Date: Fri, 5 Nov 2010 12:04:20 -0700
From: webbrohmer@hotmail.com
Subject: The Lion and the Hound

This is a tale, written by an adult and intented for adult reading. If
you're not a legal adult where you live, if this subject matter is illegal,
or if you are offended by male/male sex, don't read any further.

Sc/fi - adult M2M sex  c 2010 webbrohmer@hotmail.com


THE LION AND THE HOUND


Dionikas wasn't sure why he happened to notice the captive but he did.

The naked man was bound at the wrists and was being dragged by two men
ready to make their sport of him; they had already removed their leather
loin pouches and were stiff with anticipation but he did not struggle
against them.

Dionikas noticed his eyes...bright and lapis blue, shining fearfully from a
face framed in brown sandy hair. His beard was full and carefully groomed-a
mark of breeding, and better kept than his own at the moment. The body was
lean and wiry yet showed strong in the muscles and belly; a fine carpet of
brown hair covered his torso and spread down his thighs.

It was the sight of his thigh which moved Dionikas to action. On the inside
of his left thigh Dionikas saw what looked like a ritual scar.

Was he a Magician?

"Release him."

Dionikas drew his sword and stepped forward as his voice cut through the
din of the camp. The men stopped. Lapis eyes fixed on Dionikas' walnut
ones; his only movement was the heaving of his chest.

"That ritual scar on this thigh? He's a Magician and should not be
violated. Free him and bring him to me."

The two soldiers helped the Magician to his feet. Dionikas turned away to
an undercurrent of murmurs. His own tastes were well known. Even though
this man matched them, he was more interested in what this Magician might
know than what he might offer.

He stalked back through the camp to his tent, mind churning. All he needed
was this blue-eyed magician adding to his troubles-assuming he was a
magician; he himself had not had a close enough look at the scar to be
certain. Dionikas hoped his lucky guess was right. He'd find out soon
enough.

Even if he were not he hoped this man could provide some valuable
information. He definitely didn't deserve to be treated like the other
captives.

Dionikas passed many of his men working off their built-up blood lust. The
women and children-a mere handful-were isolated in the castle, guarded by
Dionikas' most trusted men. In good condition, they would command high
prices in the slave markets. The men were stripped and turned over to his
soldiers.

One man was hanging by his nipples from a cord, suspended from a cross-bar,
just far enough off the ground for his feet to not touch; right now he
grasped the cord with his hands, supporting himself. Another cord ran
through his foreskin and stretched tautly to a stake in the ground. Blood
still seeped from the three wounds. The captive's eyes, bright with pain
and hatred, followed Dionikas as he approached a captain, testing a
flogger.

Without a word, Dionikas grabbed the whip and, in one savage motion, turned
to flail at the prisoner, lashing him right across the back. The man
thrashed and squirmed as the powerfully-built Dionikas struck again and
again, across his back, his buttocks, his waist and thighs, the bottoms of
his feet.

Panting and sweating, Dionikas dropped the cat and stalked off while the
captain, slowly stroking his erection, moved in on the captive, now hanging
limply from his nipples and foreskin.

He passed a crowd of soldiers who had formed a circle around two more men,
caked with sweat and blood. They wrestled to cheers and jeers. The winner
would continue; losers were dragged off and turned over to be used. One
such man was blindfolded and tied spread-eagled over a pile of saddles; he
gasped and moaned as a soldier fucked him violently, banging against his
buttocks with loud sucking slaps. A line of men stood behind,
waiting. Scattered throughout the grounds others watched or participated in
groups. Still more, unwilling to wait, paired off among themselves around
campfires, or moved and danced as dim shadows inside tents. Dionikas strode
past all this, his mind still in a surging fury, unseeing. A breeze cooled
the sweat on his back and brought the promise of a relief from the heat.

The magician was waiting when Dionikas reached his tent. Creon brought him;
the soldier who was Dionikas' favorite clasped him by his elbow, his eyes
flashing like spears in the moonlight as he released him. Without a word,
without waiting for a dismissal from Dionikas, he turned and walked away.

