Whitey 10

Danger

Whitey

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

One last thing before we get down to business. There’s a special PRIDE ❤🧡💛💙💜offer valid until June 15th: 50% off monthly and annual subscription (about $20 for a year). If you’re already a subscriber and paid full price, I hear you. If you wish, contact me and we can work out a solution, because I’m nice like that. Cheers Blake

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 the 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 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 after explaying who he is he’s introduced to the men of the camp, who feed him and present themselves to him Later, around the campfire, a story begins to be told. The story revolves around the devil, bored by the pious behaviour of the locals and his demands: ten men to fulfill his desires. But the devil hasn’t met Merlin yet…Lulled by the story (or was it a spell?), the men lose their inhibitions and Whitey truly becomes one of the gang ...

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Summer advanced, the warm, sunny days were occasionally interrupted by violent thunderstorms, the heat and rain nourishing the crops that grew and ripened in the fields around White Swallow. It seemed like it would never end, the snowy winters a distant memory, almost a trick of the mind. Yet the nights had already begun to lengthen, imperceptibly at first, but after a month, Whitey noticed that when they returned to the camp after a long day of work, the sun was already hiding behind the peak of Wolftooth Mountain.

The camp. Goldween had told him he’d have fitted right in, and he had been right, perhaps he’d even underestimated how amazing his experience there would be. Who would have thought that this open-air prison would turn into one of the most liberating experiences he’d ever had? Sure, work was hard, he had a lot to learn, and by evening, his body ached in places he’d never imagined it could. But he liked the routine: sharing a room with Winfred and Randy, waking up early, having breakfast together at the large communal table, walking to the logging area, working until lunchtime and then start again. The men’s bodies reflected that hard work: no wonder they were so sculpted with all that chopping, sawing, pulling, and pushing; luckily, there were oxen to help carry the logs to the water. And then, of course, there were the evenings... when they plunged their tired flesh into the river to wash away the dust, sweat, and fatigue. The shock of the water, just on the right side of cold, was what they needed to feel alive again. Naked, they swam, played, and helped each other wash off the dirt; sometimes, that rubbing of strong hands against bare skin led to another kind of play, where, in pairs or groups, the men found a corner where they could release the tension accumulated during the day. Whitey felt perfectly at ease: everything he had missed during his years of slavery in the stables was now offered to him on a daily basis. And the sex he had with the other men was nothing like what he had experienced with King Hardon. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy laying with the king, but no, -enjoy- was the wrong word: his encounters with the king were filled with a tension that had nothing to do with the sensual flow running through the camp; no, they fed on that tension, drew sustenance from it. After spilling his seed with the king, his body and mind would never experience the sweet sense of release he felt there, in the middle of the forest; instead, with Hardon he would feel like a drunk in need of his next goblet of cider, his next descent into an oblivion that would make him forget his dire circumstances.

Of course, he had known a different kind of intimacy with another man: Goldween, a brief, dreamlike moment, also filled with a certain tension, but one imbued with the unjustified fear of ruining his only friendship, with expectations and the promises of love. On many occasions, Whitey had wondered what Goldween was up to, what life at court was like now that he was -dead-. Did they believe it? Was Goldween safe? Did his mother know, deep down, that he was still alive instead?

And just as Whitey was adjusting to his new life, Goldween went back to his routine in White Swallow’s castle, but one very familiar to him, a routine that only the months of friendship with Whitey had managed to shake and fill with a sense of belonging. And now Whitey was gone.

Days passed, but the fear of being caught tormented him. Every night Goldween awoke from dreams filled with horrors, dreams in which Whitey’s hiding place was discovered, and which invariably ended with a dagger being repeatedly stabbed into his flesh. He’d wake drenched in sweat, hoping his screams wouldn’t reveal the truth. But nothing happened; if anything, Hardon seemed more cheerful, of course he did! Goldween was busy grooming the horses, preparing ever more elaborate displays to show off the King’s splendor when he accompanied his royal guests on excursions across the realm or on hunting trips. But the mood in the town had changed: that thin thread of hope many had harbored, that Whitey would one day be crowned the rightful king of White Swallow, had been tragically severed on the day they thought the prince had that fateful encounter with the bear.

