tagGay MaleEscape of the Schlange

Escape of the Schlange


On Sunday, April 28, 1793, the bells in towers of the harbor town of Charlotta rang out at 2 p.m. They were calling all nobles on the inland sea island of St. Silvus to the wedding of Reginald Reynolds, the governor-general's son, the most magnificently formed and handsome of the most physically gifted countrymen on the face of the earth. At that precise moment, the earth split open down the center of the looming Mount Serpente, blotting out the sun in black ash, flinging up the White Furies, guardians of the gate to the underworld, into the bluest blue of the distant heavens, and unleashing the black ship of the Schlange to wreak havoc on the fairest legacy of malekind.

Standing on the ramparts of the imposing stone bastion at the harbor's entrance, the royal wedding party looked to the mountain aghast as the conical peak of Mouth Serpente rent asunder, belching its tarrish smoke and casting one, two, three balls of red hot anger raining down on the sleepy mountainside town and sweeping down the mountainside to the edges of the stone piers across the now-boiling harbor waters. The nuptial revelers threw themselves behind what protection they could find inside the stone bulwarks of the harbor stronghold, bridegroom sheltering his bride, and the five handsome, sturdy groomsmen crouched over the bridal couple's parents and the queen's representative. Their mouths opened in horror at the sight of the White Furies being jetted up into the heavens, screeching their surprise and despair. The mountain peeled back from its center to the north and the south and, out of the caldron of orange-red magma, a huge, black ship, sails billowing in the updraft of the mighty eruption, rose up in the bubbling magma at the center of the fire pit, flinging aside the doors to the underworld, and sailing majestically down the river of lava into the town of Charlotta and to the harbor waters, hissing with steam that nearly obliterated the vessel from sight.

Only then did those of the shocked wedding party cover their faces and fold their bodies into themselves as best they could and deaden their hearing and senses to the wailing sounds of death and destruction in the flaming town as fiery stones rained down on the dying Charlotta. As the black ship sailed through the harbor entrance, the bride and her kinsmen and kinswomen, both in fact and in anticipation, felt the burden lift from their shoulders, and they looked up into wild, evil faces and strong arms at the railings of the black ship, lifting and pulling at the screaming and terrified groom and groomsmen, pulling them onto the deck of the black ship as it sailed past the bastion ramparts. This was only a fleeting image, however, as the fire rocks descended on the wedding party, now bereft of its virility and manliness. The earth beneath their feet rumbled ominously, and the island of St. Silvus began to crumble within itself and slide down into the steaming waters of the inland sea, never to be found again.

As the waves subsided and the debris of a thousand years of civilization slowly began to sink to the depths under the waters of the inland sea, the White Furies raced back to the earth's surface, straight down from the high heavens to which they had been flung by the violent release of death and destruction from the underworld, one in each quadrant, the North, the East, the South, and the West. Finding nothing existent of the island of St. Silvus, a mournful moaning went up and across the continents, giving pause to the mounted Visigoth on the steppes of Asia, to the ebony Amazon amid her goat herd in darkish Africa, to the Pueblo Indian ascending his ladder to his hidden lair in the New World, and to the courts of Europe, where regicide hung heavily in the air. And, knowing instantly what they must do, the White Furies peeled off from each other, each to its own quadrant, frantically searching, steadfast in their acceptance of their responsibility to bring balance and harmony back into their world—to protect the cream of manhood and to maintain the strengthening and beautification of the human gene pool day by day.

But the White Furies were too late, at least for now. Safely hidden in the commodious Grotto of St. Celicia on the rugged Italian coast, the black ship was gently rising and falling on the calm ebbing and flowing of the tidal waters inside the dark maw of the earth, its calmness belied by the now subsiding cries and moans on the deck of the vessel, where five monstrously built satyrs were having the last of their way with the groomsman from the doomed island of St. Silvus. The five young, magnificently handsome men, were moaning their last, their bodies lashed with the welts and slashings of the sharp fingernails and teeth of the satyrs, lust-filled from centuries of imprisonment in the underworld by the White Furies. The anal channels of the groomsmen were stretched beyond endurance by the pounding and plunging of the monstrously oversized, demanding, insistent cocks of the satyrs, filled with lust and need and cruelty in search of quenching a long-denied passion.

