Date: Sat, 25 Aug 2018 15:09:25 +0000 From: Nicholas Nicholby Subject: Boys Guild Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen 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 Nicholas scrunched up his eyes and brow and balled his fists in frustration. He'd have balled up the parchment he was writing on and scrunched up the quill, but that would be profligate waste. He tried not to be wasteful, he tried not to be mean either, but he would admit he hid his extra writing supplies when ever his friend Thorns came over because Thorns simply couldn't keep track of his own quills and parchment and was always trying to borrow. After about the third dozen quills Nicholas had decided that friendship did not include writing supplies. Story discussion and a few ales, sure. Quills, not so much. Today's meanness seemed to be in his mind because he could manage to pull about three words out of the air and then nothing. Lots of nothing. Amazing amounts of nothing. So much nothing that it almost seemed as if the great void was being channeled directly through his quill. Nicholas put his head in his hands, groaned, and collapsed down on the parchment. It had been so exciting to attend the Magic Guild's Team Building workshop. Meeting the Wizardium Magister was such a thrill and the unbelievable small feats of the conjurers, illusionists, and dividers was absolutely astounding. Then wonder of wonders King Draviad's Wizard had entered the conference and the tablecloths had rustled, the chandeliers flickered and all the flowers in the centerpieces had turned to face him and then followed him whenever he moved about the room. It was electrifying. The air almost seemed to be crackling with energy. Nicholas had quickly pulled out his traveling writing pouch and madly scribbled notes about the effects and the tumbling of ideas concerning how to use these sights and thoughts within his stories. It had been as if the great Archive itself had been downloading hundreds of ideas, words, images and even story plot points all at the same time. It had been so energizing he had actually gotten up courage to approach the Wizard and being received graciously he had plucked up enough courage to ask the favor of delivering his letter. The Wizard had looked with interest and then a broad smile and Nicholas had gone all in and pulled out his manuscript, enfolded it and entrusted it to the Wizard. Moving away before the Wizard would be tired of him he had looked back and was shocked to see the Wizard produce a 100 Gold note, clip it to his letter and immediately leave the conference. Now he was totally enervated and beginning to fall into despair. If only he had some messages from some of his readers, or perhaps even the Wizard, he thought he could move forward. He so carefully included his contact information, he just didn't seem to gain much traction. He looked at the over scribbled and yet still blank parchment with a sigh. He also noted the letter he had prepared for the Archivist and grabbed the King's note he had held for his donation. Grabbing the letter he stuffed it, inscribed the address and grabbed his cloak. Striding to the King's Post Office he double checked the address Nifty Archive Alliance PMB 159 333 Mamaroneck Ave White Plains, NY 10605 and nodded to the clerk as the letter was franked and added to the bin. Nicholas smiled and hoped that perhaps some readers would likewise donate to the wonder of the Archive and some might even let him know they enjoyed his stories by dropping a note to nicholas6996 (at) hot mail dot com Chapter 13 - Golden Streams The page boy jumped from the longboat and quickly was scooped up onto the horse behind the guard left waiting on the quay to take him back to the castle. The huge black horse gave off a striking heat between the boy's legs. The jostling and bumping as he clung to the guard's cloak did nothing to relieve the rising pressure of all the strange vibrations coursing through his body. In all his ten birth-moons as a page he had never seen anything like the horror of the cells on the ship. He knew that there were dungeon cells in the deepest part of the castle, but people sent there were inevitably bad: murderers, spies, thieves who had maimed or tortured their victims. What he had learned on the ship was that ordinary people could get caught up in horrible situations and find themselves imprisoned. He had no sympathy for the functionary or the crew of the ship that had enslaved the people, he felt only justice being served when he saw them chained. His own mother could be snatched from the King's laundry and find herself at the mercy of such as those men. He resolved that on his upcoming fourtweenth birthmoon he would ask the King to post him to the Marines where he could learn the things to help keep the kingdom, the King and the people safe. The raw strength he had felt from the Commander and the tempering gentle care and concern when the man had talked of the captives were the types of things he aspired too. When the pages sat and gossiped and dreamed of their Fourtweenth most of them thought to become rich nobles or any of the other party-going people they often served. Some dreamed of becoming squires or knights. Some very few dared to dream of becoming King themselves. Now Colin dreamed of becoming a Marine. Stopping briefly at the royal tower entrance Colin found the duty page and learned the King was in his own chambers. Colin flew up the winding stairs past office suites and meeting rooms, past the private dining suite and the royal wardrobe. Stopping outside the bedchamber door to catch his breath and trade quick greetings with his fellow body page he knocked firmly on the door. King Draviad called for the door to open. Colin stepped inside and quickly confirmed, the King was alone, he had been reading. "Your Majesty," Colin went to one knee. The King laughed, "Come Colin, not here. I've told you here we need no ceremony." "Yes my lord, I am ready to report on the ship," Colin's continuing on his knee with head bowed expressed