Gunther the Vile’s cottage. He must have fallen asleep while lying by the fire. The cottage is small but toasty. Dead rabbits hang from strings by a bubbling pot on a fire in the stone fireplace. A single bed lies opposite. The mattress looks as though it has been stuffed with straw. There’s a wooden table in one corner. Two chairs rest next to it. The axe sits by the door. Gunther is nowhere in sight.
Ambrose does his best to worm his way out of his restraints, but it is no use. The rope cuts into the flesh of his ankles and wrists and burns. Looking down at himself, he cannot help the warmth rising up his neck and into his cheeks. Gunther stripped him bare like a little child. He was naked in front of another man! And, although the audacity of such a thought would have excited Ambrose in the past… There was nothing exciting about his encounter with his brother-in-law. If anything, he felt violated and raw.
Footsteps thunder on the porch outside, and the door to the cottage swings open, letting in a burst of blistering cold air. Ambrose cringes, squeezing his eyes shut against the large man as he enters the cottage and slams the door shut.
“Look at me,” Gunther’s voice drips with malice. “Look at me now, little runt!”
Biting his bottom lip, Ambrose opens his eyes and sniffs, hoping to his god that he won’t burst into tears in front of the mad brute. He trains his gaze on Gunther and doesn’t look away.
Gunther nods. “That’s it. Keep your eyes on me. If I catch you looking away, I’ll pluck them out.”
The man walks to the bed and bends down to remove a pail from underneath it. He removes his worn shirt and throws it on the bed with a grunt. Gunther’s body is sculpted, like the statues of long-gone heroes displayed in the city center Ambrose once saw as a child. Gunther removes a wet rag from the pail and wipes himself down, cleans under his arms, scrubs his large chest and runs the rag over his face.
When he’s done with his upper body, he removes his pants that wrap tight over his thighs and peels them down to reveal his massive cock. Ambrose bites down harder on his lower lip, focusing wholly on the pain.
Gunther dips the rag back into the pail and squeeze it. Ambrose watches the water as it drips from between his large fingers and over his knuckles. The man brings the rag to his thighs and rubs them down, then cleans his penis and balls. When he’s finished, he drops the rag back into the pail, and puts it under the straw-stuffed bed. Gunther runs a hand through his thick hair and sits down on one of the chairs by the wooden table. The reflection of the fire dances wildly in his eyes.
“You remind me of a little animal,” he says after seconds have drawn out between them. “Scrawny. Scared. But exactly what kind of animal is the true question. Are you one that I stomp on and smear with my boots… Or are you one that I eat?”
Ambrose swallows. His throat is as dry as sawdust. He has no idea whether Gunther is asking a rhetorical question or not, but he is far too terrified to speak either way. The big man is also making very little sense, as though he is speaking in a code Ambrose doesn’t understand, but one Gunther expects him to be fluent in.
“Your sister is not here,” Gunther says, running the tip of his thumb along his jawline. “She is hunting. Has been for the past couple of days. We take turns, see? She’ll most likely return tomorrow or the day after. Do not expect her any moment before.”
Irritation and anger bubble in Ambrose’s chest. His sister is hunting? Alone?! Not even his cowardice is great enough to hold back the words that spill from his mouth. “How can you let her do that? What with the beast on the loose?”
Gunther seems genuinely taken aback. Surprised even. He raises his eyebrows, only to arch them down into a frown when Ambrose stops talking. “Your sister is a warrior. Stronger than some men I’ve encountered in my past. She will be fine out there on her own. Beast or otherwise.”
Ambrose shakes his head. “This beast is different.” When Gunther doesn’t respond, her gingerly presses on. “Some say he’s as large as an ogre. Or he’s a wolf that walks on its hind legs.” A shiver runs down his spine at the thought of what the blacksmith’s daughter looked like on the bank of Black Tar Creek. The dagger jutting from her stomach like a candle. Ambrose hadn’t had the stomach to lay eyes on the other corpses after that. “But the beast is all human. Unnaturally so. And he’ll kill anyone he pleases, even a warrior like my sister.”
