Date: Thu, 19 Apr 2018 02:44:24 +0000 From: Nicholas Nicholby Subject: Boys Guild Chapter 1, Gay, SciFi/Fantasy, Adult Youth, Prolific Authors This story is a work of fiction. It never happened, it never will. The characters and locations are all make believe and any resemblance to any place or person, living or dead, is simply in the mind of the reader and totally unintentional. Situations and sexual activities of the characters are fantasy, don't try dragon riding at home. The story is also the first in a series of stories about Kind Draviad's Realm. Please let me know if you enjoy by email to nicholas6996 (at) hot mail dot com Copyright 2018 by Nicholas Nicholby, all rights reserved. Not to be distributed or duplicated without express written permission of the author. The author hereby grants the Nifty Archive a non-exclusive, worldwide, royalty-free, perpetual, and non-cancellable license to use, modify or alter and edit copy for clarity or style, reproduce, display, make compilations of and distribute the work. The Boys Guild Chapter 1 - The Printer's Devil Tomas woke warily. As his muscles began to stretch from the curled position of night his senses cast around. His nose told him that no one strange was close. His hearing told him that there were others sleeping and breathing softly. His vision could barely penetrate the darkness, but it said things were normal. He pointed his toes and stretched down through his slender legs. At eight birthmoons old Tomas was much as any boy of Liivka, slim and somewhat short from lack of overly rich nutrition. In fact any nutrition was often a challenge for others in the Guild of Boys. The good news for the boys was that disease and pestilence were not rampant and the most they generally had to fear were winter and less scrupulous people. Tomas giggled that his skin told him his butt was slippery and slimy and maybe just the tiniest bit sore. His brain flashed a picture of his friend Zekial sliding into bed behind him and then sliding into bed up inside him. They had moaned and groaned softly as the pleasure fires had consumed them. He had rocked his hips backwards. Zekial had rocked his hips forward. Zekial's lance had repeatedly hit his target and soon both boys were swimming in Zekial's liquid of love. Tomas loved Zekial's lance. At thirteen birthmoons Zekial's more developed lance was the perfect size and length to batter against Tomas' portcullis, cause the gate to raise and then scour the inside making it ready to drink the living stones' nectar. Other lances had raised his gate and scoured his insides, but Zekial was the only one to always make sure that Tomas was able to see the swirling colors and stars of the heavenly red orechasm that would expend his own stones' nectar once he shed his greenness and reached his juvenescence. Tomas reached behind himself with the small-cloth and wiped the gooeyness so that at least it wouldn't dribble down his legs. He reminded himself that the crusty small-cloth should be included with the shop rags when he took them to the river next Waterday to launder. He slid from his sleeping shelf and cautiously walked to the entryway. Sometimes silly boys were known to fall asleep anywhere on the floor and it wasn't fun stepping on one. Usually the commotion woke everyone and the ones causing the commotion were never treated nicely. Stepping around and through the small maze opening Tomas was in the inner courtyard of the block of buildings. He could stretch up and out and all around to get the muscles of his body silky smooth and moving. It was chilly this morning, the warmth of the baker's ovens which made up the back wall of their hovel did not make its way outside the entrance maze. Just like the cold of winter barely made it inside. He turned and looked at the Guild Hall of Boys. He giggled at their own joke played against the grand and palatial Guild Halls facing the main square of the town. If the Guild Masters knew about the Guild of Boys they were either indifferent or secretly laughing along with the boys. There were rumors that the great Guild Master of the Stone Masons had been a Stonecutter's Boy. Grand Hall or hovel it made no real difference to the boys. This place was a warm and secure "home" as long as they could get along. Helping each other was perhaps more ingrained here than in the Great Halls that purported to exist for that purpose. The boys of this Guild served mostly the businesses of this courtyard. There were a few others, accepted by these boys for their personality, their abilities or sometimes a familial tie. Zekial was one, welcome when he came because he was the Wizard's Boy and most of the others had no desire to become an ugly frog. Zekial was a faithful friend and helper too pitching in with whatever scheme and project the boy's concocted for their free time. Tomas was the only one to tease him about the power of his magic wand. Of course Tomas loved that wand, bewitched or not. This morning as usual it was much too early for the sunrise, Tomas could hear no crowing of cocks to even hint that dawn was near. The great wall's gates would not yet be open and the town of Liivka still slept. Stretched and ready for action he sprinted for the middens and expelled the remaining nectar with his waste. He reached inside his one small pocket and extracted a small piece of paper and tore a corner off and used it to cleanse himself. He wadded it back up with the soiled side in and put it back in his pocket; paper was too precious to toss into the middens. This piece would go with the daily collection of its kind and make the kindling fire for Fireday. Skipping to the back entrance of the printers Tomas began his daily tasks. He carried water to the Master's desk and the large urn near the presses as well as the small table where the men would put their lunches. He brought in four armloads of firewood to set near the stove. He added his small scrap of paper to the others in the Fireday bucket and used the over inked cast off print paper to lay the fire for this day. He made sure the flint and steel were handy and ready for