Date: Thu, 10 Dec 2020 13:48:17 +0000 (UTC)
From: Colin <colindv80@yahoo.com>
Subject: Kol, Lord of Ass (Chapter 4) [Gay S-F/Fantasy, Authoritarian]

Kol, Lord of Ass – Chapter 4

By Colin DV

Note: This series is my first foray into fantasy erotica, but if you're
interested in the sex life of me and my cum-addicted husband, Benj, please
check out my ongoing series: "Benj Loves My Cream."

Parts I and II of this chapter are storytelling. Part III is fucking. Part
IV is more fucking. Cheers!

If you like the series, let me know! And if you have any character
favorites, let me know and I'll try to incorporate into the
series. ColinDV80@yahoo.com

       Part I

       I am Kol, Duke of Asselvya and, for 20 years now, Lord Protector of
the Realm on behalf of my only brother, His Glorious Majesty, King Vik the
Third of Ignatia. I am my brother's most powerful lord in men of arms, in
wealth, in land, in influence. As Lord Protector, my word is law, second
only to the King, even above his own sons.

       In my first two chapters I told you of two young men. First, there
was Torsten, the virginal young lordling. Then second there was my bitch in
heat, Sal, now my chief steward and brother-in-law. In my third chapter, I
relayed my bouncy ride with a fat, clever merchant.

       Well, the fourth chapter of my tale concerns a wrestling
match. Readers of this series will well remember that I am a hands-on
ruler. Realms are not secured by lords lazing about in their castles. And
so I wear out my roads, my ships, my horses and my ass traveling about the
realm doing my and my brother the King's business.

       Lords flit in and out of the Capital of Ignatia as it suits them, of
course. And most great lords, not content to be mere guests of the King,
maintain large estates in the Capital. Unless summoned by the King, the
lords and other high dignitaries of the Realm are not required to be in the
Capital except for the Convocation held the week of each Summer Solstice.

       The fastest route between Asselvya and the Capital is by water –
the mighty Loyolan River, whose tributary bifurcates Asselvya City. So, I
was traveling in a small flotilla of boats – though not for the speed. I
had left early enough to visit and assess the river towns in my duchy as
well as visit with my fellow Duke, Silvan, whose lands, the Duchy of
Gladden, were between my own and the central Crownlands. My wife and two
daughters would follow later via swift boat direct to the Capital.

       Duke Silvan was not a well-known quantity to me. I had known his
father and his father's heir well enough. But God laughs at man's plans. A
flash flood had carried off both Duke and heir last year, leaving the
second son Silvan to inherit. He must have been at least ten years younger
than my then-30 years of age. A young pup.

       I had been pleased enough, if not surprised, to receive an
invitation from Silvan to visit on my way to the Capital. Since Silvan's
ducal seat was not on the river, it had been agreed that we would meet in
one of Silvan's large river market towns, then travel the rest of the way
together.

       Upon arriving, we disembarked at the main pier. As I stepped upon
the quay, a group of richly-dressed dignitaries approached me, including
the Duke. And beyond them stood the usual crowd of gawking townspeople and
peasants, keeping a respectful distance.

       Now, I had never met Silvan before, but a lord – particularly, a
great one – should have a manner of deportment that sets him apart from
lesser men. Or a great lady for that matter. You could take my Lady Mother,
shave her bald and dress her in a rough sack and no one would doubt for a
moment that she was a daughter, widow and mother to three great Kings. And
the mother of me, of course.

       Silvan, though young, possessed this quality. And I was glad to see
it. Only an idiot desired for his peers to be weak. Tough dealings with
fellow countrymen who could kill you better prepared you for even tougher
dealings with the foreigners trying to kill you. He was tall, lean and his
straight blond hair was short – likely still growing back after he'd
cropped it in formal mourning. Though his name was unfortunately womanish
(sigh...), his clothes were masculine and refined.

       At any rate, I strode straight to him, past the bowing minor lords
and dignitaries. I grasped his left forearm with my right hand, and allowed
him to do the same to me, signaling to all that I considered him an equal
– though, in truth, he was not, not being a Prince of the Blood. Staring
into his light blue eyes, in a clear, strong voice, I spoke into the
silence. "I was greatly grieved to hear of the death of your noble Father
and Brother. I pray that they feast with Our Savior and keep a place for
us."

       Squeezing my arm in return, Silvan replied – he had a pleasing
voice: "My Lord Protector honors us with his visit. We are well-pleased to
break our mourning by hosting our King's most noble and beloved Brother."
Ungrasping my arm, he stepped back and cried out: "Long live the King!"

       I joined in as the dignitaries and crowd heartily repeated three
times "Long Live the King!"