Gunther stands up from the bed and turns to the window. From this angle, Ambrose gets a view of his ass – tight and round. He has to bite his bottom lip again, cursing himself for experiencing such feelings when danger of all things can be smelt in the air.
“How do you know the beast is a he?” Gunther whispers, arms crossing his chest. “The wolf. The ogre. Whatever you choose to describe it as… How do you know it isn’t a woman?”
“I don’t,” Ambrose says, his voice breaking. He hadn’t laid eyes on the beast. How would he know what it truly was? Man or woman, does it even matter? The beast was slaughtering innocents, and for what purpose? It could be anyone. The leader of his hamlet, his sister… Even Gunther.
Ambrose’s eyes widen at the thought. With hands like the ones Gunther had, he could crack open anyone’s ribs and remove their insides with ease.
Gunther turns to Ambrose and cocks his head. “It’s not me, if that’s what you’re thinking, little runt. Now, answer me this. What are you doing here?”
“The leader of the hamlet asked me to come. Told me to.”
Gunther pulls his lip back and bares his teeth. “Why?”
“He… We need your help protecting our home. From the beast.”
Gunther laughs but the sound is dipped in poison. “You need my help?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your pissy hamlet needs Gunther the Vile to protect it from an evil beast.” Gunther’s expression drops. He isn’t laughing now. “After you all ran me out. Excommunicated me into the forest. And this is how I am repaid.”
“I’m sorry!” Ambrose yelps, but he isn’t sure why he is apologizing, when he was barely twelve when Gunther was told to leave.
Gunther walks up to Ambrose on the floor and kneels down on one knee. He studies his face, his dark eyes curious, disbelieving. Ambrose forces himself to not break eye contact. He likes his eyes. He doesn’t want them plucked from his head.
“Tell you what,” Gunther says, pushing a stray lock of hair from Ambrose’s forehead. “I’ll help you and the other wimpy villagers with your beast problem, if you do something for me in return.”
“Like what?”
Gunther shrugs. “That shouldn’t concern you. But you belong to me now. I have you tied to my cottage floor. I can do whatever I want with your body because you no longer have a choice. Be grateful that I’m at least telling you what I want first before I claim it.”
Ambrose’s heart leaps into his throat and he gags. He was never the smartest boy in the village. Not even close. Even his sister had told him multiple times, with affection, that he was rather slow. But being dim or not is beside the point. Ambrose knows a tone and an innuendo when he hears one.
“You’re… You’re with my sister,” Ambrose says, keeping his voice as level as can be.
“Your sister doesn’t own me.” Gunther leans in close and Ambrose once again smells pinecones. “But with you tied down like my little animal, I own you.”
Chapter Seven
With the tiny sword Ambrose brought with him to the cottage, Gunther cuts his bonds. Grabbing a handful of his golden hair, Gunther brings Ambrose to his feet and throws him face down onto the straw-stuffed bed. It feels rough and lumpy underneath his body, but the texture of the bed is the last of Ambrose’s concerns as nervous, dreadful butterflies beat inside his stomach. His throat closes as anxiety wells and boils underneath his flesh. He’s terrified of the man, let alone his touch. Gunther is vile. He isn’t normal. He is like the beast that stalks Ambrose’s village. And yet…
It isn’t like he has a choice in the matter. Something tells Ambrose that anyone caught in
Gunther’s line of sight rarely does. So he shouldn’t feel bad for wanting this, not when his sister abandoned him years ago for this madman who is about to plough him raw.
Gunther’s fingertips drag down his back and his flesh breaks out into goosebumps. He wants to turn around and see the man at work, but Gunther has him pinned to the bed with his other hand. One of his brother-in-law’s fingers, now wet, finds its way between his ass cheeks and circles the rim of his hole.
Ambrose gasps at the pressure of the finger as it enters inside of him, pushing in deeper, and deeper. He squeezes his eyes shut and sees stars. He shouldn’t be doing this. Definitely shouldn’t like this. Gunther’s touch is a curse. Ambrose is being used. He opens his mouth to moan, but Gunther’s free hand grips the back of his neck tight.