The queen hadn’t been seen since the day of White’s funeral, having retreated to her chambers to brood over her grief. How many times had Goldween thought of making up an excuse to meet her, to go up to her chambers, but what excuse could the groomer of the royal horses possibly have for requesting a meeting with a reclusive queen? Moreover, the greatest fear: what if a change in the queen’s behavior made Hardon suspect something was afoot?

No, it was better for the queen to truly believe Whitey was dead; it was the best way to safeguard his life, however much it broke Goldween’s heart to leave her in the dark.

King Hardon had to walk a fine line: on the one hand, he wanted to show the people of White Swallow his best side, try to win them over and make them forget their boring prince, he wanted to restore a semblance of joy that would make his now undisputed power more palatable. On the other, he had to be careful not to come across as distasteful in the eyes of the grieving queen and of the populace. They wouldn’t like Whitey’s memory being buried so quickly after his death. And so he kept to himself, meeting and entertaining the Emperor’s emissaries and the other royals who supported him.

But it was at night that Hardon felt it: that absence, that void that could no longer be filled. He would describe it as a hollow void, but that hollow was so so heavy. He had heard of people who had lost a leg and still felt the phantom limb hitch, a terrible hitch that couldn’t be scratched away. That was how he felt about Whitey’s death, and it was as unbearable as it had been necessary.

Every now and then he felt the need for reassurance; he had been fooled once and he couldn’t let it happen again. So he’d go up to his chamber, stand before the old mirror, and repeated his trusty formula: “Magic Mirror, show me your wisdom. Who is the most handsome in this kingdom?”

Hardon didn’t realize that, as he waited for the mirror’s response, he was clenching his fists so tightly that his nails dug into the flesh of his palms. But then the answer came, reassuring, as soothing as ambrosia:

“My dear king, nothing new, for no one is as handsome as you.”

After that, feeling validated, for a few days, Hardon would devote himself to his business, relegating all thoughts of Whitey to the shadows of the night. It was then, in the prince’s absence but at the mercy of desire, that he would tighten his hand around his hard flesh, losing himself in the images imprinted in his mind.

It often began with the scene of their last meeting: he, the king, already naked, lying in the golden tub of his chamber, the heavy curtains drawn and only a plethora of candles brightening the darkness. Then Whitey was there, standing before him, the black hood still covering his head and the cloak still enveloping his delicious form. Whitey would come closer, unbidden, uncovering his body in a slow display of temptation. First the cloak, then the tunic that covered his hairy torso, revealing those hard, rounded muscles and the soft down that guided his gaze to the promised land bulging beneath the fabric of his stockings. In his quest for pleasure, the king imagined lifting his hand from the tub, the drops wetting Whitey’s mossy stomach, running his fingers just above the belt holding up the garment, teasing, finding the way underneath, touching the warm flesh of the hardening shaft. He would wait, withdrawing his fingers and resting his hand on the curve of the prince’s bulge. And then Whitey would look at him; as always, both gazes fighting and losing the war between desire and hatred. Whitey would turn, showing him his strong back and his rounded buttocks pushing against the stockings. He would bend, pulling them down, just a fleeting glimpse of his hidden gem, nestled deep between his peachy buttocks. Then Whitey would turn again revealing his shaft in all its splendor, a scepter any king would be jealous of, such gravity, such presence! Hardon couldn’t resist the pull. Whitey’d lean closer, his cock’s throbbing head inches from his lips, amber oozing from the slit. And he, the king, would open them wide, wanting nothing more than for that flesh to fill him with its sculpted hardness. He’d lower himself, down to the hilt, to the curly bush his hand had wet moments before, and held him there, gagging, breathing in his scent, his beard against the prince’s groin, his nose buried against his taut flesh. There, the two of them inextricably linked, and with that image, the image of himself gagging, his throat full, King Hardon would cum, the thick strands falling across his chest, draping his nipples, sometimes a few drops would hit his chin, such was the strength of those forbidden memories. He’d stay there, panting until he felt empty, both physically and mentally. Whitish pools of seed trapped in his navel or in the hollows of his sculpted abdomen. He waited, knowing that soon the slightest movement would make them flow down his sides, like tears witness to his solitary pleasure. He knew he would feel better for a while. Maybe that would be his last time; yes, definitely! He would go back to his whores; they knew how to entertain him. Yes, that would surely be the last time.

Until the next and the one after that.

