“Tell the lad then to stay away from my table until he is well clear of the flux,” Jean d’Lac growled. He stood up from his table where he had gotten the explanation on why his personal server and taster had not appeared and walked over to the window in the high tower of the Heights of Petris mesa fortress, one of the few Crusader-held fortresses in Outremer, the once extensive Crusader kingdom along the shores of the Mediterranean sea, that remained in Crusader hands in 1154. The forces of the Saracen general Saif al-Bakr invested the fortress, threatening even the chances of Lac’s dwindling forces to evacuate by sea, just as the greater Saracen commander, Salah-ad-Din, somewhat more loosely invested the nearby Crusader stronghold at the Heights of Hattin.
Primitive as the knowledge of medicine was in that time and place, Lac did realize that he too could catch the flux from sharing space and cup with a sick table server. The commander of the Crusader garrison was a robust man, redheaded, hirsute, and fierce of countenance. He stood a head taller than any man under his command and was more broad-shouldered and muscular than any other. He ruled by natural as well as high-born right in the fortress.
His gaze first went toward the rolling hills nearby of desert and scrub and to the deployment of the tents of the Saracens. As usual, his mind, although he didn’t relish the thought of retreat, went to working out a strategy for getting to the sea. To that end, he could also see in the far-off distance and to the Crusader enclave on the shore there the hint of the sails of the vessels that were there to transport him and the remnants of his forces should he be able to reach the shore through the lines of the Saracens. As always, he concluded he could not make it militarily. He would have to try to make it by guile. He didn’t like the idea of needing to try to make it at all.
That’s when he allowed his gaze to descend into the maze of courtyards below at the base of fortress. He looked around in the various nooks and crannies available to his view, watching men moving listlessly about their daily routines--an alarming decrease in men, both in numbers and in stamina. At length, his observation went to a small side courtyard off the stables, where a golden-haired youth was standing at a water trough and bathing himself. He was naked, and his was beautifully proportioned. Lac gauged the boy to be in his early teen years, as he liked them--ripe and flexible to the needs of manipulation but already forming into men.
Lac, whose preferences went to boys of no more than fourteen, moved a hand to his crotch and, unlacing his codpiece, found his horse-hung prick. He looked more intensely down into the small courtyard, catching the first view of one of his knights, Fabron Gaston, as swarthy as a Saracen, for which he could be mistaken, dark-haired and nearly as hunky as Lac himself, emerge from the shadows. Gaston embraced the handsome youth, most notable for the fine head of golden curls that brushed his shoulders, from behind, pulling the boy into his chest.
The golden-hair youth did not resist. He leaned back into the chest of the knight, who he obviously knew and who had obviously previously known the boy biblically judging by their easy rapport and the yielding nature of the boy, and turned his face to the knight’s searching lips. They kissed deeply, as Lac watched the knight reach down and unlaced his codpiece, releasing a thick, long erection, and then moved the hand around to grasp the boy’s pert erection thrusting out of a hairless groin. The young man flinched and shuddered as he was raised and then set down on the knight’s erection. The boy grimaced as he sank on the cock, but he took it down to the root. As thick as the shaft had been, Lac reasoned, with a delicious shudder, the lad must be well experienced in being spiked. He fantasized about how taxing it would be for the boy to take his cock, and decided there and then to put it to the test.
Lac discerned the appearance of another tall, thin, but muscular, man at the corner of the columns holding the stable porch up. He was only wearing breeches, and he had the codpiece of these open and was stroking a long cock as he watched the knight fuck the blond-maned boy. Lac recognized Sir Edmund Malloy, one of his newer knights.
For a few minutes the knight by the water trough held one of the boy’s legs lifted, as the boy leaned over and grasped the edge of the water trough with his hands and balanced on one smooth-skin leg. From where he stood Lac could clearly see the massive root of the swarthy man’s cock, thrusting out of his dark bush, appear and disappear as he stroked it in the boy’s ass. The boy’s face showed a combination of grimace of pain and ecstasy of passionate possession as the beefy knight fucked him. After a few minutes of this, the knight leaned back into a wooden column supporting a porch off the side of the stables, and the golden-haired groom spread his legs and raised his feet to press into the top edge of the water trough, as the knight continued, without losing penetration, to pump his ass.
Lac’s seneschal entered the chamber, and not missing a beat in masturbating his cock, the fortress commander motioned the steward over to the window with his other hand. The seneschal didn’t react at all in finding his master beating his shaft. He was well aware of the man’s appetites and sexual prowess.
“Look down below, Geoffrey, at the young man Fabron Gaston is riding in that courtyard by the stables.”
Geoffrey LeClare looked as bade. “The young man? That is one of Gaston’s squires. Gaston always plows his squires. That one is named Alain. He’s fourteen. Gaston will have him in serious weapons training soon. He is beautiful, is he not? Gaston says he’s the most experienced and satisfying lay of his squires. You should give him a ride.” The steward had no illusions about where this was headed. He knew that now that his master had seen the lad, he would ride him.
