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
All the previous chapter in the Whitey saga are HERE
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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. Years 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. 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. 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 where he’s introduced to the men who live there. That evening, around the camp fire, Whitey, listens to an ancient folk tale: the story of Demon and Merlin and truly becomes one of the group... At first, everything goes smoothly. Hardon is convinced that Whitey is dead, and life at the castle resumes its usual routine. Until one day, the King asks the mirror a different question, and the truth is revealed. Goldween manages to escape from White Swallow. No matter how hard Goldween tries to cover his tracks, the king’s men always seem to be hot on his heels. Until, with the help of an elderly lesbian couple, he finds refuge in Demon’s and Merlin’s cave. Goldween, under the tutelage of the Northern Queen, joins the Morning Star, a rebel group, and soon becomes their leader. Meanwhile, once winter is over, Whitey finds himself alone at the camp, on cleaning duties. A very handsome,cherry merchant arrives at the camp, lost. The attraction is strong, and the sex is the best Whitey has ever had. But when the merchant offers him his finest cherries, all is revealed, and Whitey suffers a long, painful agony whose only relief will come with his eventual death.
Fancy is local slang for -homosexual man-
While Whitey lay dying under the scorching sun, Goldween was fighting his own battle thousands of miles away to the east.
The Morning Star, his rebel group, had set its sights on its most ambitious target: the Imperial Bridge over the Store River. It was one of the most important infrastructures in the entire Imperial network: located just 15 miles south of Vasta, the Empire’s capital, it crossed the river at a strategic point that allowed the passage of goods, people, and armies from the city to the rest of the lands and, more importantly, the other way round. It was through that bridge that the capital, overlooking the Eastern ocean, received most of what it needed to feed its population, keep its traders busy, and exercise control over the Empire’s lands.
Of course, the river was navigable; the new Darwent Canal was under construction, and once completed, it would create a direct link between the east and the distant lands of the west: a waterway from Vasta to Darwent, in the mountainous center, and finally to Aberglide, on the west coast. Aberglide: one of the Empire most important ports, where the new fleet was being built in the belief that it would allow the empire to expand overseas for the very first time.
But the canal was still under construction, and ships trading along the river were an easy target for rebels. A fire arrow attack could easily destroy months’ worth of trade. Road trade was easier to protect, checkpoints were frequent, and in the worst case, what was lost to the rebels was only a fraction of the imperial output.
The bridge was made of stone; its most vulnerable part was the central wooden section that opened to allow the passage of larger ships. Naturally, the emperor knew the bridge’s importance to the proper functioning of the imperial infrastructure, and so it was heavily guarded. Destroying it meant the rebels had to plan their operation meticulously: they needed to be in a number large enough to deal with the guards stationed there to defend it, and they also knew that the operation would certainly result in human losses on both sides of the conflict.
The Morning Star rebels were going to gather in a safe place in the countryside west of the bridge. They were men and women who could no longer accept the level of violence with which the empire was being governed, not to mention the emperor’s suicidal plan to attack a previously friendly overseas land whose superiority on the high seas was unquestionable. Among them were members of the aristocracy, there were farmers, lumberjacks, shopkeepers, and seamstresses.
The rebels’ meeting point was a cluster of abandoned, old loggers’ huts in the midst of the dense forest that covered the river plain. To get there, they had to cross vast expanses of marshland. Within a few months, the place would have been shrouded with swarms of mosquitoes, but for now, the main source of discomfort was the intolerable humidity.
As the Morning Star rebels approached the old camp, they expected the other group, that was suppose to be joining them, might already be there. The only thing Goldween knew about this group was their name: “For Your Delight.” or simply FYD. Goldween found the choice of words curious, to say the least, and was intrigued. All he knew about them was that they primarily targeted kingdoms loyal to the Emperor in the eastern reaches of the empire.
A child’s cry broke the stagnant atmosphere, just as the huts appeared among the trees; it was just what they needed: to be given away by a whining child.
Goldween knew they were being watched as their horses approached the camp. The trees were almost claustrophobic, closing in thick around them, hiding many eyes that followed their every move. The fact that they had managed to get so close to the huts meant they had been recognized and considered friends.
The heat and humidity weighed down on them with an intensity unusual for spring, the only relief being offered by the shade in the dense vegetation. The air in the clearing near the camp entrance shimmered with the heat, creating the ephemeral illusion of a mirage.
The child’s crying grew louder.
