Hi Guys, Blake here. Just a quick word before you go ahead. Writing takes time, a lot of time, but it’s something I love doing so I’d like to thank all of those who follow me, and a special thank you for those who are supporting me with their paid subscriptions.

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You can also find me on PATREON

All the previous chapter in the Whitey saga are HERE

The story so far (spoilers):

Once upon a time… The idyllic life of Whitey, prince of White Swallow, comes to an abrupt end when King Hardon invades his kingdom and kills his beloved father. years later, the king’s mirror reveals to him that there is someone more handsome than himself: the slave prince in the stables. The two men meet, and an irrepressible attraction seems to win over the hatred they feel for each other. The king must find a permanent solution: kill the prince without angering the populace. Whitey befriends Goldween, the king’s cousin and Master Groomer. The friendship is sincere, but the prince is unaware that the king has ordered Goldween to take him for a ride in the countryside and kill him away from the prying eyes of the people. But on the day, instead of killing him Goldween declares his love to the prince and the two men make love on the lake shore. Goldween tells Whitey what the real purpose of their ride was and explains to him that he can’t return to White Swallow, sending him instead on a long journey to safety. Whitey walks for three days, seeking shelter wherever he can. Finally, he reaches what appears to be a camp. There, hidden among the trees, he witnesses two men having sex. Whitey is spotted and introduced to the men of the camp, who feed him and explain who they are. Later, around the campfire, a story begins to be told.

“For those unfamiliar with this, the Ten Companions are large stones arranged in a circle. They’ve been standing in the same place for many, may generations before ours, right in the clearing off Brimstone Pond. Only eight stones are still standing, while two have fallen to the ground. A smaller boulder, lies in the center of the circle, above it grows a rowan tree, its roots clinging to its deep crevices. The good people of White Swallow have often wondered how those stones ended up in that arrangement, and this is the story of what really happened.”

Edward was silent for a moment, the men watched him through the shadows cast by the flickering fire. Then, when he was satisfied with the stillness that had descended on the group, he began the tale.

__A new religion had come to our land. Suddenly, no more fairies, no more forest spirits, only one true God. The good people of White Swallow liked what this God was asking of them: in exchange for complete devotion, they would be rewarded with eternal life. The rather cumbersome problem was that with the good God, the new religion had also brought his nemesis: the devil, who fed on temptation instead.

One particular winter the good people of White Swallow felt as if God had abandoned them: it snowed for weeks, and when the snow stopped falling, it got so cold that birds fell to the ground, frozen to death. When spring arrived, it was wet, the wettest any man or woman had ever seen. The crops rotted in the fields, which were nothing but expanses of knee-deep mud.

The poor villagers didn’t know what to do. They had followed the new teachings to the letter; surely God should have been pleased with them? Instead what were they getting? Nothing but hail, rain, and starvation.

What if their goodness was the problem, instead? What if they had been so pious that the devil had decided to take his revenge, bored by so much virtue?

Desperate, they were willing to try anything to end their misery: if God had abandoned them, perhaps they could make a deal with the devil; indulge him?

And so, on the 40th consecutive day of rain, the local Lord and a small delegation of dignitaries decided to do the unthinkable and, walking against the angry wind they reached Brimstone Pond, knowing that the Devil dwelt there.

They called out to him, shouting into the wind, their cries carried far away. They waited and waited until, finally, as dusk began to fall on that already miserably dark day, they saw him emerge from the cave by the pond. He was naked, brazen, his large member standing proudly between his legs. But this was not the devil they had seen painted on the walls of their churches: no blood-red skin, no pointed beard, or yellow eyes; no. The devil had every appearance of man, and a very handsome one at that! Tall, with curly blond hair, a strong, smooth body. His lips were full, and his eyes a very pale blue, almost gray. The only thing that distinguished him were two small, rounded horns not unlike those of a kid goat. If it hadn’t been for those, one would have thought to be in the presence of an angel.

“Why do I have the pleasure of your visit, gentlemen?”The devil asked in a low, grave voice that cut through the wind.

It was the Lord who answered, kneeling and bowing his head: “Prince of Darkness, we feel that our behavior has met with your disapproval. You must understand, Lord, that we, the humble people of White Swallow, are finding ourselves between a rock and a hard place, between our God’s will and Yours.”

“God? How boring...” replied the Devil, unimpressed.

“But we thought we’d bring with us gifts you might appreciate,” continued the Lord, without looking the devil in the eye.

“Show me, let’s see if you know my tastes...” The devil’s attention had been piqued.

“Bring the girls,” the Lord shouted to someone at the back of the small crowd, who was standing next to a covered cart. Then, turning back to the devil, he said, smiling, confident that he had hit the mark, “For you, Sir, ten beautiful virgins!”

With that, ten women paraded past the menfolk, their white robes soaked by the pouring rain, revealing the shape of their shivering bodies

The devil looked surprised at first, then began to laugh. His breath left his mouth with such force that the cart tipped onto its side, trees were uprooted, and the poor, frightened bystanders had to cling to one another to avoid being swept away.

“Virgins! What do I do with them? They don’t even know where to begin! Send them home!”

“But sir, isn’t that what you your flesh desire, to break the boredom our well-mannered people bring you?” The Lord, having managed to stand up against the wind, couldn’t understand the devil’s reaction: surely he would have liked some virgins to entertain himself with?

“Ah, you are very, very wrong! Bring me ten men-whores, the best in the land! And hurry, if you don’t want me to unleash another hailstorm!”

“Men-whores, Sir?” The Lord found it inconceivable. “But Sir, we don’t have those kinds among us. Our good men would never dream of laying with one other!” How dared the devil think so badly of the people of White Swallow?

The devil laughed again, the spittle that shoot out of his mouth turning into a spray so thick that the entire region was enveloped in a dense fog.

“Fool, where there are men, there are always other men willing to sleep with them. It’s been that way since the beginning of time. I want ten whores, the finest. I’ll give you ten days. Until then, the sun will shine.”

As soon as he said this, the fog lifted, and for the first time in months, the people, looking up, could see the stars painted on the darkening night sky.

They dispersed; the devil returned to his cave without another word, and the men, after helping the virgins back onto the wagon, began their slow journey back to the town.

The devil kept his promise: the next morning, the sun rose from behind the mountains to the east, a warm, yellow ball of fire whose appearance the people had almost forgotten. Shouts of joy resounded throughout the countryside, from farm to farm, from shopkeepers to market sellers.

But the Lord knew they had to act quickly if they wanted to keep the devil happy.

What to do? Where to find these men? He knew of none on the land, and if they existed, they would surely live their shame in secret. How to find them?

The Lord knew he had to be discreet if he wanted people to loosen their tongues, and when discretion failed, he let a few silver coins do the talking. His men prowled every tavern in the region, from the ones in town to those in the farthest valleys.

Eventually, people began to come forward; no one admitted to be directly involved, but many had heard of someone who had taken part in forbidden encounters. A remote farmhouse was searched, a section of the woods where men were said to meet at night was stalked, doors leading to the back rooms of seedy taverns were pounded with loud fists. One by one, the men were rounded up, shame hanging over their bowed heads as they were led through town and sent to a house on the outskirts, waiting for the rest to join them.

They were strong men, some in their twenties, others with gray strands already showing in their hair. People recognized John Willow— but wasn’t he a father of six?— they’d wonder. There was young Pete, the son of the gold merchant, just back from the big, faraway city— that had to be be where he had picked up the vice, surely! And then there was ginger Tim, the strongest man in the village— No one would ever have guessed! The list went on, some of the men were complete strangers, taken from far away corners. Some were blond, others red-haired or even bald, some tall and slender, others as stocky as bulls; all very handsome, some gentle in appearence some rugged. They had found nine of them, and on the tenth morning, when time was running out and desperation mounting, word came that the Lord had finally found the last one! A man who lived in a hut just off the way to Aberglide; a hermit who survived by selling his body to passing merchants in exchange of food or coins.

But that night, at dusk, when the few town dignitaries went with the Lord to Brimstone Pond, it was only a group of nine men that followed them in a sad line. They wondered what had become of the tenth. The Lord replied angrily that it was none of their business and that he’d explain everything to the Prince of Darkness once they’d reach the pond.

The truth was that the tenth man’s beauty was such that it had awakened emotions and thoughts the Lord had never suspected he could entertain. When he laid eyes on the hermit, it didn’t matter to him that he was covered in mud, with a shaggy, unkempt beard, and clad only in a sackcloth. This was no ordinary hermit!__

Edward had to explain: “If I may, my prince, excuse me: Whitey; the description that has come to us through the centuries is that of someone not unlike yourself.”

Edward paused for another moment to look at Whitey and then picked up the narration where he had left it:

__His body was healthy and toned as if the forest had managed to provide everything he needed to sustain himself. Or, the Lord thought with a jealous pang, the merchants had been willing to pay a good price to lie with him. His hair was dark and wavy, his eyes hazel, and his demeanor showed no sign of reverence, for to the hermit, only the forest was his master. The Lord should have been offended by the man’s lack of subservience; he was won over by his charm instead. Once they returned to White Swallow, he just couldn’t place Merlin, that was the hermit’s name, along with the other prisoners, instead he hid him in a secret cell in the labyrinthine dungeons of the castle.__

It was surprising how alike Merlin, and the prince, sounded. At the same time, Whitey thought back to his first meeting with King Hardon a few years earlier: the similarities were striking.

Edward continued:

__The Lord had no real plan, he just hoped the Devil would believe him, and if that were the case, his men would be too busy celebrating the return to normalcy to start asking what had happened to Merlin.

They had reached Brimstone Pond and called for the devil. This time they didn’t have to wait, because he emerged from the cave with an impatient smile on his face.

“We’ve returned with what you asked for, Sir,” said the Lord, pointing to the gift with an outstretched arm.

The devil licked his lips: they had done well, very well. The variety of the offering would keep him entertained for a little while. He began counting, his large cock swinging as he pointed at each one of them.

“One missing! Explain,” he asked as matter of fact.

“Lord, we warned you, our men are very devoted. It’s been hard enough finding these nine. We’ve searched everywhere, even the Northern mountains, but we couldn’t find any more of their kind.” The Lord knelt, lowering his gaze.

“I understand,” said the devil, nodding. “Come here and let’s shake hands.”

Pleased with himself, the Lord stood up and approached the Prince of Darkness with an outstretched hand, but as soon as he was close enough, the devil clamped his fingers around the Lord’s throat.

“You lying cheat, you don’t seem to understand who you’re dealing with!”

His grip tightened, the Lord’s face flushed, the veins in his neck bulging like knots. The Lord tried to speak, but only a senseless stammer came out of his mouth. The devil pressed even harder until blood began to gush from the Lord’s lips and eyes.

“I’m done with you!” And with that the Lord fell to the ground quickly turned into stone, the stone that still stands at the center of the circle today.__

The men sitting around the fire, listening, had begun to wonder if that was that, if the story ended with the Lord turned to stone, but they knew Edward, they knew he liked to set the scene before delving into the more vivid details.

Maybe it was the beer, or maybe they were just tired, but as the darkness thickened over the camp, they shifted positions, making themselves more comfortable among the stacks of hay. Winfred lay down, leaning his head on Fjord’s legs; Wolfe and Bear sat on the ground, their backs against the hay, Randy’s and Omar’s heads resting in their laps, with their legs spread in opposite directions. Only Whitey remained seated as he was, diagonally opposite Edward, with Fjord on one side, Bear on the ground on the other, and Omar lying at his feet.

__The sight of the Lord turned to stone, blood splattered across its hard surface, should have terrified the men who came to the gathering, but the truth was that more than a few of them breathed a sigh of relief, for the Lord was a cruel and unjust man. The other men: the gift, did the same, for it was the Lord’s fault that their lives had been turned upside down, their shame exposed, and their future among their peers compromised. Truth be told, when they had been warned of what awaited them, they had wept with fear, but once they laid eyes on the devil and saw that he was no monster but one of the most beautiful men they had ever met; once they saw his proud manhood, their doubts began to vanish as desire took hold of their bodies.

“No more lies!” the Devil shouted at the town dignitaries. “You have one week to find the tenth whore. If you fail, I will make you miss the winter you just had. My revenge will be merciless.”

“Believe me, Sir, we will find him,” replied the man who had quickly stepped in the Lord’s shoes.

“And you.” The devil looked at his gift. “Follow me, it’s time to have some fun.”

Without further ado, the devil turned and walked toward the cave, his perfectly shaped ass swaying with every step before the eyes of his guests.