       Then, after an obligatory, if tedious, luncheon at the Hall of
Burghers, at my request I received a tour of a new type of watermill
employed by the town. As the millers and engineers walked us through
explaining how a complete redesign of the gears resulted in a 30% increase
in the mill-rate of grain, I was honestly delighted. I had my people hand
out silver guineas to the millers and resolved to send a purse of gold to
the brilliant young engineer working in Silvan's capital. Hopefully, I'd be
able to convince him to visit Asselvya for a time and improve our
facilities.

       Silvan then escorted us to the outskirts of the town where a large
temporary arena had been constructed, his gift to me. And next to the arena
a large tent city had been erected. Two immense tents were placed in the
center for Silvan and me.

       On entering, I was delighted once again to find that the tent had
been decorated in the Western style of my Lady Mother's people. Thick,
intricate rugs, a large floor bed with a mass of plump silken
pillows. Braziers burned sweet incense at an extravagant rate.

       Silvan's voice behind me. "I trust you find it pleasing, my Lord
Protector."

       I grasped his shoulder. "Very much so, Friend Silvan. You may call
me `Kol.'"

       He smiled slightly – he wasn't the most expressive lad. Nodding
his head slightly, he said: "Then, Kol, I will leave you to refresh
yourself before tonight's feast and entertainment."

       He then left me with my retainers.

       Part II

       That evening – though there was still plentiful light from the
long summer sun – five hundred or so of us feasted under the open
sky. Local game and fish, roasted to perfection before us, was served on
platters by lovely young lads with garlands in their hair. Indeed, there
wasn't a serving wench to be had anywhere in the vicinity of the High Table
that had been erected.

       At the midpoint of the meal, I stood and thanked Silvan and the
local lords for their great hospitality. I then took off a heavy gold
necklace I had specially worn for the occasion and placed it over Silvan's
neck, kissing both his cheeks.

       I was glad to have the heavy, gaudy thing off me, to be honest. And
if Silvan had a lick of taste – and I believe the boy did – he'd have
the necklace melted into useful coins at the first opportunity.

       Then, after we'd eaten our fill, Silvan escorted me to the
arena. And by arena, I meant a very large sandy oval area surrounded by
wooden scaffolding filled with benches, already filling with hundreds of
people from the area. On one side of the oval, a large wooden enclosed
area, richly decorated, had been built for Silvan and I to watch the arena
at the ground level.

       After we were seated, Silvan gave a signal and a horn blared. And
out marched eight young men of various shapes and sizes. They wore no shoes
or clothes except for stark white loincloths. Their skin glistened from
being heavily oiled. They lined up before us and, after executing a deep
bow, stood at attention. The crowd cheered, and I was intrigued.

       Silvan stood and raised his hand for silence. Speaking in a strong,
loud voice, he said various complimentary things about me and the King. He
then roared: "All the Realm knows that Gladden is unsurpassed in
wrestling!" The crowd roared in response.

       "Aye! It was here where it first begun and it is here that we keep
to the old ways! Just oil and sand! Strength and wit!"

       The crowd roared back, pumping their fists in the air. "Oil and
sand! Oil and sand!" A traditional chant apparently.

       Raising both arms in the air, Silvan proclaimed: "In honor of our
Royal Duke, our Lord Protector of the Realm, I have called this contest to
exhibit our ancient rites! Contestants, announce yourselves!"

       The eight men then went in turn announcing their names and
villages. They were all physically fit though of varying size and heights
– clearly selected for their abilities, not beauty. Three of the eight
really caught my eye.

       The prettiest of the three was a lad with dusky skin and short black
hair – he clearly had some Western blood in him. He was tall with a
strong, lean body. The musculature of his legs was clearly visible. In my
mind, I labeled him: "Cousin."

       The next was a giant bull of a man. Tall, with dark hair and his
muscles had muscles. I'd certainly seen larger men before, but not
many. His face, neither handsome nor ugly, had an appealing openness about
it. I mentally called him: "Bull."

       The third was the shortest, with a strong, wiry body. He had brown
wavy hair and a comely face. But what drew me to him was that he looked
like a shifty little shit, so I thought he'd be amusing to keep an eye
on. This one I named, of course: "Little Shit."

       After all eight had announced themselves, another horn blared and
they went to a bucket and each pulled out a rod with a colored ribbon
attached, indicating which wrestlers would be paired for the first
matches. They then each walked off to separate sections of the arena, where
they stretched and oiled themselves further. Meanwhile, clerics with
tablets walked the arena taking bets on the first round of matches.

       I turned to Silvan in surprise: "The Church countenances gambling?"