The cries of the last of these groomsmen, the pride of St. Silvus manhood, burbled off into silence and his eyes rolled back in his head, as, no longer having lively sport of their own, four of the satyrs descended on the fifth, who was standing, crouched on deck, the last of the groomsman's ass impaled on his monstrous tool and pulling the flopping body up and down on his pole. The first satyr to reach them thrust his still-engorged cock up inside the groomsman alongside that of the other satyr, while another satyr inhaled the young groomsman's cock and balls deep inside his throat, a third slashed at his nipples, and the last sank his teeth into the throbbing vein in the young man's neck.

As the cries and moaning on deck subsided into the heavy breathing and satisfied mumbling of the satyrs, the moaning and cries within the captain's cabin were on the rise.

His wedding clothes in tatters, the groom's strong defenses had wavered, the adrenaline and shock-strengthened fight was ebbing from him, and he had become weary of resisting the inevitable. As his stance waned, a long tendril of green, scaly rope wrapped itself around the young man's washboard belly and drew the young groom, flagging in spirit and resolve, toward the beast the groom faced in horror and disbelief. It had a man's body—magnificently muscled and formed and powerful—but its skin was green and scaly, and its face flat and noseless. And when it opened its red maw of a mouth, out flicked a long, forked, red tongue.

The ropey tendril it was pulling the groom's bruised body toward itself with emanated from the center of its pelvis. It was a gigantically long, flexible cock. And to the groom's horror, he saw that it was identifiable as a cock, with a mushroom head, but out if its piss slit extended yet another red, flicking, forked tongue.

The groom shuddered and trembled as he was drawn nigh to the body of the monster and it began moving the forked tongue of its mouth over his chest and nipples and up into his arm pits and, lovingly, across his cheeks and into the hollow of his neck. The monster was humming to the groom, a calming, sensuous, mesmerizing song of seduction—the Schlange's favorite song of wooing, the melody of the Siren Song Symphony. The monster was making love to the groom, and the groom was responding, despite his terror and despair. The monster's attentions were arousing and lulling, and the groom felt himself go hard. And as he did so, he cried out in unexpected and involuntary passion as he felt the monster enter him—twice.

The tongue of the monster's mouth had reached below the young man's belly and wrapped itself around the groom's cock and slowly contracted and released pressure there, causing the groom to moan in ecstasy. And then the forked barbs of the tongue snaked into the young man's piss slit, sinking inside and spreading this ultrasensitive, secret passage and flicking its way deep through the groom's urethra and into his ball sack, contracting around the testes and teasing up the precious fluid of the beautifully formed, virile young man—the nectar of the Schlange—the vital serum that gave him life and strength and power, what the White Furies had been denying him for too long.

At the same time, the tongue of the cock tendril that was wrapped around the groom's belly had moved down to the young man's ass entrance and slithered into him there deeply, the ever-widening thickness of the cock rope following the exploring tongue inside and stretching the young man's inner walls, caressing every point inside him with the undulations of its scales, causing the young man's walls to tremble and his hips to start the slow, sensual dance of the shared fuck.

The two were making love, the young man as lost in the ultimate fuck now as the monster was.

The groom cried out in consuming passion, no longer fighting the taking, lying back in the Schlange's embrace and crying out for, and when the monster came in prolonged jets of flow, screaming his climax, receiving the wedding night release he had nervously anticipated but that was far, far beyond what he had ever wildly dreamed of. The young man's own flow was rich and thick and plentiful. The Schlange lapped it up with pleasure and appreciation, as it continuously ejaculated deep inside the groom, turned its new, if fleeting bride, pumping its lover full of the opiate of its calming, controlling ejaculate that overflowed the groom's channel and streamed down his trembling legs.

And then the monster started the process all over again, building the young groom up to producing more of what the Schlange needed; the young man meeting the monster's need with a consuming need of his own; the Schlange lovingly milking the precious essence out of him, its tongues caressing the young man deep inside his ball sac and deep up into his intestines, never getting enough, long overdue for restoration and replenishment, coaxing every last drop of the precious nectar out of the perfectly formed young man; and the Schlange once again showing its own pleasure by ejaculating deep inside the center of the groom—again and again—until . . . there was no more.

