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The Guard
For one week during each summer, the
Emperor’s hunting grounds became the sight of a bloody contest between the
best fighters of his realm. After months of rigorous training, those men
aspiring to join the elite of the Emperor’s Guard entered the woods from
separate deployments half a mile apart. They sought each other out, then
fought each other to the death. The system was as brutal as it was ingenious,
guaranteeing that only the fittest and most skillful of warriors would accede
to the ranks of the Guard. Upon selection for training, each recruit had
submitted to an initiation process that signified the dedication of his body
and his manhood to the service of the Emperor. He stripped naked and
submitted to a spread-eagled restraint in a framework that resembled a large
doorway, eight feet tall and five feet across. With his arms and legs
tethered to the frame and stretched from his body, the stud yielded his cock
to the surgeon, who pricked its upper side with tattooing needles and
permanently stained the upper surface of the fuckrod
with a brightly colored stripe of either red or blue. This would be the color
of his training team until such time as he survived the training and graduated
to the Guard or was killed by an opponent and relieved of the striped meat
between his thighs. After the initiation and the strenuous
training that honed his body for extreme exertion and for the dexterous and deadly
use of spear, sword, knife, and bow and arrow, the red or blue-cocked
candidate was ready for the final test of his ability in the imperial hunting
grounds. He would either succeed and become a Guardsman, or he would die in
the forest and suffer the loss of his manhood. The two teams trained
separately, the reds never coming into contact with the blues until their
fateful encounter in the hunting grounds. They knew of each other’s existence
and anticipated with hardened pricks the final battle that would determine
who among them could become Guardsmen. Among the Guards themselves, men with
blue-striped dicks served side by side with redcocks,
their undivided loyalties given only to the Emperor. At one time, though,
during that one decisive week of summer, the color of their tattoos had
determined their status either as comrades or deadly foes. Morak’s cock
had pained him only a few days after he had received the blue ink. He had
trained well, and his trainers considered him prime material for entry into
the Guardsmen’s elite ranks. Not once had Morak
been defeated in a mock battle with wooden swords, and during archery and
spear practice, in which male slaves and captured prisoners of war were used
for live target practice, he had shown amazing accuracy, often placing his
projectile center-chest in his opponent. He had even hit moving targets with
ease as prisoners were deliberately released to take futile flight, only to
be speared by the trainees who were charged with terminating them. His cock grew hard and oozed his
sperm-filled juice as he tested the tip of his long, slender spear. He hoped
to put his initial training to good use and kill as many of the redcocked men as he could before the Gamesman halted the
combat and announced the winning side. In particular, he hoped to encounter
his counterpart on the other side, the man renowned as the redcocks’ best fighter, a massively muscled stud called Drom. With Drom’s dick in his
possession, Morak’s success as a Guardsman would be
ensured. Morak was in
good company, fighting alongside two other blue-striped men likewise armed
with spears; three who had chosen to arm themselves as archers, each man
allowed twelve arrows in his quiver; three more who carried short swords good
for fighting in close quarters; and finally three bluecocks
who were unarmed but who had excelled in deathwrestling
and had learned the fine art of breaking their opponent’s neck or back to
finish him without the aid of a weapon. The twelve men on the red team would
be similarly configured. The men would fight naked, their only
adornments being a leather pouch slung over their shoulders. This was to
accommodate the required proof of kill, which would be counted at the time
the Games were halted, an hour before sundown. It was then that the score for
each team would be tallied. Morak regarded his cockpouch with some doubt, wondering if it would be large
enough to accommodate the volume of kill he expected to wreak upon the reds.
He liked not only severing the man’s fuckshaft, but
the bull balls as well, leaving nothing on the corpse that recalled the
stud’s former glory or manhood. The bowmen were of course also allowed to
wear their quivers, which clung to their backs between their shoulderblades, secured by a leather strap across their
broad muscular chests. The spearmen and the bare-handed fighters were each
issued a small, very sharp castration knife in a leather sheath, which Morak and his mates strapped to their right calves. The
swordsmen and knife fighters had no need of such a blade and would use their
weapons to claim their opponents’ dicks. They entered the forest at the appointed
time, each team confident of their own superior ability, eager to kill and
win, cognizant also of their own vulnerability as the prey of the other team.
The reds’ strategy was classic warfare.