Read more

Hi Guys, Blake here. Just a quick word before you go ahead. Writing takes time, a lot of time, and it’s something I love doing so I’d like to thank all of those who follow me, and a special thank you for those who are supporting me with their paid subscriptions.

You can also find me on PATREON

All the previous chapter in the Whitey saga are HERE

The story so far (spoilers):

Once upon a time… The idyllic life of Whitey, prince of White Swallow, comes to an abrupt end when King Hardon invades his kingdom and kills his beloved father. years later, the king’s mirror reveals to him that there is someone more handsome than himself: the slave prince in the stables. The two men meet, and an irrepressible attraction seems to win over the hatred they feel for each other. The king must find a permanent solution: kill the prince without angering the populace. Whitey befriends Goldween, the king’s cousin and Master Groomer. The friendship is sincere, but the prince is unaware that the king has ordered Goldween to take him for a ride in the countryside and kill him away from the prying eyes of the people. But on the day, instead of killing him Goldween declares his love to the prince and the two men make love on the lake shore. Once their passion consumed Goldween tells Whitey what the real purpose of their ride was and explains to him that he can’t return to White Swallow, sending him instead on a long journey to safety. Whitey walks for three days, seeking shelter wherever he can. Finally, exhausted, he reaches what appears to be a camp. There, hidden among the trees, he witnesses two men having sex. But are they friends or foes?

*Fancy is local slang for homosexual

…..It was then that he heard a cry:

“Get him, Thunder!”

When he turned, his heart pounding in his throat, he found himself facing a massive, angry-looking dog. Behind the dog stood three men who clearly seemed to be wanting an explanation.

“And who the hell are you?” It was the heaviest of the three men who spoke. At the other end of the small line up, the bald guy was struggling to hold the dog.

Whitey had to think fast: if he made the wrong decision, he, and very likely Goldween’s as well, would be in real danger.

He looked at the three men, his arms outstretched trying to calm the dog.

He heard noises and quickly turned, seeing Omar and Randy naked behind him, their cocks still plump and a strand of cum threaded in Omar’s beard.

They weren’t soldiers, he thought. The men in front of him weren’t dressed as such, and these people clearly lived in the camp he’d glimpsed through the trees.

“I’m Whitey,” he paused. “Snow White, rightful prince of White Swallow,” he clarified.

“Yeah, right! And I’m Cinderella!” That was Randy who started to laugh in disbelief.

The dog: Thunder, kept pulling and was getting dangerously close.

“I really am, look, gentlemen, it’s the truth! Goldween told me to take refuge among you. And please, keep your dog at bay.”

Goldween had told him to mention his name. On hearing it the men’s expressions changed. -They are starting to believe me-, he thought, finally able to breath out.

“So you say...” A new voice. Whitey turned again and saw that two more men had joined the group. They were also naked, though both were carrying drying clothes. They had to be the men he saw bathing in the river.

One had disheveled, longish hair and a thick beard that, in that light, looked the color of copper; his skin was very pale and covered in freckles. His body was solid, the muscles well-sculpted on his torso; Whitey assumed he was the same age as him.

The other newcomer was older, perhaps Whitey’s father’s age, if he were still alive. His hair was black, short, and receding at the temples. His body was also strong, though it showed some signs of aging, a large scar ran vertically along his right side, from his hip to his exceptionally hairy chest. Both men’s cocks were somehow hidden under the clothes they were carrying, and Whitey thought that, under different circumstances, he wouldn’t have believed his luck: he was standing at the center of a circle of seven men, all very attractive in their own way, and four of them completely naked! He wished he could tell Goldween, laugh about it together, and perhaps get some inspiration from it... but there was still the issue of the huge dog.

“So, Whitey,” said the red-haired man, pronouncing the name in disbelief. “Tell me, who did you spend your time with during the -Snowy Summer- months?”

Whitey remembered the Snowy Summer; he must had been seven or eight years old. It hadn’t actually been a snowy summer at all, but an unusual weather event had given it that nickname. It was a July day when the sun had suddenly decided to hide behind a curtain of very thick clouds. A cold wind had begun to blow from the north, and the temperature had plummeted. He remembered that he and his friend were supposed to go for a ride in the countryside, but they weren’t allowed due to the bad weather. By evetime, everything was covered by a few centimeters of snow. As quickly as it had arrived, the cold front disappeared and the following morning all the snow had gone apart from on the mountaintops.

His friend. What was his name? Whitey thought for a moment, then it dawned on him.

“I spent that summer with Winfred, Prince of Cazzer. He and his mother, Queen Alba, were guests at our castle so that he could escape the scorching heat of his land. Winfred was in poor health, and it was thought the mountain air and the healing springs of White Swallow would do him good.” Whitey paused, noticing the surprised expression on the other man’s face. Then he went on:

“It’s good to see you again, Winfred! The hot springs did you good.” Without hesitation, Whitey walked toward his long-lost friend and hugged him, feeling the man’s hard muscles beneath his bare skin.

“Whitey! It’s been too long, my dear friend!” Winfred’s damp body wet the prince’s tunic in the tight embrace, his strong arms encircling his back in a tight grip.

After a moment, he said:

“My friends, allow me to introduce His Majesty: Snow White, rightful heir to the throne of White Swallow!”

Whitey looked around as the seven men knelt with their heads bowed. Even the bald man, whose arm must have been sore from holding that beast of a dog.

“There’s no need. for that” He hadn’t been treated like a prince since King Hardon’s invasion, and he had no intention for it to start again now.

After a moment’s hesitation, the men rose, and those behind him joined the others in what, in Whitey’s eyes, was a truly remarkable display of manly beauty.

“Before our introductions, can we do something about the dog?”

“Oh dear! Fluffy? He’s harmless, he just wants to say hello!” Randy had started petting the dog’s head.

“He’s not Fluffy!” The bald man was slightly irritated. “His name is Thunder, but yeah, he’s pretty useless. He likes strangers and gets excited when he sees one... you know, Your Majesty, we don’t get many visitors around here. Come on, Thunder, go say hello.”

The man let go of the dog who leaped on the prince with his front legs, resting his huge paws on Whitey’s chest while his tail drew wide circles in the air.

Whitey patted his head. “So, you’re a good boy,” he said in the voice that’s usually reserved when talking to children. Thunder yawned and decided to get down on all fours; his nose beginning to explore the prince’s groin with an enthusiasm that could have been painful.

“Oh, sorry, he likes that,” apologized the sturdiest man in the group, “especially after someone...” The man paused, unsure of how to continue. “…Especially after someone just spread their seeds. Excuse me for the vulgarity, Your Majesty.”

Whitey blushed. He wanted to just disappear. He couldn’t believe the three men had been watching him pounding his cock. He was so engrossed in what he was doing that he hadn’t realized he was being observed; the voyeur had become the view.

“For fairies’ sake, I’m so ashamed! So you saw...” he hesitated. “You saw everything?”

“Yes, Sir... and there was quite a lot to see, if I am allowed to say Sir.” It was the blond man with the short beard who spoke.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to spy on you gentlemen.” Whitey’s words were for Omar and Randy, but embarrassed, he kept his eyes on the dog.

“Oh, honey, no need, no need. Actually, if we’d known, it would have been even better, don’t you think, Omar?”

“Randy! You’re talking to the prince, show some respect!” Omar was starting to get annoyed with his friend, completely unaware of the thread of cum that was hanging on his beard.

“I’m sure His Majesty doesn’t mind, otherwise he wouldn’t have indulged!” Randy shrugged off the formalities. “By the way, I’m Randy, the original fancy of the group, the others have been corrupted, or so they say...” he winked at the prince.

Whitey smiled at him; at least now he wasn’t the only focus of the conversation, and he wondered what was really going on among that fine group of men.

“This is a good omen, Sir. We should thank you!” Once again, it was the blond, bearded man who spoke, and although he looked only slightly older than Whitey, there was something about him that carried timelessness and wisdom.

“What do you mean?” The prince was curious to know how what he had done could be considered a good omen.

“The fairies, Sir, you’ve fed them well tonight. They’ll be pleased with you,” the man replied, without a hint of humor in his voice, pointing to the copious amount of cum still coating the leaves near where Whitey had been wanking.

“Oops, sorry, fairies, but we didn’t leave you much tonight,” Randy said, apparently addressing the trees surrounding them. Then he looked at Omar, wiped the cum from his beard with a finger, and tossed it in the air. “Here, some more for you.”

“You should show more respect, Randy.”

“Oh Edward, I’m sure the fairies are more than grateful for my presence, darling. Thanks to me, they have had a regular supply of food. Haven’t they?”

Whitey, sensing a certain tension between the two men, decided to change the subject: anything would be less awkward than talking about his seed.

“So, who exactly are you, gentlemen?” He asked

Winfred had wrapped the cloth around his waist. “Look, why don’t we go somewhere more comfortable and do some proper introductions? What do you think?”

“Agreed, I’m freezing my balls off here!” Randy had wrapped his arms around his sides, shaking them as if to warm himself up.

“Sure, let’s go. But please, no more ‘Sir’ or ‘Your Majesty,’ just Whitey from now on.”

And so Whitey followed the other men, with Thunder close at his side. The camp consisted of a few wooden huts: Whitey had been told that one served as sleeping quarters, one was the common area for eating and spending time during winter, and the others were used to store tools, food, and everything else needed for survival.

They sat around the fire Whitey had seen earlier; food was served on wooden trays, accompanied by beer that, they proudly told him, was brewed by themselves.

The food was simple: eggs, cheese, summer cabbage, and beans. Accompanied by figs, berries, and pears, it tasted delicious to the starving prince. And the beer, cold from having been stored in barrels in the river, was like honey to his parched throat.

Since Winfred was the one with any connection to the prince, they let him do the talking.

He introduced the men by name, too many for Whitey to remember them all, his mind tired after the long journey. There were, of course, Randy, Omar, and Winfred himself, but what about the others? Bernard, that was easy: he was the biggest man of the group and went by the name Bear. He’d learn the other three another time, he decided.

They were all nobles from the kingdoms that made up the Berven Empire: dukes, counts, and one other prince: Winfred, of course. Who, just like Whitey, had been dethroned. Many kings had been dissatisfied with the way the Emperor was governing the land. They had tried to convince him to change course, to listen to them. But the Emperor, with the support of several noble families related to his, remained unshakable. In fact repressing any form of dissent.

“Why do you think Hardon of Anvar attacked your kingdom?” Winfred asked Whitey.

“I don’t know, I was young... I always thought he simply wanted more land, more power” it made sense to him.

“Yes, that too, but he couldn’t have done it without the Emperor’s blessing. The kingdoms of the Empire shouldn’t be allowed to be at war with one other.”

Whitey waited.

“He attacked because the Emperor, his uncle, ordered him to. He thought your father was plotting against him and wanted him dead. That was the excuse!”

Whitey wasn’t aware of any of that. He’d spent years in the stables, alone, and he’d never discussed the events that had caused the war, not even with Goldween. After all, his only friend was Hardon’s cousin; his blood was the invaders’.

“And was he really?” Whitey would never have thought his loving and amiable father would be the kind of man to plot behind the Emperor’s back, even though he remembered he felt no sympathy for him.

“Yes, he was: the good king, your father, had the best interests of all our people at heart. He knew the Emperor was leading us all down a path of war and destruction.” Winfred stopped, letting Whitey absorb the news.

“You asked me what we do here, exactly. Well, you know, we’re lumberjacks, but if you’re wondering why, here’s your answer: we cut down trees to build the Emperor’s fleet. We load the trunks on the river and send them hundreds of kilometers away, all the way to the sea ports. The problem is, the Emperor may now be ale to build his war vessels, he’s planning to attack the lands overseas, but we’re not a seafaring people; we don’t have a real navy. Our young men will be massacred, our lands invaded in a war no one wanted. Only the Emperor and his folly”

Now everything was starting to make sense. Whitey realized that until then he’d been living in a bubble, and that, perhaps, his ignorance was what had kept him alive, making him less of a threat to King Hardon. But he also understood that his presence would always feel dangerous to the king. That’s why eventually he wanted to get rid of him.

Winfred continued:

“We’ve all been captured and sent here to work as slaves for the Emperor. We were part of the group of nobles who wanted to rebel against him, and as you know, this is an open-air prison from which we can’t escape unless we can live with the guilt of having our families executed. There are many camps like this all over the Empire, this one is in the Heffers kingdom, they are allies of the Emperor, the guards come by often to check on us. You don’t have to worry; we always hear them when they arrive, and in any case, they’re only interested in our presence. They’re not looking for anyone, they just want to make sure no one is missing...”