Two young women stood at the side of the path, their long hair wrapped in scarves that rested haphazardly on top of their heads. They had drawn their swords, just in case, but when one of them spoke, her tone did not seem hostile.
“I see the sky is dark, but what is in the east?”
“The morning star shines brightly,” replied Goldween, whose companions had also drawn their swords. Then he continued: “The fruit you offer is ripe with juice.”
“For your delight, come and taste it!” She smiled.
Goldween dismounted from Allegro and shook hands with the woman and her companion.
“I’m glad you’ve made it this far, One-Eye Bandit! Your fame precedes you...”
People had begun pouring into the clearing from their hiding places; the Morning Star rebels dismounted receiving a warm welcome.
The “FYD” group seemed to be made up mostly of women, all quite young and attractive. The few men present were Goldween’s age or younger, and also very handsome. One of them approached Goldween, shook his hand, and, smiling mischievously, whispered, “Your fame has really preceded you. And now I understand why...” - he winked.
Before Goldween had time to respond, a woman shouted, “Hey, you, leave him alone! And you...” - she continued, pointing to the rebel woman who had spoken the password ,“I doubt he’s interested in your stinky fruit!” then she burst out laughing.
“Come here, you. It’s been so long...”
Goldween wasn’t entirely sure the woman shouting was addressing him. She had cropped red hair, was tall, she wore men’s stockings and a short, tight-fitting tunic that revealed her generous breasts. It was only when she approached with her arms outstretched that everything became clear to him.
Magdalen.
The only other person at court he could have called a friend, apart from Whitey. The last time he’d seen her had been over a couple of years before. Except that on that occasion, her hair was long, her curls hidden beneath a veil that made her look rather virginal, were it not for the matter that she was in fact a whore, and one of the king’s favorites at that. Not a courtesan, nor a common harlot, but that rare creature allowed into the castle, always behind the scenes. Erudite, beautiful, and, of course, completely at the king’s disposal.
“Maggie? What the hell are you doing here?” Goldween rushed to her and wrapped his arms around her supple body.
The last time they’d seen each other was before Whitey had even joined his stables, yet it seemed much longer than that. They usually met in the castle’s servants’ kitchen, or when she arrived in a carriage, secretly arranged to allow her entry. The word “secretly” is used loosely in this context, because despite the king’s efforts to conceal his numerous secret affairs, whether with other ladies of the court or with his whores, everyone knew about them and who his favorites were.
Maggie and the other girls were often assigned rooms in the most remote recesses of the castle, where they spent a week or so at a time. During those stays, they’d use the servants’ kitchen, and that’s how Goldween had become friends with her.
“What do you think? I’m here for the frigging fresh air?” She let go of him and began fanning herself as if she were still at court.
“No, well, you just disappeared!” That’s exactly what happened: they’d met for breakfast in the kitchen. She’d told him the king had been in a terrible mood of late and that she couldn’t wait for the week to be over because she couldn’t stand hearing him complaining while he fucked her. Then she simply disappeared.
§
The more canny among you, my readers, may have already guessed that we’ve already met Magdalen in our narrative, but it’s been a long time, so allow me to refresh your memory.
Around the time the meetings between King Hardon and Whitey were becoming a regular part of the monarch’s schedule, you may recall that the king was somewhat frightened by how his body reacted to the prince’s presence; seeking a more passive role.
Concerned that he was becoming a fancy, he had decided to investigate whether the same arousal would manifest in other inappropriate circumstances. He’d bathed with his naked, strong friends, but thankfully his cock remained flaccid. Then, one night, he’d asked his favorite whore to rim him.
That whore was, indeed, Magdalen. She’d had the misguided idea of jokingly asking him if he was becoming a fancy. She’d gotten too close to the truth: hearing that word uttered by another person, a whore on top, had infuriated him, an emotion very familiar to him, even on his best days.
And from that night, Magdalen simply disappeared. Her friends thought she might have died, perhaps in an accident in the forest where she loved to walk, or that she’d quit whoring to live a decent life far away, out of the king’s reach, or, more likely, that she’d been killed by the king himself for saying or doing something he didn’t like.
That last guess had been so close to turn out right, but at the last moment the king showed a glimmer of compassion, perhaps because he had just devised a new plan to deal with Whitey and he felt hopeful. In fact, he let her go, warning her that if he ever saw her face again, he would make sure her severed head would go on display on the pike in the town square.