       He gave me a crooked smile. "Oh, yes. These rites are ancient and
divinely favored. Our Savior wrestled demons in the wilderness, as you'll
recall."

       I laughed. "Indeed? I must've skimmed that section during my
scripture studies."

       Silvan continued, smiling: "And, of course, a percentage of the bets
are retained by Mother Church. . . . Will you place any bets?"

       I grunted. "I don't rightly know how to judge. This wrestling seems
different than any I've seen, and the lads are not matched by weight."

       "Very astute, my... Kol. Indeed, matches are chosen by lots,
contestants eliminated after each match until we have a final two
competitors. Though they are not matched by weight, the rules for victory
here are different. The match continues until one contestant concedes or
makes an undignified sound."

       "An `undignified sound?'" I mused.

       Silvan smiled. "You'll see. Also, gouging, biting or grabbing of
genitalia result in forfeit by the offender. Broken bones or death are
considered grave sins resulting in both forfeit and a period of deep
mandatory penance."

       "Indeed. Do you have a recommendation for my bets? I'd hate to make
a poor showing or be beggared out of my castle."

       Silvan smiled again. "Wrestling is a matter of spirit, Kol. If I
may, I'd recommend picking competitors who appeal to your spirit."

       "Very well."

       It ultimately was not difficult that first round. None of my three
favorites had been paired against each other, so I simply placed a gold
sovereign on each. Silvan then made three bets of his own – however, the
only bet we had in common was Little Shit.

       When the bell for the first match rung, I was surprised to see both
contestants (neither one of my three) step forward, drop their loincloths,
then, without further ceremony, begin grappling each other.

       "Oil and sand, indeed!" I exclaimed.

       Smiling, Silvan said: "Oil and sand!"

       The two lads were fair equal in size and the grappling seemed to
almost be at an impasse, with both lads clearly struggling just to maintain
their grips on the other's oiled body, until one, a redhead, managed to
hook his leg around the other, forcing him to the ground – where he
remained until he cried out his concession. The crowd cheered!

       "My word! A good contest!" I cried out.

       The second match was one of mine, Cousin, against one of Silvan's
– a shorter, muscular blond with a nice body, but unfortunately pocked
face. They both dropped their loincloths and went at each other.

       I'd chosen well – Cousin held on to the blond, his feet fixed to
the ground, his muscles straining. And then – oh! – the blond twisted
his body, perfectly timed to send Cousin flying over his hip. Cousin made a
loud unfortunate yelp – like a kicked bitch – and the judges ruled
against him. Cousin hadn't even needed to be pinned!

       "Well, it looks like your lad bested mine!"

       Silvan just smiled and kept looking on.

       For the third match, Bull easily bested his competitor. The
competitor was smaller – as almost every man in the Realm was – and
had thus gamely tried to trip Bull, using his size against him. But one
might as well have tried to trip a mountain. Once Bull fully got his hands
on him, the other lad was taken to the ground and calmly pinned until he
conceded.

       For the fourth match, Little Shit won by performing an unbelievable
feint that had his opponent falling roughly to the sand barely having been
touched. Little Shit then fell on him, using what looked like a painful pin
until the other boy cried out (and thus lost). It was an unbelievably short
match and half the crowd booed.

       As serving lads brought us refreshments, I evaluated the remaining
four candidates. Though I'd lost with Cousin, Bull and Little Shit both
still looked like excellent prospects and I had no desire to switch horses
to the redhead or pocked blond. So I placed another two sovereigns each on
Bull and Little Shit. Silvan bet again on Little Shit and the pocked blond.

       For these two matches, Bull was paired against the redhead and
Little Shit against the blond.

       "Looks like one of your favorites will eliminate the other one!" I
teased.

       First, Bull went up against the redhead. Bull stalked naked to the
redhead, grabbed him by the arms, and spun him, forcing him straight to the
sand. After the redhead conceded, the crowd booed lustily.

       At my quizzical look, Silvan supplied: "Chel – the redhead –
is a local."

       "Ah."

       For the second match, Little Shit didn't repeat his feint
trick. Instead, he and the pocked blond had a proper grapple – each
struggling to topple the other. Then, somehow, Little Shit managed to slip
behind the blond and had both his hands behind his neck, forcing him down
to the sand.

       I was curious to see whether the blond would be able to get out of
the headlock when the blond made a loud – and I'd say very undignified
– cry.

       "I say! Did Little – the brown-haired one just fuck your blond?!"

       "Hmm, it would appear so – pity."

       Little Shit then turned his head and looked me straight in the eye
as, still maintaining the headlock, he made another vicious shove into the
blond's squirming ass. The blond made another pained cry, which the judges
could not ignore for a second time. Little Shit had won the match!

