Escape of the Schlange

Soon the dancers were down to the last one. The giant ebony warrior had been saved for last. His skin glistened with oil under the many-candled chandelier overhead as he began a rhythmic, mesmerizing tribal dance that was both sensual and primeval. Even the orchestra was so taken with the skill of the African that they forgot their fear and played up to their potential, weaving the artistry of their instrumental music around the graceful undulations of the African's body.

The African was dancing with a purpose. All of the cloaked figures that had been circling the floor were now otherwise engaged behind the woolen curtains, brutally fucking the earlier, failed dancers into subjugation and unconsciousness, slapping them awake and then fucking them again. The African knew the effect of his movements on men; he knew that his dance was mesmerizing and would loll anyone watching into slit-eyed, lustful sluggishness. When he felt the time was right, he repeated a turn and feint toward the door that he had worked into the pattern of his dance, but at this moment he broke the pattern and rushed for the door through which he had come—his only chance for freedom. He no longer wanted the position and reward that would come from pleasing Prince A'zam. If the dancers not favored suffered as they obviously did at the attentions of the prince's minions, the African reasoned that pleasing Prince A'zam may not be worth any reward.

But the African had not taken more than three steps toward the door when he felt a thick, breath-stealing rope wrapping itself around his waist and pulling him back into the center of the room. He looked down and in horror saw that it wasn't a rope at all but was a snake-like, green-scaled, thick tendril of an appendage.

The appendage spun him around and he found that he wasn't facing an Arabic prince, but a green-scaled monster. The monster had risen from the pillows and thrown off its cloak and stood tall and powerful in its hideously beautiful magnificence. It was the form of a man—and a powerfully and perfectly built, heavily muscled man. But it wasn't a man. It was covered in green scales and its face, while leaving the impression of being handsome, was not human at all, but was flat. It had nostrils, but no nose, and when it opened its mouth, out slithered a long, red, forked tongue. And the appendage that had snagged the African was a huge, long hose of a cock centered on two bulging balls descending between the monster's thickly muscled thighs.

As the monster pulled the giant of an African toward it, almost effortlessly despite the ebony giant's best efforts to escape, the African saw the hooded figure behind it drop its cloak too. Even less human than the monster, even though possessing a human-like body of heavy, well-defined musculature, what was evidenced in this second figure was a satyr of mythical image as depicted in books the African had been shown in his education to the art of courtesan ways in the libraries of Alexandria. The figure had a human torso, although heavily matted in coarse hair, but his head sprouted goat-like horns, his thickly muscled and hairy legs were hoofed, and he had a switching tail and an oversized cock that would have reached to his knees if it were not reaching out, curved upward in arousal at the African's dance. His countenance was cruel in the extreme, and the African feared his intentions as much as those of the green snake-like monster's.

The orchestra had stopped playing, and the African assumed it had done so in shock at the revealing of the green monster and satyr, but when he glanced over their way, it was to find that the other four controlling figures, satyrs all, had emerged from their cubicles, leaving the curtain flaps open to reveal the bodies of the totally spent dancers, arms and legs akimbo, twitching and barely breathing on the floors on which they had been totally fucked and where each had been reamed extra-gaping channels by the satyrs' supersized cocks. And the four satyrs had now fallen upon the members of the orchestra for their second helping of debauchery amid the frightened squeals of the musicians. The assault was already in full force, each of the satyrs already saddled and easily holding the shocked musicians in imprisoning embrace and pumping their heavy cocks in and out in seemingly impossible penetration to a rhythmic slapping that almost, in consort with the moaning of the musicians, made exotic music all its own.

The African snapped his head back to the front and cried out in rage and surprise as he realized that the centering appendage of the monster that had his belly entwined in its grip was raising up the very tip of its hose-long cock and was waving the head of this in front of the African's face. There was no doubt it was a cock, as it was headed by a bulbous mushroom head. And as the African watched in horror, being pulled ever closer to the pillow-strewn dais, another tongue, red and forked, slithered out of the monster's piss slit, kissed the African on the cheek, and slid down the length of the African's heaving, glistening torso and through his legs and up into his channel.

