That was, until the day I found Valentin.
I had been out as early as I could manage in the cold, grey, half-light of November, dressed as heavily as I could manage in dark fox and black summer rabbit furs, and with a pair of light cross-country snow shoes bound to my feet. Regardless of the season and the weather I always had my daily routines. Checking the beaver traps for possible furs, keeping track of the larger predators during their migrations, and checking the trails for fresh winter hares. So it was that I had completed almost two thirds of the way round my circular route, when I found the abandoned horse wandering aimlessly in a tiny forest clearing I usually visit when gathering kindling.
It was a glossy, dark black beast of fine stock – far too good for forest peasants – but it was clear from the marked state of the saddle and the general distressed and agitated condition of the animal itself that its rider had been through a skirmish of some kind.
My interest piqued, I decided to find out more, and on backtracking the horse’s trail I eventually came across the fallen cavalry soldier half buried in a snow drift.
Even from a distance he looked to be in his mid to late 20s, and although he appeared to be of a fair height, the bright blue, red and gold colours of his uniform made him appear almost doll-like and artificial when set against the white snow and dark pine trunks. Nor did it help that his face and hands had taken on the grey and ashen colour of unglazed porcelain.
I kept my distance rather than immediately rush to his aid, unsure for a moment if he was still alive or if he had frozen to death during the night. But when I finally detected the shallow rise and fall of his chest I moved closer – though cautiously, in case he should wake and attempt to protect himself with a pistol or a knife. As I looked more closely I could see there was blood and torn cloth, high on the upper arm of his uniform jacket, telling me immediately that he had been shot close to the shoulder. There was also a visible line of dried blood which had flowed and trickled from under his headgear, down across his forehead, and which had finally pooled in the curve of his nose. Gently I loosened the chinstraps and mindful of the low bullet hole, lifted the Ushanka away, and was quite startled and a little surprised by his head of short cut, almost pure white blond hair.
Thankfully, on closer examination of his scalp, I easily found the shallow groove where the bullet had just grazed his head as it had passed through his decorative hat.
Yet, even though he did not appear to be badly or fatally wounded, it didn’t stop me worrying about his shallow breathing and deathly pallor. He was obviously suffering from exposure and needed to be carefully warmed – otherwise the sudden temperature change would as surely kill him as if he had been left out to freeze in the forest.
So, despite my vow of solitude, I quickly gathered him up in my arms, carefully placed him across the saddle of his mount, and started to head back to the protection of my cabin.
It took me less than 40 minutes to return and, after some quick rearrangements I managed to safely stable the horse with my own bewildered livestock. Yet, when I had again gathered up the injured horse-soldier and was making my way to my cabin, I thought for a moment that I felt him move in my arms, and utter ‘krawtkee meeshka,’ (gentle bear) before slipping back into unconsciousness.
But the Devil makes fools of us through our idle imaginings, and once inside I placed him carefully on the floor, then hung my coats back over the door to help keep out the bitter winter cold. With little time to lose, I quickly set about creating a makeshift hospital bed by clearing off the large wooden table in the centre of the cabin. Once done, I carefully placed the young cavalryman on top of it and pulled them both a little nearer the main fire.
With some more wood thrown on to liven up the embers and coals a little, I turned around and, with the aid of several large oil lamps and the now brightening firelight, I started to hesitantly undress him, repeatedly checking for other less obvious wounds or other signs of damage he might have suffered in his flight through the forests.
As I gently undid the collar of his colourful outer tunic I became aware of just how handsome and distinguished he looked.
With his face passive and relaxed, although still ashen, it seemed as if he was without worry – his features clean cut, but with hints of good humour to the upturned corners of his mouth. At one time his nose had been broken and not reset cleanly, and it had left him with a slight ridge, though probably only noticeable from close up – which seemed to add, rather than detract, from his good looks.