Later, satiated for now—but wanting more and more and more now that he had reexperienced what had long been denied—but the groom and his attendants no more, the Schlange sat, under the worshipping eyes of his five satyrs and contemplated the future. It knew the White Furies were already on the hunt. It also knew it needed time for them to become weary and full of despair before the black ship could ride the waves of the inland sea again. There were two possibilities—abandon the black ship for now and strike out on land, or break out of the inland sea. The latter would take time and effort, and, having just now had the long-denied pleasure of milking a perfect young human male, the Schlange wanted more—sooner rather than later.

The Schlange gazed at a map of the Mediterranean, where he had hidden and hunted in an earlier century. He always felt so comfortable among the Egyptians. It would be here he would withdraw once more, he thought. Then his claw landed on it—the perfect place. The center of knowledge—Alexandria, with its unexcelled library. The Schlange had safely hidden within the pyramids along the Nile before. Surely the White Furies would expect him to go up into the lands of the Germans, to the birthplace of the Siren Song Symphony—and they would spend themselves in a fruitless search for the black ship there.

* * * *

A'zam, the navigator, was famous throughout the Arabic world for his ability to pass from the inland sea past the maelstrom and through the snapping jaws of Kalpe and Abyla into the greater ocean to circumnavigate the lands of the Africans and shoot through the Shat al-Arab and thence to reach the Euphrates leading to the palaces of his father, the mighty caliph Abdullah, without passing through the arid lands of the fierce, ruthless, and uncivilized Syrians.

The caliph thought that his bravest and most handsome and virile and well-formed son traveled this dangerous route to the lands of the Egyptians and Maronites past those of the light-skinned infidels to the north because of all the riches he could bring back to Baghdad. But, truth be known, it was the passions of the flesh that brought A'zam repeatedly to the mouth of the Nile and further, to the Levant coast. A'zam liked nothing better than to sink his manly cock into the backside of young, moaning Egyptian manflesh, and this is not something that would be tolerated in the many-wived court of his father, who counted his riches in the number of sons and grandsons playing warrior in the atriums of the palaces. If the caliph knew A'zam was squandering his precious seed, he might be compelled to have the prince's proud member lopped off as a warning and reminder for all so inclined.

A'zam traveled in much pomp and circumstance, and he was yet to clear the gauntlet of Kalpe and Abyla into the inland sea on his current journey before his agents in Alexandria were putting out a call for the fairest and best-formed young men across North Africa to dance in attendance to the virile son of the caliph upon the first night of his landing in Alexandria.

When Ishaq, the Egyptian procurer, arrived at the Alexandria palace of the caliphinate at the harbor, he was pleased to see the ship of A'zam the navigator already tied up to the pier, but he was surprised at the deserted feel to the palace itself, which was usually teeming with boisterous sailors and lustful activity whenever the son of Caliph Abdullah was in port. And he was even more surprised when he had herded his offerings, all young men who had attained their manhood but who were young and comely looking and perfectly formed, along behind him on their interlinked chain to the door of the entertainment hall. He was met there not by the usual guards of the inner chambers, but by two hooded and cloaked figures who mumbled from inside their rough-woven cloaks to him and who made certain that he provided the key to the young men's chains but then withdrew from the palace until summoned to take them back.

This was highly unusual. Ishaq usually entered the chamber with his young men and spoke of their individual virtues until, after the young men, dressed in diaphanous harem leggings, had danced for the prince's favor. Then A'zam usually chose one—or three or four—of them and withdrew to his inner room to give them their first taste of manly cock. While this transpired, Ishaq customarily was led to another area of the palace by a chamberlain and plied with expensive drink and food until A'zam was finished and ready to convey the used young men to Ishaq and provide instructions on his tastes for the next evening's pleasure. But now Ishaq was just waved away but told to hover nearby. But the voices from inside the hoods were so frightening and the cloaked figures so overtowering that Ishaq did not quibble this time. He found himself trembling in their presence without really knowing why and felt as if he had escaped something terrible by withdrawing outside the palace and waiting there for further instructions.