Jean d’Lac’s cock had given a bit of a lurch when his steward said the boy was fourteen. That was Jean’s favorite age for a lay.
“My cup bearer is ill. I wish for that boy to be brought up to serve at my meals as long as the cup bearer is ill--perhaps longer, if he pleases me.”
“Yes, Sire, he will be at your next table.”
Methinks he will be on my table, Lac thought with a small smile, but he didn’t bother telling his steward that. LeClare would already know that.
The seneschal backed out of the chamber and Lac returned his attention to the tableau below. The boy was riding Gaston’s cock well, rising and falling in a quickening rhythm, a look of ecstasy on his handsome, young, beardless face. Gaston was standing steady now, clutching the youth’s hip with one hand and jacking his cock with the other. The golden-haired squire was using the leverage of his feet pressed into the rim of the water trough to rise and fall on the cock. One hand was gripping the hand the knight had on his hip and the other one was encasing the hand jacking his cock off. There was no reluctance in him for the plowing of his passage. The two had obviously done this often. The boy’s head was still turned, his lips open to the deep possession of the knight’s tongue.
As Lac watched, the golden-haired squire jerked and gave a little cry. Fabron Gaston tensed, momentarily took control, thrust hard and fast up into the youth’s passage, and released, with a cry of his own. The squire collapsed, his cock erupting cum. Lac shot his load as well.
Folding his somewhat satisfied cock back and relacing his codpiece, the fortress commander went to his desk and looked through some of the dispatches that had been brought to him by his steward. After some minutes, he grew bored and went back to the window.
Gaston was gone from the courtyard below, but it appeared that the boy and Sir Edmund were still there. Lac couldn’t be sure because he could only see parts of their bodies. They were near the ground on the far side of the water trough, which obstructed Lac’s view. There must be a marble step by the trough, Lac thought, and the boy must be belly done on that, because what Lac could see from here was the plump, bare buttocks of Sir Edmund rising and falling above the lip of the water trough. He could see the top of the knight’s head and then, extending from the end of the water trough, there were locks of golden hair, the boy’s arms extended outward, his fists scrunching up and release in the rhythm of the knight’s bobbing buttocks, and Sir Edmund’s hands grasping the boy’s forearms, holding him in place. Lac found this partial view of a coupling almost more arousing than being able to see it all.
He applauded the boy’s stamina in taking two forceful knights in succession. But he would have to have supurb stamina to serve Lac.
Hours later, his meal complete, the fortress commander was having his dessert. The young squire, now cup bearer, Alain, was belly down on the surface of the supper table in Lac’s chamber, his head suspended out over the far side of the table, his mouth open, tongue hanging, out, eyes bugged out, white-knuckled hands gripping the rim of the tabletop to hold himself in place, and a pained-ecstasy expression on his face. Standing behind him, between his thighs, his strong hands gripping the boy’s hips, Jean d’Lac was fucking Alain hard, deep, and fast with a cock appreciably thicker than Fabron Gaston and Edmund Malloy had ridden him with earlier in the day.
Alain was being challenged by the fuck to heights his knight mentor had not taken him before. But the boy was up to the challenge and recognized the honor--and advantages--of being plowed by the fortress commander.
Alain made all of the right sounds of glorious taking, moaning and groaning his way through putting his own pelvis into countermotion, taking his commander deep and causing his passage to ripple over the plowing cock, making love to it, and when the crisis came, pulling a series of shudders, jerks, and great gobs of cum out of the virile warrior. Lac realized that this had been something he had missed in watching the boy being taken below the tower earlier in the day. He hadn’t been able to hear the boy’s vocal responses to the fuckings. Lac made sure that that boy had plenty to sound off about with the fortress commander’s cock inside him.
Afterward, after Alain was dismissed and Geoffrey had come into the chamber, Lac pronounced his judgment. “Yes, the lad will do very nicely. Clear the other one out of the chamber next to mine and install this Alain. But when I go abed tonight, bring him back to me--to my bed.”
“I am pleased that he will serve for you,” Geoffrey said, backing out of the chamber.
“Yes, he will serve nicely,” Lac muttered when he was alone. “And perhaps for more than my own immediate needs,” he added. “Perhaps for all of us.” Already his mind was racing ahead on how this golden-haired beauty might serve his greater need--if, as his spy in the camp of Saif al-Bakr, Yusuf ibn-Shaddad, told him true about the proclivities of the Saracen general lurking out there in the darkness.
That night, lost to the charms of the young, golden-maned beauty and in deep lust, Jean pulled Alain up from the bed and strutted, bouncing the boy up and down on his cock, to the stone wall beside the window. There, Alain threw his arms around Jean’s neck and hooked his knees on Jean’s hips, as the virile, monstrously huge warrior chief thrust up inside him again and again. At a whisper from Alain, Jean reversed their position on the wall, pressing his back into the stones and gripping Alain’s waist, as the young blond pressed his fists into the stone at either side of Jean’s head and his feet into the wall on either side of Jean’s chest and fucked himself in long, deep strokes on the older man’s cock.
