by _Anthology
One finger grazed the tip of his prick, his balls and then slid along the soft skin beyond, rubbing. Tuff gasped, his skin singing, muscles twitching. That felt like nothing he'd ever experienced. Like coming down straddle on an electric fence, only the pleasure outweighed the zing. He was making noises, too, he could hear ‘em but not stop 'em. They were shocking and loud, utterly uninhibited.
Then he’d be damned if those fingers didn't just keep on going down, moving back until they were rubbing against him there. He'd said he was ready. He'd asked. Fuck if he wasn't begging now, hips rising, feet scrabbling. He was so ready for that touch. So open. Trusting his companion to be true to his word and not hurt him.
A finger pushed at him, pressing, insistent and then sliding in. Those dark eyes gazed down at him, piercing him with their stare. He wasn't sure which shattered him more. That pressure, spreading him, or those fathomless eyes. Tuff just opened right up, belly and chest tight, muscles and tendons standing out.
A second finger pushed into him, stretching his body.
"Please." There that voice was, that thin, high pleading voice. Just didn't sound like him at all. Jesus. "Yes." The word was pressed against his lips and the fingers inside him disappeared.
Tuff just thrashed, wondering how the man could say yes when he was taking his touch away. Then something hot and hard was pushing against him. So much bigger than those two fingers, so much hotter.
"Oh. Oh, oh, oh." That was almost more than he could stand. Tuff took it, took it all, his own cock slapping his belly, all but forgotten until then. It hurt. It damn well burned. But it felt beyond good, too. Felt like he'd just explode with it.
In and in and then suddenly something inside him was exploding, pleasure shooting through him. That was all he needed to start him moving, trying to get more, bearing down on the thick heat inside him. One of his hands went to his cock, the other clutching the Indian's shoulder like it was the only solid thing in his spinning world. The Indian drove the pace, that hard cock pushing into him over and over again.
Those eyes. They told him stories of the old ones, of the God of the Mountain whose wounds were brought about by the white man, whose blood turned to rain and rained down among the people and who could even now produce rain when pleased. Those eyes told him all of that and more, but that thick cock told him of forgiveness, of pleasure brought by his kindness.
Finally Tuff just couldn't take anymore in, not one bit, and he came so hard his ears rang, cock jerking in his hand, wet heat coming from him in huge spasms. Those watching eyes closed, the cry of an eagle filling the night sky as heat pushed deep inside him.
The world grayed out around the edges, the feel of that thick flesh moving in him, releasing in him, just sending him over an edge he couldn't come back from easily. He was vaguely aware of the heat inside him pulling away, of a soft kiss brushing his lips, the wind whispering "thank you," in his ears. He thought he mumbled a "you're welcome" before he slipped off to sleep, dreaming of gods and Indian warriors and of epic battles that happened back when the land was young and he wasn't so much as a twinkle in his daddy's eye.
He slept long and hard, and when he woke up he was in his bedroll, far away from Harry and Little Joe. Lord, what a dream. Must have been because of that old man. God, he'd felt sorry for what they did to him. Thunder rumbled in the distance and Tuff sat right up, his whole body protesting the move. Damn he was sore. All over. He looked up at the old sleeping Ute mountain, far in the distance, watching clouds billow down over it, seeing lightning flash. His eyes widened as his body twinged with delicious pain, sending a jolt to his cock.
It couldn't be. Not in a million fucking years.
But all the same as the clouds came on them in a rush and Harry and Little Joe woke up just a swearing, scrambling to get their boots on and get to the cattle, Tuff started to laugh.
He laughed and laughed, turning his face up to the sky to catch the first drops of rain on his face and whispering his own thank you to the bringer of rain, who surely heard him. He would bet the ranch on it.
The Grove
By Edith Walker Cameron waited in the shadow of the keep, pressed up against the wall, until he was sure the night watchman had rounded the corner. He crouched low and scuttled quickly across the open courtyard to the small gate in the outer wall. He cringed as it squeaked, but ducked through quickly and, hearing no alarm raised to the sound of his exit, sighed in relief.
