Date: Wed, 11 Feb 2015 06:11:49 +0000 (UTC) From: Gary Stayton Subject: Captured Studs of Gnor chapter 1 Copyright 2015 by the author. garystayton@yahoo.com ***** If you enjoy this or other stories at the Nifty archive, please consider making a donation. The archive has provided a vast and unique resource over the years. ***** Emails from readers are an author's only reward. Even a single sentence from a reader brings a small thrill. Comments, suggestions, and ideas are very welcome. Every email will be answered. ***** Disclaimer; the story should not be read by minors or anyone not prepared for trashy gay bondage porn. The characters and events exist only in a fantasy setting and are obviously not representative of any realistic narrative. ***** ***CAPTURED STUDS of GNOR*** It was during my eighteenth summer that I was taken from my tribe by an efficient raiding party and hauled under yoke and whip to the markets of Methane City. I and nine other prize young bucks were thusly fastened in line. Surely, it was a resourceful team of men on horseback who secured this valuable shipment – a top-notch cargo of ten big, well-muscled native younkers, all between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one – lean, lithe, and glowing with health. Indeed, we needed to be fit and well-conditioned for our three-day transit across the roasting desert. The devils on horseback were impatient for our arrival in the city, and were not in any way given to our comforts or rest. I did pass from my home-tribe with a heavy wooden yoke at my back and a thick, leather collar under my chin, shamefully leashed before my tender lover – pretty young Zaeeldor – who did express his surprise and grief with wide eyes as I stumbled naked from his presence. "Yendor!" he did cry, my true name used for the last time. "Ye are tethered and strapped for the foul savages of Methane City! Come back and console your unhappy devotee!" "Zaeeldor!" I did bellow as the rope pulled me away. "Take a last look at your arrested Yendor, for I am hitched by leash and tackle to my fate in Methane City! We shall not meet again, and if we do, little one, then perhaps ye may buy me from my fetters on a market-block!" There was no more to be said, for my breath was needed for a hellish run of three-days. A man did lay a scorching whip-stripe upon my bare ass, and I did carry the fiery sting for one-hundred leagues, enlivened the whip-cut was by my salty sweat and by the fast activity of my hard-pumping cheeks as I labored in the hot sand at clip-speed. Very often Zaeeldor had admired and commented upon the smallness and neatness of this muscled rump, and now he did view is as it receded into the blaze of the desert, drawn by a leather leash on a saddle-pommel. We ten studs were arranged in close formation, one behind the other, bridled neck-to-neck like livestock. Each captive youth did hold a thick wooden beam at the small of his back, his elbows crooked around it and his wrists bound by rope tight across his belly. Thusly, we did swing our yokes in time and puff greatly at our merciless foot-journey. "Har! Har! Har!" the men did happily call from their steeds. "Here we have a fine brace of native stud-meat for market! Big fellows they are! Smooth and brown and shining in their coats of sweat! How much do you think the handsome one will fetch? The boy with the comely eyes and the dancin' little ass?" "Keep those cocks a-swingin', boys, and boogaloo those sweet asses! Your tight little rumps are wanted at the commodity auction houses! Rejoice, ye big cuts of prize muscle, for the bidding on your selections will be fast and keen!" I did seethe privately, my lids smeared with sweat and tears. The leather collar jerked and pulled, and my whip-burned ass was alive with fire. "Curses to the Gods!" I did grunt. The tang of fresh, male sweat did reach my nostrils, for we ten leashed studs were closely packed in our coffle and the streaming oil of our labor was shared amongst our heated, working bodies. My cock did swing and slap in its heavy, meaty rhythm – from side to side – the wet smacks it made occurring in time with our machine-drill as we crossed the desert. Presently, the humour of the raiding party did alter as the sun rose and beat down upon us with its ghastly heat. "It's so fucking *hot!*" they did cry from their saddles. "Galf, why did thee not tell us to bring a parasol, ye fucking stupid dolt!" "We should move faster," said one. "For I have done various calculations with figures and determined that our arrival in Methane City may be made in two days and a half." These words, and others like them, I heard from my position in the line of native stock, but I rarely saw the speaker. My neck was fixed bolt-upright in the collar, my chin high and resting on the wretched device. A shackle before me did clink and clank, and attach itself to the collar of the man in front, who paced in the soft sand exactly as I did – in measured time with no thought but to ease the incessant pull of the leash, fastened to the next in front, and so on. Our feet did make a soft sound in the sand with a monotonous tempo. Equally – and in the same measure – we did make deep huffs and puffs through our cheeks and teeth. The shackles and eyebolts joined the miserable tune, and the sharp whacks of our swinging male organs could also be heard. The devils on horseback became angry and tetchy in the heat, and their discomfort caused them to have several squabbles. One wanted to stop and rest, this suggestion having already occurred to me and grown in my mind until I thought of nothing else, but the clever fellow was derided for his idea. "Faster!" was the general accord, for one may drink from a canteen and give thought to any number of idle subjects while seated in the saddle just as easily if one were reposing under a bush. "Faster, you stinking skunk-sleen native buck-studs! We are out here sizzling in the heat because of you!" Indeed, the reader will know that a man on a horse will consider his relative speed as very slow, but the man roped to the pommel by his neck, running naked with a heavy yoke at his back will view this same progress in an entirely different light. A four-hour sleeping