by Rob Rosen
Eivind licked along Thorjus’s jaw and planted a lingering kiss onto his lips. As he groaned, Thorjus shook. His balls rose and his shaft hardened.
Not yet. Harald pulled his mouth away from the throbbing cock and spit into his hand. He rubbed the tips of his fingers around and into his ass, then he straddled Thorjus’s hips. Lining up the cock beneath him to his hole, Harald pressed down as the head of Thorjus’s cock impaled him. A jolt of pain shot through Harald as Thorjus thrust upward.
“You’re tight.”
Harald closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, the sting lessening. “No one but you has been inside me.”
Eivind moved from Thorjus’s lips to Harald’s dick. “It’s true, Lord Thorjus.” He slid the shaft into his mouth as Harald rode his lover’s erection.
The surge of pleasure through Harald intensified as his balls tingled. “I’m close.”
Eivind released Harald’s cock. “Inside me.” He turned and pressed his ass against Harald’s hardness.
Harald’s dick pulsed as he slid into Eivind, and soon he rode the wave of his orgasm, hugging the redheaded man against his chest as he fired off inside him.
Thorjus pulled out of Harald and gently pulled Eivind from his arms. He spun the Pict around and bent him forward. Harald held him as Thorjus pressed inside his ass.
“Yes, Lord Thorjus. I want it. Give it to me.”
Thorjus pounded him, then rammed in hard and threw his head back with a groan as his hand clasped Eivind’s shoulder. “Here it is.” Each small thrust accompanied a grunt as Thorjus came inside Eivind.
Harald stroked the young man’s hair and kissed his forehead.
Eivind sighed. “I truly belong to both of you.”
Harald wrapped his arms around both of them, and his two lovers rested their heads on his chest. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Harald woke to an insistent nudging at his ass. His arm rested over the still sleeping Eivind while Thorjus pressed against his back. Harald pulled at his asscheeks to allow Thorjus’s cock easy access to his hole.
Thorjus chuckled. “Good morning.” He spit into his hand and rubbed it onto the head of his dick. “I want to have you. May I?”
“Take me.”
A slight sting accompanied intense pleasure as Thorjus gently eased into Harald’s ass. He clutched Eivind tighter as he grew accustomed to Thorjus’s hardness sliding inside him.
Eivind sighed, but didn’t wake.
Thorjus continued to fuck Harald with a gentle rhythm. Not too slow or fast, but enough to make Harald’s erection throb with each thrust. After a few moments, Thorjus’s rhythm faltered, and he buried his cock deep inside Harald as he bit his shoulder and groaned. He shook as his dick throbbed.
Shuddering as his softened cock slipped from Harald’s hole, Thorjus held him for a few moments as his breath slowed to normal. “Two years was too long to wait.”
Harald turned his head toward his lover. “You don’t have to leave right away, do you?”
Thorjus pushed himself up onto his elbow, his head resting on his hand. “No. The invasion’s complete. I’m ready to settle down.”
“What of your career as a fighter?”
Thorjus chuckled. “I’ve had two years to think about it. There’s honor in tending the land. This soil is rich, and I want to be with you if you want me.”
Happiness flooded Harald. “Of course I want you. Stay with us.”
Thorjus carefully slipped from the bed and retrieved something from his armor. He pressed it into Harald’s hand as he returned to the bed.
Harald turned the wooden disc in his hand. “The runes.”
“I wouldn’t have made it through without this talisman.”
Harald pressed his back against Thorjus’s body as he hugged Eivind close. Thorjus wrapped his arm around him and kissed his neck.
My warrior is home.
RISE UP
B. Snow
Dedicated to those who died during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, April–June, 1943, and to those who lived through it.
Warsaw
April 22, 1943
“Grenades. Where do you want them?” Stan hefted the crate, praying he wouldn’t drop it.
“Second doorway on the left.” The man he’d been told to ask walked past him without even a look.
“That’s gratitude,” Stan muttered.
“Hey, fuck you!”
