The Eagle

It was twilight on the peninsula that marked the northernmost tip of the southern continent, a place where the weather was always balmy and mild, though the inhabitants were seldom as pacific as the climate. Arun was a major port of call for all kinds of travellers. Merchants sailing north or south, mercenaries temporarily between wars, priests on pilgrimage, actors and mummers on tour, scholars visiting the big local library or one of the academies known for the learned people who taught there. Not a peaceful place by any means. Or a particularly decent place by the standards of many. But always colorful. Always exciting.

My company had been deployed on a long slow slog through the south, that had finally ended (after far too long) with capitulation rather than a fight. We had a month's leave, most of us, and money in our pockets. I was ready for some companionship that didn't involve the same old faces. I was ready for excitement. I breathed in the warm spicy air and almost laughed out loud with exhilaration. This was my favorite place. There were no rules here at all. I carried a short sword just in case, but I knew I wouldn't need to use it. And I saw that my favorite inn -- The Eagle -- was still standing at the crossroads just ahead of the big public square. (I was relieved, accidents were sometimes known to happen when the carousing was excessive.)The merchants were just lighting their torches in the square up ahead, and a festival atmosphere was already incubating. A group of musicians played a gay dance tune that set a few folk twirling in the dusty road. I'd scrubbed myself clean and dressed as I liked -- leather and brass, but not much of either, my hair hanging loose across my shoulders and down my back, my amulets jingling between my exposed breasts.

The inn welcomed me like an old friend with smells of cinnamon and cider and smoke, interior lanterns already lit, a happy crowd calling and laughing to itself to herald the onset of night. This was not the kind of place where anyone had inhibitions. I passed two women twined in one another's arms on my way to the broad wooden counter, and a couple that seemed almost ready to fuck was poised at one of the long narrow tables at the back, the woman bent over, looking coyly over her shoulder and laughing. There were a few friendly catcalls, and several creative suggestions. The atmosphere was of benign, albeit investedly interested, approval. I felt a tingle between my legs. It promised to be a splendid evening.

I always preferred smoke to mead, and the smoke at the Eagle was the best in town. Mild, no nasty surprise additions, no unpleasant stimulants. I took a seat at the counter, puffed my pipe and sipped a goblet of cider, taking some time to look around. I saw you almost at once. You were scanning the room too, leaning casually on a corner table. You were armed, but not ostentatiously so -- I assumed that you were probably in the same line of work as I. And, I was happy to see, you were wearing almost as few clothes. A leather kilt and arm guards, a beaten metal belt low on your hips, and a single talisman on a leather cord at your throat. A red cord was woven in your long hair, most of which hung loose. A ruby glittered in your ear. You were very tan, your skin several shades darker than mine. I knew I wanted you at once. That was lucky. Sometimes I didn't see anyone who interested me at all. But that was only half the battle. Now I had to see if you wanted company as well.

Someone began to play something lively at the back of the big high-ceilinged room as I managed to catch your eye and smile. I raised my pipe in invitation.

"Join me?" I mouthed.

It was too noisy for a shout to be heard. You ambled over, and you looked even better to me standing than you did leaning. The breadth of your shoulders and the narrowness of your waist just took my breath away. I smiled again as you took a seat beside me at the counter and passed you the pipe. You inhaled and smiled back into my eyes. We didn't need words. We knew why we were there. We knew what we wanted. Before the bowl was empty, your hand was sliding along my thigh.

I couldn't resist moving my own hand to your lap, where the shape of your cock grew unmistakable through the leather. I'd only set the pipe aside, and you were on your knees before me, your arms wrapped around my waist, your mouth on my breasts. The breath hissed through my teeth.

There was a stir around us. The patrons of the Eagle looked forward to just the kind of entertainment we seemed about to provide. There was a kind of rustle of anticipation, and interested focus of attention.

Well, why not be accommodating? I loosened the belt at your waist and dropped your kilt (approving murmurs from the crowd) and knelt to take all of you in my mouth at once, savoring the drop of dampness at the tip of your cock, running my hands up your chest as I took you as far down my throat as it seemed possible for you to go.

You were so big now, and so hard, that I couldn't fit all of you in my mouth any longer. But you seemed quite pleased nonetheless, burying your hands in my hair, gently moving your hips back and forth to appreciative cries from the crowd.

Then you lifted me to my feet and had my own kilt off in a trice (someone behind us whistled) so that I was clothed in my long hair and my amulets and nothing else at all. And that's when you sat me on the counter of the Eagle and began to fuck me in a way that set a record in that establishment and became a standard for performance for years to come.

Time slows down. I feel the wooden counter under my ass, worn absolutely smooth by nearly a century of service, some of it probably the kind of service it's doing now. I glance to the side as the barkeep winks and stows my belt pouch and sword where they can't be lifted. He wants to keep me happy. At the moment I am very, very good for business. So are you. The staff regularly encourage displays of affection, the more explicit the better.

And we're enjoying showing off. My white skin and tangled hair, your contrasting bronze. I arch my back and shake my hair out of the way, feeling the eyes on me almost like fingers stroking. I spread my legs for you and arch my back to angle my cunt forward, so wet that nothing at all needs to be done to make me ready, something you discover when you stroke my clit.