The boy was wanton and he was good--very, very good. Alain was proving to be no innocent at coupling with a man, despite his young age and tender appearance, something that Lac thought he would be able to use fully to the advantage of all of the men in his care.
Alain fucked on, pulling every ounce of pleasure and cum out of the virile fortress commander that was there to give.
At the same moment, in the tent of the Saracen general, Saif al-Bakr, Lac’s spy, Yusuf ibn-Shaddad, like other retainers of the Saracen general, was peeking through rents in the tent walls at the general taking his sport with a Crusader captive.
The young, blond Crusader soldier had made the mistake of straying too far away from his scouting party from the Heights of Petris fortress. He had been captured by the Saracens and, because he was a young, comely, and blond, he had been delivered alive to the tent of Saif al-Bakr. The young man had sustained a couple of wounds in the capture, but nothing life threatening. It would be left to al-Bakr to have sport with him and finish him off.
There was nothing that Shaddad could do for the young man. His fate was sealed and Shaddad could not reveal any sympathy for the Crusaders. The young man was no one of import among the Crusaders either, that Shaddad could discern. Just another casualty of the bloody siege. If he had not been blond and comely, he would already be dead.
The young man was naked, on all fours on a carpet in the tent, his wrists and ankles bound, and the bindings at his wrists tied to a spike in the floor so that he was completely defenseless. Mounted on his ass, naked save for a golden cord belted around his waist, al-Bakr rode the young man’s ass hard, fast, deep, and cruelly.
The young man, never having been ridden by a man, was crying out the pain and indignity of the situation. The Saracen general was hugely endowed and he had given the captive no time to try to adjust to his thrusts. In time--and the general was taking his time in taking his torturous pleasure--the young soldier did adjust to the size of the thick shaft churning inside his guts and, with a sniffle and deep moan, he settled down to taking the Saracen’s cock as bravely as possible. Did had incentive to take the shaft. As long as he was being fucked, he was still alive.
Al-Bakr was well versed in the art of prolonging a coupling for personal pleasure, and he fucked the captive for more than three-quarters of an hour before he came with a prodigious gush and, with a groan, the young blond Crusader soldier collapsed under him.
After taking a few post-ejaculation thrusts as long as he was still hard, Saif al-Bakr untied his golden cord belt, wound it around the neck of his sobbing captive, cruelly bowed the young man’s head back into his chest, and, as his victim gurgled his last, neatly garroted the young man into terminal silence.
With a sense of sorrow and frustration, the spy, Yusuf ibn-Shaddad, pulled away from his position at the tent wall. He would report this to Jean d’Lac, of course--yet another testament to the Saracen chief’s cruelty and fetish with young blond men, but it wasn’t something the Heights of Petris fortress commander didn’t know all ready. He could only hope that this and the other intelligence he had to impart would help relieve the siege of the Crusader garrison. Shaddad longed to be able to set sail with the Crusaders and return to his family in Sicily.
The day was glorious. The small party of Crusaders that flowed out of the main gate of the Heights of Petris and made its short way down the side of a ravine to a small stream below the walls made enough noise to attract the attention of the Saracens. The closest of these were held off from arrow distance by a manned defensive trench between the Saracen lines and the walls of the fortress. The armed party came down to the stream, where some went on watch and others stripped down and bathed in the stream. This was a normal routine, and, although the Saracens kept watch over the activity outside the protective walls of the fortress, unless they knew in advance it was happening, they didn’t have time to launch an attack party before the bathers returned to the fortress.
On this day, one bather, in particular, stood out. He was a young, comely blond with a cascade of curly golden-blond mane that came down to his shoulders. He stood on a rock at the stream’s edge, like a young god, while other bathers sponged off his perfectly formed body. One of the knights broke away from those guarding the bathers and saddled up behind the boy. He was a big bruiser of a man, swarthy and dark haired.
The watching Saracens gasped almost to a man when the knight unlaced his codpiece, revealing a thick and long erection, moved into position behind the naked blond boy, lifted the boy up, set him down on his cock, and began fucking him. The boy yielded readily to the taking, reaching his arms back to fling them around the knight’s neck and fisting his hands together and raising his legs to hook the fronts of his ankles on the bulge of the knight’s calves. The boy moved his core with the thrusts of the knight, fucking himself on the knight’s staff.
The Saracen troops were well aware of their own general’s interests and proclivities, and it wasn’t long before Saif al-Bakr appeared at the top of a hill to watch the young blond beauty being fucked. His eyesight was sharp, although he would wish that it was as sharp as the interest and arousal the boy raised in him. Standing nearby was one of his trusted advisers, the man who headed up his cadre of spies in the Crusaders’ fortress, Yusuf ibn-Shaddad.
“That boy there, at the stream, being so willingly plowed. Can you find out who and what he is, Yusuf?”
“I need no help from spies for that, Sire,” Shaddad answered, delighted that the Saracen general was taking the bait. “That is Alain, the son of Count Jean d’Lac, the commander of the fortress. He is fourteen years of age.”