Stan looked over his shoulder. His heartbeat sped up as the man marched back toward him, the thick, dark brows drawn low, mouth set in a snarl. “All I said was—”
“You think you’re doing us some kind of favor, bringing weapons into the ghetto?” The man walked right up to Stan, leaning in so they were face-to-face, so close that the smell of barley puffed in warm bursts across Stan’s chin with every angry word. “ We’re the ones doing you a favor! As long as the Nazis are focused on this place, you and your resistance buddies can do whatever you like.”
Stan set the crate down and let out a breath. “Yeah, us Poles are having a great time. It’s like one big party outside these walls. In fact, I won these grenades at the Gestapo Field Day. No one can beat me at the wheelbarrow race.” He glared at the man, who went still, staring at Stan with an unreadable expression for so long that Stan thought maybe he’d died standing upright.
“Are we finished here?” the man finally said.
“Yeah.”
“All right.” He turned and walked away.
Stan watched him for a few seconds, then let out a disgusted sound and picked up the crate again. As he turned into the second doorway, he heard a “Thank you,” from the far end of the alley. Or maybe it was just the sound of a door closing.
April 27, 1943
Stan stood in the same alley with another crate. “Bottles. You can use them for—”
“We know how to make Molotov cocktails,” the man said, taking the crate from Stan and walking away.
Stan fell into step beside him. “What’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know? Are you a German spy?”
“Yes,” Stan said, sarcasm clinging to the word. “I’m a German spy who brings you weapons because I like to keep things interesting.”
And there, the expression dropped right off the man’s face again. Then he scowled. “You look German. A perfect example of the Aryan superman.”
Stan ran a hand over his short blond hair. “It’s how I get through the city. I put on a German uniform. None of them even look twice at me in the street.”
“Shit! That’s dangerous!”
Finally, something other than scorn or boredom. “It’s all dangerous,” Stan countered. “You’re a bunch of Jews standing up to the army of the Third Reich in the middle of a country full of people who would just as soon hand you over.”
“But you wouldn’t.”
“Like you said, you’re distracting the Nazis for us.”
“Is that the only reason you’re helping us?” The man handed the crate off to a group of women and continued walking, Stan at his side.
Stan shrugged. “I’ve always rooted for the underdog.” He held out his hand. “Stanislav. My friends call me Stan. I’ve been with the Polish Resistance for almost a year.”
The man scowled again, but he took Stan’s hand and shook it. “Yakov. Thanks for the bottles, Stanislav.”
Well, it was a kind of progress.
May 2, 1943
“Here.” Stan held out a cloth-wrapped packet. “Bread and cheese. Eat it.”
Yakov took it and tossed it on the bed. “I’ll have it later.”
“Have it now.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You damn well are, and you’re going to eat it while I watch, not give it away to someone else.”
Yakov sneered, the hair on his unshaven upper lip bunching up into a dark line. “I don’t have to do a damn thing, you arrogant—”
“Tomasz took some to the kids, so you don’t have to give yours away to them.
I know you do that.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Then it’s a damn good guess.” Stan reached out and grabbed Yakov by the shirt collar. “Right there,” he said, pressing his hand against Yakov’s ribs. “No meat on those bones.”
Yakov shoved him away. “It’s none of your damned business.”
“How do you expect to protect these people if you’re dead from hunger?”
After a long silence, Yakov swore and picked up the package. “Fine,” he said, unwrapping it. “But you’ll share it with me.”
“I’ve already eaten.”
“But you could eat more.” Yakov stretched his hand out, slipped it inside Stan’s coat, pressed against Stan’s ribs. “Not much meat on those bones, either.”
Stan shivered, but kept his eyes locked on Yakov’s.
Yakov removed his hand, broke off a piece of bread and handed it to Stan.
Stan took it. It smelled a bit like the gun oil smudged on the tips of Yakov’s long, slim fingers, but he ate it anyway. He watched Yakov bite, chew, swallow. After a minute or so, a boy of about thirteen stepped into the room. “Yakov, I—” He started, gasping, his eyes going wide when he saw Stan. He stumbled back a step, bumping into an older woman who had been following close behind.