Dismissing the distraction I unbuttoned the rest of the heavy uniform jacket fully and with some trepidation I carefully manoeuvred his arms out of it – all the time fearful that any awkward movements would cause his wound to open and start bleeding again. Thankfully it didn't, and on examining the sleeve of his undergarment, I was relieved to find it to be merely another scratch, barely cutting the skin in fact, with the blood having seeped into the wet cloth and spread like ink on a damp blotter.
Appraising him again it was clear some colour was starting to return to his face and hands, and his breathing had become deeper and more regular – a good sign that he was starting to recover strongly from his ordeal.
Encouraged by the good signs, I pulled the table nearer still to the open fire before I started to remove his black leather riding boots and icy woollen socks, carefully checking for signs of frostbite as I massaged his feet for a moment. The fine leather boots could possibly be saved as well, but as I put them down beside the table leg I realised his thick serge uniform trousers were still partially stiff with ice and heavy with water where the ice had thawed. Instinctively, I carefully undid the buttons of his thick serge trousers, unhooked them from the front of his braces, and then gently removed the rest of his uniform.
Seeing him lying on the tabletop, dressed only in his one-piece undergarment, with the shadows from the firelight jumping and flickering across his prone form, made me realise just how fragile and helpless he was. And again just how handsome and attractive I found him to be, with his head of white hair, pale blond eyebrows, small imperfect nose.
From deep within me I could feel the old stirrings slowly coming back to the surface again. The longing I had always had to feel the love of another man …
I shook my head and came back to the present. He still needed to be warmed if he was going to survive the rest of the day.
Collecting a large bowl from a nail in the cabin wall, I moved over to the fireplace. With a protective rag wrapped around my hand I lifted the ever-ready kettle from the fire's edge, and poured out some hot water – cooling it down with some clean river water in a bucket I kept by the door. If the goats got thirsty then they could have as much snow as they liked.
Taking a fresh cotton cloth from the line above the fireplace, I put everything on the table and proceeded to remove his torn and blood-stained underwear.
As I slowly unbuttoned the combinations I felt my hands start to tremble as they neared his groin, and I averted my eyes for a moment or two before returning to the top. Gently lifting his shoulders up slightly, I worked the sodden material downwards and carefully slipped him out of the top half – before going down to his feet and gently tugging the remains of the garment off him completely. Unravelling it, I put it on the line above the fireplace – out of harm’s way so it could dry out overnight.
As I turned around – try as I might – I could not resist the temptation to look at this young man’s totally naked body. He was trim, but not overly muscular, and it was easy for me to tell that unlike my somewhat large and now peasant-like personage, his five-foot-nine frame had not known real manual labour. The strikingly white hair on his head was also visible as fine, soft hair on his chest. I let my gaze slowly move downwards, following the white blond trail down the centre of his stomach, down and further down to his groin where it blossomed into a thick, ivory nest of pubic hair. In the midst of it was his ice-shrunken cock and tightly contracted scrotum.
Begone! I have no tim
e for such thoughts!
I shook my head and mind back to the present, and dipping the cloth into the warm water, I wrung it out and then started to gently work some warmth and circulation back into his body.
Starting with his face, I softly sponged the dried blood from his forehead, nose and cheek, marvelling again at the colouration of his eyebrows in comparison to my dark and hirsute forearms. Rinsing the cloth in the water again, I lightly traced it over his sensuous lips, brushing my thumb across his lower lip, before moving the cloth and my hand down over his neck and shoulders, then spreading them both out across his chest.
Impulsively I scooped up a handful of warm water and let it trickle and drip though my cupped hand onto his flat stomach – watching intently as it filled his navel, then ran down over his hips in time with his breathing, to pool on the table top. Lifting the cloth from his chest I folded it several times then set about gently mopping up the water on his stomach.
Dipping the cloth to heat it up again, I wrung it out and carefully unfolded it before tentatively placing it over his groin. As gently as I could I started to slowly massage his cock and balls through the warm cloth – feeling how the heat relaxed his scrotum so that finally his balls hung freely and how much larger his cock had become under my ministrations.
