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
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, 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.
