Hi. Here's Chapter 6 of The Squire's Tale
Disclaimer: If you are under 18, don't read this. If you are offended by, or prohibited from reading about homosexual stuff, don't read this.
The Squire's Tale
Chapter 6. The Challenge
The blacksmith rubbed his hands together and his dark eyes flashed behind his thick black lashes. He wore a leather apron of dark brown that came down to his knees, cinched by a wide leather belt. His bare arms bulged as he pumped the bellows with rough blackened hands.
Thou art Sir Mark's squire, said he. And thou dost think that thou are such a fine fellow, and well-trained to withstand the foe. Ha! Thou art deceived. I can take thee down, squire, if thou but stand and take blows from my open hands.
His body was lean and hard. His face was shaped like a heart, which made his beard come to a point. His nose was narrow too, and his nostrils flared. Dark curly dark hair unkempt around his head, and a week's growth of dark curly whiskers on his handsome narrow face. He came close to me and smiled and fixed me with dark eyes. His grin showed his white teeth and made his eyes crinkle. The forge's fire shone in his face and his bare arms glimmered with sweat.
Art thou a man, he said, that thou canst endure my slapping on your chest and back? I shall stop when thou sayest stop, but I wager you will not feel my hand more than thrice before you beg mercy.
I accept your challenge, blacksmith, said I, and I shall prove myself worthy of my Master.
He pulled off my tunic and schert. And I stood naked above my waist. And the air was filled with the smell of burning iron.
This is a fine game, lad, and I shall have my fun with thee, he said. Now stand and do not flinch.
And he surveyed my bare trunk, assessing where he should strike first. And he brought back his arm and swung his open hand against my side with a loud slap. But I had braced myself, and did not waver. I looked down and saw the mark his hand had left on my white skin. And he smiled again, showing his white teeth, and his smile made his eyes crinkle and squint like crescents turned sideways. And black eyelashes limned his crescent eyes.
And smiling wickedly, he brought his other blackened palm against my side and slapped the harder.
Now, my fine young fucking noble, said he, thou hast matching handprints.
And I looked down at the marks his slaps had left, as if he had dipped his hand in vermilion and imprinted all his fingers on my sides.
I shall leave more marks upon thee until I tire of tormenting thee, he said, and slapped my breast with a thump, so that now another burning handprint bloomed. Yet I did not flinch or move, which pleased him, for his eyes gleamed like burning embers and his smile lifted his cheeks and his eyes crinkled like crescents turned sideways.
And he felt between my legs with his hammer-blackened hand, and grasped my prick and gripped it tightly.
Thou dost enjoy this fucking sport, my noble boy, as much as I. For thy prick is hard as a fucking swordhilt.
And this was true, for his blows and mocking made me crave him all the more.
And with delight he brought back his other arm to strike my chest, determining the spot where he should sear me, and slapped my other breast sharply. And he heard my stifled groan.
He was much pleased with this also, for he smiled and showed his white teeth, and his eyes glinted behind his long black lashes.
Now I shall slap thee all the more, thou fine lord, and make thy front and back as red and hot as Hell. I shall leave my brandings on thy tender skin.
Yea, said I, do thy best, smith, thou shalt not hear me cry mercy.
And he placed himself behind me, and with both hands pelted my back with glancing blows so fast one after the next that it was as if a band of ruffians struck me. And I could not forbear crying out, and he laughed with glee on hearing me cry. And my cock pulsed and throbbed, begging to be stroked.
See how my slaps have brought thy fucking noble blood up to thy skin, proud boy. Thou art humbled by a fucking blacksmith and thy station brought low beneath my dirty hands.
He peered closely at my face to detect a weakening. But I held fast and was not tempted to cry mercy. He spat into both his ash-stained palms and rubbed them together the better to provoke me, and puffs of steam rose from his hands. His shapely arms gleamed with sweat. He smacked my abdomen as if striking a taut drum, which made me catch my breath and bend forward against my will. And a scalding sting spread across my belly.
Art thou aching for more of my assault, thou high-born gallaunt?
He brought his face close to mine. His thick black lashes limned his eyes.
Thou half-baked lad, feel what it is to be a man. And he rubbed his rough whiskery chin against my cheek.
A fucking smith shall bring thee low, thou fucking lofty boy.
He held my jaw in his blackened hand like tongs, and searched my face. Thou wouldst have me slap thy face, he said, but I shall not. Yet I will leave my mark on thy fucking pretty face. And he spat on my cheek and his spit was like a caudel. And he pressed his tempered palm against my cheek and smeared his spittle down my cheek.
And he stepped back and surveyed his work. And his nostrils flared.
Yea, said he, I have made thee the color of a rose, and my handprints cover thee like fire. And my anvil dust has marked thy pale skin with black stripes.
He took a bramble from the floor and placed it round my head and tangled it in my long hair.
There, said he, thou art a fucking monarch, art thou? And this thy damned crown? My scorching hands shall bring thee low and teach thee who is lord, if thou dost not bow down and worship me.
And the logs in the forge popped with the sound of whips cracking, and tongues of flames flickered in the furnace, and ruby sparks shot upon the hearth and glowed.
Say that thou shall kiss the border of my fire-blackened leather apron on thy knees and I will free thee, boy.
But I set my gaze beyond his sharp narrow face and stood silent.
Ah, said he, so thou shalt prove that thou art a man. Ah, Jesus fucking Christ, that kindles me! By Lucifer, I swear I delight in smiting thee! Oh by the Devil's horns, I do delight in smiting thee! And thou, proud boy, thou art keen to take my blows, for thy cock salutes me like a fucking Roman soldier.
And he looked upon me, smiling with his white teeth, considering where next to strike, and slapped the sides of my waist and along my ribs and smote me mightily on the chest and arms with great glee until I bent under his blazing blows and shuddered, and cried No more!
And though he was in a fever beating me, he halted, and his nostrils flared and smoked, and pitchy clouds billowed from the forge.
So thou art not such royalty as thou imagined, thou fucking squire, said he. For thou art slapped down by a blacksmith's hands, and I have brought thee low. Now kneel and say that I am thy lord and thou my servant.
And I obeyed and on my knees proclaimed, I am your servant, my lord.
And I kissed the spark-blistered border of his leather.
He cast my tunic at my knees and stood over me, legs spread wide. He pulled his thick belt tight around his waist and folded his arms across his chest. And his lean sweaty face and his whiskers and his shapely arms gleamed red in the fierce firelight.
After thy marks and bruisings fade, said he, and when thou hearest my anvil ringing in the forge, then come to me and I shall beat thee more, thou beauteous youth.
And I gloried in the stings and black stripes that covered me, and my rigid prick leaked against my belly.