the Master. It was still too dark to begin his chore of fixing the sort on the type dumped from the last day's work so he made sure the litho-stones were dusted and the imposing stone was clean and ready for the day's work. Everything squared away he found his ancient press blanket and using it for a pillow curled up underneath the proofing table for a few extra nods of sleep. The sounds of the journeymen and apprentices arriving to begin their day drew him from his sleep and he once again stretched his muscles and stifled a yawn. The Master called good morrow to him and flipped his hand to show Tomas that a half of a bun was waiting for him at the large desk. He gratefully smiled to the Master and made quick work of the bun just as the first of the printers began calling for the Devil. Tomas loved his work as Printers' Devil. It made him feel important that all these men wanted his help and his small fingers to reach into places, carry away the soiled first runs, replenish their inks and wiping rags and all the other things he did. When he wasn't running and working he patiently sat on the high bench and worked the sorts from the hellbox to the type drawer. He was very careful when he sorted the previous day's type. He didn't like it when a printer would growl that the Devil had fouled his p's and q's again and wasn't minding how they went. He knew full well he had them right, it wasn't his fault that last nite's ale would make the compositor see them backwards or upside down. He also tried to keep well ahead of the compositor because even the Master didn't like it when he was out of sorts. When the Master called lunchtime Tomas painstakingly wrapped the last of the fifty magic words in small strips of the used ink-fouled paper and placed that tray back at the compositors desk. The Master hadn't believed the idea would work when Tomas had talked with him one early morning, but he had agreed to give it a try. The compositor had thought the idea downright silly until about halfway into the first morning. He was astounded at how much easier it was to get the paper set when he could pull the entire word that made up the King's and the Mayor's name, or the name of the government building or even the days of the week. He realized they couldn't dedicate vast quantities of type, it was far too precious, but certain words were bound to be used every single day and a small quantity of them readymade was a bonus of a sort. The Master had been very pleased and praised Tomas and encouraged more ideas. He also began to bring the bun at breakfast and some small bites at lunch. Tomas was always trying to think of something new, he had never felt so secure. A belly which was more replete didn't hurt. Tomas stopped with the journeymen and apprentices outside in the back courtyard. Some asked him to run to the inn and bring tankards of ale. It was a normal kind of duty and Tomas could make a penny a week sometimes two if he was quick. The innkeeper rewarded the boys who brought back the mugs in good condition with faster service. Tomas usually went right to the head of the line. The innkeeper also knew the boys would slop some of the ale and so he could keep two or three ounces back from every mug. Tomas learned not to spill any additional and that made the men happy too. Happy enough that Tomas could usually coax some of them into allowing him a quick sip. Today was no different, four mugs to return and four new ones to deliver and Tomas was licking his lips with a satisfied grin as the Master called him back inside. Today there were also some small bites, this time it was half a chicken pie. Tomas patted his full belly as he let out a small belch. The afternoon was not much different until there was a noticeable darkening of the light from the street side windows and Tomas looked up from a press chase that he had been scouring with soiled paper to clean up the bowls and ears and eyes within the type. What he saw made his heart leap to his throat. Four of the King's Guards had marched inside and stood along the window wall blocking almost all the light. They stood at attention, their short pikes set handle against their toe and bright blade catching what light there was and flashing their lethal capability. A man dressed in deep red fancy dress with frilly collar and high black boots was standing at the Master's desk and they were in deep conversation. The Master had not risen, the man did not seem to mind, so Tomas could let his breath out a little bit. The man turned to go, but Tomas had seen him place a small pile of coin on the Master's desk. The Master had quickly scraped it into the cash drawer. Two of the guards had gone out the door and two were following the man when he turned back and said loud enough for all to hear, "The proof on Moonsday then." "Aye, Moonsday," the Master replied. The man and the guards marched out and there was both a strengthening of the light and a lightening of the ominous foreboding that had seemed to grip every journeyman and apprentice. While the King's Guard were important to have around almost everyone agreed that they should be around somewhere else. Tomas finished his scouring and the printer pulled another proof and sent the boy on his way. The ears and eyes of the type were as crisp as the serifs. It was the end of the day and the Tailors Guild's newssheet and new dress pattern were finished. Tomas was tying it up in a bundle when the Master clasped a hand to his shoulder. "Bring ye back the wrapping tonight Tomas, I've a matter to discuss with you," the Master said and gave a small good natured kick to the backside that was heading out the door to deliver to the Tailors. Tomas delivered his package and was returning the wrapping when two of the other boys hailed him from an alley. "Tomas! Will you be at the Hall tonight? We have a small cask of ale from the Shipschandler and plan on celebrating ahead of Queensday!" "Yes! I'll be there, have you told Zekial and Cobar? They might bring some bread and cheese," Tomas yelled back as he hotfooted back to the print shop. The Master was seated at the desk