Two floors above, Denman sneered. It was only a few minutes run from the gate to the grove. The night was warm and Cameron broke out into a light sweat as he sped down the path. He slowed only slightly when he got to the trees for fear of tripping over exposed roots. He paused once to make sure no one had followed him then turned to jog the rest of the way to the grove. Philetus was there, as always. Cameron never hesitated, only flung his arms about his lover and pressed his lips to the cold mouth. The broad stone back beneath his hands began to warm. There was a soft rustling sound as leathery wings wrapped around him. Warm breath passed over his lips in a sigh of contentment as the gargoyle once again came to life. Cameron was engulfed in a warm, powerful embrace.
"My love," was the first phrase Philetus spoke, just as it had been every time, since the very first time Cameron had brought him to life.
*** They were tossing stones in the stream, as bored children will do, when Gerome told them that his older brother said there was a haunted grove in the woods. The other children jeered, saying everyone knew that. Even Cameron nodded his head and laughed. It wasn't really fair to make fun of Gerome. His family had just moved here from the other side of the river. He couldn't have known. But it didn't stop them.
"Have you seen it?" Gerome asked.
One of the girls looked at him in shock. Everyone else looked at him as if he was an idiot. "Of course not," Bliss scoffed. "No one goes there. It's haunted. That mage from Upper Breck even told me so." She was nine and thought she knew everything. Cameron didn't really like her very much. She was bossy and her voice sounded like the mill wheel when it was caught on something.
Everyone nodded their heads except Ewert. "I've seen it," he said quietly. He was instantly the center of attention. The others accused him of lying. "No, I really have," he insisted. "This winter when Mama was looking for moss she took me to help with the baskets. Mama pointed it out to me and told me to never go there. I could even see it a little bit. Mama says there's something in there. I thought I saw it, too. It's big and black with wings." He spoke with the sincerity of a seven-year-old who had 'seen things'.
The debate raged among the gathered youngsters over the truth of this for several minutes. In the end, they decided it required an expedition to prove. Forty minutes later they could see the opening in the trees ahead of them that had to be the grove. The chattering, joking, and teasing of Ewert had all ended. The forest had taken on a sinister air. It seemed darker than ever before and some of the younger children were starting to look longingly back the way they'd come. Now Ewert was standing there looking justified and ready for his due adulation.
"Well, go on," Cameron urged. "We want to see the thing."
That got Ewert off his high horse. Soon everyone had joined in the challenge. "All right," Ewert finally agreed. He poked Cameron in the chest. "But you're coming in front with me." Cameron hadn't bargained on that bit, but he couldn't back down from a challenge. He was Lord Sigmund's son and had a reputation to uphold. "Fine," he answered, his chin raised and his fists on his hips. "I'm not afraid."
The closer they got to the grove, the more fearful Cameron became. The woods were too quiet. The branches of the trees overhead seemed to come to life and be reaching down for them. The brush seemed thicker and Cameron was sure he could hear something rustling within it. He could tell Ewert was scared, too. He kept wiping his hand on his pant legs. Twice they looked at each other and Cameron had to fight not to turn back, but they couldn't lose face in front of the others. They finally reached the edge of the grove.
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br /> "Is that it?" Cameron asked, trying to delay going forward. "Yeah, that's it," Ewert answered, just standing there. Behind them, the others started pushing and calling them cowards in low voices. That was all it took for either of them to take the last few steps out into the open. Once there, it didn't take any searching to find what made everyone think the grove was haunted. Two of the girls squealed and ran back followed by one of the boys. If Cameron hadn't been in the front, with a reputation to uphold, he might have run too.
There at the far side of the grove was a statue, a very realistic statue. It looked like a fierce man with wings, some sort of monster, squatting down on a large pedestal. Cameron slowly moved closer. He was fascinated. Behind him, he heard Bliss tell him to stop, but he went on anyway. He could tell that at least one of the others was following him.
