The handsome blond boy struggled up onto the beach east of the town of Limassol, on the southern Cypriot coast. He turned and looked out into the bay, the waters calmer now than when the squall had passed through, tossing the vessel he’d been in onto the rocks. He had managed to reach his white stallion on the ship and free the beast, and, together, they had struggled to the shore.
Others were coming out of the surf as well, sputtering water and looking about them, wild eyed and confused. Some came over to the fourteen-year-old boy to ensure that he was well. He told them that he was, but as he heard the thundering of horse’s hooves, they all looked around in panic to see that a mounted group of warriors in Turkish armor was bearing down on them, scimitars flashing above their heads. The Turks were the allies of the Saracens the boy and his shipmates had just escaped on the Syrian coast.
The boy pulled himself up on the back of his horse and rode in the other direction. Leaving his men to cut down those coming up on the beach from the shipwreck, the leader of the Turks took out after the boy.
It was a merry chase, and normally the white stallion could have outrun the Turk’s mount, but both the stallion and the boy had exhausted themselves coming onto the beach. The Turk managed to ride up beside the boy and push him off onto the ground, where the boy had the breath knocked out of him. Jumping off his horse, the Turk, a large, fierce-looking warrior landed on top of the boy, pinning him to the ground. His scimitar flashed over the boy’s head and the boy closed his eyes, anticipating the worst. The Saracens and their allies were merciless to Crusaders.
That was not the worst that came however. He felt the Turk tying his wrists together with the belt of his robe and forcing the boy’s arms over his head. Placing the blade of the sword under the boy’s throat, the Turk reached down and bunched the boy’s tunic up around his waist, unbound the lad’s loin cloth, and rendered the boy’s perfectly formed lower body naked.
The boy gasped and made a motion to resist, being rewarded only with a couple of subduing backhands across his face and a nick of blood under his chin from the scimitar. The Turk roughly parted the boy’s legs, pushed a large hand under his pert little balls, and penetrated his anal opening with a thick finger. The boy cried out the indignation of the invasion. But the thickness of the finger caused him to spread and bend his legs, feet flat on the ground, positioning himself to better take the penetration. He was moaning and trying not to go hard from the pad of the finger working his prostate, but unable to resist his urges, he moved into rolling his hips against the invading finger, leveraging off his feet and going with the thrusts and withdrawals of the thick finger. He arched his back and became lost in the taking.
The boy lay there, involuntarily responding, moaning and groaning as the Turk fucked his passage with his finger. After a few minutes of this, the hand was withdrawn, but only to then encase the boy’s cock, engorge him fully, and beat him off to an ejaculation. Exhausted, the boy collapsed back onto the ground and just lay there and moaned. He put up a weak resistance when the Turk straddled him with his knees, gripped the blond curls at the back of the boy’s head, and pulled the lad’s head forward.
Forcing a thick and long, hard cock between the boy’s lips, the Turk made the boy suck him. When the warrior’s shaft was hard and throbbing, he untied the boy’s wrists, flipped him over on his belly, bound the boy’s thighs together with the rope, pulled his robe over his head, unbound his loincloth, and mounted the boy’s hips. The boy was sure that he would take the cock in his passage now, but he didn’t. The Turk forced his shaft between the boy’s bound thighs, high up, so that it slid under the boy’s balls. He dry fucked the boy there to an ejaculation, but he didn’t penetrate the boy’s anus. Once again the sensuality of the action was so overwhelming to the boy that he found himself involuntarily pushing his hips up with leverage from his knees and rolling with the sliding of the cock between his thighs.
After the Turk had come, he rolled the boy over, lowered his mouth to the boy’s trembling lips and took him in a kiss that went from tentative to demanding and then backed up to passionate when, reaching down and stroking the boy’s cock again, the lad surrendered to the passion. The kiss awakened need and desire in the boy for this masterful Turk who was awakening his body to arousal and desire for a muscular sensuality of a forceful man.
After he’d brought the boy to climax again, the Turk rose, dressed, and brought back other ropes from his horse. The boy lay there, panting hard, thoroughly cowed and frightened for his life, but awed at his surrender to the man. The Turk was so overpowering in sexuality that the boy knew that he would give in to the warrior over and over again if that was what the man wanted--and he knew that the Turk had him in thrall now too.