“Goldween told me about that, but how did he know? How did he know you were here?” Whitey couldn’t make sense of it.

“Good brave Goldween is part of our movement; if anything, the most important part.”

Whitey hadn’t expected that: Goldween, cousin of the king and the Emperor’s nephew, fighting with the insurgents? He kept it well hidden, of course; he had to if he wanted to stay alive. If there was one thing Whitey was starting to understand, that was that no one could be trusted.

“His work with the horses, you know? That’s where the secret messages are sent around the Empire, hidden in the elaborate mounts. The king has no idea, and Goldween is very good at playing the gullible innocent. Well, at least that was the case, then I got captured two years ago and joined my lovely friends here. And obviously we don’t get any news…” Winfred looked around the camp; Thunder, asleep by the fire made deep snoring sounds. “…But if Goldween told you to come here, he must still be an active member of the movement. By the way, how come you end up here, why now?

And so Whitey began to tell his side of the story: the years spent as a slave in the stables, the king’s sudden change of heart, how Goldween had become his work master and then best friend, and, finally, the king’s true plan. It was obvious that the Hardon didn’t suspect his cousin. And it was equally obvious that Whitey had told the only version of events he felt he could reveal, without mentioning his carnal encounters in the king’s private chamber and what had happened with Goldween on the last day they spent together. That story was only for Goldween to tell, if he wanted to.

The men fell silent for a while, the only sounds being the crackling of the firewood and Thunder’s deep snoring.

The serious, man, the blond with the short beard spoke first.

“Well, Your Majesty, I’m sure I can speak for all my friends here when I say you’re very welcome to the camp, in the hope that in your absence Goldween will be able to keep our common struggle going.”

All the men stood up, raised their clay pots, and cheered Goldween and the prince.

“Thank you, I’m honored. But please, really, stop calling me Your Majesty, I’m simply one of you and I will do my duty at the camp. -Whitey- will do, my friends.”

More cheers, and then the men sat back down on the small hay blocks that doubled as stools.

“So... Whitey.” Unsurprisingly, it was Randy who started speaking, and somehow the prince knew what was coming next.

“Do you often find yourself touching your hard flesh while spying on naked menfolk, or was that an isolated incident?”

“Randy, you can’t say that to...” The serious man was indignant.

“No, no, it’s fine. Randy can ask, and since I’ll be living with you for quite some time, I think you should know.” Whitey placed a hand on the man’s knee to calm him down.

“Let’s say I’m not intentionally seeking to find myself in those situations, but if it were to happen by chance, as it did earlier, I must confess I certainly wouldn’t back down, because it’s in my nature. I’m attracted to the male body.”

“Thank you, Whitey, it’s a pleasure to hear such a sincere disclosure. And since we are both admirers of men, I can confess it’s an even greater pleasure to have someone as handsome as you in our group. I can’t wait for our evening bath in the river.” He smiled, thinking he might have gone a little too far.

“Me too!” Whitey winked at him, and the atmosphere suddenly relaxed.

“It’s true, he’s gorgeous,” Bear said talking to Winfred, who in turn looked at his friend and nodded.

“And you missed the best part,” said the bald man, the one who had previously been holding Thunder, looking in the direction of Randy and Omar.

“And what’s that?”

“Our prince’s scepter is as good as an emperor’s, if you know what I mean.”

Whitey blushed again at the thought of how he’d exposed himself in front of those men.

The bald man continued, “Omar, I think we’ve found someone who can compete with you in that field.”

“I like competition,” Omar said, keeping his gaze fixed on Whitey and then repeating, “Welcome to camp.”

Something in the way the men spoke made Whitey suspect that most of them, at least at some point, had had sex at the camp. He wondered if Randy was the only one offering his services, or if it was a more shared situation. Omar certainly hadn’t held back when it came to fellate his friend. Nor were they trying to hide it when they were at it. And what about the cum on Omar’s beard? No one seemed to care.

“Now it’s my turn to ask you a prying question, if I may.”

“Go on, my friend, even though I think I know what that might be” Winfred smiled at him, his hair glowing in the firelight, his pale, freckled skin almost a light blue.

“Um... what’s the situation here? Unless I’m completely mistaken, I have a feeling you all… join in the fun, so to speak.”

Randy replied again:

“Very perceptive, my friend! You’re right of course. If I had to speak for myself, well, I’m a fancy and always have been, but my other companions here... I don’t know, I think they’re making the most of what’s available, and in our case, well, that’s cock!”

Whitey liked this man; Randy was handsome, maybe forty years of age, with a strong, almost shell-like build, yet he spoke like a jester, and, Whitey thought, he spoke the truth.

“When I got here four years ago, there were only two other prisoners: Fjord over there”—Randy pointed to the bald man— “and Bear. And apparently nothing spicy had happened between them. How sad: two fine looking men and no fun. Luckily, when I got here, I put an end to all that nonsense.”

They all laughed and poured more beer.

“Then the others began to arrive, one at a time, and let’s just say they didn’t take much convincing. Especially your friend over there...” - he pointed to Winfred, who raised his hands in a sign of admission.

“Yes, I’m guilty! But listen, I’d never tried it with another man before, I’d never even thought about it, but you know, the flesh needs to be nourished every now and then, and to be honest, yes, it’s quite pleasant, different but pleasant.”

“Ah! Pleasant, huh?” - Randy looked at Whitey. “You have to be careful because your friend is always on the prowl, he’s insatiable!”

Another laugh, Bear patted Winfred on the shoulder as if to compliment him.

“And then Omar arrived, he’s only been with us a few months... and what a gift! Let’s just say we’ve had to use more oil since then, and not for salads!” -

Omar affected a bow.

“Omar?” Whitey asked. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re not a lord of the Empire. If that’s so, why are you a prisoner here?”

“You’re right, Sir. Excuse me, Whitey. I am—or rather, was—an ambassador to the Imperial court. I come from the land of Odago, overseas, one of those lands the Emperor would rather attack than trade with. I tried to use all my diplomacy to make him see reason, but I fear I’ve failed. He accused me of being a spy, of working with the rebels, and before I knew it, I found myself here sucking cocks.” Whitey almost spat out his beer with laughter; he hadn’t expected such frankness.

“Oh, and of course the Emperor was right: I was a spy. But, you know, there could be worse places to end up...”

“Let’s end this, guys. I think our new friend is tired, maybe it’s time we retire for the night.” That was the serious man; Whitey wondered if he too had given in to temptation.

“No, Edward! Tell us one of your stories, eh? A bedtime story!”

“Story! Story! Story!” everyone started chanting, they were like unruly children, even Whitey who, despite his long journey, after a life starved of friendship, wanted this convivial moment to last longer.

“Enough, enough!” Edward scolded the men, ordering them to calm down. Edward, another name Whitey would remember from now on. The prince thought that, despite his apparent annoyance, the man was enjoying being the center of attention and that his reluctance was just part of the game. As Edward prepared to tell his story, Whitey took a closer look: he was only a few years older than him, blond, with blue or green eyes—he could’t tell—that projected the same timeless quality as his personality. Yet he was nothing like a hermit one could find in a cave: the prince could see that Edward was strong, just like the other men, sculpted by the hard work in the woods; his bristly beard, along with his demeanor, contributing to that aura of mystical wisdom.

And so he began.

“Since we have the honor of the prince’s presence, I think it’s fitting that this ancient tale take us to the prince’s land, the kingdom of White Swallow. Whitey, you must have heard of the Ten Companions, haven’t you ?”

Whitey had to think about it: that name reminded him of something, something from his childhood, when he was free to roam the land, before things turned bad; and then he nodded.

“For those unfamiliar with this, the Ten Companions are large stones arranged in a circle. They’ve been standing in the same place for many, may generations before ours, right in the clearing off Brimstone Pond. Only eight stones are still standing, while two have fallen to the ground. A smaller boulder, lies in the center of the circle, above it grows a rowan tree, its roots clinging to its deep crevices. The good people of White Swallow have often wondered how those stones ended up in that arrangement, and this is the story of what really happened.”

Edward was silent for a moment, the men watched him through the shadows of the flickering fire. Then when he was satisfied with the stillness that had descended on the group he began the tale.

…To be continued…

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Blake

This is an adult gay story if you aren’t an adult or “gay” isn’t your thing, you’d better look for something else to entertain you.🔞 Cheers, Blake

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All the previous chapter in the Whitey saga are HERE

The story so far (spoilers):

Once upon a time… The idyllic life of Whitey, prince of White Swallow, comes to an abrupt end when King Hardon invades his kingdom, kills his beloved father, and forces his mother to marry him. Later, the king’s magic mirror reveals to him that there is someone more handsome than himself: the slave prince in the stables. The two men meet, and an irrepressible attraction seems to win over the hatred they feel for each other. The king must find a permanent solution: kill the prince without angering the populace. So, at first, the king decides to allow the prince more freedom and offers him a better position as a horse groomer. There, Whitey befriends Goldween, the king’s cousin and Master Groomer. The friendship is sincere, but the prince is unaware that the king has ordered Goldween to take him for a ride in the countryside and kill him away from the prying eyes of the people. But on the day, instead of killing him Goldween declares his love to the prince and the two men make love on a lake shore. Once their passion consumed Goldween tells Whitey what was the real purpose of their ride and explains to him that he can’t return to White Swallow, sending him instead on a long journey to safety.

Whitey’s funeral had taken place on a sunny afternoon; birds were chirping in the royal cemetery, hidden among the hedges or circling the majestic branches of the yew tree. A light breeze made the heat more bearable, the half -mast flags swaying in its breath. It seemed as if nature had not grasped the gravity of the day, had not read the tears streaming from the queen’s eyes. As if it was blind to the somber expressions of those gathered around the coffin, empty except for a bundle of bloodied clothes, as it was being buried in the consecrated ground next to the small royal chapel.

The congregation consisted of members of the court: the king, of course, his poor wife, and local nobles. Dignitaries from neighboring kingdoms had been invited to pay their respects to the deceased prince’s mother. Commoners had crowded along the road from the castle to the cemetery, heads bowed as the funeral procession slowly advanced.

And of course, Goldween was there too, knowing that, just like the coffin, the entire ceremony was an empty farce. As the sun warmed his face and on hearing the cheerful chirping of the birds, he wondered if this was nature’s way of letting everyone know the truth.

As he stood there with his head bowed, listening to the queen’s wails, he could only hope that Whitey had made it Wolftooth camp.

After their goodbye, Whitey took the path Goldween had showed him earlier, his mind still trying to make sense of all that had happened that day when everything that had been given to him had also been taken away so suddenly. He thought of his mother, of how she would react to the news of his “death.” It had broken his heart to make her go through that pain, but Goldween was right: the last thing they needed was for her to accidentally betray herself and reveal the truth.

What he had shared with Goldween still burned on his skin: while the quick dip in the water had washed away the remnants of their lovemaking, every kiss and every touch were still marked on his body.

What Goldween had told him about Hardon’s plan suddenly made sense of the king’s behavior the night before, the intensity of his actions. Everything had felt both, very deliberate and out of control. Now that he thought about it, the king’s last words had sounded like a final farewell.

As he made his way through the forest, Whitey kept his eyes and ears alert, every sense sharpened: it was one thing to ride through those dark woods on his beloved Aria, it was quite another to walk, unarmed except for the small blade Goldween had given him. He walked quickly, hoping the fairies were on his side, knowing they were watching. The path led him to the top of a small hill, from there he could see Fire Lake in the distance. He had already come a long way, the lake water dark, now that it lay in the first shadows cast by the mountains.

He wanted to make the most of the daylight and put as much distance as possible between himself and King Hardon. He wasn’t familiar with the lay of the land: as a child, his parents had taken him on rides throughout the kingdom and sometimes even neighboring ones, but they had never ventured this deep into Anvar territory. As he marched, he noticed the familiar roundness of the hills flanking the path giving way to sharper, taller peaks on his right, while to his left stretched a dense forest, as dark as a toothless mouth.

It was getting late, and, despite his eagerness to continue walking, Whitey knew he had better find shelter for the night before darkness fell. He looked up at the rocky slopes of the mountains, where in some places boulders had rolled all the way down from the peaks crashing on top of each other, until he found a spot that seemed suitable for the night.

The fallen rocks had arranged themselves to form a small, protected shelter, so he’d only have to worry about the entrance to it while his back was safe. Whitey looked around for fallen branches until he thought he’d had enough for the night, then settled in, lit the tinder Goldween had given him, and a moment later found himself staring at the flames casting a circle of orange light in the darkness. He pulled the food out of its bundle: there was cheese, bread, and a few apples, the first of the season. He knew it had to last for at least three days, and began eating slowly, making each bite count.