The three archers advanced first, taking position the moment they heard the
sounds of the bluemen advancing from the opposite
direction. They shot volley after volley of arrows in a high arc over the
forest, raining them down onto the advancing bluecocks,
thrilling at the shrieks they heard as some of the opponents fell with wooden
shafts sunk deep into their shoulders, chests, or backs. They stopped firing
when each man held only two remaining arrows in his quiver, then the twelve redcocked warriors advanced. Morak heard
the singing of the reds’ arrow as they rained down on his mates, but he was
not among the initial casualties. He watched with sadness as a good fuckbuddy named Thor took an arrow in his upper chest and
dropped like a stone, the shaft penetrating deeply into his heart. It was a
wretched fate, dying suddenly without ever having cut off an opponent’s meat.
One of their deathwrestlers, Korag,
likewise took an arrow in his shoulder. He continued his advance, growling
and shrieking his enraged anguish as the deadly missile eventually weakened
him enough to bring him to his knees. As fate would have it, he knelt
precisely where yet another arrow was falling, this one catching him square
in the throat. Korag fell back onto his ass, a
wide-eyed look of surprise freezing on his face as he died, his massive cock
pointing straight up at the sky with a pearl of unused cum at its tip. A young archer had been downed as well,
though the wound was not immediately life-threatening. He squatted on the
ground, grimacing as he clutched the infernal arrow that had driven into his
muscular thigh. He pulled the shaft out, then stood up, blood coursing down
his leg, and plodded onward, determined to release his own arrows into the
chests of the redcocked opponents before they
finished him off. The bluemen
employed a less direct strategy of confrontation, deploying six of their men
to the flanks of the enemy, three on either side. Morak
took the remaining survivors up the middle, anticipating a strong advance
from the redmen once the hail of arrows stopped. He
gripped his spear and watched the trees closely for the first appearance of
the enemy. He was surprised by a spear whizzing directly past his head,
barely missing him, and lodging in the trunk of a nearby tree. He spotted the
man who threw it and let his own weapon fly, catching the warrior square in
the belly, impaling him. He ran to retrieve his weapon, placing his foot on
the redcock’s chest and jerking the spear out of
his body. The man screamed and grunted a curse at him, whereupon Morak stuck his spear into the man’s throat to finish him
off. The castration knife was whisked from its sheath and swiftly put into
position. He roughly severed both the man’s thick, spurting cock and his big
balls, taking the tattooed meat off in one piece and stuffing it into his
leather collecting pouch. Morak’s dick twitched in
celebration of his first kill. Another redcock
descended upon him, this one carrying a short sword. It was difficult to
parry with a spear, but he defended himself well, and after a short while was
able to hurl his weapon into the man’s body as his opponent advanced with his
arm lifted in an attempt to deliver a death blow to Morak.
The man with the red-striped dick dropped his weapon and clutched the shaft
of Morak’s spear, looking with surprise at his
pierced belly, feeling the point of the spear protrude from the small of his
back. Morak leapt toward the man, claiming the
dropped sword, which he used to hack his opponent’s neck, sending a torrent
of blood out over several square feet of the forest floor. Morak grabbed the shaft of his spear and pulled it from
his enemy’s body as the man fell back to die on the ground, then with
lightning speed he immediately hurled it again, having caught sight of an
enemy archer advancing in a stealthy crouch, his bow tensed in preparation
for a shot. The archer shot his arrow harmlessly into the ground and fell
instantly dead with Morak’s much-used spear
piercing his heart. The impact on the young archer’s body had been so fierce
that Morak had heard the man’s sternum and ribs
cracking as his spear rammed into the redcock’s
muscular chest. Morak surveyed
his surroundings. There appeared to be a lull in the combat as the reds
regrouped for an assault. He knelt beside the handsome, thick-chested archer and cut his balls and red-striped dick
off, stuffing them into the trophy bag. He hurriedly made his way to the
other fallen soldier, who was just ending his desperate death twitches as he
bled out from the deep neck gash that Morak had
inflicted upon him with the warrior’s own blade. Morak’s
spear had impaled him through the gut, and the blade of the sword had almost
decapitated him. Morak now made quick work of the
stud’s newly stilled manhood. With three sets of balls and red cocks in his
possession, he alone had already claimed 25% of the opponents’ cockmeat. It was then that Morak
heard a groan in the underbrush a few feet away. There he discovered a blue
spearman, Erik, who had been mortally wounded by the weapon of the redcocked spearman, the first man Morak
had killed. Erik’s killer had extracted the spear from his gut and left him
to die, and though it was taking a considerable amount of time for him to
bleed to death, the fallen blueman was certain of
his fate. Morak had killed the redcocked
spearman before he could return to finish the job and cut off Erik’s dick.