The Turk bound the boy’s wrists again behind his back and his ankles, leaving the rope binding the boy’s thighs together in place. He pulled the boy’s tunic back down to his knees; hoisted the boy up on the horse, on his belly; grabbed the reins of the white stallion, which had remained nearby; and started riding back to the shipwreck beach to regain command of his warriors and to show off the treasure he had captured, subdued, and mastered.
Two Weeks earlier, below the Crusader fortress of the Horns of Hattin, on the plains of Palestine:
Most of the mounted escort riders gathered around their leader were watching the small band of infidels, led by Guillaume de Chauvigny, as they rode out of the gate of the stronghold of Belvoir and moved to meet the forces of the Saracens and their allies on the hilltop overlooking the small lake below the Horns of Hattin. The Saracen chieftain, Ahmed ibn Malik, almost the peer of the great Saladin, sat majestically and comfortably astride his white stallion--a stallion of manhood in his own right.
Chauvigny’s small force in the saddle of the Horns of Hattin was the last holdout, save Guy de Lusignan’s hold on Jerusalem, of those from the north in the latest of a series of failed crusades. The Belvoir stronghold, sitting high on the Heights of the Horns, was proving very costly to dislodge. But Chauvigny had seen the futility of the Crusade, and this parley was to strike an agreement for the infidels to leave in exchange for safe passage to the Mediterranean coast.
The commander of the Seljuk Turk allies to the Saracens, Yusuf bin Salah’s, attention went to what Ahmed ibn Malik was looking at in the approaching party. The Saracen chieftain’s eyes were going to a single rider--and not to the infidel’s commander, Guillaume de Chauvigny, riding in front of his contingent. Malik’s gaze was concentrated to near the back of the group of riders, to a boy, riding helmetless, his mane of reddish gold curls ruffling in the wind.
Three of Guillaume de Chauvigny’s sons were in Belvoir with him. Two of the sons were grown men. The oldest, his heir, also was named Guillaume. The second eldest, a Jesuit priest, who made Yusuf, seeing the infidel church as the source of all their troubles, grip the hilt of his sword hard in bitterness, was named Marc. The youngest, fourteen years old, not yet a man but on the cusp of training to the sword, was the one with the reddish-gold mane. Small and slim of body, the youngest son, Andre, sat astride a white horse that he handled well but that seemed to make him smaller and more delicate that he actually was.
Yusuf wasn’t surprised that Ahmed had his eyes on the boy. The sight of him made Yusuf’s blood boil as well. Yusuf knew specifically why Ahmed was interested, as did the chieftain’s retinue that more than once had delivered a blond boy to Ahmed for him to debauch and then decapitate. As the infidels approached, Ahmed was drawing the attention of those near him, pointing out the boy, and declaring what he would like to do with him--what he intended to do with him if and when he could lay his hands on the boy.
“That is one to spit and twirl on my spear as his sire watches helplessly and then to serve the golden-haired head to Chauvigny on a banquet platter,” he growled. All around him laughed heartily at the image, knowing what form of weapon the chieftain was referring to as “my spear.”
Ahmed’s tastes in dipping his staff were well known in his contingent and were fed by the youngest and blondest of those captured in battle, soldiers or conquered villagers alike, holding off from putting them to the sword in the field in deference to Ahmed putting them to two swords in his tent--first the legendary sword between his legs and then his sword of steel as he lopped off their heads. Both acts were said to make Ahmed hard and to spout his seed.
The two of them, Ahmed and Yusuf, had conducted a reconnoiter of Belvoir’s defenses as the Saracen forces were first arriving in the area and before Chauvigny’s forces knew they were there. From this very hilltop they had observed a small group of infidel soldiers at the edge of the lake below, bathing themselves. Both had drawn in their breath when they had seen Andre de Chauvigny, naked, rising from and walking out of the lake. His perfectly formed blond body shimmered in the moonlight, and each of the men spying from the hilltop, as Ahmed ibn Malik surrounded himself with like-minded retainers, had reached for his staff and completed himself as they watched the young Chauvigny take his time drying off and redressing.
.... There is more of this story ...