Finally, he lay down, the heat from the fire enough for him to remove his tunic and roll it under his head for comfort.

Sleep came surprisingly quickly, but it wasn’t the kind that brought rest. Dreams swirled together in a blur, his back and neck ached, forcing him to turn more often than he’d have liked. He was constantly aware of the fire, that it mustn’t go out, so he woke up every now and then to stoke it up, the last images of his dreams still imprinted in his mind.

One dream that kept recurring in confusing flashes was that of him and Goldween naked in the red water of the lake. Their game had begun innocently enough, with Goldween pushing him underwater and holding him there, but unlike what had happened that afternoon, that wasn’t a playful erotic foreplay. Goldween’s grip was strong, determined, and when Whitey tried to surface, Goldween pushed him down even harder. In his desperation, Whitey would look up, but through the red sheen of the water it wasn’t Goldween he saw, but Hardon, whose face bore a desperate grimace. Just when he thought he could hold out no longer, Whitey would wake up gasping for air, only partially relieved that it had all been a nightmare. Once the fire sorted, he would fall back asleep, dreading to live through the same anguish.

Dawn came as a relief; he knew it was still early, but anything would be better than lying on the hard ground of that shelter, consumed by those vivid nightmares. The fire had died, reduced to a smoldering heap, Whitey’s back felt like it had been stoned, his neck stiff, but he was alive, and that more than made up for it. Like every other morning, his cock was pressing against his stockings in all its glory. He stood up and walked a few steps away to take a piss. Holding its hardness, he began to squeeze it to ease the process. When the first spurt came, it arched into the air, strong, falling a few feet away. His mind flashed back to the day before. He could close his eyes and see Goldween lying next to him, his head bowed, his mouth hovering above his cock, eager to receive his first shower. He let his mouth fill until the piss dripped back all over his cock, how amazing it was when Goldween lips closed around it, sucking it with such skills that belied his inexperience!

It would have been easy: wrap his fingers around the hard shaft, tug at it as the images flashed vividly in his mind, and scatter his seed on the forest floor. Didn’t they say the fairies fed on it? In any case, he preferred to show restrain; he needed all his energy to continue his quest for the camp. And he wanted to feel that crave, that longing: he wanted it to be his traveling companion, as if the presence of that hunger would strengthen the bond between him and Goldween, or proved that it was real. Goldween had told him that if he walked quickly, by nightfall he should reach a hunting shed. With any luck, there would be no one there, and he would spend a better night than the one he had just had.

He ate breakfast; the bread was starting to get stale, yet it was a luxury to be enjoyed in moderation. He found a stream nearby, decided the water was safe enough to drink and he filled his empty flask, then he moved on.

He walked for hours through a wooded valley carved into the mountains rising on either side of it. He thought he’d taken a wrong turn when the trail seemed to come to an abrupt end, only to realize it curved back on itself to reach a pass that led into a gorge. He stopped for lunch before entering the narrow passage; the weather was on his side, and he was able to bask in the summer sun while consuming his meal.

The gorge could have been dangerous, consisting only of a wide dirt track flanked by vertical rock walls, a canyon that wound for what seemed an uncomfortably long time. If he ran into anyone, he’d have nowhere to hide; he could only hope they didn’t recognize him.

Finally, he reached the end of the gorge. He felt like he could breath again only for the view before him to leave him almost stunned by its splendor.

He was still high on the side of a mountain, the path descending before him. Below, a large valley was dotted with lakes that sparkled in the sun like a thousand mirrors. There were no hamlets or towns, just trees and water, light and shadow. To his right, the valley was bordered by the mountain range on which he stood, tall and snow-capped even in the height of summer. And then he saw it, far away, shrouded in the summer mist, a peak rising more imposing than all the others, but what made it stand out wasn’t its height, but its shape, almost like a sail or, more appropriately, a tooth, a wolf’s tooth. He had just set his sights on his destination.

He realized that reaching the base of Wolftooth Mountain would take at least all of the next day. He would have to leave very early in the morning to find the camp by nightfall, hoping that Goldween hadn’t been too optimistic. Without wasting any more time, he began the descent into the valley.

He remembered what Goldween had told him about the gorge: that it marked the border of the Anvar territory, which, along with White Swallow, formed Hardon’s realm. He was now in Heffers land, but that didn’t mean he was safer, as the Heffers were allies of Hardon.

Once he reached the plain, following the right path became more difficult, as numerous crossings presented to him as he made his way through the forest. From down there, under the canopy of the trees, it was hard to know which direction to take: the mountains remained hidden behind the curtain of leaves, and following the sun was no easy feat either. For the most part, Whitey relied on his sense of direction: he had pinpointed the location of Wolftooth Mountain in his mind and tried to head toward it, maintaining a northeast trajectory.

On a couple of occasions, he heard voices and had to hide in the undergrowth of the forest, but both times it was only a small group of traders slowly advancing with carts pulled by sturdy oxen. The second group had dogs, and as much as he liked them, he didn’t want them to give away his presence. The traders probably wouldn’t recognize him, but he preferred to be on the safe side: he ran to a nearby lake he could see through the trees, placed his bundle of food on his head, and waded into the water until he was almost completely submerged.

As soon as he heard the barking grow more distant, he slowly climbed out of the lake, took off all his clothes, and dried himself in the afternoon sun.

From the small clearing at the edge of the lake, he could monitor his progress: Wolftooth Mountain rose clearly in the distance, though its silhouette had changed from this angle. It still seemed far away, but at least he was going in the right direction.

Once dry, he rejoined the trail and went on his way. From there on, the forest, while remaining a dark and mysterious companion, became more fragmented, offering glimpses of the thousand small lakes and ponds he had seen from up on the mountain. The light filtering through the gaps in the trees made the shadows less menacing and the sounds of the forest almost welcoming.

As night began to fall, he started to worry that the hunting shed Goldween had mentioned might be too far away from his location; and that, just as the weather had started to change and the first drops of rain to hit his face. Whitey mentally prepared himself to spend another night either in the open, or at best in some sort of cave. He looked around for some kind of shelter, knowing the tinder he had on him would never work on wet wood. That’s when he finally saw it: the shed. It was a rickety structure, but at least it had a door, and a roof. There was no sign of anyone being inside. He carefully opened the door that creaked on its rusty hinges. The room was dusty and smelled of enclosed spaces; there were dark stains on the floor, probably animal blood, and fungi were growing on some of the more rotten boards. But he’d slept in the stables for most of his life, he was used to that kind of environment; moreover, on one side of the room was a pile of hay, mostly flattened by time and use, but at least more comfortable than the hard forest floor.

He left the door open, sitting on the threshold, eating more bread and cheese while listening to the rain falling heavy on the leaves and on the ground; it had turned into a full-blown summer downpour.

Exhausted, just after eating, he lay down on the hay. He still had some bread, a quarter of cheese, and a couple of apples: that would be enough for the next day, hoping it would be his last on the road. Once again, sleep came quickly, lulled by the sound of rain hitting the roof, which fortunately was tiled and in better condition than the rest of the shed.

This time, he fell into a deeper sleep. He dreamed again, but instead of a vortex of images, the dreams presented themselves as whispered stories: they were detailed, complex, realistic, but the moment he opened his eyes in the morning, they evaporated like the mist clearing from the damp forest floor.

The morning was clear and cold, the first sunlight painting the eastern sky pink as Whitey began his journey, eating while walking away from his shelter.

He walked all day, this time he didn’t encounter a soul except for a majestic deer that crossed his path. After the rain the heat had come back more vengeful; muggy and heavy. In the late afternoon, looking up, he was able to make out the silhouette of Wolftooth Mountain, rising majestically in front of him above the forest, its impossibly sharp, snow-capped peak shining brightly in the sunlight. He must be close to his destination, but how would he know exactly where the camp was?

He noticed a clearing in the forest, but this time it wasn’t a lake: trees had been felled, stumps and dry branches cluttering the space like bleached bones. Someone had cut them down; Goldween had told him that the men in the camp worked as lumberjacks. Work, in fact, wasn’t the right word: they were prisoners doing forced labor in an open gaol: they didn’t need guards, they just had to cut down the required amount of wood. If any of them were to be found missing during a monthly control, it would be their family to suffer the consequences. It was exactly the same blackmail method Hardon had used with Goldween: why threaten him with death when he could threaten his entire family instead?

The camp must have been nearby! Whitey followed the tracks left by the dragged trunks, convinced they would lead him to his destination. In the distance, he could hear the sound of water—falls or rapids, he thought—when suddenly he caught the shimmer of a light shining through the trees and the smell coming from a fire. The closer he got, he was able to hear voices above the distant noise of the water. Laughter. Before revealing himself, he had to make sure he hadn’t stumbled upon a military camp; that would have been tragically ironic.

So he advanced carefully toward the point from which the voices were coming and hid, crouching behind a tree.

In the distance, two men were bathing in the river; closer to Whitey, another man stood by a fire, stark naked, drying himself with a cloth.

“Get a room, Randy!” he said unconvincingly, addressing a man lying in a large hammock strung between two pine trees.

Whitey had to stand up a little to see who this Randy was; he leaned against the tree and raised himself just enough to be able to admire the naked figure of the man lying in the hammock, caressing his hard cock like one would a pet.

“Why would I, with a view like this?” It wasn’t entirely clear to Whitey whether the view Randy was referring to was the stunning landscape, with the river, the rapids, and Wolftooth Mountain in the background, or the man by the fire, just as stunning.

Randy looked a few years older than Whitey, perhaps in his thirties. Like the other man, he had a short, roughly cut beard. He was blond, a thick, light-coloured carpet of hair covered his powerful chest and legs. One arm was raised behind his head, his biceps flexing and bulging, while the other rested languidly at his side, only the wrist moving while caressing his imposing shaft. Whitey was standing about ten meters away from the scene, yet he could fully appreciate its curved shape and generous width. He gulped.

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Hi Guys, Blake here. Just a quick word before you go ahead. Writing takes time, a lot of time, and it’s something I love doing so I’d like to thank all of those who are supporting me with their paid subscriptions. I know that option isn’t accessible for everyone and I’m certainly not judging. Alternatively, the eBook of my Christmas at White Swallow story is available for $1.50 (I recommend the Smashwords option). Thank you! Blake.

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The story so far:

Once upon a time… The idyllic life of Whitey, prince of White Swallow, comes to an abrupt end when King Hardon invades his kingdom, kills his beloved father, and forces his mother to marry him. Later, the king’s magic mirror reveals to him that there is someone more handsome than himself: the slave prince in the stables. The two men meet, and an irrepressible attraction seems to win over the hatred they feel for each other. The king must find a permanent solution: kill the prince without angering the populace. So, at first, the king decides to allow the prince more freedom and offers him a better position as a horse groomer. There, Whitey befriends Goldween, the king’s cousin and Master Groomer. The friendship is sincere, but the prince is unaware that the king has ordered Goldween to take him for a ride in the countryside and kill him away from the prying eyes of the people. During the journey, Whitey notices that his friend isn’t his usual self. They discuss their romantic lives, and the prince reveals he’s attracted to men. Finally, they reach their destination: Fire Lake.

*Fancies is the slang name given to homosexual men.

It’s been two days since my return to White Swallow. I rode back fast, following the same route Whitey and I took to get to Fire Lake. When I reached the town gate, the sun had already set, but the sky was still bright and the air warm. The guards let me in; nothing seemed to have changed since morning: the same narrow streets and the same rickety houses in need of repair. There weren’t many people around: a few women gathered outside their neighbours’ doorsteps, children still playing in the last light of day, some dogs barking in the distance. I passed the Three Swallows; at that hour the sounds coming from the tavern were louder, edging between the cheerful and the troublesome. There was music, and clapping, but it did nothing to ease the heavy emptiness I carried inside. Those who saw me must have wondered what had happened, why I had returned alone, riding Allegro, with Aria tied to a long rope, trotting slowly behind us.

I reached the castle and asked to speak with the king; they led me into the hall, where I waited several minutes for Hardon to join me.

He must have been drinking; his eyes were red and moist, his cheeks clammy with sweat; perhaps he had been attending one of his infamous fetes, and was already celebrating the gift he knew I would bring him.

“So, dear Goldie, give me some good news,” he said cheerfully, but his slurred speech reminded me of the noise coming from the tavern: all it took was a little tinder for the amusement to turn into sudden rage.