§
And that’s exactly what Maggie explained to Goldween as she led him toward one of the huts, arm in arm.
“I’ve heard the One-eyed bandit has made quite a reputation for himself... and I’m not talking about your rebellious actions,” just like the man who greeted him earlier she winked at him.
“So you know,” Goldween conceded.
“Of course, everyone knows! You are such a fancy!” she kissed him on the cheek. “And anyway, I have always known!”
“How come? I didn’t know myself!”
“Of course you knew, maybe you didn’t want it to be true…, it can’t have been easy. Anyway, look at you, you’re gorgeous, Goldie!” She had always called him that, only she and the king, the only difference being that the king called him Goldie to make him feel small, Maggie because she liked him.
They were about to reach the hut when the child’s cry pierced the air again.
“What’s that thing screaming?!” It wasn’t easy to unnerve Goldween, but that needy child was doing a good job.
Maggie hurried up the steps, turned, putting her hands on her hips defiantly, and looked Goldween straight in the eye.
“That thing is my daughter! And before you say it, she’s not being spoilt, she’s unwell, I think she’s caught something.” She held his gaze without moving.
“Your daughter? That’s wonderful! How... is her dad here?” Goldween’s face lit up, and despite her resolve, she smiled back, falling back into his arms.
“Well, how, I hope I don’t have to explain it to you,” Maggie laughed. “The rest is a little more complicated. Come in and meet your second cousin.”
Maggie opened the creaking door of the hut. Second cousin? There was only one explanation.
A woman was sitting next to a straw bed on which a semi naked little girl slept. The girl was sweating badly, tossing and turning in her sleep, occasionally crying in a way it would have put a banshee to shame. She was clearly in distress, and Goldween felt guilty for his comment from a few minutes earlier.
“It’s been like this for a couple of days, I’m worried.” Maggie had approached the bed and touched her daughter’s forehead.
“Wait here, I know someone who could help her.” Without waiting for a response, Goldween left the hut.
He came back a few minutes later accompanied by a man a little older than himself.
“This is Ekrel, a Northern friend. If anyone knows what to do, it’s him.”
“Thank you! Ekrel, please come.”
The Northern man approached the child’s bed, examined her and asked Maggie a few questions.
“I think I know what she needs. Give me time. I’ll be back.” And just like Goldween before, Ekrel hurried out.
“What’s her name?” Goldween stood beside Maggie.
“Martha, like my mother.”
“Martha,” -the lady- as in the equivalent of '-the master-. Somehow it suited her. Even in her anguish, she seemed in control, only screaming when the pain became unbearable.
“She’s almost two. I think you’ve figured that out by now.”
“Is Hardon the father?”
“Of course, I was only laying with him. And looked at her. She’s his spitting image, and thankfully, yours, too.”
“Did he know? Is that why he decided to let you live?”
“God no! I didn’t know either. I wasn’t even a month late when the king sent me away. If he’d known, he would have asked me to get rid of her, and considering what I’d told him, he would have killed me on the spot, imagine that!”
She was right, obviously the last thing the king wanted was another bastard heir apparent, the child of a whore at that.
“It must be hard to do what you do with a little girl who follows you everywhere. Can’t you just leave her with someone?”
“I don’t have anyone: all my friends are with the rebels and my parents died when I was little, I have no relatives. I didn’t start whoring for fun, you know?”
“Of course, sorry, it’s just that she’s a little girl on the front lines...”
“Martha’s well cared for, you know, the boys and girls of the FYD are my family now and they love her too.”
“How did you end up joining the group?”
“Well, it’s a long story, let’s just say I was already part of it when I was pleasuring the king.”
Goldween’s eyes widened, first Master Bate and now Maggie, both members of the resistance.
She looked at him and smiled: “Me, my boys, and my girls, we were all whores! You know, the best opportunities for a spy are in the bedchamber. You make them talk with your sweet kisses.”
“Did you know I was also part of the resistance?”
“Yes, I did. But don’t worry, my friendship was sincere, I wasn’t using you or anything like that.” She felt an unusual feeling of awkwardness rising inside her.
”But why didn’t you tell me?”
Maggie looked at him, wondering what to say.
“Was it because I’m the king’s cousin? You didn’t trust me?”
She nodded without saying anything, and after a moment of silence, she found the right words:
“It’s not that simple: we all knew what you did in the stables was invaluable, but we had to create a safe zone around you, in case we had made a mistake. I wasn’t proud...”