The statue looked the same size as a man, maybe even as big as his father. The face might have been handsome if it weren't for the angry eyes and fangs in the slightly open mouth. The wings were enormous. They didn't have feathers like a bird. He thought that must be what dragon wings were like. The thing was crouched with its knees spread and one arm straight down between them, the other clutching a staff. There were claws on the ends of the fingers and toes. But what held his undivided attention was the huge, erect, stone penis sticking up vulgarly.
Cameron stood there in awe. He could feel the others moving up behind him quietly. One of the girls started giggling and someone else whispered something rude. That was all it took to break the spell and Cameron found himself laughing too. They explored around the statue for a while and the grove a bit longer. When it was time to leave, they swore each other to secrecy.
"If our parents find out, they'll think we've been cursed," Bliss told the younger ones. "Then they'll take us to the mage in Upper Breck and he'll give us nasty things to drink." She knew these things since she'd had to go do just that a couple of years before.
Thus began Cameron's love affair with Philetus. Of course, it wasn't love then. An eight-year-old boy doesn't understand such things. Nor did he know the object of his fascination had a name, or even life. But it had begun nonetheless.
The children sometimes came back to play in the grove and taunt the horrible statue. They didn't come very often because their parents would surely catch on and that would be the end of their secret adventures. Then one day the daring began. Cameron had been teasing one of the younger children about still being afraid to come with them.
"If you're so brave, why don't you go touch it," the boy challenged. Everyone soon forgot the boy's timidity and focused on daring Cameron to touch the statue. First Cameron scoffed. Then he made excuses. When they started calling him a coward he stood up to his full, if not yet impressive, height and marched over to the statue and stood in front of one of its knees. His face was grim, his jaw set and his eyes narrowed. He was honor bound to prove them wrong. There was not a sound in the grove. The other children held their breath and even the insects seemed still. He would not embarrass his father by showing fear. Cautiously, he reached out his hand but paused inches away from the stone. He looked back over his shoulder to confirm that everyone was still watching. When he turned back around, he leaned forward and pressed his whole hand against the stone knee.
Nothing happened. There was no flurry of dark magic, no monsters, not even a swarm of gnats. He'd touched it and nothing had happened. He turned around and smiled at his cohorts. This was when Cameron's solo visits began. He would sneak away occasionally when no one was looking. Sometimes he would just sit in front of the statue, his ankles crossed and his knees pulled up. He'd look up into the face and wonder. Why was the statue here? Who made it? Was it a monster frozen by the sun like a troll? Was it a god that someone had worshiped, maybe with human sacrifices? Sometimes he would touch the creature. He ran his hands over the enormous wings, the broad back and the massive legs. Once, when he was 13, he even touched the fangs that showed through the partially open mouth. But never, ever did he touch -- that other part.
His childish imagination came up with ever more wondrous tales about the statue's origin the older he got. He also became more and more obsessed. By the time he was a young man, he was convinced that there was some tragic story behind the gargoyle, as he'd found out such creatures were called. First, he was sure that some hero had slain the beast to save his maiden love and the townsfolk had erected the statue in honor of the event. But the older he got the more he thought that perhaps the creature hadn't been the evil one.
When Cameron was almost a man, a dark young man came to live at the keep. His name was Denman and he claimed to be a mage. There hadn't been a mage in this part of the world in ages. Cameron's father thought himself quite blessed and offered the young man a place in his household. Denman was thin and his face was long and pointy; his personality was foul and he looked down on everyone as if they were something he'd scraped from a horse's hoof. He threatened to curse or withhold aid from anyone who dared cross him. Lord Sigmund's people didn't like him at all.
Cameron by now was the perfect image of a young hero. His body was well made and promised to be broad and strong. His face was handsome and most everyone admired him. He was kind to others and always, always brave. Cameron, unlike so many others, wasn't afraid of Denman's claims of magic power. Denman was jealous of Cameron and went out of his way to get the young man into trouble.