Creon did not wander far--just to the nearest campfire where a captive was
bound wrist-to-foreskin-to-ankle and the soldiers were casting lots for
him.

The magician stood tall and looked Dionikas straight in the eye as he
slowly rubbed his wrists; Dionikas immediately felt power in the presence
of such a one, coiled in his muscles, smouldering in his eyes. His chest
rose and fell in deep steady breaths as he dropped his hands to his
sides. Dionikas was still sweating and panting.

They stood there for what seemed a long time, watching each other breathe.

Finally, Dionikas said, "You did not resist."

The man shook his head, brown hair tossing about his ears. "I'll not
dishonor my name--my status--by screeching and groveling. Those who violate
and kill me do themselves a greater dishonor." His voice, fine and clear
with the timbre of youth, sprang from his belly and carried across the din
of the camp like a mountain brook.

"So who are you?"

"Ratha, a Magician. And you are Dionikas, second son of Penthos, the late
King of Elyrrha."

Dionikas finally cracked a smile. "You are indeed a Magician."

"No magic," Ratha responded with a shrug. "You wear the ring of Elyhrra;
the king's second son is a great warrior and you appear about his
age. There was also the matter of your feud with Einar. I hear much and see
much more."

"Einar has not been found; did you turn him into a rat so he could escape
with my niece of 12?"

"I would not so dishonor a rat. Einar told me nothing of that; the man is a
bully and rules through fear, so his household was afraid to see and even
more afraid to speak. I am sorry." Ratha dropped his eyes and clasped his
hands in front of him.

"So you know nothing after all." Dionikas spat the words.

"I was not given the freedom of the castle." Ratha shifted his weight to
one leg and rested his hands on his hips as he returned a strong
counterthrust, undeterred by Dionikas' outburst. "Nor did I wish his
company. I have not seen him since the second day of seige. I do know there
are tunnels into the mountains."

Dionikas looked back over to his camp and felt a pang of guilt. Those men
had fought so bravely against him.

Ratha caught that look and said, "Revenge is nothing more than a rock
rolling down a mountain, crushing all in its path."

"Revenge! What do you know of....?"

"Just that I was firstborn and cheated of my birthright when my cousin and
jealous brother sold me to the Magician's Guild at 14. My family has since
been dead to me."

"That scar on your thigh is from the Guild then."

Ratha moved his malehood to one side and turned. "It represents my
clan--the hound."

Dionikas nodded absently; he found himself staring at the other man's
maleness instead. He stirred against his leather loin pouch and adjusted
himself slightly.

"It's the tradition that the Guild scars us there."

"It didn't...hurt?"

"We learn to turn away pain." Ratha smiled. "This was our first lesson."

Dionikas found himself wondering whether it was his imagination or if Ratha
had been slowly stroking himself. Ratha released himself and the organ now
appeared longer than it had been. His own member poked angrily against his
pouch. Dionikas shifted his weight, turning slightly away from the
Magician; Ratha watched this and his malehood noticeably twitched and
lengthened.

"How did you end up with such a one as Einar?" Dionikas asked, a little too
suddenly. He was aware of a number of eyes on them, including Creon's.

"I go where The Powers will me. I arrived in his land at a time when
travellers were feared so I became his...guest." The last word spat out
like a serpent spat poison. "He was too frightened to kill me and too
frightened to let me go."

"Einar was too frightened to see the light of the sun; why didn't you
escape, if you are a Magician?"

"I was barely there a quarter moon, and some of his guards provided their
own hospitality. But do you you think it was just your considerable skill
as a warrior which allowed you to bring him down so easily?"

His maleness stretched and jerked upwards. Dionikas couldn't keep his eyes
off it and his own felt like it was going to poke a hole through something.

"In that case, I am in your debt after all." Dionikas hoped to divert his
attention and forced himself to look Ratha right in the eyes--one of the
deepest pair of eyes he'd ever seen. He immediately wondered why that
thought entered his head. Those blue eyes sparkled; was this Magician
casting a spell on him?

"Why would he keep you?" The question was asked more in an effort to get
back into the general topic.

"He wanted information--more than I knew, but he would not believe it. He
had me closely watched, hoping I would reveal something of value to him,
not knowing we are incapable of hiding truth. But people such as Einar live
with untruth so they do not recognize the truth."