“You will be silent,” booms his brother-in-law’s voice, as his finger drives even deeper inside of Ambrose.
The mixture of pain and absolute pleasure is too much for him to handle. Ambrose doesn’t know how he will survive if Gunther decides to take things further.
He feels another finger slide inside of him, and he bites down on the blanket, muffling the cry that erupts from him.
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. Gunther’s fingers work him until tears sting his eyes and nothing else exists in Ambrose’s world – not the beast or the village or his guilt or how pathetic he is or his sister and this betrayal.
He is at Gunther’s mercy. No. He is at Gunther’s command.
Gunther removes his fingers from inside of Ambrose. His mouth is at his ear. “You’ve had a taste. Now, prepare to receive me whole.”
Ambrose doesn’t have time to collect himself or his thoughts. He has no other option but to take Gunther in his entirety as the large man spreads his legs and pushes himself in.
Pushing. Thrusting. Gunther nails Ambrose against the bed. Ambrose cannot breathe, taking all of Gunther in at once has paralyzed him whole. Faster and faster, Gunther rides him. The sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flesh competes with the crackle of the fireplace.
Gunther sits up, taking Ambrose with him, so that he lies against his brother-in-law’s muscular body as though sitting on his lap.
“Touch yourself, little runt,” Gunther whispers in his ear, biting down on his earlobe. “Spend for me.”
Ambrose grips his own dick and strokes it. Harder and faster, matching the speed Gunther pounds into him. He sees white as undeniable ecstasy blooms in his toes, up his legs, over his chest and head and explodes from his cock. He cums with a low moan, Gunther’s big hand clasped around his throat, the man’s nose in his hair.
“Tell anyone of this moment, and I’ll skin you alive, little runt,” Gunther growls into his ear, the grip around his throat tightening.
Ambrose’s body fills with ice. The reality of what he’s done, and what has been done to him in turn, sinks into his bones.
The man removes himself from Ambrose and kicks the pail of water underneath the bed. “Clean up. Now.”
Chapter Eight
Ambrose finishes cleaning up and joins Gunther by the fire. Now matter how hard he tries to scrub the filth from his skin, he still feels shame. His brother-in-law sharpens the blade of his axe and doesn’t look up at him as he takes his place beside him. What Gunther does instead is tie his hands together with rope once more, but not his ankles. He doesn’t give him clothes to wear.
“Tell me more about your beast,” Gunther says, eyes now on the fire and the bubbling pot hanging above it in the fireplace.
Ambrose shrugs. “I’ve told you all there is to tell. A man, or woman, is attacking the hamlet. Each night someone else dies. It’s terrible. The beast needs to be stopped.”
“Punishment,” Gunther hisses, picking up the axe, staring at his rugged reflection on the blade.
“Yes,” Ambrose says, “It needs to be punished.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Gunther drops the axe and takes a deep breath. “That hamlet and its people need to be punished. Destroyed for what they’ve done over the years to countless people.”
Ambrose frowns. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Allow me to paint you a portrait,” Gunther says, leaning back. His expression darkens. “There’s a group of people who get tired of city life. They aren’t fond of the king. They don’t abide by the rules. So, they set out on their own. Pioneers, if you will. Navigating the wild landscape to find a new home. They eventually find one, and all is well, except a year passes and suddenly people start dying. One a night, every night. Something needs to be done, the people don’t know what to do, so they come up with a plan. They willingly sacrifice a member of their little township to the forest in the hopes that whatever is killing its people will see the sacrifice for what it is – a gift. The people hope that the gift will be enough. And, surprisingly, it is. But then, another year goes by and more people start to turn up dead. So, another sacrifice is made. Over and over again, people are chosen to be sent into the woods to die.”
A sour feeling churns in Ambrose’s gut. “This is a lie. How can you speak of such things, Gunther?”
Gunther shrugs his large, muscular shoulders. “I speak nothing but the truth, little runt. You can either believe me, or not. The choice is yours.”
Ambrose scoffs. “I thought I didn’t have a choice.”
Gunther gives him a side smile, then seems to regret it and stops. “You don’t.”