break was taken each night, and indeed this crew of raiders was in some manner of rush, for there was not another single stoppage during the day excepting whereupon water was grudgingly given us from a clay jug. We slept in our collars, leashed together, with our arms wrapped and roped to the wooden braces still at our backs. Our ankles were tied, lest this squad of treacherous native studs conspire to rise and triple-march together – attached by leather and shackle – back to our waiting home-tribe while our captors slept. I thought of Zaeeldor as I lay in the desert night, and my cock did rise mightily to my belly, arching and straining and begging for attention. But my hands were occupied so tightly in their bonds that I was unable to reach my needy organ. Everybody knows the urgency with which a male member must be sated when it reaches upwards for its owner, and the regrettable state of affairs on this occasion was that I was unable to do so with my practiced hand. However, I massaged my hard, slippery man-crank into the oily crack of the young stud leashed before me – whose name was Zelkor, and who owed me a fuck anyway – and before Zelkor could awake and before I could engage in much pleasurable rubbing – I did shoot a hot load which jetted in several powerful squirts, and the thick cream did join with the sweat and dirt on my body (and Zelkor's), the sharp funk of fresh male juice mixing with our general stink. Perhaps I should inform the reader of the various dispositions of the ten captured studs who formed our miserable squad, excepting whereupon this would be tedious. Zelkor himself was one who I considered mildly dull. We had rolled on the earth together as children, fought, fucked, and lived like perfectly normal boys in our home tribe. Now, as fit young bucks of eighteen summers, we had reached an age whereby we were considered valuable in Methane City. Methane City had lived in our minds as a mythical place both wondrous and terrible. We had been told of the many magical apparatus and scenes of that city, including a machine which turned an iron wheel using the power of fire, and of which I was totally unable to form a picture in my mind. We also heard of the horrors – how native stock collected from the plains was worked to death in the methane pits. It was said that a team of a hundred men were harnessed to a great sled to endlessly drag stones from the quarries. Gods! I doubted it, for as any sensible person knows, there cannot possibly be that many people in the World. I had no doubt, however, that our respective fortunes in Methane City would be disagreeable ones. Perhaps I could hope to be bought by a lady or gentleman and pandered as an exotic creature for viewing in parlours. Perhaps – but the stories of my kind being skinned alive for entertainment seemed more credible. Days passed in a grinding agony on the desert sand. Forthwith, we did enter a dirt track, and our bare, native feet did pace swiftly, sharing the road with carts, animals, and strangely dressed persons whom it may be surmised were citizens of Methane City. Here, we did stop so our captors could exchange articles and news with a man on a passing wagon, and here, Byeeror did make a muttered curse and find himself in deeply regrettable circumstances. So enraged by him were the raiders, that they unshackled his collar from the line and hoisted him by his balls to a tree. Coarse, strong twine was wrapped about his male parts – around the base, the scrotum, and twisted hard between the nuts. As this deed was being performed, the other end of the rope was thrown over a branch, and Byeeror did gather the foul nature of his punishment, and he did raise a great squawk when he saw the path of the twine and the branch where he would hang. Gods be pleased, the weight was distributed across both of Byeeror's balls, his stretched sack, and his meat. The twine hummed as it held the weight of the big, native buck, and Byeeror's squawk's became very strident indeed. "*Fuck!* *Fuck!*" he yelled as he swayed upside-down, his legs gently bended above him, and his knees parted and pointing upwards. Below, his head down, he held the wooden yoke-brace at his arching back and hissed and cursed. Byeeror was a sensible fellow, and that being as it was, he quickly learned that he must remain still while suspended by his balls, lest swinging and straining add to his discomfort. Lifted high, he did make a surprising sight, and users of the road did gather under him to see what expressions might be forthcoming from the ball-craned stud. A boy of about fourteen with greasy hair and weird, colorful clothes did make persistent enquiries of Byeeror, asking him over and over again what it was like to be hoisted thusly. Byeeror seemed oblivious to these questions. He sucked and blew through hard-gritted teeth as he concentrated on managing his weight very carefully on his full-stretched man-parts. As I have said, Byeeror was in my estimation a fine fellow and I admired his devotion to manliness and courage as he dangled under the dreadful torture. The small boy was hence dissatisfied with Byeeror's answers to his questions, and so this horrid little punker did spin the hanging native – a slab of prime beef suspended on a hook, idly wound-up and let go to whirl on its loaded fixture-point. The boy took hold of Byeeror's rope-secured yoke-beam and gave a number of hard rotations, and Byeeror did make great bellows as he reeled around and around. Here, at the conclusion of our first chapter, we will leave the unlucky Byeeror swinging by his nuts, and the other nine captured studs watching with earnest concern from their coffle-line. Later, in Methane City, I did once see a thing which had no purpose other than for cultured persons to look at it, and this was a collections of bizarre items all hanging by string and tinkling in a breeze, and this did give to remind me of Byeeror, upside-down and appended to a tree with his organ taking all his weight – a suspended, child's plaything. Next, I will describe as best I can the sights and odours of Methane City, and of the unspeakable iron devices which were affixed to our persons in a smithy's workshop. ***** garystayton@yahoo.com.au