But overall, things were improving; Hardon knew it would take time. The Imperial fleet was being built in the shipyards along the coast; soon the Empire would expand beyond its current limitations, and who knows what might happen then? The rewards for his unwavering loyalty. He already saw himself as the Emperor’s overseer in those distant lands; he imagined a luxurious palace in a warm climate, wild animals tamed and caged for his amusement, and new whores whose beauty was as exotic as the fruit hanging low from the lush vegetation. He couldn’t wait to be far away, away from that small town, from its stupid inhabitants, and from the memories it carried.

One day, he felt particularly bold: he had discussed his plans with one of the Emperor’s emissaries, and once the man had left, Hardon run up to his chamber. He wanted to be alone with his mirror, ask the usual question; he needed confirmation.

But then he thought back to his conversation with the emissary. Why limit himself to his own little kingdom? He felt confident; he could cast the net wider. So he stood before the mirror and asked:

“Magic mirror, I do require, who is the most handsome in the empire?”

The mirror waited, still hesitant, knowing it was about to bear bad news, but it had met the king’s wrath before: it hadn’t forgotten the moment Hardon had threatened to shatter it into a thousand pieces, and so it prepared itself:

“My dear king, out of the blue, Whitey is still more handsome than you!”

The king’s smile froze upon hearing those words. It wasn’t possible: Whitey had been dead for weeks, his flesh rotting somewhere in the forest. He had seen his heart.

“Repeat! I think you have misspoken. I’m afraid you might be broken!”

“My dear king, I’m not wrong! He’s so handsome and so strong…” For a fleeting moment; Hardon would never admit it, it was the warmth of an unsurpassable joy he felt, as if he had just awakened from the darkest dream. Whitey was alive! Yet, in the blink of an eye, everything was over. He realized that the real nightmare was starting there and then.

For the past few weeks, he’d been living in an illusion, and worse, he’d been betrayed—and by whom? His worthless cousin. How could he have been so blind! Hardon pounded his fist on his forehead. What a foolish mistake to think Goldween would rise to the occasion. And what impudence! What an affront! If Goldween thought he could get away with hard labor or prison, he was wrong, very wrong. Only one fate awaited a traitor, and the fate that awaited Goldween was the hanging tree in the market square. His predecessor had never used it as such, but since Hardon had risen to power, more than a few men and women had found themselves dangling from its branches, just to remind everyone not to mess with him.

Shocked, humiliated, and confused, he had to think quickly about his next moves, firstly, have Goldween arrested. He’d surely be in the royal stables, combing his horses or something like that, he was always there since Whitey’s death... what an insult! The king summoned Master Bate, his chamberlain, and ordered him to go fetch some guards and arrest his cousin.

Master Bate didn’t bat an eyelid; his job was to carry out orders, but before going to call the guards, he entered his private room, took his quill and a piece of parchment, quickly wrote a note, rolled it up, and approached the window where Bullet, his faithful raven, was waiting for him. Everyone thought Bullet was Hardon’s, but it was Master Bate who had found him one day, still featherless and blind, and nursed him until he was able to fend for himself.

“Find Goldween, quickly!” he whispered to the bird after tying the note to its leg, took Bullet in his hands and threw him into the air.

Only moments later, Goldween was sitting on a bench outside the stables drinking a mug of water when he saw a raven fly toward him. Bullet approached him on the bench and then jumped onto his knee. Goldween noticed the small scroll and understood it was meant for him. He untied the lace and unrolled it.

“You’ve been discovered! Run away immediately. The guards are coming. I’ll warn your parents. Don’t go to them; you’ll put them in danger. Burn this scroll.”

Goldween needed no encouragement; he had been preparing for this moment since his return from the excursion with Whitey. What shocked him most was the way he’d been informed, by Bullet, which meant that Master Bate, he recognized the handwriting, had saved his life. Who would have thought the chamberlain could be on his side? A secret member of the rebellion? Or perhaps just someone who had decided to do the right thing even at the cost of putting himself in danger?

Goldween had no time to waste. He ran to the stable and mounted Allegro, his most trusted horse. He tossed the parchment into the brazier and watched it burn to black ash. He spurred his horse, which galloped quickly across the courtyard just as Master Bate, escorted by three guards, was crossing it. The two men exchanged a fleeting glance, then Goldween disappeared into the distance, past the trees lining the courtyard, past the market square with its hanging tree, and through the city gates. From that point, he knew he was alone.

To be continued….

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Be prepared, be safe.

Blake