Lifting back the cloth a little, I admired his manhood, and despite being dwarfed by my large hands I could see his member had already started to grow to a respectable size. In a moment of sheer recklessness I bent forwards and pressed my lips to his still steadily swelling shaft.
Straightening up again I was greeted by a pair of soft marble-green eyes looking at me with a half sleepy expression. His hand reached up, took hold of my shirt sleeve, and pulling me towards him he muttered, ‘Kwratka leechnast dyeat-vyen,’ “be gentle I am inexperienced”, before bringing his head up to kiss me firmly and without any hesitation. For a moment I was taken by surprise, but as his mouth opened to mine I abandoned all restraint and returned his unspoken question with a passionate affirmative!
Tentatively, his hand found mine and after a moment’s cautious hesitation he started to guide it down over his taut flat stomach, down over his groin, and finally down between his legs, there to cup his wonderful balls.
Joyously breaking away from his mouth I recklessly planted a line of quick kisses down his chest and stomach – pausing to nuzzle into that glorious nest of white blond pubic hair – before taking his cock deep within my mouth. He let out a barely audible sigh, and as I continued to suck I could feel him start to writhe with pleasure! Moments later I felt his hand at my trousers, unbuttoning my fly and reaching in to rub at my own hard and erect cock, still trapped in my own long johns.
With his cock sliding in and out of my mouth I moved my hips around to give him better access, and his hand slid downwards to tickle and fondle my balls. Dyeat-vyen? He may well be inexperienced, but he certainly knew how to play with another man’s cock! But the positions we were in were uncomfortable, and moments later I was standing, silhouetted against the fire, and while he got down off the table I proceeded to remove my own clothes, until we were standing there, totally naked, my six-foot-two, broad-shouldered frame towering above him, and with body hair as dark as his was white.
Crossing to the far side of the cabin, he stood at the foot of the large, fur-covered bed – moving aside some of the heavy blankets until only the large black bearskin was left covering the mattress. Moving onto the end of the bed he knelt down on all fours, giving me a wonderful view of his buttocks and the promises they hid from view.
With him in that position it meant I did not have to bend down far in order for me to part his warm cheeks and start to rub and run my tongue around, over and eventually into his anus. His groans of pleasure spurred me on, and in moments my saliva was heavy between his cheeks. Standing up, I took my cock in one hand and slipped it up in between his buttocks, pulling my protective foreskin back and moving myself around, in order to wet the head and shaft so as to make my entry easier for the both of us.
A little more positioning and the head was just at his entrance. I put my hands on his hips and gently began to pull him backwards. I remembered my first time – Alexiaef had been brutal in his entry and I had bled like a woman for days after. I learned that it need not have been like that, and, ever since, I have been as careful and considerate as I could be with my lovers.
After a minute or so of gentle rocking and easing, I heard him gasp as my bulbous head slipped inside him. Still being careful, I gently inched the rest of my shaft into him, listening to his every sound, anxious not to hurt him too much, until my stomach was pressed firmly up against him. Taking my hands off his hips, I gently stroked the back of his neck and rubbed his shoulders and back reassuringly, whispering to him to relax, telling him how good he made me feel. As I carefully withdrew I could hear him making a curious growling sound in the back of his throat. More gentle pressure forwards and the saliva now lubricated my shaft, letting me slip more freely into him. Again, the growling at the back of his throat.
Taking that as a sign of encouragement I started to quicken my movements until I was thrusting into him, spurred on by him happily pushing backwards into my groin, his growling now louder and more open mouthed.
Spitting into the palm of my hand I reached around his hip to grasp at his cock – getting a feeling of joy at discovering it was still as hard as mine was. Holding my hand steady, I formed an open fist around his shaft, my large calloused hand dwarfing his goodly sized member, and let our movements slide his cock in and out of my fist, as if he were himself making love to another man.