“Kill me,” Erik entreated his mate in a simple and straightforward manner.
The mortally wounded blueman looked down at his
belly, which was oozing dark blood, and at his blue-tattooed cock which was
tall, proud, and oozing white cum. “Better a friend than some redcocked fucker,” he gasped. Morak nodded
and lifted his spear to finish off his mate. “Prepare yourself,” he said, and
drove the spear with deadly force, flaring his mighty arm as the pointed
shaft slid easily into the thickly muscled chest of his fellow bluecock. Morak got him right
in the heart, ending Erik’s suffering quickly. Erik’s cock spurted deathwad up onto his chest, as if the spear were
squeezing the semen from his body. His impressive dick remained stiff as he
exhaled his final breath. Morak hesitated a moment,
regarding his friend’s heavily veined and powerfully erect cock. The reds were
advancing again, and Drom and his men would surely
like to claim such a magnificent trophy as this. Remorseful at the prospect
of mutilating a friend’s body, Morak yielded to the
practical demands of the situation. “Better a friend than some redcocked fucker.” Erik’s last words still rang in his
ears. He knelt quickly beside the corpse of his slain mate and unsheathed his
cutting knife. He had to slice hard to remove Erik’s rock-hard dick, cutting
through the tough shaft at the base. It was like cutting green wood. He
tossed the meat a long way off so that it would not be found, except by
scavengers that would devour it. “One less blue cock for your pouch, Drom!” he muttered out loud. As Morak had
expected, the flanking maneuver soon paid off. The six bluecocks
who had circled behind the reds from two sides now descended on the surviving
enemy warriors, shrieking their war cries in a
hair-raising concert of bloodlust. Morak grinned as
he saw his fellow bluemen, their hard dicks
slapping up against their bellies, leap through the forest undergrowth,
slashing the surprised reds, impaling them on short swords, firing arrows
into their backs and chests, and lopping heads off . Other reds engaged the
attacking bluemen in rapid and intense hand-to-hand
combat. The bluecocked archer who had taken an
arrow in his thigh found himself outmatched by a redcocked
wrestler who tackled the enemy bowman before he could shoot an arrow in
defense. The wrestler snapped the archer’s neck and stilled him after a brief
grapple. A blue deathwrestler tackled a red bladefighter and succeeded in keeping his opponent’s
short sword out of his body long enough to dislodge the weapon from his hand
and secure the man in a stringent clutch, one knee against the back of the
red fighter. Morak heard the man’s bones crack as
his back was broken from the expertly applied pressure. Sadly, the deathwrestler immediately succumbed to the arrow of a redcocked archer, who fired despicably, driving an arrow
at close range into the middle of the defenseless wrestler’s bare back. The deathwrestler collapsed on top of the man he had just
killed. When the archer ran to claim his cock trophy from the dead blueman, Morak hurled his
trusty spear, driving it between the man’s shoulders and into his back. The
red warrior stopped in mid-stride, looking down at the bloody spear tip
protruding from his upper chest. Morak jerked the
spear from the man’s body, placing his foot against his ass to gain the
necessary leverage. He noticed the speared warrior shoot a deathload from his engorged red-striped dick as he fell
forward onto the dead blue wrestler and became the third corpse on the pile. A blue archer, his quiver emptied, tried
to defend himself against the deadly assault of a red short-swordsman, but he
was quickly dispatched, the blade entering his muscular body just above the cockshaft and slitting his belly open all the way to his
ribs. The blade fighter was good: before the archer had even fallen to the
ground, his guts spilling out of his open belly wound, the redcock had managed to sever his opponent’s big
blue-striped meat and drop it into his shoulderbag.