       Little Shit sauntered back to his area with his hard cock sticking
out, while the blond glared daggers at his back and the crowd booed. Not a
crowd-pleaser, Little Shit.

       "And that's not a forfeit?!"

       "Nay, Kol. If a man can get his cock in you, you're well and truly
pinned. Alas for my purse."

       "Hmm – well, this will certainly color my view of Holy Scripture
from now on, I dare say."

       Silvan barked out a laugh at that – and I realized it was the
first time I'd heard the rather serious youth laugh. I was ridiculously
pleased to have caused the reaction.

       Thirsty, I took a deep drink of wine – and drink was not the only
thing my body craved. The matches had made my blood rise, but watching
Little Shit mount the blond like a bitch before a thousand commoners made
my cock ache.

       I looked out over the arena and saw Little Shit staring at me from
his area. Definitely impertinent, but I could feel the heat of his gaze
across the distance. I may have groaned slightly.

       Silvan turned to me. "Friend Kol, I see your blood is up. Ancient
rites can have such an effect." He snapped his fingers and said: "Gavin,
attend our Lord Protector. I will call for a short recess before the final
match."

       A slim blond cupbearer came over and dropped to his knees before
me. Murmuring "my Lord," he unlaced my breaches and took my aching
cockstand out.

       Silvan stared at my cock. "Our Lord Protector is well-favored."

       As the lad took me into his hot mouth, I smiled. "You are also
welcome to taste it, Friend Silvan."

       Silvan looked up at me, and smiled. "Nay."

       I shrugged. "As you will."

       The lad's mouth was very talented and he suckled me long and
hard. Looking down into his face, I was struck by his light blue eyes and
strong resemblence to Silvan. The lad could've been his brother without
question. Was I being serviced by some bastard of the Duke's family? One of
his dead father's by-blows?

       I wondered these things as my cock's pleasure took me, and I came
close. I saw that Silvan was still staring.

       "Are you sure you will not try? My seed is sweet."

       Silvan smiled again. "Nay, Friend Kol."

       I didn't say anything else as my crisis was already upon me, and I
erupted into the lad's moaning, swallowing mouth. After he'd sucked me dry
and relaced my breaches, I ruffled his straight blond hair. "Good lad."

       I settled back into my seat with more wine and a much clearer head.

       "Have you settled on a final bet, Kol?"

       "Ah, yes. I'll place my bet on Little Shit – there's something
rather ruthless about him, which I like."

       Silvan raised an eyebrow at the nickname but did not comment on
it. "Well, I think I will wager on Waylan. Your Little Shit is good, but
tricks can only take you so far. All are on guard now."

       We then placed our bets and Silvan gave the signal for the contest
to resume.

       Again, in the ring, Bull and Little Shit circled each other. Bull
was being careful apparently, not wanting to fall prey to one of Little
Shit's tricks. Bull lunged with his right arm as he moved his body to the
left – a feint of his own! He'd aimed to trick Little Shit into moving
left and within grabbing range of his strong left hand.

       But – alas for Bull – Little Shit was watching his feet and
not fooled by the feint. Though Little Shit did, indeed, move left, he
moved left with intention and purpose, not alarm. With one hand he grabbed
Bull's left hand and twisted it in a way that made me wince and Bull
yelp. Still moving, and still holding that wrist, he spun and yanked Bull's
arm behind him in another wince-worthy way and forced the big man to the
ground.

       Bull made another groan. The sound wasn't that undignified, but the
judges – apparently eager to avoid another mounting, alas – called
the match for Little Shit. The crowd erupted in hisses and boos, but Little
Shit was unfazed. He walked naked as a babe up to the ducal box, hard cock
sticking out, and, staring us in the eye, made a deep bow.

       After allowing the crowd to vent itself a little more, Silvan called
for silence. He and I then strode to the arena and, standing on either side
of him, we each tied a thick ribbon of gold silk around his biceps – the
mark of a champion.

       Silvan then handed him a purse heavy with coin as a prize. The crowd
erupted in loud cheers at that, despite their dislike of Little Shit, as
commoners always like seeing money handed out from their betters. The
losing competitors would receive nothing except, perhaps, bragging rights
about having competed.

       During this time, Little Shit kept his eyes respectfully downward,
but the scent of his sweat was strong. And he seemed to look at me without
looking at me. I resolved then to ensure a champion visit to my tent that
night.

       Part III

       But little did I know that I needn't have planned a late night
assignation. Silvan was way ahead of me. We returned to our box for closing
performances by jesters and acrobats. It was bland fair after the spicy
heat of the wrestling matches, though the rabble seemed to enjoy it.