“It’s done,” I said, looking into his eyes, my voice hoarse and my body shaking.

“Oh dear! Goldie, don’t be all sad now, you did the right thing, you softie!” Hardon laughed at me, only then did I notice he had a large chalice in his hand, the red wine sloshing against its golden walls.

“I know, I know; he was your friend, but what are friends for if not to get rid of?” His laughter grew louder, almost oblivious to the fact that someone might hear us.

I was furious, my whole body contracted.

“Oh, don’t tell me now... how stupid I am, there was more to it, right? Let me guess…”

I looked up, surprised by his words, waiting for him to continue.

“You are a little fancy, aren’t you, my Goldie? How could I not have noticed: so delicate, so attentive, so charming. Always happy to be in the company of the handsome prince. Like a little doggy. Of course! You were in love with him!” he laughed again, this time sneering at me, he wasn’t mocking my love for Whitey, but the fact that I could have hoped for the prince to reciprocate the feeling. He was making fun of my vulnerability.

I could have killed him right then and there, but I had to think of my parents; he had already used their safety to blackmail me into committing my dirty deed.

Did he really know or had he just guessed my feelings for Whitey? Is that why he’d chosen me? A double punishment?

“Don’t worry, Goldie, I don’t mind you being a fancy; plenty of them at court. I guess you haven’t had much luck so far, you know, with that little black eyepatch of yours and all... I might rent one out to you for a night, as a thank you. After all, I hear they’re fond of their one-eyed wands.” He took a long sip from his chalice and almost spat it out laughing at his own joke.

“So tell me, did you drown him?” He waited for my answer, but I just nodded.

“Well done, I hope he suffered while you held him down. Did he...?”

I nodded again, feeling the salty taste of tears reaching my lips.

“So, where’s the heart?” Hardon was getting impatient; I think he was in a hurry to get back to his fete.

I opened the bag I was carrying and took out the large, soft bundle I’d carefully wrapped inside. It was a dark mess, blood had seeped into the fabric.

“Put it over there.” Hardon had moved to a corner of the hall, near a serving table.

I did as I was told and unwrapped the bundle.

A large, soft heart lay on the cloth, wobbling to the touch like a jelly, all that remained of Whitey. The king looked at it silently and then did something I never thought I’d witnessed: with an animal-like cry, he began to sob, sitting on the bench with his head in his hands while his whole body shook. I didn’t know what to do, so I stood there, my own tears frozen by that unexpected scene.

“If you say one word, you and your family are done for, do you understand?”

“Yes, sire.” I was still shocked by what had just happened.

“Go away now, I have a funeral to arrange.” His voice was cold, he laughed again, but there was no trace of the mirth of a few minutes earlier.

The last two days have gone by in a kind of blur. The morning after my meeting with the king, I was awakened by a loud knock on my door: Hardon wanted to see me. I dressed and went to the hall; I had to walk along a large corridor, its ornamental gilded woodwork shimmering in the morning sun, through a closed door came terrible, mourning cries. Among the wailing, I recognized the queen’s voice. So she had been informed.

When I opened the door to the royal hall, I was surprised by the number of people waiting for me inside: the king’s advisors, the generals and the royal chaplain, of course, but also many other courtiers, whom I assumed had come more for the gossip than out of genuine interest in the matter.

And so, hesitantly, I found myself having to repeat before this vast audience what had happened the day before: the long ride to the Fire lake, our meal by the shore, and how suddenly a bear had leaped out of the forest and pounced on Whitey dragging him back among the trees. How it had mauled him to death. No, the prince hadn’t suffered, it had been quick, all I could do was gather the horses and get to safety.

The king told the court that he had been informed of the location of the attack and had promised to send guards to recover the prince’s body, but he lamented that it would likely be too late to find anything left, considering the wild animals out to feed their summer cubs.

Lies upon lies upon lies, from me and the king. Only we knew what had really happened, only we shared the twisted secret.

No one seemed particularly concerned; in fact, relief was evident on the faces of most of the guests. One less threat to the throne, perhaps one less threat to their bid for succession. I even heard a gentleman jokingly say, “We should thank the bear,” which was met with a clumsily disguised laugh by his friends.

I was dismissed. Town criers were dispatched throughout the kingdom to announce the prince’s death. The king ordered two days of mourning. Taverns were to stay closed, and all outdoor activities in the town prohibited until after the funeral which will take place tomorrow morning.

As expected, and how could it have been otherwise, nothing was found by the lake, just some blood at the site where I said the body had been dragged.

Everything has been eerily quiet since, the only activities being those related to the funeral preparations, which have been given royal status. Oh, what a travesty! I can’t wait for tomorrow and for this farce to finally be over.

I am writing here the events that happened two days ago, so that they may remain forever in my mind.

Whitey had fallen asleep, stretched out on the linen cloth, the left overs of our meal scattered around him. One arm was bent behind him with the hand supporting his head, while the other rested on his stomach, covering his navel. I watched him, his slow breathing, his abs expanding with each intake of air. Occasionally, he moved his lips as if talking in his sleep, but he made no sound. An innocent, unaware of the trap he had fallen into.

Although the sun had already begun its slow summer descent, the heat was relentless. I wanted to get into the water, let its coolness wash over my body, erase the purpose of that journey and clear my mind.

I stood up and took off my stockings, knowing that Whitey could wake up at any moment and find me naked.

His revelation had shaken me more than I’d allowed myself to show. The way he’d opened up to me, his trust; he knew how to make things harder! I wondered if he’d guessed, if his confession had been designed to coax one out of me.

I felt him stir behind me. I wasn’t sure what to do, my bravado evaporated now that I knew he was awake. Should I pretend I didn’t now he’d woken up and go into the water? Should I sit down and put my stockings back on? That would have been ridiculous. Instead, I stayed there; as if, by some wizardly magic, the heat had frozen me to the spot. I felt his eyes on my back and let him indulge until I was forced to do something. I turned around.

Whitey was propped up on one elbow. I could tell he was trying to act normal, yet his eyes were darting all over my body. He moistened his lips. With his free hand, he tried to cover his growing erection, a task he utterly failed at. Seeing the effect my body had on his made it react, in return. I had never felt appreciated, let alone wanted, it seemed like people couldn’t see past my eye patch, and now I could feel the desire painted on the face of the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. My yard was getting heavy, I wanted to hide my arousal, so before it was too late I told Whitey I was going for a swim and I run to the water.

The coolness hit me with a refreshing shock, a flowering of goose bumps broke out on my skin, and, strangely, I felt my cock harden and shrink at the same time. After the initial shock, my body adjusted rather quickly enjoying the respite from the heat. I was waist-deep in it, my nipples hard as pins, and my chest hair tousled and puffed up. I looked at the water: now that the sun was reflecting on it just right, between its natural redness, I could make out yellow, and orange streaks. It was beautiful, and the lake’s name couldn’t have been more fitting.

I turned to see what Whitey was doing and my jaw dropped.

He was standing on the shore, gazing out at the placid water, lost in the spectacle the lake offered him, a spectacle that now held no meaning to me. The prince was naked, the sunlight falling on him like a kiss.

His handsome face was serious as he admired the view, his toned torso was a succession of harmonious planes and ridges covered in fine dark hair, but I’d seen that before. What took my breath away was what had previously been barely hidden beneath his stockings: Whitey’s cock was jetting out from beneath a thick, curly bush, it had the fullness of an inspired beginning and held the promise of so much more. It was large and heavy, its hood stretched taut around the head, the shape of which was clearly visible underneath, even from the distance that separated us. His ballsack, covered in dark hair, looked heavy, a perfect match for his shaft and his powerful legs, which seemed firmly planted on the ground.

He finally noticed me watching him. I was glad my cock was underwater, because I’d felt it growing under the spell of what I was seeing. He smiled at me and ran into the lake spraying a fiery jet, his rod swaying like a large slab of meat.

I began swimming further out into the lake without waiting for him, and when I stopped, my feet no longer could reach the sandy bed underneath.

Whitey caught up with me, resting beside me, panting. I couldn’t believe how close our naked bodies were. I wondered what he was thinking: could someone like him really find me attractive, or was I misreading everything? It didn’t matter anyway: it would be over soon.

My reveries were interrupted by a strong spray of water hitting me in the face.

“Gotcha!” Whitey laughed as he prepared to blast me with another one, slamming his hand into the water surface. But I got there first, hitting him in return before he could do anything. We laughed as we tried to outdo each other. Our feet and legs brushed during these games, lighting sparks in my brain. There we were, two grown men playing like children in a pond.

-Drown him, it will be more fun,- Hardon’s words echoed in my head as Whitey came close again. He was floating right in front of me, facing me. His long eyelashes had trapped droplets of red water that shone like tiny rubies, his hair was all slicked back, flattened around his head.

He started to say something: “This is grea...” but I didn’t let him finish: I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed him down with all the strength I could muster.

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The story so far: The idyllic life of Whitey, prince of White Swallow, comes to an abrupt end when King Hardon invades his kingdom, kills his beloved father, and forces his mother to marry him. King Hardon lets Whitey live, but only as a slave doing the hardest jobs in the stables. A few years later, when Whitey is an adult, the king’s magic mirror reveals to him that there is someone more handsome than himself: the prince in the stables. The two men meet, and an irrepressible attraction seems to win over the hatred they feel for each other. The king finds it impossible to resist the magnetic prince but he knows he can’t go on like that, he must find a permanent solution: kill the prince without angering the populace. So, at first, the king decides to allow the prince more freedom and offers him a better job as a horse groomer’s assistant. There, Whitey befriends Goldween, the king’s cousin and Master Groomer. The friendship is sincere, but the prince is unaware that the king has ordered Goldween to ride in the countryside with him and kill him away from the prying eyes of the people…

*Fancies is the slang name given to homosexual men.

Whitey had stayed up late, the candle burning to a stub by the time he’d finished writing his journal, the cool night air made his bare arms prickle even in that summer heatwave. He went to the window, the nearly full moon cast a silvery blue light on the deserted courtyard in front of the building; down the hill, he could see the wisps of steam from the hot spring rising like a veil into the sky. He closed the shutters and went to bed, falling asleep immediately despite his misgivings, the taste of Hardon still in his mouth and his mind unable to process what had really happened that evening in the king’s chamber.

He awoke with a start, the horses’ hooves that in his dream had echoed on the hard marble floor of a royal hall fading into the sound of someone knocking energetically on his bedroom door.

Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the shutters, painting a brownish shadow on the walls.

“Wake up, Whitey, it’s time!” Goldween’s voice reached him through the closed door, sounding flat despite the enthusiasm his friend was trying to convey.

“I’m awake, I’m awake!” he repeated, yawning and rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hands.

The sheet had wrapped around his waist, and his morning glory was peeking out of it like a curious animal. Whitey stood up, covered himself with the sheet, and went to the door, opening it just enough to be able to see his friend.

“Good morning,” his voice was still thick with sleep.

“Wakey, wakey! Time to get ready. I’m going to get the horses, I’ll wait for you in the courtyard.” Through the gap in the door, Goldween’s eyes fell on his friend’s waist noticing the bulge pressing against the sheet. He blushed.

“How can you be so awake? It must only be dawn.” Whitey was surprised to see his friend dressed and ready to go; he had assumed they would have breakfast together.

“It’s past the eighth hour, we have a long way to go!”

“Where is it that we are going?” Whitey had no idea how the day would unfold. The king had only told him he would be taking a long ride. The thought alone almost made him dizzy: seeing places once so familiar, now visited only in his dreams. Would they ride to the Western hills, or would Goldween take him to the White Peaks? And what about Silver Lake? The last time he’d been there had been with his parents, when he was only ten years old.

“I can’t tell you, it’s a surprise.” Goldween gave him a cold smile, interrupting his musings.

Goldween left, and Whitey closed the door behind him. He chose what to wear for the ride: a short turquoise tunic and dark blue stockings. He clutched the clothes in his hand and left the room, heading for the baths and then to the canteen for a quick breakfast of porridge and fruit.

The sun made his eyes squint; the trees and buildings surrounding the courtyard still cast long, dark shadows on the white sandy ground. Goldween stood in a corner, talking to a stablemaster, two horses beside him, their bridles attached to a wooden post.

“Here he is, finally!” he sounded reproachful, but without much conviction; in fact, he seemed almost amused by his friend’s nonchalance on such a momentous morning.

“Hey, did you want me to starve?” Whitey’s hair was still damp: he’d decided to take a quick bath to wash away the debris from the previous night, and he’d also chewed on sage and rosemary to rid himself of the lingering bitter taste in his mouth.