Morak growled his hatred for the blade fighter and
once again hurled his deadly spear, catching the redcock
in his lower abdomen, sending him down hard. He advanced on the fallen
fighter, stood over him with a raging hard cock, extracted the spear from the
man’s abdomen, then re-inserted it in his chest, shoving it quickly downward
so that it cut through his heart. The man clutched helplessly at the shaft
and spouted incomprehensible final protests as it penetrated him. Morak came involuntarily, even without touching his own
dick, when he heard the muscular warrior grunt in manly submission to the
spear that was invading his chest. Morak placed his
bare foot on the man’s torso in order to extract his weapon. He felt his own
hot discharge under the sole of his foot as he pressed it down against the
hard body of the fallen warrior, and at the same time, Morak
felt the dying man spurt large quantities of hot deathseed
onto the back of his leg. Morak was
surprised when the hunter’s horn sounded. The Gamesman was signaling an end
to the death combat. It was an hour before sundown, and time to count the
severed cocks as well as the survivors. Across the small forest clearing
which was now cluttered with the bodies of the dead and dying, Morak caught sight for the first time of his arch-enemy
and nemesis among the redcocks. The red-dicked
chieftain Drom stood well over six feet tall and
had massive shoulders and rock-hard slabs of pec
meat that jutted out over a powerful, creased belly. His massive dick was
hard, standing almost flush with his belly, and low-hanging furry balls
dangled down between his thighs. Drom held a sword
in his right hand, and with his left he made an obscene gesture toward Morak. “Would that we had but five more minutes of
combat,” he growled, “and I would have your dick in my hand.” It was Morak’s
sentiment exactly. He had spurted many a load of seed fantasizing about Drom’s demise at the tip of his spear. He looked at Drom’s trophy pouch, which, like his own, was bulging to
overflowing with severed cocks and balls, the genitals of the men Morak had trained with. Some of those severed blue cocks
had fucked him in the ass during the horseplay of hard men in training. Their disappointment at not being able
to engage each other in a deathfight was surpassed
by the irony of the cock count. Drom and Morak quickly realized as they surveyed the carnage that
they were the only two men left alive and unwounded. The cock count would
verify the casualties, but it appeared that only two men of the original
twenty-four had been able to return from the hunting grounds when the trumpet
had sounded. The others had likely slashed, speared, crushed, or stabbed each
other to death or nearly to death in a frenzy of lethal combat. These two
were clearly the superior fighters, and they would assume their rightful
positions as members of the Emperor’s Guard, no longer rivals but comrade
members of the same elite fighting force. The Emperor’s Gamesman instructed both Drom and Morak to empty their
pouches and arrange the severed dicks in a row, so that a count could be
verified for the cocks of each stripe and the total number of casualties
could be verified. Guardsmen moved through the forest with swords and
castration knives, re-tracing the path of gory battle, collecting trophy
pouches from the slain fighters. Any man mortally wounded but still alive was
put to the sword by the Guardsmen, and his dick was severed. Cocks still
jutting from the crotches of slain warriors were likewise amputated by the
Guardsmen and returned to the clearing to add to the final count. Drom and Morak glared at each
other in abject hatred as the cock tally progressed, neither of them knowing
how he would summon the discipline to regard the other as a comrade of the
Guard rather than as a sworn enemy. “There are but twenty-one,” announced
the Gamesman as he surveyed the two neat rows of severed male meat, one
striped with red, the other tattooed blue. “There should be twenty-two
cocks,” he concluded, his voice sounding ominous. Morak
realized with sickening anguish that it was Erik’s cock that was missing. The
Emperor’s Gamesman caught the momentary cloud that crossed Morak’s face and glared at him silently, as if expecting
an explanation. “I confess, sir,” Morak
heard himself say, his big heart pounding in his chest even harder than it
had during battle, “that I did sever the member of my slain comrade Erik, to
spare him the indignity of disfigurement by Drom
and his men. I slew Erik’s killer before the redcock
could claim the manhood from him.” “It is forbidden,” the Gamesman replied
in a straightforward voice, “explicitly forbidden to alter the death count in
any way.” If your comrade died at the hands of the redcocks,
by rights his cock must be counted among the trophies of Drom’s
men. There was a deafening silence as Morak awaited
the Gamesman’s condemnation. An ever so slight grin appeared on Drom’s lips. “Victory should come through the death and
dismemberment of your opponents, Morak,” the
Gamesman continued, “not through concealment of a cock that rightfully
belonged to Drom.” “My lord,” Morak
began. . . “Silence!” barked the Gamesman. The
Guardsmen accompanying him kept their hands on their sword hilts, ready to
draw their weapons at the Gamesman’s command. “Your bad judgment has
disgraced the field of honorable battle,” said the Gamesman, “and you are not
worthy to be a Guardsman. I therefore declare but one survivor. Drom shall accede to the ranks of the Emperor’s Guard. Morak shall die.” Morak hung his
head, barely able to comprehend this devastating turn of events. At one
moment he was at the peak of success, and the next he was disgraced and
reduced to nothing. Guardsmen encircled the mighty warrior, ordering him to
surrender his much-used and bloody spear. They tied his hands behind his ass
with a leather thong and marched him at the point of a sword to the
stone-walled fortress where the Guardsmen trained, fucked, fought, and slept.
It was the very same fortress to which Morak,
months earlier, had reported in order to have his cock tainted and prepare
for training as an elite Guardsman. The circuitous twists of fate continued.