Cameron had taken to sitting at the foot of the statue, leaning against it, telling it his various theories of how it had come to be or of his troubles with Denman or his latest disagreement with his parents. The first time he kissed a girl, he told his silent friend. While talking, he would reach out and run his hands down a stone calf or over a knee. One day he looked up at the statue and the part that had fascinated but terrified him from the beginning. Ever so slowly, he reached up and touched just the tip of his finger to the tip of the gargoyle's cock. The world didn't end. The Earth didn't open to swallow him up. He took the tip of his finger and ran it down, down, down until it rested between the two stone testicles.
He didn't go back to the grove for many days. Denman had started following him. At least that was the reason he gave to the gargoyle when he finally showed up one moonlit night. His visits became less frequent and solely nocturnal. What would his father think if he knew his son was touching a statue in the manner of a lover?
Denman cornered him one afternoon and pressed him against the kitchen wall. When Cameron realized he was being kissed and that Denman's hand was under his tunic he panicked and shoved the young mage away.
"Don't push me away, little lord," Denman warned him. Cameron wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and fled to find someone to spar with to work off his sudden energy. That night he told the gargoyle how it had felt like the kiss set his body on fire. It was nothing like how it had felt to kiss girls. His voice shook and he huddled next to his silent friend trying to hide from this new knowledge.
He tried other things with girls. Many were willing to experiment with him. He learned how to fondle breasts and kiss and suck. He laughed when the girls giggled. The first time his fingers touched a girl under her skirts he was disappointed to find it wet and soft. It made his fingers smell odd. And all the time his mind kept wandering to the forms of his sparring mates, the soldiers, the men in the fields, the smell of masculine sweat and the look of the statue in the grove.
His father and mother and the entire keep celebrated the birthday when Cameron became a man. He sat at the high table, drank un-watered wine and was one of the first served. Denman sat below him and glared. Cameron's father announced they had selected a girl just a few leagues away to be his wife.
That night Cameron cried at the feet of the gargoyle. How could he love a woman when he loved a silent statue? What would his father do when he found out? He didn't feel like a hero. "I wish you were real," he whispered as he stood up. "I wish...," he said as he closed his eyes and leaned forward to brush his lips across the cold stone mouth.
"I wish you were my lover. I could wrap my arms around you and be held in return." He kissed the gargoyle again and rubbed his groin against the protruding tip of the stone prick. There was no one to witness his humiliating act. No reason not to fantasize. He rubbed until he could stand it no more. He pulled up his tunic and undid his trousers then took out his cock and began to stroke himself. The wind was chilly so he pressed closer to the statue. He looked into the lifeless eyes of his statue lover.
"My fierce, protective, gentle lover," he whispered and kissed it again. He murmured endearments and wishes while pressed up against his silent partner. He held himself up with one arm about the gargoyle's neck. One hand stroked and squeezed his cock, all the while he imagined the hand belonged to another. The blood raced through his veins and throbbed in his hand. "Mine," he said and sealed his lips on the stone mouth as his seed sprayed the statue.
Then he felt warmth under his hands and stone softening to skin. He felt that first sigh of breath across his lips and opened his eyes. The gargoyle was looking back, not with his sculptured angry gaze but with intelligence and warmth.
"My love," the creature said. "I've heard every word you have said to me. I've felt every touch," it continued and wrapped arms and wings about Cameron before kissing him again. It picked him up gently before stepping down off the pedestal and setting him down again.
Cameron thought it must be a dream. He raised his arms and clung to the statue. Even Denman's kiss had been nothing like this. Denman had kissed with anger and it felt like a sort of battle. This, this kiss stole his breath and touched his heart with its gentle passion. In an instant, it persuaded him to give up everything.
When their lips parted, Cameron felt dazed. He pulled back just enough to get a good look at whom he was kissing. It was the same statue that he had been visiting all these years, only now flesh and blood. The skin was dark compared to his own in the moonlight. The mouth was wide with full lips, the tips of fangs just showing. The dark eyes were large and wide, set well apart, the nose slightly broader than his own, the cheekbones high and strong. The body was smooth, almost hairless, the chest broad and arms strong. The wings, huge sails of bone and skin, unfurled behind the creature.