“Come on, we better be off now.” Goldween was also wearing a short tunic with stockings, black and dark green respectively. The stockings clung perfectly to his powerful legs; Whitey followed the curves of his muscles, from his calves to his thighs and, when Goldween turned to jump on his horse, all the way to his firm, compact ass, which stretched the fabric until it made it become almost transparent.

“Let’s go then,” he jumped onto Aria, one of his favourite horses, Goldween on Allegro, he had chosen well, he thought, and they left the castle grounds, riding slowly side by side.

They rode through the town. On his previous visits, Whitey had already noticed how the buildings seemed in desperate need of maintenance: rusty gutters, rotting wooden beams, and a general sense of decay pervaded the ancient alleys; nothing like how things were during his father’s reign. But it was market day, and the main square was crowded, with stalls selling fabrics, wooden tools, and shoes. Flower and vegetable sellers from the countryside cheered the market with their colourful offerings, while the nearby taverns echoed with the loud voices of the first patrons.

The crowd looked up and waved as Whitey and Goldween slowly passed by on horseback. The prince smiled and waved back.

“Isn’t he just so handsome?”, “It’s nice to see things are improving for the prince.” ,“Perhaps the king isn’t so bad after all?”. The warm summer morning and Whitey’s presence were spreading goodwill through the crowd in a contagious ripple.

A loud cheer rose from the “Three Swallows” tavern as the two men passed by, heading towards the city gate and the freedom that awaited them beyond it.

Whitey took a deep breath as they passed under the heavy arch of the gate. The air felt immediately different, fresher, as if it could flow more freely through his body.

Goldween looked at him and smiled.

“It’s been a while!” The prince shouted urging Aria, who in an instant broke into a steady gallop. Goldween followed; after all, he was the one knowing where they were supposed to be going. Whitey let him take the lead; the two rode quickly along the rolling hills surrounding White Swallow. At first, they passed through golden fields of wheat, and orchards heavy with apples and pears. Summer squashes, spinach, and flesh-red tomatoes drew lines in the vegetable gardens, while a cloud of dust tailed the two powerful horses as they rode away.

The further they got from the town, the more the landscape varied: the hills grew steeper and higher, the fields gave way to pastures dotted with the white of the sheep and the rusty red of the cows. The pastures themselves got smaller, interrupted by the forest that scratched through them like fingers. They were heading north, Whitey realized, toward the White Peaks; they had taken a path that followed the Yellow Creek up to the plateau. The path, which grew increasingly narrower as they climbed, forced them to slow down until the horses’ gallop turned into a simple trot.

“Are you thirsty?” Goldween turned, offering the leather flask to the prince.

“Yes, please.” The prince had managed to manoeuvre Aria on Allegro’s side, so that her muzzle was level with Goldween’s legs, he took the flask, and let the cool water flow down his perched throat. It felt good.

“So, are we going to the White Peaks?”

“Oh God, you really are curious! You’ll see, stop asking me!” Whitey seemed annoyed; the prince had the impression that he didn’t really want to be there with him, and he couldn’t quite figure out why.

Goldween knew his reaction had been too snappy, that it was only to be expected for the prince to be excited after years spent within the confines of the stables. Yet, how could he find anything even remotely pleasant about that trip? It was a mission he had never intended to take part in, a trial he would lose regardless of what he did next. If he killed the prince, he would have to suffer the consequences: live with the guilt for the rest of his life. Killing his best friend! He couldn’t even think about it. And yet, if he didn’t do it, his own life and possibly that of his parents, would be on the block.

They had reached the end of the plateau; from there on, the path began to skirt the slopes of the higher peaks. The forest had thinned, the trail widened, and the two men could ride side by side again. They could have gone faster, but neither seemed inclined to do so.

Whitey tried to initiate a conversation with his friend, to see if his mood had changed.

“I’ve been here before with my father.” He reined in his horse and turned, admiring the view that opened up across the treeless clearing. The town they had left only a couple of hours earlier was still visible in the distance, shimmering lower down in the summer air. “I remember, it’s the road to the Darwent, it goes through the pass, right?” He pointed to a spot in the distance where the mountains in front of them opened up, forming a wide U-shaped valley.

“That’s right, but we’re not going there; we’ll take that one instead.”

The prince followed Goldween finger along a descending reddish line cutting into the mountainside, a different track. “Just a couple more hours and we’ll reach our destination.”

“May I ask where that is now?” Whitey was playing with fire, but he had sensed a change in his friend’s behaviour.

“You may.” Goldween was playing the same game. “And since you ask so nicely, here’s the answer: Fire lake.” He waited for a reaction.

“Fire Lake? I’ve never been there. Is it still in the kingdom?” Whitey had never heard of the place.

“Just: once you cross the lake, you enter Anvar, the land of Hardon and my ancestors, which of course is now part of the same realm.”

Whitey still felt a dull ache at the thought of his father’s death and the loss of his kingdom. The people of Anvar had always been friends, but Hardon had put an end to that.

They moved on, and after a couple of bends, they took the left path that descended into a different valley. The sun was high in the sky, and even at that altitude, the tunics were starting to feel uncomfortable, with sweat patches forming under their armpits and the skin hitching underneath the fabric.

Whitey was the first to remove his; the moment he did so, it felt as if his body had been thirsty and he was quenching the thirst with cool air.

“Aren’t you hot?”

Goldween turned to look at him. The prince was sitting straight on his horse, his stockings so tight around his taut waist that, if it weren’t for their colour, it would have been impossible to distinguish where they ended and his bare skin began. His hairy chest glistened in the sun, the light reflecting off the trapped droplets of sweat.

Of course he was hot! For many different reasons, unfortunately.

Without answering, Goldween pulled his tunic over his head and stuffed it into the side of the saddle. He exhaled, letting his body breathe.

The prince was watching him too, his body equally taut, a hard roundness beneath the skin where the muscles bulged. Similar yet, while Whitey’s chest was covered in a dark fur, his friend’s was softened by a blond carpet instead; Goldween, a fitting name. The prince thought back to Hardon, to the night before, the king also covered by a blond velvety down. One could guess that Hardon and Goldween were related, but where the king’s magnetic beauty held an innate hardness, this had been smoothed out in Goldween’s gentler features.

Emboldened by the sight of naked skin, Whitey asked:

“So, why doesn’t a handsome man like you have a wife?” He’d wanted to ask that question many times before, but now, away from everyone else, seemed like the right time. Yet, the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted saying them: handsome man, only a fancy spoke like that! Had he given himself away?

He saw Goldween blush and look away.

“It’s complicated,” was all his friend said.

“How can that be? Look at you!” The prince mentally cursed himself for being again so brazen in complimenting his friend’s physique. “I mean, you come from royal stock...” he corrected himself.

“Damaged stock.”

Whitey stopped his horse, and Goldween did the same.

“What do you mean? The eye?” The prince couldn’t believe it. How could anyone not see through the eyepatch? Goldween was one of the most attractive men he’d ever seen—not that he’d seen many, to be honest—but his friend’s beauty was undeniable. And if anything , the black eyepatch, by contrast, accentuated the angelic aura Goldween exuded.

“Yes, the eye! Maybe it would have been different before, I mean before King Hardon. I’ve heard stories that the court of Anvar, during my uncle’s reign, was a pleasant place, a centre for the arts, a meeting of peoples and ideas. When Hardon took his place, the focus shifted to power, physical strength, virility. I don’t fit their standards; the incident with the arrow cut me out. Look at the king, arguably the most handsome man in the kingdom...”

Whitey felt a knot in his stomach, was it jealousy? Goldween continued:

“ … look at all the men at court, strong, tough, powerful”

“Yes, but some are real mingers!”

Goldween couldn’t help but laugh. What did they call men like that? Oh, yes, shrimps, because one eats the body and discards the head. “The Fancies aren’t...”

It was true, Whitey thought, most fancies managed to combine strength and beauty, culture and power. He’d seen them watch him as they came to mount their horses, he could see their yards stiffen in their stockings as their eyes roamed over his body. The only thing keeping them from going further was his status: simultaneously too low to be considered and, as the deposed prince, too dangerous to play with. A shame, because he could have had some fun with those guys.

Whitey realized he hadn’t answered yet.

“Well, too bad for them if they don’t want to marry you. Maybe you should try to steal the heart of a good Swallower woman, I’m sure they would be more than happy to receive your attentions.”

“Maybe…” but Goldween was being evasive, as if he’d lost interest. They continued to ride slowly, the path wide enough to accommodate both horses side by side, the sun high in the sky beating down on their bare skin and the air growing muggier as they descended.

“What about you?”

“What?” Minutes had passed since they’d last spoken, and Whitey was lost in thought.

“Women. How come the other most attractive man in the kingdom doesn’t have a wife?” Goldween had said it jokingly, but Whitey felt vindicated from the previous remark about the King’s handsomeness. A warm tension course through him at the notion that his friend had taken notice of his appearance.

“Ah that! There’s certainly no shortage of women who want to marry a stable slave...” the prince laughed it off while thinking about how to change the subject.

“Well, not anymore, your position as royal groom is highly coveted.”

“Maybe, but let’s face it, I have a target on my back. The King has been good to me lately, but that could change at any moment. I don’t think many women would want to get too close to me”.

Goldween nodded. If only Whitey had known how close the words he’d just spoken were to the truth, if only he’d known that the entire purpose of that expedition was for him to be killed, drowned, eliminated, at the hands of his best friend. Goldween’s heart pounded in his throat, he took another sip of water and passed the flask to Whitey. Yet it was of no use, his hands were clammy, a paralyzing fear overcame him. He was about to say something, but the prince beat him to it.

“There’s more.” Whitey looked straight ahead, at the path winding down the hill.

Goldween turned to look at him, barely able to stay straight on his horse under the weight of his secret.

“The fancies...”

“What about them?” It wasn’t what he expected; actually he didn’t really know what to expect, but not the fancies.

“ Turns out I am one of them.” Whitey’s voice was heavy with doubts, but he had to force himself to speak. “I always have been, at least ever since I became interested in the desires of the flesh” He swallowed again with difficulty. “I wanted to tell you before, but the time never seemed right. Your friendship means the most to me, and I sincerely hope I’m not going to lose it because of this confession.”

He stopped talking abruptly, as if he’d exhausted all the words he had been allowed, still not looking at Goldween.

A long silence followed, a certain stillness had fallen over them, even the horses had stopped, grazing on the grass at the edge of the path.

“Your friendship is the greatest gift this mortal coil has bestowed upon me so far. In these last few months, I’ve laughed more than in my entire life before. I’m not a fool; I have no intention of throwing it away because of who you are. I thank you for your honesty and courage. I wish I had the same!”

Having said this, and afraid to say anything more, Goldween urged Allegro on, who began to gallop down the path. Whitey did the same: a huge weight had been lifted from his soul, he felt exhilarated, relieved, and honoured to have Goldween as his friend.

The two men rode quickly, beneath the canopy of the trees that was draping the lower reaches of the mountain. A thick forest that offered them some relief from the relentless heat. Goldween led the way, through a narrow valley, along a slow river, and up another hill, until a circular lake greeted them below in the distance. Without stopping, they rode toward it, the horses’ hooves pounding on the flat, compact ground, they rode beneath majestic oaks whose gnarled branches where heavy with the magic of the wood, the eyes of the fairies surely following them from their hiding places in the undergrowth, perhaps wondering why they were riding so fast.

Fire lake was only a few hundred meters away now. Whitey could see the light reflecting off the water, very bright after the shadows cast by the trees, but Goldween stopped abruptly. Allegro reared under the pull of the reins while Whitey managed to stop right behind him.

They hadn’t spoken since Goldween had said those comforting words.

“What’s going on?” he asked his friend.

“A wild boar, must have been dead only half an hour.”

Whitey moved forward. In the middle of the path lay a large animal, its body torn to pieces. Three legs were missing, and blood soaked the shaggy hide into a dark, sticky mass. Flies, some with large, iridescent bellies, were already flying around the poor animal with their mournful buzz. Despite the macabre discovery, Goldween was pleased, managing to suppress a smile before Whitey could see it. It was a gift from the forest, he thought.

The two men continued riding, their destination now just ahead of them.

The path ran along the shores of the lake, but Goldween turned onto a narrower track that took them out of the woods onto a grassy expanse that led to the water.

Fire lake, Whitey now understood the meaning of the name: the water was crystal clear, but instead of reflecting the blue of the sky or the green of the surrounding hills, it was decidedly red in colour, not the rusty kind one sometimes finds in lakes with a clay bed; this was a vibrant red, like fire, or blood, he noticed, thinking back to the dead boar.

