Date: Wed, 27 Dec 2017 23:53:21 -0500
From: The Paternal Watcher <mfvb@protonmail.com>
Subject: War Boys, Chapter 2:  Slave Boy

I slept soundly that first night in my tent, but as there were no trees
nearby I only slept until the sun cooked me awake. I'd agreed to pay for a
breakfast plan, which was a delightful way to make sure that there was
coffee and eggs available without having to think it through. I got myself
a shower at the bath house and then went to roam the merchant rows.

Shopping at Pennsic is an activity that can take days. The rows of merchant
tents (and some actual buildings, assembled on site for the duration and
then taken down again) can be roamed in 2-3 hours, but looking at all the
wares is different story. It takes all the longer for me, as I'm a people
watcher.

Some people are more worth watching than others.

Case in point: the boy at the archery shop. Blond, with eyes of sky-blue
that served as a counterpoint to his kilt, the tartan of which was a deeper
blue laced with stripes of green. It was hard not to notice it, since it
was also the only garment he was wearing. He was sitting on a stool,
working on a bow string, one bare foot planted on the ground and the other
resting on a rung. The kilt was pinned at waist and left shoulder, from
where it hung to drape his small form. He was probably five and a half feet
tall, and the cut of his garment allowed me to see how his ribs showed
under his tanned skin, not to mention one hairless, pink nipple below a
smooth underarm. His hair was short for a medieval setting, but had a dark
blond stylish wave above blue eyes.

"Good day, m'lord. Let me know if you want to try the pull on any of the
bows," he said when he saw me looking. Since he thought I was checking out
the booth's wares rather than his own merchandise, I went along with it.

"Do you have anything 35 pounds or under?" I asked. "I pull more than that
and I risk pulling something in me, as well."

The lad nodded, sliding off his stool. "We don't have any longbows that
light, but these recurves are," he said, pointing to the rack in
question. I have shot enough to be able to know how to inspect a bow's
features, but I was more interested in this young man.

"Would you take this one down for a closer inspection?" I asked, and he was
quick to comply.

"Would you rather it be strung?" he asked, and I nodded. It was tied
loosely around the bow, from where he removed it to slip over one end. He
carefully looked around, then placed that end between the arch of one foot
and the ground. Bending the bow with one hand, he slipped the string over
the end before handing it to me. "My father would rather I don't string
them like that in front of customers," he confided.

"Why not?" I asked.

"It can twist the bow if you do it wrong. I know how to do it right, but he
thinks customers will end up copying me and screwing up their bow."

"You strung it easily," I said. "You're stronger than you look."

He smiled, a delightful vision. "There's an entire camp of gay guys who
agree with you," he said with a light laugh.

"Oh?" I asked, curiosity piqued. "Are you also gay, then?"

"I don't think so," he said without delay. "They're all really nice to me,
protect me when I go to parties, and smoke me up with really good weed."

It was my turn to laugh. "You're a forthright one, aren't you? I myself can
only promise the first and last of that list, but I would certainly try to
live up to the other."

He thought before replying, this time. "You've been nice so far," he said,
"and did you just offer to get me high?"

"Less an offer than a willingness, should milord have more taste for the
herb than you do access to it."

"Always," he said, "but I have to stay here another couple of hours before
I'm free. Can you come back?"

"It would be my delight," I said in turn. "I'll be about the market testing
other wares, and perhaps securing a joint of beef for mine noonday meal."

Bowing, I took my leave, which benefited me in other ways. My pants were
thin due to the heat of the day, and I've never worn underwear with my
garb. I have found that the decision to avoid modern underpants is a
concession to history far more common than, for example, going barefoot
rather than to wear modern-looking shoes. Many a Reebok warrior wanders the
byways of the Pennsic war. Due to my very real delight in talking to the
thoroughly beautiful boy in the archery booth, I was having a moment of
concern regarding the practicality of my clothing choice, and the bow
helped conceal the happy lord in my trousers. A walk through the market was
what I needed to calm things down in my nether regions.

If that same issue arose, as it were, when he and I were alone, I'd have to
find another solution to the problem.

At the appointed hour I returned, having spent some time in a shady coffee
shop to avoid the hottest of time of day. I was standing under a tree a few
booths away when he emerged, feet still bare and kilt still belted over
narrow hips and pinned at smooth shoulder. He spied me and approached.

"I never properly made your acquaintance," I said. "Arinor, at your
service." I extended my hand in greeting.

"I'm Slave Boy," he said as we clasped, and at that I raised an eyebrow.

"You don't have the look of a slave," I said. "Is that not your father's
shop?"

"I guess you've never worked for your parents, then," was his reply. "Let's
get out of here."

We walked out from the marketplace, away from the barn and towards the bath
houses, turning onto the road that follows the shore of the lake and
chatting amiably. Slave Boy was old enough for his penis to have become
very important in his life, and he kept finding ways to bring it up in
conversation, which was fine by me.

"I went to the men without pants party last year," he told me. For a lord
to enter that popular event, they must first submit to a "pants check" at
the gate; a group of (mostly) ladies runs their hands up under whatever is
covering the manly bits to make sure everything is fancy-free. In years
past I had gotten goosed and caressed a bit, but Slave Boy had a more
interesting tale to share.

"She couldn't believe how big I am, and take plenty of time to make sure,"
he told me breathlessly. "She said I was really big for my age."

"How many years have you?" I asked him.

"Oh, I'm 14," he said, in a way that made me suspect he wasn't quite that
old yet. "She also didn't expect me to be pierced."

I stopped in my tracks at that. "Don't you have to be 18 for that?" I
asked.

"Oh, I did it myself," he said. "It wasn't hard."

"No, I don't imagine it was," I replied, wincing. He laughed. I liked the
sound.