the gravity of the task he had been given. "Ah yes, so you are then. Have you eaten or had drink today?" the King asked. "No your majesty. It was not possible on the ship," Colin did not say it was not possible because he would have retched anything he tried to eat because of the stench and the horror. "No, I suppose it was not. Cyril?" the King addressed the page standing just outside the open door. "Have cook make a small plate of bread, butter and soft cheeses. Perhaps some mulled wine too, thank you." The King smiled as the boy bobbed and then dashed away and Colin rose and moved himself so that he was now between the King and the doorway. Draviad thought what good boys he had to always think of how best to protect him. Draviad rose and marked his place inside his book and took it across the chamber to the small library table, poured a glass of water and walked back to Colin. "Drink this and give me no sass," he said with a kind smile that Colin knew held no rebuke. "I am sure your day has been enlightening, albeit unpleasant." As Colin drank the King turned toward the bed and threw back the coverlet and kicked off his soft slippers toward the foot. Colin knew the signs and blushed, yet his own lance went immediately hard at what he knew would come. Cyril spoke from the doorway, "Your majesty, here is the food." At the King's nod Cyril brought the kitchen boys in with the plates of bread and cheese and the flagon of warmed wine. A very young page dressed in livery like Colin and Cyril carried three goblets and put them on the table. Cyril saw the kitchen boys out, took his position outside the chamber door, pointed where the young page should wait and closed the door behind them. "Come," the King held out an arm to Colin. Colin ran to him and accepted the embrace and then allowed himself to be steered toward a chair and the two of them sat and as the King nibbled, Colin ate and told of all he had seen and felt aboard the ship. The King was pleased that the Marine Commander had shown the boy how bad it had been. He thought it was a good idea for the household pages to see the ship for themselves. He made his mental note to arrange it for the morrow. Also, he would be sure and get Zekial from the mill and to the Wizard. The boy might not be able to do much, but he would definitely know how to read the Wizard and see to his comfort and recuperation as best as possible. As Colin almost sobbed his way through the horror of seeing the captives below decks and the crew chained to the rail the King rose and went to the boy. Comforting him and asking small questions to redirect the memories he found out the Wizard was surrounded and protected by the captive boys, much as he himself seemed to be surrounded and protected by the household boys. As the King praised Colin for his observations and report he helped the boy toward the bed and Colin deftly shed his own garments as he helped the King remove his over tunic and trousers. With the King in his tights and shirtsleeves and the boy in nothing at all they were quickly in an embrace and sharing kisses. Colin loved his King, from the very first time he had seen him in the laundry he had wanted nothing more than to serve him and be near him and at three birthmoons he had been called. Years of schooling, physical training and enraptured adoring had made the lad blossom and when the King had first asked him to share his bed Colin had been in tears of happy delirium and precious red orechasm from the first moments through his final Golden immense explosion. This night was not much different. As the King helped Colin into the bed the boy's skin was alive with every white hot touch. The King's hand slid across his chest and gently cradled the tight belly. Rising a little his finger brushed first one rock hard nipple and then the other. The boy moaned his desire. Reaching around one side Draviad helped the boy slide across the crisp cool sheets, he could already feel the body heat from where the boy briefly rested. Trailing one hand up from ankle to knee he raised goosebumps on the boy's thighs and as his hand grasped and gently kneaded the strong lean thigh muscles he watched the steel hard lance bob slightly with the boy's breath and heartbeat, a tiny translucent pearl of nectar gathered at the tip. His hand came up the inner thigh and trailed one finger along the hidden crevice as his palm first brushed, then cupped the ripe plump living stones within their loose and pliable purse. Colin gasped and opened his legs instinctively providing better access. Draviad played the stones inside his hand as a conjuror would twiddle coins and watched the boy's face go slack as his eyes began to completely lose focus as his orechasm shifted from yellow to orange. Still holding the stones and rolling them gently Draviad's thumb and forefinger encircled the base of the lance and began a squeezing rhythm and slight pumping. Colin whimpered his passion as red orechasm filled his vision. Releasing the stones Draviad's hand rose and firmly grasped the full lance and pulled the skin up and all the way over the head. Colin gasped, threw his head back, raised his hips, thrust his lance forward through the strong grasp and his own crinkled foreskin and squirted. Three thin ropes of silver fire burned from his stones and up through his lance. The King's hand continued to detonate nerve endings Colin barely knew existed as the liquid silver plashed against his chest. Draviad called to the doorway, "Cyril come help." Cyril was ready. Cyril nodded to the page he had brought up with the meal as if to say `the guard duty is yours'. Then quickly Cyril entered then closed the door. He knew his King; he ran forward for the bed shedding his own clothes as he went. He knew his place; he dropped to his knees naked in front of Draviad. He knew his job; he reached up underneath the under shirt and as Draviad loosened and cast aside his girdling belt Cyril took the top of the tights and pulled them toward the ground. He knew his reward; the long plump lance of