It was magical, he had never seen anything like it; the red seemed so incongruous in that lush landscape.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Wait an hour or so, when the sun is a little lower and hits the water sideways, it will come alive. A real fire...”

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

“A pleasure, I’m glad you like it.” Goldween’s response was almost an automatic reflex; he could hear King Hardon’s voice in his mind: -Drown him, it’ll be more fun...-

They dismounted; Goldween took a large cloth from the side of the saddle and spread it on the ground. From the other side, he pulled out a bulging linen bundle and a flask.

He opened the bundle to reveal a large loaf of bread, a wheel of aged cheese, and a handful of stone fruit.

“I’m hungry, how about you?”

“Starving!”

They lay on the cloth, both still wearing only their stockings, the fabric clinging to their skin.

They ate, talked and drank some ale from the flask. Goldween didn’t dig deeper into Whitey’s revelation, as if he’d simply taken note of it and moved on. Nothing had changed. Whitey was relieved, but at the same time slightly disappointed that his friend didn’t ask him more questions. Perhaps he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, or perhaps he simply didn’t want to intrude on his privacy.

The sun was warm on their skin, and the ale heavy on their eyelids; besides, Whitey hadn’t slept much that night, he felt his eyes sagging, and was soon drifting in and out of sleep.

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but through his closed eyes he noticed the sunlight dim, someone standing in front of him. He opened his eyes and saw Goldween—who else but him?

He was naked, his pale, hairy legs stood firmly apart on the grass, his ass a perfectly round peach, furrowed by the deep slit of his buttocks. His balls were just visible, dangling on the other side, and maybe he could make out the soft tip of his cock. His back looked so powerful in that position; years of working with horses had done that, a much harder job that people would give him credit for.

Whitey couldn’t help it; he felt his flesh stir under the stockings, pushing against them as it grew before his eyes.

Goldween must have sensed him move because he turned and looked at him.

“Ah, you’re finally awake!”

“How long have I been out?” Whitey tried to sound casual.

“About an hour.” As he said this, Goldween turned fully toward his friend.

Whitey had to force himself not to gasp.

Goldween’s body was cast in its own shadow, the sun behind him creating a golden halo that caught on his velvety hair.

It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d seen him shirtless, but now that he was completely naked in front of him, the strong harmony of his body, his maleness, hit him hard. He covered his growing erection with his hand, ashamed of himself.

Goldween’s cock was a thick slab of flesh that hung limply in front of his balls, a short, curly bush crowning his base, while a generous hood formed a soft teat at the tip. Without realizing it, Whitey parted his lips, wetting them with his tongue.

“I’m hot, I’m going in, fancy to join me?” Goldween smiled at him, then turned and ran toward the water without waiting further.

To be continued…

Just a quick word before you go ahead. Writing takes time, a lot of time, and it’s something I love doing so I’d like to thank all of those who are supporting me with their paid subscriptions. I know that option isn’t possible for everyone and I’m certainly not judging. Alternatively, the eBook of my Christmas at White Swallow story is available at $1.99 (I recommend the Smashwords option). Thank you! Blake.

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Blake

Hi Guys, Blake here. Just a quick word before you go ahead. Writing takes time, a lot of time, and it’s something I love doing so I’d like to thank all of those who are supporting me with their paid subscriptions. I know that option isn’t possible for everyone and I’m certainly not judging. Alternatively, the eBook of my Christmas at White Swallow story is available at $1.99 (I recommend the Smashwords option). Thank you! Blake.

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From Whitey’s Journal

I have just come back to my room, shaken in body and mind.

It was quite late in the evening when the raven came; later than the previous times anyway, but there was still some light in the summer sky, in the distance, over the vast sea, I had often heard tales of but I had never seen.

I was in my room, lit by a candle, reading a chapter from the latest book I had borrowed from the royal library. Reading, oh, what a pleasure! After my mother and my freedom, it was the thing I missed most during the years spent in the stables. As for my mother, I still miss not being able to see her whenever I want, but at least I have the privilege of visiting her once a month, and Goldween makes sure our time together is as private and personal as allowed under Hardon’s strict orders. My freedom is now limited to the castle grounds, but they seem as vast as the lands of a continent compared to the confines of the stables. And for the past few weeks, I’ve been allowed to ride into town with Goldween, a small gain, but as the saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers. And I truly am: a beggar at the mercy of Hardon, of his power and of his body.

But books; that’s where my true freedom lies: I can choose any tome I want, as many as I want, anything except alchemy. I imagine Hardon doesn’t appreciate the joy of reading, and by allowing me to do so, he hasn’t realized how much freedom he’s granting me: the freedom to travel, to learn, to discover!

I was reading the History of Easybeth, the legendary queen who hundreds of years ago gave birth to what became the heads of all the royal families of Berven, mine and Hardon’s included.

Goldween hadn’t come to play cards after dinner; in fact, I didn’t even see him in the canteen vault. Strange, but not uncommon: he was often called away to make last-minute arrangements, for some dignitary visiting our kingdom or for some of our nobles travelling abroad. It was all about first impressions and the horses had to be at their best.

So, I was reading about Queen Easybeth rallying the troops, when I heard a familiar cawing on the windowsill.

It was Bullet, Hardon’s trusty raven; it could only mean one thing. I went to the window, stroked the bird’s head, and undid the string tying the message to its leg, a small scroll of paper that I then burned on the candle.

Since Hardon decided to heighten the secrecy surrounding our encounters, this is how he communicates: Bullet appears at my window with a message telling me where to go. Once I get there, and I must be careful not to be followed, I have to don a hooded cloak. In the cloak pocket, another message will tell me where to meet Master Bates, who will eventually lead me to the king’s chamber.

This is how Hardon conducts his most secret meetings, his intrigues, his plots. This is how he meets his courtesans and his whores. I believe I fall into the latter category.

I met Master Bates near the third oak tree, by the statue of Hope. The chamberlain has so much power, yet he’d have the most to lose should anything escape the four walls of the king’s chamber, hence his total loyalty to the king.

Once again he led me to Hardon through the servants’ stairway, deserted at that time of evening.

He ushered me in and closed the heavy door behind me.

My eyes had to adjust to the light in the room, the chandelier and candelabra casting shimmering shadows against the walls, the curtains drawn for absolute privacy.

I expected to find the room empty; I knew the routine: I had to undress and lower myself into the warm water of the tub prepared for me, then the king would arrive. Even after being promoted to the grooming stalls and allowed to wash to rid myself of the sweat and odours, which I do every day, the king wants me to bathe before him. I think he enjoys finding me naked and sweet smelling.

But tonight was different.

The usual tub had been replaced by a much larger, gilded one, and to my surprise, Hardon was in it, as far as I could tell, naked except for a small crown tightly sitting on his head, catching the candle light.

My cock suddenly twitched, such was the king’s hold on me. I’d like to think there’s a deeper reason for such a raw attraction, something to do with power, domination, and submission, and probably there is, but part of me has to admit that I am simply drawn to the king’s unparalleled beauty, the strength his body projects, and the desire to make him mine.

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Hi Guys, Blake here. Just a quick word before you go ahead. Writing takes time, a lot of time, and it’s something I love doing so I’d like to thank all of those who are supporting me with their paid subscriptions. I know it’s not possible for everyone and I’m certainly not judging. Alternatively, the eBook of my Christmas at White Swallow story is available at $1.99 (I recommend the Smashwords option). Thank you! Blake.

This is the second chapter of Whitey, the story of White Swallow’s most beloved historical figure. Here’s the link to the first chapter.

And it’s all free!

The story so far: The idyllic life of Whitey, prince of White Swallow, comes to an abrupt end when King Hardon invades his kingdom, kills his beloved father, and forces his mother to marry him. King Hardon lets Whitey live, but only as a slave doing the hardest jobs in the stables. A few years later, when Whitey is an adult, the king’s magic mirror reveals to him that there is someone more handsome than himself: the prince in the stables. The two men meet, and an irrepressible attraction seems to win over the hatred they feel for each other...

And so it was that for the next few months, King Hardon and Whitey found themselves trapped in a dangerous dance of untamed attraction, hatred, and fear.

The king wanted nothing more than to be rid of the prince: his pride was wounded and, Whitey still alive, could always pose a threat to his throne. Yet he could not allow anything suspicious to happen to the prince; surely the people of White Swallow, already discontented with the usurper’s rule, would rebel if anything dubious were to happen to him.

On many days, but above all during the long winter nights, King Hardon had told himself that nothing would happen between them ever again, that their first meeting would remain their last. Yet, like a drunken man drawn to the sweetness of liquor, he failed over and over again.

It had been only a week since he had held the prince’s cock in his hand, since the prince’s cum had erupted in his palm, since he himself had spread his seed deep inside Whitey, and his craves stung like grief.

And so Whitey was quickly summoned again, the longer the king managed to resist, was a fortnight, when he had to travel to a neighbouring kingdom. Upon his return, he hadn’t even dismounted his horse when Whitey was ordered to his private chamber.

And each time was different, each time the power shifted, each time, without saying a word they learned what the other wanted, sometime in ways that made them wonder.

For the king soon discovered that he had never craved nothing as much as having his ass spread open and Whitey’s face buried in it, the prince’s tongue grazing his rough hole, wetting it, making it tender. He tugged at his hard cock, while that beautiful face was licking his hole, he wanted to go further: for Whitey to enter him with his magnificent cock. Just the thought would have been enough to make him cum, he had to be careful. The idea terrified him: it was one thing to have fucked the prince, another to be fucked by him, he couldn’t allow himself to indulge in those thoughts. Was he becoming like one of those fancy men his court was full of? He never cared what people did in their chambers, as long as they were loyal to him; in fact, the so-called fancies were even welcomed: they didn’t have heirs of their own, which would mean fewer young men eager to fight for the succession.

The succession; that was another problem: his queen was ageing and hadn’t given him an heir. Of course he had had many bastard sons from his courtesans; he only had to choose one. Orniball was his favourite, a promising little one.

So, was he becoming a fancy? No, he didn’t think so, he even went as far as to bathe in the warm waters of the natural springs with a group of his trusted men, a tradition at White Swallow. All naked, all fit, all young, yet looking at those naked bodies hadn’t lit a fire, his cock had remained limp, his heart calm.

It was just Whitey: a wonderful, wicked spell.

He didn’t know he would enjoy being rimmed so much, it surprised him. That night, after bathing in the natural spring, he had called for two of his favourite whores to be taken to his chamber and, while one busied herself sucking on his cock, he ordered the other to lick his hole.

“My Majesty, are you turning into one of those fancies?” she asked jokingly. He exploded in a furious rage, ordering the whore sucking his cock never to repeat to a soul what she’d heard, and for the one who’d uttered those misguided words; she was never seen again. And so rimming was out of the question, in any case the king doubted it would have had the same spine tingling effect if the person licking his hole had been anyone other than Whitey.

For his part, the prince was on a similar journey of discovery, he who in his fantasies had always been at the receiving end of a cock, with the king, he wanted nothing more than to enter his tight hole, feel the king’s body close around his shaft, making him his, and come deep into the usurper’s flesh. Perhaps it was his way of making sense of what was happening, of the attraction he felt for his father’s murderer. He could either see him impaled on his cock or see him dead. Nothing had ever come of it; their sexual tension always ended with the king coming in Whitey’s hand or on his face or Whitey over the king’s hole, after a good rimming session. The King would gather the cum with his hand and spread it over his own beard and his lips. And after their first encounter, Hardon had never tried to fuck him again, preferring instead to have the prince’s face buried in his royal ass.

Things had to change. King Hardon lived in an almost permanent feverish state, distracted, more irritable than usual and, despite the secrecy, people were talking: rumours were circulating that the young prince had been summoned from the stables and taken to see the king through back doors and servant stairs. He had to do something about it, but he had to do it properly, even if it took time.

And so the king came up with a plan: Goldween, his cousin.

They had been close friends since childhood, the king being the elder of the two. One day, when Goldween was only twelve, a terrible accident happened in the archery. It was actually Hardon who missed his target, accidentally sending an arrow to land squarely in Goldween’s right eye. It was a miracle that the boy had survived, but with the loss of his eye, his chances of joining the future king’s army were also gone. Rumours circulated at the time that it hadn’t been an accident at all, that Hardon had seen his cousin as a potential rival for the throne. Witnesses had disappeared, but Goldween couldn’t point the finger at his cousin, who, until then had been nothing but a good friend.