"Here we are," I said, pointing to a trail leading off the road to the
right. It's easy enough to miss, but I'd been down it before.

"This doesn't lead to a campsite?" Slave Boy asked.

"No, it leads to our delight, young lord." I flashed him my pipe to make
the point, and he smiled as we took the lesser-traveled path. It meandered
through high grasses for several hundred feet before ending in a small,
shaded clearing.

"I never knew this was even here!" he exclaimed.

"I wanted someplace private for us to spend time together, I told him. We
sat down, him cross-legged and me with mine outstretched, as I packed the
bowl and passed it to him. "You are my guest, and the first hit is yours."

"Thank you, m'lord," Slave Boy replied as he accepted it. He lit the pipe,
took a big hit, and immediately was hit by a coughing fit. I put my hand on
his back, not rubbing or patting, just maintaining contact as it
subsided. "Sorry," he said.

"There is an old saying in my land," I told him. "If you don't cough, you
don't get off."

"Good, I like getting off," he said, the twinkle in his eye showing that he
was attempting to be subtle with his double entendre. I lit the pipe
myself, and decided as I was inhaling that he was inviting me to take the
conversation to the next level.

"I'm not surprised you like getting off, with all those hands groping your
big dick."

As I moved around front to hand it back to him, Slave Boy sighed and
stretched one leg out. I could still see the smooth, hairless inner thigh
of the other. "No one got me off last night," he confessed.

"Maybe your giant penis scared them away, m'lord," I ventured. I laid down
on my back, looking up between his knees at his face. I could see that one
pink nipple and smooth armpit. "Some people run away from giant serpents,
but some are bold, and hunt them instead."

"Which are you?" he asked.

Reaching under his kilt, I replied, "the bold kind."

He was still soft as I wrapped my fingers around him, but one thing was
immediately clear. "You're not pierced at all!" I said, tracing my
fingertips over every square inch to be certain.

"Maybe you should look closer, bold hunter," he said. I may have detected a
sigh in his voice.

Rolling onto my stomach, I replied, "I believe I shall." Not letting go of
my growing prize, I flipped back the kilt with my other hand to see what
I'd caught in the light of day. There was not yet enough hair sprouting to
form a triangle, but it was enough -- together with his swelling erection
-- to let me know he was mature enough to appreciate my intentions. Even as
he thickened in my grasp I knew his was smaller than what was growing in my
own trousers, but it seemed impressive enough for a lad of his tender
years.

"Not so much sword, as club," I said, looking more closely. "Still, I see
no evidence of the piercing of which you spoke of with such pride."

"Closer," he said. Slave boy had lain back, casting his arm over his
eyes. I peered at, and kissed, the tip of his young cock.

"Is this close enough?" I asked. He lifted his pelvis in response, pressing
the head to my mouth. I parted my lips and his penis journeyed inward
unabated.

"Fuck!" he cried, then added belatedly, "m-m'lord." I couldn't help but
laugh, despite the dick in my mouth; Slave Boy did the same, making his
testes bounce. I swirled my tongue around the ridge of his frenulum, and
the laughter stopped. "You're going to get a mouthful if you don't stop,"
he said finally.

I didn't stop.

His thighs, smooth as Chinese silk, alternately spread to catch the sun's
rays and closed about my cheeks. His buns, firm as tempered steel, rolled
in my grasp as I focused on my task. His toes curled in the grass in time
with his breathing. His scrotum, hanging loose in the warm air, met me each
time I plunged downward to accept his lust. The focus of his attention --
and mine -- lasted longer than I expected, given his warning, but perhaps
he was trying to spare me the indignity of tasting his seed.

Silly lad.

When the torrent came, he all but tried to climb inside my mouth to release
it. I snaked a hand up beyond his genitals, and could feel the clench of
his abdominal muscles as he spent his pleasure into me. I'd pegged him for
a screamer, but young lads learn quickly how to mask the sounds of ecstasy,
and Slave Boy was no different: instead of moans, I heard only the
cessation of breath as he emptied his seed into my pit of desire.

We both lay there quietly for a moment, enjoying the sensations, and then
he said, "I'm not really that big, am I?"

"You're big for your age, there's no question of that," I assured him, "but
a mighty oak is not grown in a few short years. No doubt your trunk will be
longer and thicker 'ere you're done." He seemed satisfied with my
response. He stretched, and we both knew our time together was at an
end. Each of us straightened ourselves and then we headed back to the road.

"Should we leave separately?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I think that would only add to suspicion," I told
him. Trusting in the wisdom of his elders, Slave Boy and I emerged onto the
road side by side, and headed back to the marketplace.

"Arinor, ho!" came a call behind us, and we turned to behold those lovely
twins who had not so long ago delighted me in all the ways young men
might. They were each wearing black pants and sneakers, although one of
them now sported an armband. Between them was a youth, similarly dressed
but smaller in stature by far. Even my companion was half a head taller,
but nevertheless this newcomer seemed older than my kilted friend.

"What news, Gemini?" I returned.

They approached, and one of them asked, "Are you going to the slave auction
tonight?"

"Slave auction?" asked Slave Boy.

"This is Slave Boy, but I didn't buy him," I said as introduction.

"No?" asked one of the twins. Pointing to their friend, he then said, "This
is Monkey Boy."

Monkey and slave sized each other up before the former said, "If you want
slaves for real, come tonight and bring money." He handed me a flyer. "Or
just bring your friend and trade him."

He and the twins laughed, but it looked like Slave Boy wasn't sure if they
were joking or not.

"I wouldn't miss it," I said. "See you there."

The two of us headed back toward the market when my companion said, "Maybe
being a slave for real wouldn't be too bad."

"Time will tell, m'lord," I said, then we came to a fork in the road and
took it.