“Don’t worry, I understand!” Goldween placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “By the way, what do you know about Master Bate?”
“God! Slimy, little weasel. Why do you ask? What happened to him?”
So he wasn’t alone: Master Bate belonged to another tier of the spy network, above everyone else, and his intrigues had been known only to his superior. After escaping from White Swallow, Goldween had managed to uncover some information about the Chamberlain’s whereabouts: he too had had to flee the court, but before doing so, he had kept his promise to inform Goldween’s parents of the danger they were in, giving them time to find asylum in a friendly kingdom. News of Master Bate was rare, but apparently he had reached his destination: a kingdom in the northwest from where he was still able to direct the rebels’ movements like a skilled puppeteer.
Goldween explained this to Magdalen, who couldn’t believe that the horrible man who had pushed and shoved her into the king’s arms was actually one of the most important members of the resistance.
“Damn, he was good at his job, I hated him with all my heart!”
“Me too, but I owe him my life, and even my parents’.”
There was a knock on the door, and Ekrel entered without waiting for permission. A tall, burly man, he made the hut seem even smaller than it already was. But when he spoke, his voice was gentle.
“I found what I needed,” he said, placing the bundle of herbs he was carrying on the table.
He took a small stone from his leather pouch and began grinding the herbs until they turned into a pulp.
“Can I have a cup and some hot water?”
The woman sitting next to Martha’s bed left the hut and came back a moment later with a flask. Maggie had found a small wooden bowl and gave it to Ekrel. He divided the pulp into three doses and dropped one into the bowl, then poured the water over it.
“You have to wait for the water to become lukewarm, then give it to the girl to drink. She’ll like it: I added some sweet roots. Do the same tonight before bed and again first thing tomorrow morning. In the afternoon, she’ll be out playing.” With that, he left the room leaving a large void where his bulk had stood.
They did as they were told, and after drinking the first bowl, the sweating began to subside, allowing Martha to fall into a restful sleep. Magdalen breathed a sigh of relief. Only now, noticing the difference in her posture, did Goldween realize how tense her body had been earlier.
They left the hut and sat on the outside steps while the camp buzzed with the Morning Star rebels setting up their quarters, lighting fires for cooking, and introducing themselves to the members of the other group.
They chatted, catching up on what had happened since they’d last seen each other.
Although he wanted to share everything with Maggie, Goldween couldn’t bring himself to talk about his relationship with Whitey, not least because keeping it secret was the best way to protect him.
“Then I better talk to your leader,” Goldween had gotten up. As much as he enjoyed talking to his friend, there was an attack to plan, and this was by far the largest and most complicated mission he’d ever been involved in.
“You’re talking to her!”
Of course, how foolish of him not to have thought of it. Perhaps the old fashion ways of King Hardon’s court were still influencing his thinking.
“Oh dear, I hope you’ll forgive me!”
“It depends on how good you are at following orders.” Maggie wasn’t one to be messed around with.
They moved to a quiet corner of the camp, under a makeshift porch where someone had built a scale model of the bridge and the surrounding area, using mud, wood, and scraps of vegetation.
In one corner of the porch stood a small wooden structure that reached Goldween’s knees. He’d seen many of those before, and he immediately knew it was part of the attack plan.
“That’s a mangonel: a catapult. A replica, obviously. They’re building it as we speak. We’ll place it on this ridge,” Maggie pointed to a small ledge in the model, “about 400 meters from the target. If we want to destroy the bridge, this is our only weapon. The rest is easy: our archers will set fire to the wooden section of the bridge, but if we want lasting damage, the stone part must come down too.”
“400 meters isn’t much! Don’t you think the Imperial Guards will spot it?” It was incredibly dangerous. Goldween wasn’t sure the plan would work, but the FYD had that covered, obviously.
“They’re building it, but it’s not assembled yet. We’ll transport the components to the attack point one at a time, so as not to attract attention. The pieces will be scattered and hidden in various places, and we’ll assemble it only the night before the attack. It gets dark late, so we won’t need to light fires. Once it’s up and running, we’ll attack...”
“And what about the rocks?
“We need to start stockpiling them right away. That’s why we need you: to transport the pieces, find the rocks, and keep an eye on the guards during the night. Everything’s planned, just tell your group to follow the orders.”
And so he did. Goldween gathered his fighters along with the FYD members in charge of operations; everyone had to be aware of what was going to happen if the plan was to succeed.