“Oh! You’ve got company,” the woman said, steadying the boy.
A girl stepped out from behind her. “Hi, Yaki. Who’s your friend?”
“None of your business, Ruthie. Channah.” Yakov nodded at the woman. “What do you need?”
“Sollie forgot his tallis.” She nudged the boy forward. He eyed Stan nervously, then snatched a cloth pouch off a shelf.
“Wait.” Yakov broke off some of the bread and cheese, handing it to the boy. “Now get lost.”
The boy shot out of the room, clutching the food.
“You, too,” he said to Channah, holding out more bread and cheese as he spoke.
“Thank you,” she said, passing it to Ruthie. When Yakov broke off another piece of bread, she waved it away. “I just ate. We’ll leave you men alone to discuss strategy.” She left, pulling the door closed behind her.
“What’s a tallis?” Stan asked.
“Prayer shawl. He’s no good with a gun, so I told him to pray for us.”
“I didn’t figure you for a religious man.”
“I’m not. And it gives him something to do. Can’t have some useless brat getting underfoot.”
“That’s cold.”
Yakov laughed. “It’s the truth. He’s a pain in the ass. Like Ruthie and Channa and everyone else in this damned place.”
When they finished eating, Yakov shook the crumbs from the cloth into his mouth, then handed the cloth back to Stan. “Where’d you get the food?”
“A farm in the country where I used to work. I’m still in contact with the owner.”
“A farm boy. I should have known. But you’ve lost that country innocence, haven’t you?”
Stan’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean?”
Yakov stood up, grabbing Stan’s chin. His fingers dug in as he turned Stan’s head left and right. “So pure, and yet not. Did you think I’d be grateful for the food, for the supplies you’ve been bringing? You think I’d give you something in return?”
“No, I’m just—” Stan’s words cut off as Yakov groped his cock through his trousers.
“Is this what you wanted?” His hand tightened as Stan’s prick grew harder, thicker. “Did you think I couldn’t tell? You’re not as subtle as you think.”
“That’s not why I—”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No. Hell, no.” Stan leaned in, trying to catch Yakov’s mouth with his own, just to feel the stubble on his cheeks, to taste him…
“No.” Yakov turned his face away. He tugged Stan’s trousers open and shoved his hand inside, his eyes never leaving Stan’s face, which grew hot under that stare.
Stan reached down, too, but Yakov turned his body away, pinning Stan’s right arm up against the wall. Stan closed his eyes, listening to Yakov’s breathing, which grew almost as unsteady as his own.
Yakov kept moving his hand, sliding it up and down the length of Stan’s cock, pulling the foreskin almost over the head on each upstroke. “I’ll give you what you want,” Yakov muttered to the wall, his breath warm on Stan’s arm. “Filthy, uncircumcised pig.”
“Shut up,” Stan said. He tried to pull his hand free from the wall and give Yakov a shove with his body, but Yakov tightened his grip on his wrist. With his free hand, Yakov rubbed over the tip of Stan’s cock, smearing the fluid leaking from it, then used it to coat the shaft. He stroked again and again, until Stan’s cock was slippery and his heart was about to fly out of his chest.
“Please,” Stan croaked, his hips bucking and his legs shaking.
Yakov rubbed his thumb slowly over the head of Stan’s cock, as if considering the request, then he began stroking again, long, hard movements, going faster and faster until Stan climaxed, jets of hot semen soaking his trousers. He clung to Yakov, who let go of his wrist in order to cover his mouth, to muffle his rumbling moans.
Yakov kept moving his hand on Stan’s cock until the last drop was out, holding him against the wall with his body weight. Then he wiped his hand on Stan’s shirt. “Well?”
Stan laughed weakly. “Did something happen? I think my brains left along with that load.”
This time Yakov’s face didn’t go blank, expressionless; he looked almost angry. “Get out.” He stepped back, leaving Stan to support his own weight against the wall.
“No.”
“Yes. You need to leave.”