       At one point, Silvan received a message from one of his
retainers. He turned to me and said, "I have arranged one final gift for
you, Kol – though I know not if I overstep."

       After signaling that the entertainments should go on, he led me out
of the box to the tent encampment. We entered my tent and I was surprised
to find Bull and Little Shit both respectfully kneeling in the center of
the tent.

       Silvan gestured to them. "I thought that perhaps our Lord Protector
might wish a private match between our two best wrestlers. Gorr and Waylan
have assured me that they dearly desire to compete for your favor."

       I smiled broadly. "Friend Silvan, your consideration is deeply
appreciated."

       "As this is your private match, I leave the prize to you, Lord
Protector."

       The question didn't need much thought. "The winner may attend me
tonight and gain my favor."

       The lads were both still looking down though I thought I saw Little
Shit shake with amusement.

       Silvan asked: "So what say you, Gorr and Waylan? Wish you to compete
or to return to your homes?"

       Little Shit – Gorr – said immediately: "It would be my honor,
Lords." Bull was slower – he nodded, still looking down, and said: "Aye,
my Lords."

       "Then prepare yourselves."

       Then as Silvan and I made ourselves comfortable amidst the pillows,
Bull and Little Shit each applied more oil to their arms, legs and
torso. After receiving our go-ahead, they both took off their loin cloths
– this close I confirmed that I had named Bull well – and once again
began to circle each other.

       Though I found them both very appealing, Little Shit had outright
bewitched me and so I definitely knew I wanted him to win. Though he'd
mounted the pocked blond bitch, I knew he would bend for me. He'd probably
fuck like a mink.

       I wondered how Little Shit would win. I didn't see how there could
be a traditional grapple. Any man having both Bull's hands on him meant
match-over. Bull needed to be toppled; he couldn't be grappled. Then, with
surprising speed for one so large, Bull lunged forward and grabbed ahold of
Little Shit's wrist with his left hand.

       Bull held the wrist tightly, but somehow Little Shit twisted his
hand free and grabbed Bull's wrist, performing the same painful hold he'd
won the last match with. I then expected Bull to be quickly brought down
through the painful maneuver, but the giant surprised me. He dropped to his
knees, folding his elbow inward in a rapid yank of a move that unbalanced
Little Shit.

       As Little Shit fell towards him, Bull surged up on his powerful legs
lifting Little Shit atop his shoulders. He then raised Little Shit bodily
above his head and threw him down to the ground. Little Shit cried out
loudly, then hit the ground with a painful thump.

       I was stunned silent. Then Silvan said, dryly: "Well, I'd say that's
a match."

       I called for a guard to enter and check on the boy. But the guard
didn't have to move far before Little Shit was slowly getting up and
staring at me with shock and hurt on his face.

       Silvan walked up to Little Shit and wiped his filthy face with a
silk cloth. "Well, you still have your prize money, lad." Grabbing Little
Shit's elbow, he said: "We'll leave you with your champion, Lord
Protector."

       "You're leaving now?" I asked.

       Silvan smiled. "Aye. Until morrow, Lord Protector. Have a pleasant
night." With that, he exited the tent, pulling Little Shit with him.

       Which left me alone with Bull, naked and still breathing
heavily. Well, that definitely had not gone as I'd hoped or expected, but
this was not a terrible turn of events.

       I grabbed Bull's hand and gently guided him to the pillowed
floorbed. Setting him against the pillows, I rose and poured a goblet of
wine which I handed to him. He took a swallow and I saw him jolt as he
appreciated the taste. He then drank the goblet down. I took his goblet and
refilled it for him – I really was getting soft.

       After he'd again drunk his fill, I took the goblet and said: "Tell
me, Waylan, what's your trade?"

       Not looking at me, Bull said: "Wainwright, my Lord."

       I chuckled at that. "Waylan the Wainwright – how poetic. So do
you pull wagons in addition to repairing them?"

       He laughed at that, but in a way that let me know that I was far
from the first to have made that particular joke.

       "So, Waylan, you haven't sucked or fucked a man before, have you?"

       "Nay, Lord."

       "And you haven't been fucked before, yes?"

       He shook his head vigorously at that. "Nay, Lord!"

       I nodded at that. "I can always tell a man's man – even when a
virgin. You, Waylan, are not such a one. So, tell me, why did you agree to
this? Is wagon-smithing such a poor trade that you should go a-whoring?"

       Waylan looked up at me, eyes wide and nostrils flaring: "I'm no
whore, Lord!"

       "And yet..." I gestured to his naked body amidst my pillows.