The African cried out and sank to his knees on the edge of the dais and beat out at the breast of the monster with his broad fists. But then the fifth satyr, who had been standing behind the monster, came around behind the African, lifted his arms above his head in an incapacitating hold, and, getting his thick thighs under those of the African, thrust his thick, curved monster cock up into the channel of the African, coming in on top of the slithering and deeper penetrating cock of the Schlange and starting a rhythmic pumping action that had the African making belabored clicking noises in a sing song language.

The African groaned and grunted at the double invasion, and then he began moaning deeply as the Schlange started moving its flicking mouth tongue down his torso and wrapping itself around the African's hardened cock and snaking, in a triple invasion, into the African's piss slit and deep down through the urethra channel and into the interior of his massive balls, starting the milking process of the proud African prince's essences.

The African twitched to the sucking of his vital fluids and then lurched and rolled his eyeballs back into his head as, deep inside his intestines, the Schlange granted him the peace of the calming venom of his ejaculation, fountaining up into the African's belly.

After a second exhilarating milking and leaving his satyr lieutenant to ejaculate again and again at a more shallow level into the subdued and whimpering African's overstretched channel, the Schlange unwound himself from the now-compliant African and moved, with shuffling steps, to the back of the dais. Brushing the emerald-green silken hanging aside, he entered the inner sanctum of the caliph's palace. There, revealed in all his bruised but magnificent glory was the naked body of A'zam the Navigator. The young prince was suspended by leather ropes in the center of the room, his arms and legs outstretched to the side.

He lolled his head up and looked at the entrance into the room through eyes swimming in the venom of the many milkings he had experienced at the attention of the Schlange already that day as the five satyrs were clearing and feasting on the hardened bodies of the young prince's sailors and the palace guards.

A'zam whimpered and his butt twitched in anticipation as the Schlange slithered across the floor toward him, humming a tune that both repelled and aroused the young Arabic prince. He was caught between horror and yearning, and he was ashamed at himself as he felt his cock harden and his hole puckering out, crying for the attention of the monster's flickering tongue. The young and noble mariner was aghast at what was going to happen to his body yet again, but his body belied his reasoning, showing in the hardening of his nipples and the puckering of his hole and the engorging of his cock and the shallowness of his breath and his low moaning that, even though he knew his life was flowing out of him, he wanted it, wanted it so much. Addicted to the Schlange's filling of him with his throbbing tongues and with his soothing opiate. Both repelled and hopelessly smitten.

The Schlange was upon him now, smiling and humming softly, opening its mouth, flicking out its tongue, running its tongue lovingly down A'zam's chest, laughing a low laugh as A'zam threw his head back and howled to the frescoed ceiling when the mouth tongue slithered into his piss slit and deep into his rejuvenated ball sac and lapped at the princely nectar, while its fucking cock snaked into the prince's now-gaping anal canal and reached for his stomach.

Both twitched and paused from what was now fully shared lovemaking as sounds of the retrieved shocked and beleaguered Ishaq, the procurer, could now be heard, ever so briefly before he cried out his frustrated and anguished invasion and burbled down to subdued silence in the outer chamber. And then A'zam sighed his ultimate submission as once more the Schlange ejaculated its calming venom deep inside the young prince, being ever so careful not to push A'zam over the final edge. They were here for a purpose. The Schlange needed what the prince could give it—which was much more than just his perfect-genes essence. This was all according to a far greater plan.

* * * *

"What is it you want?" A'zam asked wearily through cracked lips as the Schlange entered the room where the young Arabic prince hung naked and spread-eagled by leather bounds. He'd been given nothing except the monster's tongue cocks for over a day now—and not even that since late into the previous night. All was quiet across the caliph's Alexandria palace, as the gray light of dawn filtered into the narrow arrow-slit windows cut deep through the stone walls and overlooking the inland sea at one corner of the fortified harbor entrance into the inner harbor.