It was late afternoon, and more FYD fighters were returning to the camp. Goldween guessed they had been patrolling the area, transporting the catapult components to their secret hideouts and ensuring the camp was secure.
The heat was just beginning to ease, and with it the shroud of humidity that weighed down on the camp.
Goldween felt dirty, sweat condensing on him like an extra layer of clothing he wanted to shed. Shortly before reaching the camp, his gang had crossed a stream, and he headed in that direction. He followed a trail made by wild animals through the vegetation until he reached the stream’s bank. From there, he walked for a while until he found a sheltered spot that inspired him: the water formed a shallow pool in the shade of tall weeping willows whose branches skimmed the surface.
He stripped, his skin breathing in the cooler air as his clothes were removed. Goldween held them in his hands and waded into the pool, wringing out his stockings and tunic in the cold, running water to rid them of the accumulated dust and dirt. He returned to the shore and hung his clothes on the tree branches to dry.
Then he waded back into the water.
“What are you waiting for?” he asked aloud. If anyone had passed by, they would have thought he was mad or conversing with the fairies, but some bushes along the path he had come from began to shake, and a tall man clumsily stepped out them.
“Were you expecting an invitation?”
“No, well...”
It was the man who had greeted him upon his arrival at the camp, the one who had told him his reputation preceded him.
The moment those words were spoken, Goldween knew they would end up laying together.
It was as simple as that. Goldween, the late bloomer, the virgin, had become an expert codifier of allusions, hints, and stolen glances.
As he walked toward the stream, he knew he was being tracked and knew very well who his stalker was, happy to let him follow his trail.
Nothing makes you hornier than knowing you might die soon. The constant fear that everything could be over in a moment is the most powerful aphrodisiac: what was the point of wasting time when the end was nigh? Goldween had once read a poem written in a court in a distant land; a passage had struck him:
How beautiful is youth,
That quickly flees anyway!
Whoever wants to be happy, let them be:
for of tomorrow there is no certainty.
Those words resonated with him, especially since he’d actively joined the resistance.
The man came closer to the pool, having to duck to avoid some of the lower branches. He had broad shoulders, a beard, short brown hair, and very pale blue eyes that gave him a distinct air of innocence. Goldween bet those eyes had deceived many a man, loosened many tongues, both metaphorically and, of course, literally.
“What’s your name?” Goldween made no effort to hide his manhood; the water barely reaching his thighs.
“Aldwin. And yours?”
“I thought you knew; you said my reputation preceded me.”
“No, not that, your real name.”
“Goldween. Come here.” He smiled, inviting him closer.
Aldwin lifted his tunic, revealing his powerful torso; a carpet of hair covered his chest, tapering to form the thick treasure trail.
His stockings clung to his skin, revealing the growing bulge that had been hidden beneath his tunic.
Then Aldwin bent over to remove the last of his clothing, his cock leaping out of the cage like an impatient animal. Goldween’s rod reacted to the sight with a thickening immediacy.
Aldwin waded into the water, and as he approached, Goldween noticed a small mark on his chest, hidden beneath the dark fuzz of his hair.
He saw him looking. “Once a whore, always a whore.” Aldwin didn’t seem bothered.
“Does that mean you were owned?” Goldween was surprised.
“More or less. It’s King Etherel’s seal, meaning I was his property.”
King Etherel, one of the Emperor’s strongest allies along with King Hardon.
“I didn’t know he was a fancy too.” Normally rumors like that spread quickly.
“No, he’s not. I was a gift to his guests, to the fancies of the court, to keep them happy.” Aldwin spoke as if he were recalling a distant past that no longer troubled him.
Goldween leaned in and kissed him, their beards cushioning the enthusiasm.
Aldwin let himself be explored, allowing Goldween’s tongue to dominate his, to play with it, forcing it to guess his next move.
Then Aldwin pulled back, taking Goldween in.
“You’re gorgeous,” he whispered, immediately beginning his descent.
His lips caressed Goldwin’s chin, his neck, his nipples. His teeth pinched them with a refined mastery that sent a wave of painful pleasure through Goldwin’s body. The heat of their bodies intensified every sensation rather than stifling it, creating a bond that only the coolness of the water could weaken. Aldwin let his tongue run along Goldween’s blond down, lingering at his salty navel and continuing its journey along his flat, taut belly.
“Wait, I haven’t washed yet,” Goldween interrupted him, but couldn’t finish the sentence: his cock had already disappeared into Aldwin’s mouth.