       Still looking at me intensely, he said: "All know there's no shame
in receiving a lord's favor. I can walk head held high, my Lord. I'm no
whore!"

       I pat him on the shoulder to calm him. "Oh, I agree – any man is
fortunate to receive my favor – but one can never be sure of the minds
of peasants."

       I looked steadily at him `til he blushed and looked away.

       "Very well." I got up and retrieved the pot of wrestling oil. Still
clothed, I straddled his thick leg trunks, facing him.

       I drizzled some of the oil on his chest and began rubbing it deep
into his large chest muscles. For all his brutish masculinity, he had but
scant hair on his chest and belly. I idly wondered if he shaved it. "What
do you want?"

       "Well, there's a girl, Lord – Gisela. Lord!" I had pinched his
large thick nipples.

       Still rubbing: "Gisela, yes..."

       "I wish to wed her, Lord, but she will not choose me."

       I took more oil and reached down to stroke his big soft cock. "Won't
wed you?! Nonsense! Big strong lad, respectable trade, hung like a bull
– what girl would not want to spread for you each night?"

       Bull blushed at that, but his cock began to plump up under my
stroking. "She lay with me, but she won't wed me. She says my elder brother
is a better match as he'll inherit the smithy when Father dies."

       Still stroking. "Ah, so we come to it. And how can I help get this
Gisela to the wedding altar for you?"

       His cock was full hard now. "Well, Lord, if I could gain my own
smithy, and soon, Gisela would definitely marry me. She doesn't prefer my
brother or lay with him."

       I seriously doubted that second statement, but wasn't about to
disillusion the lad – more a lovestruck cow than a bull. I squeezed his
hard cock. "Giving you a smithy is well within my power, lad. Please me
well and I'll favor you so."

       He smiled big and happily as I worked his cock with one hand and
rubbed his belly with the other. No doubt visions of Giselas danced in his
head.

       "And has Gisela sucked your cock, boy?"

       He startled at the question. "Nay – she says it's too big and a
sin besides."

       I wasn't surprised – this Gisela was no doubt a piece of work. I
pitied the brother that would win her. "Take my advice, boy, and marry no
wench who won't suck your cock." With that, I bent down and took Bull's
cock in my mouth.

       It was very thick and large but I worked my mouth steadily down
until my nose was near his thatch of hair. The aroma of his cock, the oil,
his sweat, the sweat of his opponents was all very strong and I felt heady
at the intoxicating scent.

       I sucked hard and worked his cock with tongue and hand. With my
other hand I first caressed his chest before grabbing his large
balls. After a good tug on his ballsac, Bull bucked beneath me and his cock
spilled out a river of seed into my mouth. I swallowed for his seed was
thick and sweet. I knew not what women's arts Gisela used to keep from
pupping from Bull's potent seed, but it must've been very powerful, indeed.

       Bull was flat on his back, once again breathing heavily. His large
chest heaved and glistened with oil and sweat. He was a beautiful sight.

       After a moment, feeling the hard cock in my breaches resting against
his leg, Bull looked up and said: "Shall I do you now, Lord?"

       "Nay, I hate a bad cocksuck."

       Funnily enough, he looked almost offended by the comment.

       Laughing, I took more oil and stuck a finger in his ass.

       "Lord!"

       "Feels strange, yes? Hurt?"

       He pondered. "Not hurt, Lord. But fair strange."

       "Yes, it will feel that way. Just relax – lie back and think of
Gisela. If you tense up, it *will* hurt."

       "Yes, Lord."

       I tried touching his cock again, but he winced, so I held off. So,
while I worked my oiled finger in his ass, I let my other hand roam up and
down his magnificent legs and up to his meaty chest.

       I placed another finger and his breath quickened. He wasn't a man's
man so I didn't bother seeking out his ass-joy. I just widened his hole.

       Once I could get a third finger in, I deemed him ready. I didn't
want a loose hole, after all.

       I was still clothed throughout all this, so I unlaced my breaches
and oiled my own aching cock. I then lifted his heavy legs atop my
shoulders and placed my leaking cock at the entrance to his hole.

       As I slowly applied pressure, I said: "Breathe, Waylan. Push out
like you're taking a shit."

       As my cock breached his hole, he cried out and not happily. He'd
tensed up. I sighed. The eternal problem of fucking non-men's men is that
they were ass-stupid. Their holes just didn't know to gratefully take a
cock.

       He wheezed heavily as I sank in until I was fully seated. I held
still for a bit, stroking his belly. "There – the hard part's over." I
then began pumping in and out of his tight hole – his almost too tight
hole.