Forced along between two burly Guardsmen, his thick cock slapping against his
muscled thighs, Morak quickly realized upon
entering the familiar stone fortress, that the place of his execution was to
be the very frame in which he had been spread-eagled for tattooing upon his
entry into training. The Guards untied his hands and secured them in the same
tethers that had previously bound his wrists, then did the same to his
ankles. “You shall die by your own spear, Morak,”
one of the Guards informed him. Morak’s dick grew
stiff and proud as he heard this news. At that moment he was surprised to see
the Emperor himself enter the chamber to watch the execution. The most he
could do now would be to die like a man for his Emperor. Sweat coursed down
his sides, back, and chest, and his torso heaved with the heavy final breaths
of a stud facing slaughter. The worst of it was not his death. He
had accepted the possibility, indeed the likelihood of his death from the
very first day of training. The worst of it was the Emperor’s next decision: “Let
us see how the new champion hurls a spear,” he intoned. “Let Drom kill the warrior who would cut off his own mate’s
cock.” Morak’s heart sank as he heard his nemesis
sanctioned for the kill. Anyone but him! But there was nothing for it. He
glared at Drom as the naked musclestud
stood thirty paces distant, Morak’s own beloved
spear gripped in Drom’s mighty hand. “In his heart, my lord,” said Drom calmly, announcing his target in advance. His
attempts at impressing the Emperor were transparent and unctuous. “Farewell, Morak. I shall have your cock yet!” The two warriors
glared their hatred at each other, the cocks of both men growing more erect
than they had ever been as both anticipated the deep-seated celebration of
their masculinity that was the thrill of killing and dying. Drom’s biceps bulged as he let loose the spear from a
level even with the top of his head. His aim was sure and swift, and every
man in the stone chamber could be heard to grunt his approval and amazement
as the sharp tip of the slender spear cracked the breastbone of the doomed
stud. It split his chest open, eliciting a sharp cry from Morak
as it continued its path into his thick and powerful body. His entire frame
lurched as he threw his head back and pulled desperately against his bonds.
The spear found its mark, destroying Morak’s mighty
heart and proceeding deeper into his body to protrude from his back. Morak lifted his head a final time and glared with glassy
eyes for a moment, his jaw slack, blood trickling from his mouth. Then he
went suddenly limp. His chin dropped to his chest, his arms stretched tight
as he hung in his restraints with bended knees. Only his dick moved. The
assembled Guardsmen and the Emperor stared in awe as the mighty warrior’s
cock throbbed involuntarily, continuing to pump out his cockcream
even after Morak’s heart had stopped. He deposited
a large pool of semen on the stone floor in front of him. “It was a grand death,” the Emperor
commented. “Drom killed well, and Morak died well.” The entourage left the chamber, after
which Drom, his own dick still raging hard, untied Morak’s restraints and lowered the impaled corpse onto
its back on the floor. Morak’s ass lay in the pool
of his own cum. The spear that had impaled him protruded from the center of
his torso. Alone with his kill, Drom straddled the
magnificent corpse and stroked his hard dick. He lowered himself gently onto
the shaft of the deadly spear, using it as a dildo, rubbing his ass crack
against it to stimulate himself. Nearing climax, he partially sank the blunt
end of the death spear into his own fuck chute and worked his ass over it,
allowing the spear to fuck him while he pulled his red-tattooed dick down to
aim it at Morak’s face. When he climaxed he blew a
long hot wad of semen onto the dead man’s face, defiling the defeated warrior
with the balljuice of the victor. His cock spent, Drom
used the castration knife still strapped to Morak’s
leg to sever the dead warrior’s dick and balls. Stuffing the blue-striped dick and massive
fleshy balls into Morak’s open mouth, he pressed
the big man’s strong jaw shut over his own sexmeat,
leaving the head of the cock protruding obscenely upward through the
warrior’s parted lips. “I told you I would have it,” he said, exiting the
chamber. Drom reported
for outfitting as a Guard of the Emperor. His first duty after induction into
the elite corps was to supervise a cock-tattooing ceremony. Twenty new
recruits were arriving to take their turns spread-eagled in the frame, their
cocks surrendered to the surgeon with his needles and two pots of ink. Ten of
them would be tainted blue, the color of Morak’s
rotting fuckrod, and ten of them would be stained
red, the color of Drom’s ever-hard dick. It throbbed in anticipation of the ritual
and the subsequent battle these new men would fight. And if any of them should be too eager
with the knife, he was ready to lend his services again as the Emperor’s
executioner. |