"I would have come for your virile nectar in any event," the Schlange murmured in a soft, malevolent, hissing voice. "But you are correct. There is something else I want from you." The young prince had slept during the latter part of the night, hanging from the leather strips in the center of the inner sanctum. The Schlange left him unattended through much of the night, although the temptation to milk the virile sailor prince continuously was there—it was as addicted to what the beautiful youth could give it as A'zam now was to the overpowering, albeit horror-filled, sexual satisfaction the Schlange could provide. But what the Schlange wanted from him was important—vital—and the young man needed to be alive and alert to provide it.

"Name it," the prince said in a low, hoarse voice. "And name what you will give in exchange."

"Give in exchange?" the Schlange retorted with a hissing little laugh. "Have you not found that what I give you is worth all of the riches of your world?—far more arousing and satisfying to you than anything a human can given you. Do you think you can return to your young dancers and be satisfied now that I've had you?"

A'zam did not answer, but he lifted his head and stared into the fascinatingly ugly-handsome face of the monster, and the Schlange knew that the young prince could not answer—that what the Schlange had said was a basic truth that A'zam was only now acknowledging to himself. And all of the misery of the world showed in the young man's face—all of the hopelessness and despair that stretched out before him in a life that had once had so much promise. He had been marked—and his depths had been touched. He was lost to this monster now.

"Ah, but I do have something to offer you in return. I shall give you eternal life; eternal lovemaking to the very depths of you."

"Eternal life," A'zam said. But his tone was flat, and he lowered his head again, not wanting to give the monster the satisfaction of seeing the pain and sorrow in his eyes.

"I came for you because you are the navigator," the Schlange continued in his breathy, whispery tones. "You have bypassed the maelstrom and shot the Kalpe and Abyla repeatedly in both entry into and escape from the inland sea. I want you to navigate my ship through the labyrinths—and then, then you will know eternal ecstasy."

If A'zam had been looking into the Schlange's face, he would have known how desperately the monster wanted this, needed this, and would understand that even now, when he was bound and being cruelly used, not all of the leverage was in the monster's control. But he did not turn his gaze upward, and there was no evidence that anything had happened or been said to boost his flagging spirits.

As the sun was rising to the west across the placid waters of the inland sea, the black ship was gliding out into the waters and away from the palace pier at Alexandria, rowed by unfortunates of the streets and back alleys of the ancient city, who had been seized in the night and who were fair of face and body but unlucky in lineage and circumstance. There would be no one in the teeming city who would note their absence, no one to care that they never returned. Standing above them, shuffling up and down the strip of decking between the oar benches, wandered the cloaked, hooded figures—the five minions of the Schlange, voicing cruel commands and snapping whips.

Spread-eagled, naked, by his own direction, at the ship's bow, a perfectly sculpted alabaster-white figurehead bowed out over the prow of the jet black craft, facing the sea he loved, his legs spread and ankles bound to deck joints and his arms flung wide and wrists tied off to ropes rising to the overhead sails, jutted the navigator, the Ottoman prince A'zam. The magnificent young prince was keening toward where the horizon met the sea. This was his secret of success, he had told the Schlange. He offered himself fully to sea and the winds at each voyage, making homage and begging for their sufferance and protection. And the sea and wind had always responded to him.

A'zam did not name the winds that responded to his call, though. In the hours of captivity since the monster had told him what he wanted, the Arabic prince's memory had stirred, and he began to remember bits and pieces of an old legend of good defeating evil, of a monster such as the one besetting him and how he had been defeated and entombed by the White Furies that watched over A'zam. And A'zam, in his desperation, had begun to plan. If only he could withstanding long and deeply enough the allure of the Schlange's Siren Song Symphony and the total pleasure of ultimate taking the monster had initiated him to.

Standing close behind him, its nether cock wound around the young prince's belly, the forked tongue of its piss slit fondling the young man's cock and balls, teasing him into hardness and the awakening of his juices, the Schlange matched the keening of the navigator with the soft humming of its own, the low murmur of the mesmerizing Siren Song Symphony. The cock tongue of its mouth was flicking around the young man's thick, muscled neck and down and up into his exposed arm pits and around to his chest. The young prince's nipples were hardening, and the Schlange made languid love to him with its wandering hands as well as the flicking tongue. It was time to abstain from taking him again now, though, so that he could concentrate his strength on summoning his protective spirits, spirits that would protect the black ship as well on his dangerous journey, but its caressing promising a renewal of the lovemaking that only the Schlange could give the virile, lustful youth.