       His legs were very heavy, so I pushed them forward, which also
allowed me to dive deeper into his ass. He was so hot and tight at times I
felt like I was breaching barriers deep within.

       His face was screwed up tight with determination. This wasn't a
pleasure ride for him, poor Bull. But he just wheezed and grunted his way
through it. I respected how he didn't whine or plead like a bitch.

       After one deliciously deep thrust, I cried out as I spilled my seed
deep within him. His face showed his shock as he felt my big cock spasming
inside him. Guess he'll have a new perspective next time he beds his
Gisela.

       Still buried inside him, I let myself fall upon him. Lightly moving
my sensitive cock within him, I licked and sucked his immense chest
muscles. I particularly enjoyed how thick and pointy his nipples
were. Grabbing and licking and sucking and biting his big firm pecs was as
close as I came to understanding lads who were tit-crazed about wenches.

       Pulling my mouth off his pec, I looked up at him and said: "Your
Lord has just shown you favor – what do you say, wainwright?"

       "Uh, thank you, Lord."

       "Good lad." I then pulled out and stood up, thirsty again. I drained
a goblet and began stripping off my sweaty clothes. I turned to look at him
and he was still lying there staring at the top of the tent. Poor dazed
Bull.

       "Waylan?"

       "Yes, Lord?"

       "After your Lord favors you so, you lie on your stomach to show your
gratitude."

       "Uh, yes, Lord." He then flipped himself over.

       I then extinguished the lanterns myself and crawled onto the bed
naked beside him. His large body radiated a great amount of heat and I
warmed myself against him draping my right arm over his wide sweaty back. I
then maneuvered his left arm so my head was tucked in underneath. Then,
breathing in his rich manly scent, I drifted off to sleep.

       Part IV

       I awoke to the sound of fierce whispers outside my tent. I am a
light sleeper. In the night, Bull and I had separated and he was an
arms-length away snoring facedown into a pillow.

       I carefully got up and opened the tent, stepping out into the warm
summer night air. "What is it?"

       My two guards jumped to attention. "Lord!"

       "Well?"

       The more senior of the two said: "My Lord, a perimeter guard just
reported that a man is requesting to see you."

       "In the dark of night? My, how polite assassins have become!"

       "Well, Lord, the guard tried to send him off, but he would not
leave. Normally, we'd have beat him blue but, Lord, he's the wrestling
champion!"

       Oh. I felt it should've been obvious. My Little Shit wasn't one
easily put off. My cock jerked happily at the thought of burying itself in
that fucker's tricky ass. But the thought came and went in an instant. My
tastes had shifted and I was not done with my Bull – his sweat covered
my body and his seed was in my belly. And I wanted more and wasn't in the
mood for divided attentions.

       "Tell him I'm not admitting petitioners at this time. Have him sent
away. And respectfully – I would not see him harmed."

       The senior guard saluted. "Yes, Lord."

       I then reentered the tent and my cock, now both hard and focused,
led the way back to Bull like an arrow. And Bull either was a deep sleeper
or just plain exhausted, as he had not roused at the conversation outside
the tent.

       It was fair dark within the tent, but I managed to find the pot of
oil without much difficulty. And I hardly need light to find an asshole. I
maneuvered behind Bull, thoroughly oiled my cock, and shoved it deep into
Bull's sleeping ass.

       With a surprised roar, Bull bucked hard and I was thrown clear off
him and against a table leg. And no sooner had I hit the ground then Bull
was looming over me, breathing heavily – his body a large black
silhouette above me. Also, at this time one of the guards had burst into
the tent at the commotion. With a word, I dismissed him.

       Bull was still leaning over me and all I could hear was his
breathing. I placed a hand on his chest. "Do you remember where you are,
Waylan?"

       I felt more than saw him nod his head.

       I then slapped his face. Hard. "Well?"

       "Lord?"

       I backslapped him that time. Harder. He's lucky I wasn't wearing any
rings.

       "I beg forgiveness, Lord."

       Slowly pushing him back `til he was sitting back on his knees, I
said: "Better."

       I then moved behind him and shoved his back `til he was once more
face-down in the pillows. I then pushed my cock back into his hole. He only
slightly bucked this time. A good buck.

       He was still fiercely tight and as I fucked him I told him: "Your
problem, Waylan, is you're not really a bitch. You're meant for stud. So
you have no ass-joy."

       I pressed down on his broad shoulders with both hands so I could
give him a proper cocking. His grunts were like music and my cock was
loving the tightness of his passage. I then seeded him a second time before
collapsing on him. This time, I licked the sweat on his back and shoulders
while my cock softened and slipped out of him with some of my spend.

       As I lay on him, I murmered: "Waylan."

