Kol Lord of Ass

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!