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The Blacksmith
🕑 Added 2019-09-29 03:02:11 +0000 UTCI stoke the forge. I heat iron and hammer it into shape, my arms bulging and dripping with exertion after hours of this grueling work. My shop scorches under the hot summer sun and I pause to peel my tunic from my barrel chest and toss it aside so I can continue. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to smith a sword, but my rough hands retrace the steps without hesitation.
The sun is waning at the horizon before I finish for the day, with a rumbling belly and aching back. I mean to make my way home, as I promised, but I don’t. I walk to the Ramhorn and take a seat at an empty table. The barmaid brings my ale, along with a bowl of stew and a slice of stale bread. I ignore the din of the drunken farmers who make up the usual tavern crowd, and they do the same.
But my sullen, silent meal is interrupted when a familiar face joins my table. “Good evening, Henry,” he says with a beaming smile. My gut tightens and my heart thumps hard as if I were hammering stiff iron. The man’s soft, fey features complement his fine clothes and effortless grace, but it’s his smile always breaks me.
“Hello Adras,” I mutter around a mouthful of stew.
“A fine day at the forge?” He asks eagerly. He’s never been afraid of seeming interested, but he’s never needed to be.
I gulp the warm mash down my throat and give him an ambivalent nod. “Swords for the baron.”
“Ahh,” Adras frowns at the thought of the coming conflict. “Your sons?”
My mouth mimics his. “Geoffrey is too young, but Ralf must go. The fool boy is even excited.”
“Everett won’t let him stay as your apprentice?” Adras asks hopefully.
“No.”
“Perhaps I could speak to—”
“No,” I repeat. He starts to protest, but I grab him by the neck and snarl, “There are already enough whispers about us. What would the baron think if you spoke on my behalf? What might any of them think?”
“I suppose you’re right,” Adras nods, “but I just wished I could–“
“Are you eating?” I interrupt.
“No,” he answers in a whisper, “I just thought…”
I drain my cup, drips of ale clinging to my beard, and plant it on the table, along with a few coins, before I rise and make for the door with Adras in tow. He’s had over a hundred seasons to my forty, but still he looks like half my age—a head shorter with slender shoulders and a waist half as wide as mine. Even beyond the timeless nature of his birth, he’s never had to work anything heavier than a quill.
Wordless, we make our way back to my shop. My heavy, certain steps gain a sort of awkwardness as anticipation fills my trousers. The few people we pass don’t give us a second look, but still I let out a sigh once I’ve shut and locked the door of the smithy behind us.
When I turn to him, Adras has already bared his chest to me, tunic shrugged to the floor. He trembles as I run my coarse fingers down across his smooth skin to undo his trousers and let them tumble down around his ankles. The diminutive man is naked before me, vulnerable and pristine.
I grasp his hips and effortlessly lift him to my height, letting our lips collide and my thick beard caress his alabaster face. He runs his fingers up under my tunic and moans at the feeling of my firm belly and powerful chest, black fur still matted from the day’s work. I growl at the adoring touch of his soft hands.
Adras wraps his legs around my waist when I lean back against the door, his slight frame balanced against my chest. I whisper, “I’ve missed you.”
He blushes and replies, “It hasn’t seemed like it. I’ve been by the Ramhorn every night this week.”
“Edith suspects more than she says,” I mumble, burying my face against him, gently nipping at his sweet neck. “I have to be careful.”
He runs his hand down and squeezes my manhood through fabric. “At least he’s still feeling brave enough.”
With a growl, I stomp over to a cluttered table and throw him down atop it, ankles over my shoulders, hurriedly unfastening my breeches. I spit in my hand and rub it over my engorged shaft, doing the same to wet the space between Adras’s parted cheeks. I step forward and shove into the man, making him howl. I ram deep into him until my heavy sack is pressed to his body.
As strained tears stream down his cheeks, Adras pants and beams up at me, “There’s the bold man I remember.”
“Gods,” I moan, hilted in the snug elven scabbard, “any man would understand if he knew how it felt inside you.”
With a long exhale, he smirks and says, “You want to share me with the baron now?”
A low rumble rises in my chest and my thick fingers dig into his shoulders as I growl, “You’re mine.” He winces at the power of my hands, but the smirk refuses to retreat. He knows just what to say to drive me wild. The primal lust caged inside me bursts forth, my pumping hips pummeling the man’s body with furious desire. “Say it, Adras.”
“I’m yours, Henry,” he whimpers, lithe flesh writhing beneath me, “I’ll always be yours.”
My body shakes with pleasure at his surrender. Eyes clenched and jaw stiff, my tunic drips perspiration down onto him with every thrust. The muscles beneath my well-fed bulk burn with exertion, slamming into the elf’s body with no reservation. He would gasp and howl, but whether by his heritage or his arcanery, his seemingly-fragile frame was more resilient than any woman I’d ever had.
Gritting my teeth, I look down at Adras and groan, “Here it comes.”
He nods eagerly. “I’m going to try something new.” I raise an eyebrow and he promises, “You’ll like it. Just trust me.”
I do trust him. I even love him, in a way. I grin and grip his slender chest in my mighty hands as I hammer his body, melted with ecstasy, into the sturdy table. My heaving nuts tighten against me as my tremendous thrusts bury my member deep as it will go. As I rear my head back and part my lips in a booming moan, his palms press onto my chest through my drenched shirt.
A swarm of sensations overtake me as my manhood swells and pulses, filling his insides with a flood of my potent seed, but blaring over the cacophony is the heat emanating from Adras’ diminutive hands. I look down to see a warm glow filling my burly chest and watch as the sensation spreads all through me.
“What are you—“ I mutter before spasming with a rush of unparalleled pleasure. Before my eyes, I begin to swell and thicken. My tunic bursts into shreds around my growing gut and bulging muscles. The breeches tugged down around my thighs are rent asunder by my engorging bulk. All that energy coursing through my flesh exhilarates me and stiffens the enlarged member, stretching my elf open wider than ever. “Gods, Adras,” I groan, “I feel like a damned ogre.”
“But you look like a god, Henry,” he whispers with a wince of pain from my throbbing manhood. He runs his hands over my massive belly and says, “Just imagine… no man could stand before you in battle like this.”
“Henry the Conqueror?” I suggest with a snort, reaching down to grab a slab of metal. It bends in my hands like parchment and I feel my still-hard member pulse with pride. “Oh hell, that’s incredible. Isn’t it?”
“Absolutely, Lord Henry,” he teases.
With a snort, I pin him to the table beneath one massive hand and pump my hips, sloshing through his insides with my own cum to slick my way. He groans and his eyes tighten at the overwhelming sensations, but he stares up at me in absolute awe.
I can feel the mystical vitality coursing through my heavy nuts as they slap against his rear. I’d cum like a fountain before, but I can feel a veritable river of seed ready to burst forth from my member this time.
“Fuck me, my lord,” he howls as I hasten my motions. “Let me feel all that strength.”
In his eyes, I can see myself the way he sees me. In his eyes, I see a mighty god plundering his body for every last drop of pleasure. It is an intoxicating sight, and I find myself rising to the performance. It takes just moments before I rear my head back and let out a groan that shakes the shop, erupting deep in his warm body.
My shaft throbs against the snug walls of his ass as it pumps out burst after burst of my seed until I could see his flat stomach swelling with it. I can’t help but grin at the inhuman display of my virility. Adras’ face glows with joy at our coupling, as if nothing in the world could please him more than being mine.
It is a good night, the kind of night I will think back on in dark days. As I collapse atop him, dragging the both of us to the floor of my smithy, I easily drift off into unsettling dreams of the perils to come.