       "Yes, Lord?"

       "Are you an idiot or an ingrate?"

       "Oh... thank you, Lord!"

       With hands and words, I then maneuvered Bull so that he laid
crosswise, face-down, along the top of the big floorbed. He'd not bear me
pups but he still needed to maintain a respectful position.

       I then laid my head down on his lower back in the valley between his
muscular back and his large firm ass. I draped my right arm over his back
and I placed two fingers of my left hand deep in his creamy, swollen
hole. I then fell back asleep.

       ---

       I then awoke to daylight filtering in and slight movement beneath
me. Bull was stirring.

       "Lord... may I piss?"

       I'd sadly removed my hand from his ass in my sleep. I reached under
him and grabbed his turgid morning cock. I sat up. "Oh, yes, you may use my
chamberpot over there."

       While he noisily pissed in the pot, I called a guard to summon my
clerk. I then followed Bull's example and took a good piss.

       With a confused look on his face, Bull slowly started moving back to
the floorbed. I didn't stop him. I just watched him steadily as he laid
once again on his belly. I stood there and nodded my approval.

       Minutes later, my hastily-dressed clerk, Anton, came in. He took in
the scene and bowed. I directed him to sit at the table with ink and
paper. Now, Anton was a very pretty lad, but a terrible lay. Tried
twice. Each time like fucking a dead fish. But, fortunately, he was an
excellent clerk.

       Turning to Bull, I said: "Despite your transgressions last night,
you have pleased me well. I will not insult you with coin,
however. Instead, you will tell my clerk here of all you require to
establish your wainwright smithy and I will see it done."

       Bull sat up, smiling, and said: "Thank you, Lord!"

       I raised a finger. "But I'm in the mood for a game." I then walked
over to Bull, moved behind him and forced him onto his hands and
knees. Winking at Anton over Bull's back, I said: "You must give Anton here
all your requirements *before* I spend. Be sure to leave nothing out, eh?"

       I'd been reoiling my cock as I spoke and I shoved it back into his
ass. And my cock actually went in without as much breaching though Bull
groaned unhappily all the same. As I slowly began pumping my cock, I said:
"Waylan... you're wasting time."

       "A stable!"

       With a serious look on his face, Anton said: "I'm sorry, sir, I'm
not familiar with smithies. How big should this stable be?"

       "Uh! Enough for eight, nay, ten horses!"

       "Yes, sir."

       "And a cottage!"

       "What size cottage, sir?"

       "Uhhh... big enough for a large family, please!"

       He really was keeping his wits better than I expected so I fucked
him harder as he grunted, yelped and blurted out additional
requirements. With both hands, I fiercely grabbed the large firm mounds of
his heaving chest, pinching his thick nipples, as I rode him hard.

       After he'd cried out some inane thing or other, I gave one last
shove and sighed as my seed joined the rest deep in his ass. As Bull cried
out his thanks, I pulled out and began wiping myself with a cloth.

       Still on his hands and knees, Bull moaned, mostly to himself: "Oh! I
forgot the well!"

       Laughing, I shoved him onto his back. Would waste some of my seed,
but it could not be helped since I wanted back at his chest. I fell onto
him and licked and bit the large tight mounds and nipples. I looked up and
grabbed him by the jaw. "Twas only a game, Bull. You'll get a beautiful
smithy."

       Then looking down his big body, I saw his hard cock sticking
out. "Oh, looks like my Bull has a little of the ass-joy in him after all."
And with that I dived down onto his big stick, once again sucking it
down. But this time I placed my fingers back into his hole and pushed at
the spot.

       I prodded and sucked until Bull made a loud cry and his ass seized
tight on my hand and his cock erupted in my mouth. Was less thick then
before, but no less sweet, and I happily swallowed again. After I sucked
him dry then sucked on his chest some more – God, would I ever tie of
his sweet tits! – I got up.

       Turning back to him, I said: "You may tell Anton the rest of your
needs while I prepare for the day." I then left a tent to find a bath.

       Upon my return, Bull was standing waiting, once again in his
loincloth. Anton was seated at the table with the detailed papers before
him, looking hungrily at Bull. Poor Anton.

       I quickly reviewed the papers. My Bull had not been greedy, though I
would have denied him nothing. I added a few extras, then signed, after
which Anton bound the papers and affixed my seal.

       I handed the papers to Bull, kissing both cheeks. "Take these papers
to my purser and he will see my will be done. Good fortune with your maid."

       He bowed deeply and moved to leave, but I called out: "Oh, one more
thing!"

       I then pulled out two golden silk ribbons and tied them to his large
biceps. The mark of a champion!