“Not yet.” He reached out and caught Yakov by a coat lapel, then tugged at him. Yakov stayed where he was, but after another yank, he allowed Stan to move him to the wall. Stan then dropped to his knees. He half-expected a punch or a kick, but Yakov didn’t move as Stan slowly, carefully unzipped Yakov’s trousers and pulled out his cock, which was already hard and leaking. Yakov glared down at him, fists clenched, but his mouth was open and his chest was rapidly rising and falling.
Stan leaned forward and sniffed his way into Yakov’s crotch. A hiss of breath from above urged him on. He moved his lips up Yakov’s cock, and then took it into his mouth. Holding on to Yakov’s thighs, he sucked on the thick prick, sliding his mouth down, down, until the tip hit the back of his throat. In the country, he’d practiced on other farmhands who had been willing to close their eyes and pretend it was a girl’s mouth bringing them off. In the city, he found men who were more appreciative of his skills. None of them had been Jews, though, and the lack of foreskin was odd, but not unpleasant.
He continued to do his best, but elicited no reaction from Yakov; no hips surging forward, no hands gripping his hair. Stan decided to risk it. He opened his eyes and looked up. Yakov had his head back against the wall, his teeth bared and clenched, his eyes squeezed shut.
Stan pulled away. “Sorry, did I—” was as far as he got before Yakov grabbed his cock, jerked it a few times, then shot his load right across Stan’s face. “Yes,” Stan murmured, stroking Yakov’s stomach and thighs as Yakov shuddered and then sagged against the wall. When Yakov looked down at Stan, Stan wiped the come off his face and then licked his hand. He then stood up and pulled out the cloth the food had been wrapped in, wiped both of them off and put the cloth back in his pocket.
Yakov was catching his breath, still looking angry, but his eyes were now hooded. Stan waited until Yakov had zipped up his trousers, then nudged him onto the bed. “Get some rest. You look like hell,” he lied, making himself leave the room before he did anything stupid—well, even more stupid.
May 10, 1943
“Shoot them!” Stan shouted, scrabbling in his coat pocket for one more bullet.
“No.”
“Shoot!”
“Shut up!” Yakov aimed the rifle down at the German troops. “Do you think we have an unlimited supply of ammo? We have to make every shot
count!” He went still, staring down the barrel of the gun.
Stan finally found the bullet and loaded it into his pistol. He jumped when Yakov fired.
“Got him! Look at them scatter!” he shouted.
Stan shoved up next to Yakov to peer out the window, to see where the screaming was coming from. Both men ducked at the boom of a grenade going off, then Yakov reloaded to the sound of more screams.
“They’re retreating.” Stan watched in awe as the German soldiers fled to safety, leaving their wounded in the street. “A couple of shots and one grenade.”
“They can’t believe Jewish vermin would stick up for themselves, let alone draw German blood while doing it.” Yakov spat onto the floor. “That first day, when we saw they could be wounded, killed…that first German body in the street was the dawn after night for every person here.”
“Soldiers in apartment windows and alleyways.” Stan shook his head. “I always thought wars were fought on battlefields with masses of troops. But I suppose humans love war so much that we’re capable of improvising.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Stan turned around to see Yakov staring at him.
“Don’t make jokes.”
Frowning, Stan looked down at the street again. “Will they come back?”
“Not if we keep shooting and tossing the occasional Molotov cocktail over the wall.”
That’s what the fighters did. Every time the Germans approached that day, they were beaten back. After night fell, the fighters went over the wall and stripped the fallen Germans of their weapons, then returned.
Late that night, Stan stood in the doorway to Yakov’s room as Yakov sat on the bed, cleaning a rifle. “Why aren’t you in a bunker with everyone else?”
“Closer to the action here.”
“Closer to the Germans if they manage to get in.”
Yakov looked up. “Closer to stopping them if they do. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
“Actually, I can’t. The sewer entrance we’ve been using has a tank parked on it. I’m stuck here overnight at least.” He leaned against the doorway, trying to look casual. “I was hoping you could find me a place to sleep.”
Yakov looked over at Stan, who could practically feel Yakov’s eyes traveling down every inch of his body. “Does anyone know about you?” Yakov asked. “That you like to suck cock?”