"You do seem unable to hide anything," Dionikas said. He reached inside his
pouch to ease the pressure on his own discomfort and realized what it was
he really wanted to it poke it into. Its head now protuded above the top of
his pouch.

"Are you having problems?"

There was a tease in Ratha's voice. Dionikas looked at Ratha as hot blood
rushed to his face, burning to his ears. Ratha, too, blushed. Both had now
become totally aroused in the other's presence. Dionikas glanced over to
Creon's campfire.

He heard screams and groans and grunts of pain and passion. The smell of
lust hung about the camp like smoke from campfires and it charged the air
like the approaching storm. The men at Creon's campfire still cast lots;
now they gambled towards Dionikas' tent, huddling together in conversation
with Creon--a man of considerable leadership ability in his own right.

"Just a little...uncomfortable."

"A storm's comong; should we not go inside?"

"The only place would be my tent." It came out a growl but Ratha smiled at
that.

Dionikas turned to his tent and pulled his aside his pouch; his member
popped out and he sighed, pausing just long enough to enjoy the cool air on
it. It was then he then realized he was the last man in the camp wearing
anything.

He entered his tent, knowing Ratha followed and feeling the eyes of Creon
on them. He decided Creon was perfectly capable of finding a replacement
and didn't care if Ratha had him under a spell or not.

His tent faced west with an upper flap open to the east stirring a breeze
through the tent, bringing the smell of rain. Dionikas' own scent hung
about the place like morning mist. He kicked his blankets into a pile and
turned to face Ratha as first his sword and then his loin pouch dropped at
his feet.

Dionikas bent to move the sword aside and watched Ratha's buttocks flex and
flow as he closed the tent flap. Dionikas stood and found himself staring
back at two blue gems beckoning him as the other approached.

Ratha touched Dionikas's beard, his fingers strong and hard.  Those fingers
stroked his beard, marked a circle around his mouth, and moved down his
chin--his throat--his chest--where the fingers splayed and rubbed his chest
in ever-widening circles, pulling and playing in the thick mat of dark
hair, circling around to the nipples. Dionikas, the lion of a man who led
an army of house guards, servants and farmers to avenge the destruction of
his father's house, trembled, his cock twitched and oozed against the other
man's and sweat dripped down his sides. He thought he would smother in his
own scent, faint from the musk of this other man's smell.

A hand touched Dionikas's shoulder, a hand warm and firm as the finest wood
and as light as the breeze caressing his neck, his back, his buttocks. The
other hand slid down and buried itself in the fur at the soft mound of his
belly before tugging and stroking his long foreskin. Every touch, every
motion was sure, confident and experienced.

Dionikas wrapped his arms around the other man and pulled him close,
feeling the firm planes of his back muscles and the grit of dried sweat. He
smelled of smoke, of sage and of a lust no magic could create.

Ratha grabbed the other's beard, and they breathed face to face, panting
off their heat in perfect rhythm and drowning in each other's
sweat. Dionikas slid his arms even lower, just below Ratha's buttocks, and
they were down among the blankets in a motion as smooth as a fishing hawk.

It was Ratha who found the lamp oil, pouring it into his hands and
caressing Dionikas's cock with it. Dionikas entered the magician like a
sword into its scabbard as Ratha met him and they moved together like the
moons and the seas.

Neither noticed an extra point of light from the western end of the tent, a
point of light which spilled onto Ratha's forehead, poured up over onto
Dionikas's shoulder and rolled up and off his shoulder blade and up and off
again, a point of light from the flap pushed aside just far enough for
Creon to peer through. Rain spattered, then hammered on the tent top.

The scent of the magician's breath panting with their rhythm and their musk
and the memories of all his other men with their sweat and bodies and lust
spun together in Dionikas' brain and rolled down into his loins. He growled
and thrust deeper and Ratha added a final rhythm of his own.

Yet all he would remember would be the tale as the legends would tell it,
that as their power surged between them, thunder rolled from the sky and
lightning broke the high turret of the castle and the Magician shot blue
white fire which crackled in the air around them.