Instructions that never came—or, at least, not as Ishaq expected.

As the five young men—gathered from all corners of the world to include a blond, alabaster-skinned young muscle man from the northern snows to an ebony giant from the darkest south—entered the room and were unshackled and made to kneel in an arc in front of the door they entered, they gathered to themselves the same sense of heaviness and foreboding that had sent their master scurrying outside the palace walls.

Four hooded and clocked figures, all shuffling and overlarge, were circling the room warily, giving the young men no question that they would not make it as far as the door if they chose to try to withdraw. And the way the cloaked figures moved left no doubt that they were powerful and would be cruel opponents. Off to the side was a four-man musical band, playing expertly but nervously and tentatively at a tune that wasn't Egyptian but was mesmerizing and arousing in its influence, and looking very frightened of the roving cloaked figures.

The chamber was draped in heavy oriental carpets, with sections flapped back to reveal small sectioned-off cubicles beyond them furnished only by a narrow raised dais. The floor was smooth marble, polished by thousands of dancing feet over preceding centuries. And beyond this circular central section, along the back wall of the chamber, was a slightly raised dais, covered in rich, red carpeting and strewn with a mountain of many-colored woven-patterned pillows. Behind this was a billowing silk drapery in a rich emerald green color. Sunk into the pillows, hood pulled down to shadow his face, sprawled what must be the famous navigator and caliph's son himself, Prince A'zam. He too was cloaked, but in black silk in contrast to the rough brown of the cloaking of his attendants. Behind him, standing tall, was yet another cloaked figures, face hidden under a hood.

This figure clapped his hands, and the small orchestra picked up the volume on the exotic, intoxicating tune it was shakily playing in somewhat off-beat rhythm, and one of the cloaked attendants circling the dancers reached down and pulled up a small, trembling Egyptian and pushed him out into the center of the room. After a moment to shake off his fears, he began, tentatively to writhe a provocative dance of seduction to the forced strains of the music, trying his best to please through his fright, knowing that any dancer chosen by A'zam would be celebrated and rewarded particularly well and any who was not favored by A'zam was more likely than not to find himself on a war galley at the end of one of many oars until his strength gave out and he was pushed overboard.

The Egyptian's dance was good, but obviously not good enough, because after a short time, the figure lounging in the pillows uttered a guttural tone of disgust and waved an arm. What came after had an electric effect on the other four dancers.

One of the hooded figures reached out into the center of the floor and grabbed the Egyptian youth by his arm, spun him off into one of the side cubicles, and pulled down the flap of the rug covering. Within moments, the greater room was flooded with the sound of cruel taking from within the cubicle, with the Egyptian screaming of his fear and the impossibility of what he was enduring—of the cruelty of the creature taking him and the massiveness of its tool, and his cries subsiding into lengthened moans and gurgles of burdened surrender.

Both the orchestra and the second chosen dancer, a willowy Maronite beauty, were so traumatized by the sounds coming through the muffling rug curtain at the side that their combined performance was inferior to that of the first dance. The figure in the pillows dismissed this dancer quickly, and another of the hooded figures forced the Maronite into a cubicle on the other side of the chamber and for a brief period—until the cubicle first occupied went very quiet—the unmistakable sounds of forceful, overtaxing fucking beyond endurance was heard in stereo.

The heavily muscled Norsk was third. He was a clumsy dancer, but both he and the orchestra tried harder, being fully aware now of the risks at hand, and, the undulation of his muscles obviously being pleasing to the eye, he was permitted to dance longer than the previous two before he was waved into the grasp of the third cloaked figure. The two remaining dancers gasped and trembled in fear at seeing how easily the cloaked figure subdued the strongly built man of the north, slung him over its shoulder, and carried him off to yet a third cubicle. There was much crashing and thrashing from beyond the curtain of this cubicle until a cry of defeat sounded from what surely was a deep-penetrating thrust of control and power and unquestioned possession turned into whimpering and sobbing.

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