownish scales repelled the onslaught, and Randour’s sally was ineffective. The blade bowed as the swordpoint met with total resistance from the beast’s hide, and Randour withdrew in disgust.

  The beast, however, was now enraged at these attempts, and he turned and raised his paw again. Wynfarad was inadvisably close to the action, and it was he whom the beast now turned on. With a mighty roar, he brought his claws slashing through the air, aiming at Randour’s beloved with malice. Randour, horrified, approached the beast’s flank and kicked him to try to distract him. He didn’t want any harm to befall Wynfarad. The blow landed softly on the well-armored scales, but although it did no harm, it had the intended effect of distracting Gwylldahr from Wynfarad.

  Randour breathed a sigh of relief and said a prayer, even though the beast was now turning his attention back to him. Wynfarad was spared, at least for the moment. Randour did not know what he would have done if the beast had killed Wynfarad. But there was no time to speculate on that now. With his heart beating double time, and with the amulet thudding even faster than his heartbeat, still inexplicably out of synch, Randour prepared to deal with the beast in mortal combat. For one brief moment he reflected on the amulet’s new, erratic rhythm. Did it signify that his life was about to come to an end? Was the magic of the amulet a fortune-telling device that would let him know when his time on earth was up?

  But there was no time to dwell on that now. Gwylldahr faced Randour with flashing eyes and a flaming mouth. Randour was practically dancing in his efforts to evade the raging flames. As the flames subsided momentarily, Gwylldahr flicked his poisonous two-pronged tongue toward Randour, lashing out destructively at the young knight. Once again darting aside, Randour barely missed being caught by the beast’s vicious tongue.

  Moving quickly, he sliced his sword through the air, aiming at that dangerous organ. Randour caught the beast by surprise. Gwylldahr gave a howl of pain and protest and then stood stock-still as Randour’s sword sliced cleanly through the beast’s tongue, lopping it off at the root.

  Suddenly the air around the beast began to shimmer. Randour stood stock-still, transfixed by the sight. What is happening? He waited to see. Would the beast lash out at him more fiercely than ever for daring to cut off his tongue? Was it possible that he would bleed to death from the severed organ? Or was something else happening? Randour could not for the life of him account for the shimmering air around Gwylldahr.

  Then Gwylldahr seemed to be melting. No, not melting. Shrinking. But not just shrinking, either. Softening. His scales seemed to be becoming blurry. Yes! That was it. The beast was blurring, blurring before Randour’s very eyes, blurring and shrinking in the shimmering air. Suddenly there was a burst of golden light that seemed to emanate from the very center of the beast. From the golden light there seemed to come a puff of cool air at the same time. The golden light slowly faded, and as it did, so did the beast.

  Standing where the beast had stood, however, was a young lad, looking dazed, bewildered, and perhaps a touch frightened as well. He held his two arms out and looked them over, as if surpri
sed to see them. Opening his mouth, he thrust his tongue out and put a hand to it, as if to assure himself that it was there. He frowned and looked out at the assembled villagers. Then he fixed his gaze on Randour.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” he said effusively. “You have broken the spell!” The young lad, who looked to be about nineteen, dropped to his knees before Randour, grabbed his hand, and kissed it.

  Randour didn’t know what to make of all this. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Tamur. Tamur, who, for a while was Gwylldahr, as all of you had named the beast. But you have brought me back to myself again.”

  “You are the beast?” Randour was completely baffled.

  “I was. I was, but now I am myself again.”

  “Can you explain to me how this is possible?”

  “Through the doings of a wicked wizard.”

  “A wizard?”

  “The wizard had a son. I am ashamed to tell you that I tormented the boy. I made mock of him, and I belittled him and disparaged him, and one day I even got into a physical fight with him and injured him. But it was with my tongue, with my talk that I did the most harm. The wizard said, ‘You like having a poisonous tongue? I will give you a poisonous tongue.” Then he transformed me into a horrible beast.

  “At first I was afraid. Then I grew angry. I lashed out at everyone and everything. The only ones I didn’t harm were my family. But they never realized that the beast everyone feared was really their missing son. How could they? Who would imagine such a thing?”

  Just then, Tamur spotted his parents moving through the crowd. “There they are now!” he exclaimed. “Mama! Papa!”

  “My son! My son!” they both cried out, rushing toward him. “My son! My lost son!”

  The couple embraced Tamur fervently, sobbing with relief to have him back again. “We thought the beast ate you!” his mother said, sobbing.