In moments I could feel his cock start to twitch and his hips start to push forwards, and then he was ejaculating into my hand – spurt after spurt of hot sticky seed dribbling and oozing around my fingers, making his cock slippery and impossible to hold!
It was such a wonderful feeling, bringing such pleasure to another man, that I could no longer hold myself back – and grasping him around his slim hips I pulled him onto me, every thrust of my own hips sending my manhood further into him and finally triggering my own flood of jism, as he threw his head back and finally gave out a triumphant wolf-like howl!
After we had both rested I finished tending to his grazes and cuts, while he, between drifting in and out of much needed sleep, told me of his life so far. It was of a similar world to the one I had left behind in Tyumen City, on the banks of the Tura, and did little to encourage me back into the arms of what they now laughingly called Civilisation. But I listened to him talk of his parents, his brothers and sisters, and of a life he thought cut short when he was forced to flee from the Revolutionists, believing the bullet to be lodged in his skull, rather than having just skimmed over it.
And for a pitifully short but glorious while we became ardent lovers, hunting and working during what little day the winter gave us, then loving and sleeping through the long winter nights. And we did so unashamedly, with no peers or laws to condemn and crush our joys in having found another who trod the same be-shrouded path of love.
Time passed.
November became December, then the New Year faded into memory, and as Valentin’s strength returned, so did his political fervour. Until, by early March, just before the spring rasputitsa, I knew he would not stay with me for very much longer.
The evening before his departure I carefully laid out his uniform, and in the morning I helped him dress into it once more. Then, watching him gently ride away, back into the conflict of civil war and the accursed Revolution, I bid farewell to my *Snyek Volk.
* Snow Wolf
The Fist
by G.R. Richards
The guys loomed large around the lockers when Deepak came out of the washroom. Between Walter and Rude Rudy’s shoulders, he could just make out his door flung wide open. Shit. He had stuff in there he only wanted one person to see. Didn’t they know the meaning of the word privacy? There was a reason lockers had locks.
‘Hey, Deep-packed,’
a voice called out. It was The Fist. He was standing behind the other two guys. When Walter and Rude Rudy shifted to the side, Deepak observed with horror what Fist had pulled from his locker. He was just plain mortified. There was no way to talk himself out of this one. ‘What’s this shit all about, eh? You planning on baking some brownies after work?’
The Fist. Believe it or not, they were tight. Deepak would never have imagined it when they first met. The guys all called him The Fist because he claimed to be a fighter. He claimed to be. The Fist talked a good talk. And when a big black guy talks, you listen. Once Deepak realised talk was all it was, he warmed up to Fist big-time. He figured anyone who worked so hard to maintain a hard outer shell had something vulnerable on the inside. Of course, he’d never admit that to Fist.
‘Put it back,’ Deepak begged. ‘Please, before anyone else sees.’
At Fist’s side, Walter shook his head. He looked over at Rudy to say, ‘Well, I can’t say I understand why any man would keep a slab of shortening in his locker.’
Walter. Everybody knew Walter was deaf in one ear. Some freak childhood accident, at least that was the rumour. He had a hearing aid, but didn’t like to wear it in the warehouse. Too noisy. He got distortion, he said. Anyway, why waste batteries? Those things cost damn near a fortune. Walter was always hanging around The Fist. First off, they were cousins. Second off, he worried he’d be bullied by the other guys. Course, everyone loved Walter. Nobody would have laid a finger on him.
Rude Rudy was another story altogether. When Deepak first met the guy, he figured he’d be … well … rude. Crass. Tell dirty jokes, make suggestive comments. But that wasn’t it. Rude Rudy was called Rude Rudy because he didn’t have much to say. You could ask him a question and he’d give you a blank stare in return. Deepak asked Walter one time if maybe Rudy had a hearing impairment too. ‘No,’ Walter had told him. ‘Rudy’s just rude. He just don’t care what you think of him.’ Ever since, Deepak held Rudy in high esteem. He wished he could stop caring too.
Boy Fun, Four Book Bundle Page 4