royalty lay along the crevice of the King's legs and Cyril opened his mouth and welcomed it inside. The nectar flowed and coated Cyril's lips and gums. His tongue laved the head as more was made to sweeten his already wet and hot salivaed opening. He rose in answer to the lance hardening. He sucked the blood from the King's feet and scalp to come and pool inside the Royal Shaft of Pleasure. The King threw off his under tunic and pulled off his shirt. He stood at the side of the bed with bared muscles rippling, Cyril sucking and Colin laid out and ready before him. Cyril let the King's lance go and reached for a handful of Colin's stone nectar. He coated the King's lance which was already slick with his own saliva and then carefully steered as Draviad mounted the bed, lifted Colin's knees and mounted the page. Cyril watched as the long thick lance pierced its way inside Colin's almost gasping portal. Colin tensed, whined and then released and sighed as his King gave him the glory of his weapon. Draviad hissed as the hot, tight rings of muscle and flesh gripped and then caressed his helving. Cyril began rubbing Colin's remaining nectar around the boy's chest and nipples and offering them small licks. When all the goo was spread around Cyril quickly crawled up on the bed and moved his head between the two stomachs and began to lick and suck Colin's lance bringing it from flaccid to turgid in seconds. Colin's mind was reeling in shining silver orechasm as wave after wave of pleasure coursed from his lance and his hole competing for brain power to recognize them. Cyril released Colin's lance and knelt on the bed watching what he too had often experienced. Draviad began inserting his lance as if it were battering an oaken shield. Banging his own living stones against Colin's body and driving Colin's living stones wild with the desire to crawl back up inside where they would no longer fit. Draviad began a deep throated grumble. Colin began a high pitched whining as ancient alchemistic processes acted to turn pain into pleasure and silver into gold. Draviad exploded with a triumphant cry flooding Colin's hole with more nectar than it could possibly hold. Colin screamed as the boiling hot nectar coated every iota of space within him and his own living stones climbed his lance and bore down with their own needs and first thick white hot silver nectar and then scaldingly golden ambrosia flowed seemingly directly from the King's lance up and through his own lance and out to coat his face, neck and chest as Sacred Golden Orechasm crashed over his physique and psyche. The King continued to pound his lance. Cyril placed one hand on the King's thigh and one hand on Colin's thigh and with a deft and practiced move he pushed between them and the King rolled off the top to lay beside Colin with his lance waving affronted and naked in the air. It wasn't waving naked long. In a second deft move Cyril was kneeling above the King and then sitting down and the lance was stabbed home into a new tight warm opening. It was happy. It was ecstatic. It was pounding up immediately. Cyril went instantly into red orechasm as the hot slick insistent invader plundered his entrance. His mind could see nothing but the scarlet of desire and relish. Draviad began thrusting upward and Cyril began dropping downward and soon the slapping of sweat slick flesh against young tight muscle and bone pervaded the room. The young page on guard outside the door was clutching his dagger almost hard enough to break the staghorn scales. He could hear the cries and noises and knew what was happening. His own small lance rubbed insistently against his breeches driving away the pale blue orechasm of his first time actually serving the King and he had to reach inside and rub it as it insisted on raising his orechasmic mind through yellow into orange. Had he not been schooled by the older body pages he might have been frightened at what sounded so violent, but he knew not to leave his place unless he was called by name or title. The constant trickling thrill of coursing adrenaline fired by the noises through the door had him secretly hoping, yet completely terrified, that he might be called. Cyril was dropping from as high as he could climb without releasing the King's lance. Draviad was thrusting upwards as hard as he could with his lance point trying to rip through even more and more soft warm wet flesh. Draviad spasmed as the blade of his lance tried to transform from rondel to morning star tip. His back went rigid and held him tight against the falling body of the boy. His hips reflexively wiggled and stirred the tip inside the cavity he was plundering. His living stones gathered more of their nectar together and unleashed it like scalding oil flung from the battlement catapult. Cyril's head flew back and he squealed as his legs went rigid and numb and he fell upon the King's lance with the full force of his young body. Draviad managed to clench some secret reserve of muscles and drove his lance another hair's breadth, another hand's span, another arm's length up inside the boy's wildly spasming hole. Cyril's sweet nectar poured forth across the King, his sex befuddled uncoordinated muscles failing to be able to shoot it. It didn't matter, the clenching within his bottom was trying to compress the invading lance at the same time that the lance was expanding to its greatest girth. Cyril's mind went silver and then gold in concert with the fluids of his body. Draviad's knew that he was tunneling for gold and that the vein he had unearthed now twice was deep and rich and fabulous. The Master Printer's sobriquet for the King was more apt than ever he could have imagined. Draviad was indeed the Bringer of the Flame of Sacred Golden Orechasm. Three bodies fell together in ecstatic torpid oblivion. The young page outside the door squeezed his eyes shut as precious orange orechasm flowed from his lance up to his eyes. He quickly shook it down and managed to resume his watchful guarding wait still tightly clutching his dagger.