and pulled Tomas up to him. "Good lad, now here's what I need. Can you come to work on Kingsday? I know it is your day off and we don't usually open the shop, but the order from the King requires great secrecy. You and I can do the make-ready and pull the proof. If it is approved you and I can print it Moonsday night. It will pay you a silver, maybe two," the Master had his hand around Tomas' slender shoulders and slightly opened the cash drawer where Tomas could see the three silver pieces and a hand drawn layout. It wasn't certain that these were what the King's man had lain down, but nothing else that day had earned a silver in Tomas's opinion. "I know I can trust you, no word of this to anyone. And I mean anyone, don't gossip with those other scallawags in your Guild." "No sir, yes sir," Tomas tried to get his thoughts all straight. "I mean no sir, I will not speak of it and yes sir, I will help on Kingsday and any other time. Would it be a real silver just for me?" Tomas was bug eyed at the idea. "Aye lad, a whole silver just for you. Now don't spend it before we earn it mind!" the Master laughed. "Oh, and my daughter brought a shirt her son has outgrown. Mayhaps it will fit you or one of the others. Here, doff that tatter and try this one," the Master held up a plain but un-marred shirt. Tomas stripped off his tattered shirt and the Master watched the thin skin barely contain the rippling muscles. It was not that Tomas was particularly muscular, it was just that there was no extra fat upon his body and the ribs marched down to where the abdominal muscles marched up. Overall it was a pleasing body to look at and the Master's lance began to rise. Tomas saw the Master adjust his hardening lance beneath his braies. He liked the Master very much and thought that the offer of a silver might deserve a little something in return. He wormed around and as he held up his arms to wear the newly offered shirt he also managed to ease back between the Master's legs and rub his backside firmly against the rising lance. The Master groaned a little appreciation and as his hands reached forward and assisted with pulling the shirt over Tomas' head one followed the linen down and continued until it was rubbing up against Tomas' little lance which was as hard as a 4x20 cicero stick of imposing furniture . The Master's hand felt good and Tomas ground himself harder into the lap. The Master whispered, "Run and lock the doors. Let's take our discussion to the press blankets." Tomas shivered and skipped across and locked the front door. He ran to the back and threw the bolt. He peeled the new shirt and his breeches off as he went behind the presses to the pile of blankets. The Master was already there and lying with his shirt rucked up and his breeches and braies cast aside. Tomas pounced and took the hard lance in his mouth. He bobbed and weaved his head determined to make the Master's nectar flow. He felt it swell and deposit a large dollop along his tongue. The Master's seasoned stones rolled in their wrapping and seemed to want to push themselves up and through the orifice of the lance. Tomas could see them roiling and spinning within their hairy purse. He tweaked them with one hand while beginning a stroking of the lance with the other. He had just gotten a small rhythm going when he was lifted and everything was wiped from his mind except the unbelievable warmth of the moist and hot enveloping attack upon his own sex. His vision went blue as the strong tongue laved his lance and tried to pull his stones from their protective wrapper. He legs went rigid, his lance went insistently inflexible, his mind dissolved into blue pre-orechasm. His brain now told him his hole was being bathed and that a tongue was teasing at the entrance. He grabbed his butt cheeks and pulled them apart and twisted his torso so his opening was more correctly aligned. The tongue licked its approval. Tomas shuddered again as yellow orechasm coursed through his body. The Master lifted the boy and again turned him around and with Tomas' knees tucked toward the Master's armpits he guided the boy backwards and the questing tongue was replaced by the spearing lance. Tomas groaned and shivered and shuddered as the lance slowly and inexorably buried itself inside the alley of his entrance. His barbican stones stood sentry at each side and as the Master began a battering of the internal gate they sang their joy and sorrow. Each smash against them crying some small pain, each release and slide within the alleyway a squeal of pleasure. Eventually it was too much, they simply retreated to within the bailey. The Master was pounding Tomas now, his lance strokes long and vigorous. Tomas could feel the building tension within himself and as his vision flowed from yellow into orange and finally into red he felt as if his entire being was waiting to explode. It did not wait long. With a particularly urgent thrust and then a massive wave of short strokes the Master's lance released it's built up nectar. As the hot fluid splashed across the inner workings of Tomas' behind the Master grunted and pounded forward even more forcefully. Tomas was himself undone. Intensely rare Silver Orechasm consumed him. His sensibility was shattered. His breathing was ragged and almost torn from his chest. His living stones had disappeared completely and his own lance had almost ruptured itself it had waved so hard, so long, so uncompromisingly intent on spewing forth juices that did not exist. His mind had retreated before the flashing of colors and flaming cosmological bodies. He had no control of his muscles, his pee released across the Master's stomach. His saliva drooled from the corner of his mouth. His head lolled on the Master's hairy chest. The Master himself simply clasped the boy's hips even closer to himself. He was not in any shape to do more than nod off to his own depleted dreamland. Waking, the Master threw a press blanket around Tomas as he slept the sleep of, if not the righteous, at least the rapturous. The Master gathered his clothes and dressed and hurried home to his waiting supper.