“Please allow me to get this straight,” Ambrose shakes his head. After their fuck, his mind has calmed, and he almost feels at peace being inside the little cottage with the dangerous Gunther the Vile. The guilt is still there but has emigrated to the back of his mind. “The beast has always terrorized the village, but if one of the residents is sacrificed then it is safe from the beast for a full year?”
“Correct.”
“Then how come this is the first time I can recall everyone in the hamlet hammering on about this? People are literally terrified for their lives, as though something like this has never happened before.”
Gunther sighs and runs a hand over his rugged jaw. “Because it’s a secret only known to those who are elected as village leader and those who are chosen to be sacrificed. It is just that simple, little runt.”
Ambrose cocks an eyebrow. The entire story is incredibly difficult to wrap his head around. It also seems too far-fetched to be believed. As far as he knows, the hamlet has always been there. Sure, at some point residents from the city center may have wondered off to start their own life in the wilderness, but that would have been centuries ago, surely. As for the immortal beast that prowls the forests and attacks the hamlet until a sacrifice is provided to it once a year? Well, that’s just about as ridiculous as it gets.
“You don’t believe me,” Gunther mumbles, his black eyes now on Ambrose. He clenches his jaw. “Tell me the truth, little runt.”
Ambrose shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Consider this,” Gunther says, picking the axe back up from the floor and running the tips of his big fingers over the gleaming blade. “Besides the recent killings and disappearances, when was the last time someone went missing in the hamlet?”
That, Ambrose could answer without thinking too hard on the topic. “Frederick Turnip, the farmhand. Happened last year, I believe.” One day, Frederick had been planting bulbs in the fields just beyond the meadow, singing to himself and to the crows that always descended when he was around. The next day, he had vanished without a trace. Rumor had it, Frederick had decided to travel to the city to find proper work and couldn’t find it in himself to say goodbye.
“And the time before that?”
Ambrose didn’t have to think hard about this question either. It was no lie that their hamlet was small, so everyone always knew everything about everybody all the time. Missing people didn’t go unnoticed in the hamlet. Nothing did.
“Margarete Trollip.”
“And before that?”
Shaking his head, Ambrose stood up
and made his way over to the window by the straw-stuffed bed. He ran a hand over the windowpane as he gazed outside. The forest seemed so calm now that he was sheltered, away from any predators, save the one in this room. It was still so quiet. Where were the birds? The animals? Since right before he caught sight of the beast’s grotto, he hadn’t seen or heard a single one.
“I asked you a question, little runt,” came Gunther’s voice from behind. “It would be in your best interests to respond with an answer.”
Ambrose ignores the threatening edge to the man’s tone and doesn’t turn from the window. At least, not right away. There is something surreal about the forest. Something wild, yet synthetic at the very same time. Almost as though it is a made-up fantasy land where anything is possible. To think his sister is out there now. Hunting. Ambrose wants to laugh at the thought, but manages to hold the giggles in. What did his sister know about hunting? The girl could barely catch a butterfly back in the day. Perhaps Gunther the Vile has been teaching her how to kill. It has been years since Ambrose has laid eyes on her, there is a possibility she is a changed woman now. A lady of the forest. A nymph. A predator herself. He wonders when she’ll be back, and if Gunther will allow him clothes to wear before she does. The thought of her returning from her hunt to see him naked and tied up in the same space as her husband fills Ambrose with equal feelings of amusement and dread.
“Dendrick Rothersby,” Ambrose responds before Gunther loses his temper. “And before that it was Lucille Gainsly and before that Mimsy Whitaker and before her…”
Ambrose’s voice trails off, and he gulps. Turning to the man by the fire, various thoughts stitch themselves together in his head. He doesn’t want to believe that Gunther is telling the truth. Not only does it sound bizarre but it is incredibly disrespectful to their hamlet. What he wants to believe is that Gunther is sour about being told to leave and is making up a story to make up an excuse as to why he can’t help the hamlet out. But a deal is a deal, and he said that he would protect the village if Ambrose did what he told him to. Ambrose has answered this end of the bargain, that’s for sure.
Outlaws: A Romance Anthology Page 19