A'zam's keening increased in volume and intensity as the ship was rowed out into the trade channel and turned west, and then, as if on the young navigator's command, a breeze rose, caressing A'zam's cheeks, fluttering the Schlange's green scales, billowing the satyr's cloaks so that some of the oarsmen gasped at the glimpse of what was underneath, and chilling the sweat-soaked bodies of the young Egyptians manning the oars.

A'zam lifted his eyes up to the heavens, and then he smiled. They were there, his friends, the White Furies. He—and only he—could see them answering his call, floating in from the north and east and south and west, summoned to that which they had long sought, moving behind the black ship, filling the black ship's sails, and sending the majestically ominous vessel thundering toward the west.

The Schlange sighed a sigh of satisfaction. The lad had done it. He had delivered his sailing magic. He need no longer be fully strengthened and fully aware—at least not until they approached the maelstrom—and then he could be permitted to recover, totally rejuvenate—at least until they were safely into the greater ocean. And then the young prince could receive his eternal peace.

But for now, it was the Schlange that needed to be rejuvenated, satisfied. The monster knelt behind A'zam and then turned, without dislodging the coiled cock rope around the man's belly. It laid down between A'zam's legs an the jutting prow and looking up the line of A'zam's torso, and let its mouth cock slither up the young man's calves and thighs and wrap itself around his erect cock. The forked tongue slithered into A'zam's piss slit and opened that channel. A'zam moaned an initial objection that turned into a cry of invasion when the nether cock head stole into his ass canal. He writhed briefly and groaned and grunted and begged for sufferance as the tongue of the mouth tongue snaked through the urethra and down into the refilled ball sac and started pulsating there, teasing the virile A'zam into flow. Simultaneously the cock tongue made love to A'zam's prostate and then slithered up into his intestines, pulling along the thickened cock, stretching and filling A'zam's canal and undulating its scaly skin across the young man's yielding channel walls.

Pulsating, pulsating, in both entrances. The Schlange singing its Siren Song Symphony melody. A'zam setting his hips in motion with the rhythm of pulsating cock tongues, moaning and sighing now for the symbiosis of the Schlange giving extreme arousal and sexual pleasure and the Schlange, in turn, receiving the commodious flow of rejuvenating nectar. At length A'zam cried out his ultimate pleasure and surrender of his noble semen, as the Schlange ejaculated deep inside him, bathing his insides with the opiate of its calming venom.

The two continued like this, one unified pleasure machine, as the black ship scuttled toward the outlet into the greater waters between the guardian jaws the seafarers called Kalpe and Abyla. The Schlange would milk A'zam until there was no more nectar to give, then it would anesthetize the captive with its own ejaculate. And then the Schlange would wait. Sometimes for a couple of hours, sometimes a bit longer, as it sensed A'zam recovering his virility. The young man truly was a prime-of-health semen production machine, and the Schlange was pleased with itself at its uncanny ability to pick the best of the best. Then, as A'zam regained his strength and consciousness, the Schlange would invade him once again with its cock tongues and subdue him and milk him. The Schlange was gaining in strength and power with each milking just as A'zam was slowly, but relentlessly shriveling toward nothingness.

Meanwhile, behind them, on the ship's deck, the mighty favorable wind had made the rowers redundant—which was the plan. The five satyrs had thrown off their hooded cloaks and were roaming the decks, picking and choosing, from most arousing to least. Unchaining this and that terrified young man, easily overpowering each feeble attempt at resistance—and enjoying this struggle as part of the game, even—throwing backs or bellies to the deck or up against the mast or over a rail, as it pleased them, forcing thighs apart with beefy fists, and thrusting up inside their prey with cruel, mammoth cocks. Thrusting and fucking endlessly to the lusty cries turning to moans turning to gurgles of complete surrendering—of all who fell before them. What inevitably followed was the splash of water of yet another jettisoned husk. And then rising and grinning and shopping the trembling, chained line once more. The satyrs pacing themselves so that they could sport until their attention was needed to provide help in navigating the labyrinths to come.