Your smile is almost feral. I can see the muscles in your arms and shoulders tense as you grip my hips, and then you're inside me all at once, making me sob at the feeling, the bigness of you filling me up like a vessel at the bar.

I hear an intake of breath from the room at large, as if it's breathing with us -- surging with you, filling with me, rousing with the two of us as we lose ourselves in the ebb and flow of motion, the extra sensitivity from the smoke, the extra intensity of every movement on account of its being seen and lingered over and watched with brooding, curious eyes.

I lean further and further back until I'm lying on the counter, raising my legs until one ankle lies over your shoulder and one foots rest gently on your collarbone. The depth of penetration is fantastic, almost painful, so intense that for a moment all I am is one pulse of sensation, almost screaming to be so completely filled. Someone in the room is screaming, I think, but my senses have become so focused to a pinpoint that I can only ride the orgasm like a whirlwind, hurled into it by forces entirely beyond my control.

As my vision finally clears, I meet your eyes. You aren't finished. Your expression tells me you've barely started.

The main room at The Eagle is cavernous -- high-ceilinged and vast, with many shady nooks and crannies and out of the way corners. Lining one wall, deep into the building to the left, is a short, widely spaced row of oddly shaped stools next to a counter of jars and bottles. The stools look almost like -- wooden rocking horses fastened to the floor? Difficult to get a good look in the dim light in the back, at least from a distance. I get a closer look immediately, of course, because you've lifted my by now entirely pliant body in your arms and are striding purposefully in that direction, trailing an ever growing group of increasingly happy onlookers, rendered especially chipper by our destination.

I know exactly what you have in mind. If it weren't for the smoke, if it weren't for the fantastic fuck that still has all my nerve endings on fire, I might have doubts. But at this stage, my whole body wants to please you so badly that I can only shiver in anticipation as you carry me effortlessly to the next act in our drama.

You set me on my feet in front of one of the stools resembling a rocking horse. It is made of old wood, oiled and burnished to a high gloss, rendered absolutely smooth and frictionless by years and years of wear.

You put your hands on my hips and turn me around. You stand behind me. I can feel your cock moving against my lower back and ass as if it has a life of its own. Then you push me gently forward, until the closer end of the stool, shaped almost like a curved rump, is between my legs. You bend me forward, over the downward-sloping tilt of the stool, which tips my ass up, unmistakeably and obscenely inviting, my legs spread, waiting to be fucked from behind.

Someone in the crowd cheers. Someone else yells encouragement. And you're fucking me again, and it's so hard and so good that I squeal out loud, losing my footing, clinging to the oddly shaped pommel in front of me, while you ram into me again and again and again, making me scream for more. The crowd is beside itself. People are beginning to place bets. I don't care at all. I just don't want you to stop.

But you slow down. Why would you do that? I look anxiously over my shoulder and see you lean across and snatch a bronze bottle of oil from the nearby shelf, upending it on your hands and cock and all over my ass and thighs. The crowd roars and crackles with energy like a fire that's just come to life. I'm only momentarily confused, since, though you keep fucking me, and fucking me hard, your finger is up my ass, oiling it and me, and you, until we glisten in the lamplight.

Then you're leaning forward over me to oil the wooden pommel to which I have been clinging, the pommel shaped (unsurprisingly, given where we are) like a large, erect phallus.

You withdraw slowly and slide my oiled body, still straddling the stool, forward, until the slide is stopped abruptly by the phallus. I'm sitting up, you straddling the horse behind me, and you push me to my feet and lift me slightly, positioning my cunt over the enormous, oily wooden cock. You have one arm around my waist.

"It will be all right," you whisper. "It will be wonderful. Just relax."

You lower me gently onto the phallus. Letting me be slow, letting me find the stirrups at the side of the contraption to steady myself, letting me sigh softly and slide down, taking all of it in and canting myself forward so as to present my ass for your inspection. The crowd loves us. Two couples are touching each other just yards away, in a pretty unmistakable way. But I'm more interested in your cock.

I wiggle down on the horse and begin to rub my clit against the smooth surface, feeling filled by the wooden phallus, longing to feel your cock up my ass, filling me even more. I writhe and rub and glance over my shoulder. You're just looking.

"Please?" I say.

The oil is hot, and very slightly irritating. I'm going crazy, riding the horse faster, begging you to fuck me up the ass in front of all these people. Then I hear you growl and I feel you penetrate me from behind. Inch by inch, as if demonstrating for the onlookers how much there is, how much I can take. You're hugely, impossibly big.

I simply scream as we match rhythm, rocking back and forth, as you slam me into the burnished wood and pound until my clit explodes and I almost faint with the orgasm, so wet that I can feel fluid running from my cunt and down my legs. And then you explode too -- shouting, or perhaps it's the crowd -- pulling out and covering my ass and thighs, the stool, and some of the crowd, with more come than it seems possible for one man to produce.

You lean against my back and kiss my cheek and ear.

"We should eat," you say. "And then we can try something really exciting."