And so Goldween was taught the art of grooming horses instead; he became very good at it, and soon earned the title of Royal Master Groomer. The king’s horses were magnificent, always impeccable, and equipped with the finest mounts. Goldween, a kind young man, cut a distinct figure: tall, handsome, blond and athletic like, his cousin, but with a black patch covering what would have been his other emerald green eye.

King Hardon summoned his cousin to the royal hall and explained his plan to him, at least part of it.

Goldween was to befriend Whitey, a sign that relations between the King and the ancient royal family were thawing. Whitey would learn the art of grooming horses from the Master himself, he’ll be allowed to sleep in the servants’ quarters rather than in the stables with the animals, and even to visit his mother, but only under Goldween’s surveillance.

Despite the two young men both working with the horses, they had hardly ever met before: Whitey, doing the lowest possible jobs, had never left the stables, while Goldween had the horses brought to his grooming stalls located in another section of the castle grounds.

Goldween didn’t ask too many questions. Being somewhat of an outcast because of his eyepatch, he looked forward to a possible new friendship; and the chance of a more peaceful relationship between the two royal families appealed to his sense of justice.

The two men; they were about the same age, were introduced on a cold winter morning, but the signs that spring was not far off were already evident: snowdrops and crocuses were appearing where the snow had melted, under the trees or in sheltered corners of the park. Goldween interpreted this as a good omen; Whitey wasn’t sure what to make of it.

The King had informed him at the end of their last encounter, strands of cum still clinging to his beard, when he said: “Things will change, an improvement for you. You will begin grooming the horses and you’ll have your own room.”

The King had waited for Whitey’s reaction, but none came.

“And you’ll be allowed to see your mother, once a month.”

Despite not wanting to show his emotions, Whitey gasped, and the king realized he had him under his thumb.

Whitey and Goldween began working side by side, the latter teaching the newcomer all the tricks of the trade: which brushes to use and where, the range of hoof picks and mane combs, how to clip and wash horses, how to braid and band their manes for each different occasion, and how to dress the animals with the royal paraphernalia. Goldween also taught Whitey how to relate to the horses, how to connect with them, how to become a horse whisperer. But for that, there was really no need to teach him anything: during all those years spent in the stables, the animals had become Whitey’s only friends and confidants, and sometimes, the witnesses to his moments of self-induced pleasure.

What could have been a forced acquaintance, dictated by the circumstances, blossomed into a truly genuine friendship. For the first time each young men had found someone they could truly trust and have fun with. For the first time in years, Whitey was allowed to be himself: a twenty-six-year-old man with a dry sense of humour and a gift for sarcasm, often directed at himself. Goldween, meanwhile, had found a friend who couldn’t care less about his eyepatch, someone who wouldn’t consider him any less because of it.

And there was the matter that cheered Whitey the most: being able to see his mother again; it had been years! Goldween accompanied him to the queen’s quarters, and by agreement, he was to remain in the room with the two of them.

When the gilded door to his mother’s chamber was opened, Whitey, who until then hadn’t known how he would react, simply ran into the queen’s arms and stayed there for what seemed like hours. Mother and son talked, cried, and talked some more. Goldween stood in the corner, letting Whitey enjoy the reunion. It was with regret that he had to inform his friend that it was time to say goodbye, until their next visit in a month time.

It hadn’t been enough, of course, yet it was a thousand times better than never seeing his mother again. Whitey was grateful to Goldween for his discretion and his discrete presence in the chamber.

Although he wasn’t allowed to leave the castle’s grounds, Whitey’s life had improved beyond recognition: he had a room all to himself with a comfortable bed, he could wash in the communal baths, he had more free time, and his work was much less strenuous than his previous job in the stables. But above all, it was his friendship with Goldween that had improved his life the most: the two had become inseparable, the other workers could hear them laughing and joking. And the visits to his mother, though few and far between, had become precious moments that made this new chapter of his life even more special.

The good people of White Swallow were talking about it: wasn’t it wonderful to hear the prince laugh again? And the friendship between the two men—surely a sign that relations between the two royals families were improving!

Meanwhile King Hardon had been keeping a discreet eye on it all; things were going exactly as he’d planned; in fact, even better, he began allowing the prince to accompany Goldween into town, parading on the magnificent royal horses. Let the populace enjoy the show!

A year and a half had passed, during which the encounters between Whitey and the King continued to occur with the same regularity but heightened secrecy.

On a hot summer afternoon, King Hardon summoned Goldween once again.

The Master Groomer entered the King’s hall with his newfound confidence and a broad smile: life was being good to him too.

He knelt before the king.

“Get up, Goldie,” there was an unexpected snarl in the king’s voice.

Goldween stood, but kept his gaze fixed on the marble floor.

“You did well, Goldie, very well!” Self-satisfaction was ringing through those words.

“But you must do better. Tomorrow you must take your friend for a ride. Make sure the common people see you; ride through the town, look happy.”

Goldween didn’t know where this was going, but it didn’t sound like good news.

“Take him far away, I don’t care where. I want you to drown him. Do you understand me?”

Goldween was petrified. How could the king expect him to do such a thing? And why? Weren’t things getting better? People were even starting to talk about Good King Hardon!

“I don’t think I can do that,” his voice trembled. “I, I don’t want to do it...” he stammered.

“Oh, Goldie, you’re always such a softy... that’s not an option, unless you want to lose your other eye, of course.” The king’s voice was calm, condescending.

Goldween didn’t say a word.

“Tomorrow morning, you leave at the ninth hour. If you can’t drown him, kill him however you can, but drowning him would be more fun,” he laughed. “Oh, and bring his heart back, you know me, I like my souvenirs.” He laughed again, grotesquely. “You’ll tell that a bear attacked you and that the prince was mauled to death. People will believe you.”

King Hardon said nothing else, just waited for Goldween to kneel again and leave the room. The deal was done.

It was only then that the king stumbled toward his throne and sat down trembling, for his greatest wish and his greatest sorrow were soon to come true.

That evening, the king summoned Whitey for the last time. Their encounter was intense; he simply couldn’t take his eyes off the prince’s body, his cock, always so ready and responsive. For a moment, Whitey thought he saw Hardon’s eyes water, as if he were about to cry, but he assumed it was due to the candle smoke. The king had been more eager than usual and more attentive; unlike during the previous encounters, he was concentrating on him, on his pleasure. The king’s hand, oiled and warm, wrapped around Whitey’s cock, it was moving freely up and down its ample girth, when the king did something he had never done before: he began kissing the prince.

Whitey had never been kissed before; the intensity of the action took him by surprise; the king was searching, hungry, willing. Hardon’s thrusts on his cock had become more urgent until the prince could no longer hold it back. Realizing this, the King stopped kissing him and cupped his hand under Whitey’s cock, making sure to catch as much cum as possible. He shouldn’t have worried; perhaps because of the kiss, the prince’s orgasm came with a copious amount of thick juice, which felt strangely heavy in the king’s hand. Hardon pulled harder on his own cock; it didn’t take long; strings of cum shot out of his slit with surprising speed. Yet he managed to catch most of it into the same hand the prince had come in. When Whitey’s spasm subsided, the King brought his still-cupped hand to the prince’s mouth. There was no need to force it; the prince wanted to be fed.

The cum fell from his palm into Whitey’s mouth in a slow, viscous stream. He watched the prince swallow, then, one by one, he slipped his fingers between Whitey’s lips, feeling the prince’s tongue twist around them, cleaning them. Hardon hoped that when Whitey was being murdered the next day, he would still have the taste of his cum lingering in his mouth.

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To be continued…

Hi guys, I hope you liked this story, and if you did, please share it and click that tiny heart!

Thank you!

Be prepared, be safe.

Blake

This is an adult gay story if you aren’t an adult or “gay” isn’t your thing, you’d better look for something else to entertain you. Cheers, Blake. 🔞

Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, nestled around some graceful, rounded hills, lay the charming little town of White Swallow. On a rocky spur, stood the castle of good King Bigben. It was a winter morning, and good Queen Gloria was sitting at the window, intent on sewing a pretty lace, occasionally glancing at the falling snow. The park was a white expanse; tall trees, their branches bending under the weight of the white powder, dotted the esplanade like old, trusty guardians. In the distance, the hills rose higher, but the Queen could not see them, hidden by the snow blizzard. -So, so beautiful,- she thought, -how lucky to be the queen of such an enchanting kingdom!- But the view had distracted her, and the needle she was carefully holding pricked her thumb.

It was only a light prick, but as soon as the needle pinched her skin, three drops of blood, the colour of rubies, fell onto the white lace. The queen put her thumb to her mouth and smiled for she knew those three drops were a request from the fairies, and she knew exactly what she had to do to keep the fairies happy: make three wishes.

She thought for a while, she had to choose carefully. She knew she was carrying a child, she just knew it: the night before the king had come to her chamber, the way he had taken her, the way she had trembled with ecstatic joy, the way they had spent the rest of the night together, the king holding her in his arms as if she were a porcelain doll, she just knew that the seed had taken and she knew it was a boy.

“Fairies , fairies let him be as handsome as the stags that roam our forests, as pure of heart as the snow that falls on our kingdom and...” She couldn’t think of a third wish, because for Queen Gloria beauty of heart and beauty of body were all that could be desired. Then, feeling mischievous, she smiled and whispered: “Fairies, fairies, let my son be as well endowed as my beloved husband.” Just the thought of King Bigben’s imposing sceptre made her long to be back in bed with him again.

Lo and behold, nine months later, a beautiful little boy was born. He was a rosy, smiling baby, a soft veil of black hair already covered his round tiny head, and how they giggled when they saw what was hidden between his chubby little legs. The fairies had listened!

“Will call him Snow White!” The King and Queen proclaimed from the castle balcony to a jubilant crowd under a snow of white rose-petal confetti.

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The years passed, and hardly a day went by without the charming kingdom rejoicing at one of the Prince’s successes: Whitey, as everyone would call him, the sweet baby, turned into a diligent student, a humble youth among his subjects, and a worthy athletic champion at the White Swallow water sports Games. He was still only sixteen, but many a young debutante already dreamed of one day becoming the chosen queen.

Unfortunately, on a cold winter’s day, all this idyllic upbringing was suddenly brought to an abrupt end, along with the long and peaceful history of White Swallow: the neighbouring kingdom of Anvar decided to invade. It was the young King Hardon who broke the centuries-old peace between the two kingdoms. In a surprise attack, his troops easily overcame King Bigben’s soldiers. The king fought valiantly but fell victim to an archer, his blood staining the pristine snow of the castle park.

Sad and dark years for White Swallow followed. Queen Gloria was forced to marry the young usurper, only a few years older than her own son. And for Whitey’s life, it changed beyond recognition: only thanks to queen Gloria desperate pleas his stepfather decided to keep him alive on condition for him to work as a stable boy, live in the stables, and, of course, renounce his title.

More time went by, White Swallow was no longer the charming kingdom of yore: crops failed, buildings went unkept, and people lived in fear of their usurper king. It must be said that the young new royal was not only icy cold of heart, but also very vain of character. And if we are to be completely honest, we must also admit that his vanity was fully justified, for the king was one of the most handsome men alive. Certainly the most handsome in his kingdom, especially according to the magic mirror he had brought with him to his new abode. Not a day went by without the king asking the mirror the same question: “Magic Mirror, what’s your call? Who is the most handsome of them all?”

The Mirror had always responded thus: “My dear king, nothing new for no one is as handsome as you.” How delighted he was to hear those words: there was no better way to start the day, and yet, every morning, the king’s vanity had to be satisfied by this silly routine.

On the morning of Whitey’s 21st birthday, however, the king’s little game turned into one of his greatest fears, for, after a moment’s hesitation, the mirror replied with a warning: “My dear king, don’t be blue, but there is someone as handsome as you!”

It wasn’t possible; how could anyone else match the finest features and the most beautifully body in the land?

“Who? I want to know!” the king shouted out of his mind. But the mirror, which it has to be said, was actually a kind being, decided to lie. “I feel it’s a blow, but that I don’t know.”

Every morning, the king returned to the mirror, asking the same question and tormenting himself while getting the same answer. It wasn’t enough that his whores kept reassuring him that they had never slept with anyone as majestic as him, because he trusted the mirror more than anything else.

Months passed, turned into years, the same struggle every day, the same rage simmering in the king’s soul, until, on the day of Whitey’s 25th birthday, the mirror’s answer pushed the king over the edge: “My dear king, don’t be too blue, but there is someone more handsome than you!”

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