Fyve: On Break (2)
Fyve's flying machine wheezed and squealed plaintively as he hovered over Krasus's Landing. The round and open courtyard was where all flying mounts (and, rarely, flying machines) took off and landed. Krasus's Landing was the entrance that most people used to enter the sanctuary city of Dalaran.
Dalaran, with her shining towers, quaint shops, colorful population, and vast sewer system (frequented by some of the more colorful citizens) was a place that never slept. Much trade took place within these immaculate stone walls. Here, one could learn assorted trades from Grand Master professionals, purchase novelties and necessities of all sorts... And the wine, ale, and assorted liquor was of a vast array, each of the favorites of the various races readily and steadily available-
The troll cursed impatiently beneath his breath, eager to land the machine and repair it so that he could tend to more pressing matters.
The city was buzzing with life, at this the hour that marked the middle of most of the visitors' day. Wyvern and gryphon, the most popular mounts to crowd the landing, swarmed and swooped to and from the landing area below.
Unfortunately for Fyve, his own "mount" which was now beginning to slowly spin and wobble in the drunken manner of a bumblebee, was dependant on a set of sharp spinning blades. A poorly executed landing could end with one or more bloodied and broken wyvern - the stupid winged lions hardly paid attention to what was happening around them. In it's injured state, Fyve could expect a sloppy landing at best from the machine. Good thing he had fueled up recently, he'd been hovering for the better part of an hour!
He had to piss. He briefly considered whipping his cock out and showering the obnoxious crowd below. They'd surely then get out of his way. He shook his head in disgust. He was far from being an exhibitionist.
Leaning uncomfortably over his straining bladder, he surveyed the area beneath for a break in the flow of traffic. Just as he was about to take a wreckless plunge into the mass of birds, winged cats, and drakes (Drakes he could admire. Difficult to tame and incredibly intelligent... He'd be hard-pressed to find one stupid enough to get caught up and eaten by the machine's blades. And fuckit, he had enough gold to replace a few stupid flying cats.); he finally caught the eye of the on-duty flightmaster.
The young man's job was primarily to rent out trained wyvern to those unfortunate enough to be forced to endure the hassle of not to having a mount of their own, but his duties did include minding the traffic. "When it fuckin' suits ya", Fyve muttered at the unknowing figure far below.
Sighing in annoyance, Fyve reached over to one of the many tough leather saddlebags that adorned the machine and withdrew a shiny gold coin. The machine listed precariously to the side, and he grasped the stick that jutted from the center of the rudimentary control console, and righted the thing, cursing loudly.
Holding the coin out between two of his thick fingers, he caught the flightmaster's eye again and wiggled the coin, tilting it this way and that in the bright noon sun. The man's face brightened instantly and his eyes glinted like the precious metal as he turned to the next customer in line and held up a finger. 'A moment please', he probably said.
Fyve tapped a gloved finger against the control stick, impatient as the flightmaster slowly got traffic under control and cleared a space for him. Their business interrupted, the mounted riders around and below craned their necks to watch the sputtering machine gracelessly lower itself. Fyve winced as the machine finally rested with a scrape and a thud. His muscular form strained as he roughly shoved the metal monster to the wall, away from the landing area. He dropped the coin in the flightmaster's hand without a glance or a word of thanks. Removing a couple of his larger bags, he slung them over his shoulder and hurried for the enclosed staircase that would bring him into the city of Dalaran proper.
Walking in quick strides, his shoulders hunched forward as per usual, he turned a corner and stepped into one of the Inns. It was by far his favorite one, being Horde-only and sporting a massive bar that was run mainly by trolls. The cook in the kitchen was a well-known acquaintance (Fyve had no interest in collecting what one may consider friends) with a penchant for preparing strange meats for Fyve to sample. Fyve was a hungry man after his jobs, and he wasn't afraid to eat items of a dubious nature. Fyve was a great test subject for the other troll's concoctions. Today, he didn't disappoint. Giant, inch thick slabs of cut worm steaks and pungently offensive herbs, a scattering of dead and dying grub beetles the size of a finger (a human finger) squirmed and dripped juice on the cutting board. Chilled beetles crawled slowly around in a clay bowl. Fyve stood in the doorway to the kitchen briefly, catching the other troll's eye. Awilo Lon'gomba looked up and smiled at the familiar troll. "Lunch?" he beamed cheerfully, as was his way. "Aye.", Fyve replied gruffly before stepping out of the doorway. His throat was parched.
Awilo smiled and sang to himself, rocking his head from side to side and tossing his knife expertly around in his hand as he cut and prepared the strange little feast that was his latest creative fare. This, of course, illicited more than one barely contained giggle from his flirtatious young assistant. He winked chummily and raised an eyebrow at her breasts before dropping the meat and bugs and stinky raw spices onto a pan and placing it over the fire.
Fyve returned from his pee, his bladder aching hollowly from holding it for so long. He slumped into his normal seat... a bench near the kitchen, facing the doorway of the inn. Dalaran was about as safe a place as one could go. Upper Dalaran, at least. It was a strictly maintained sanctuary. There were trained and loyal neutral guards in all of the streets: The Horde and Alliance side streets and everything in between. To start a serious fight here would be a death wish granted, or at least would mean a beating of the most severe variety for the instigator. In short, Dalaran was peaceful, brutally so. Still, Fyve never sat with his back to a door.
Lifting a finger to the voluptuous, swaying barmaid (she seemed always to be dancing to a tune acknowledged only by her ears... The music of the city maybe) he placed several coins on the table - more than necessary - and began to peel away his armor as she danced seductively away to get his usual strong drink.
Having already removed his helm before taking off in the (damn blasted piece of shit!) flying machine, he opened his bag to allow his breacers, gloves, and even his leg bracers that served as troll-style boots to join the helm. All of his working gear was of hardened leather. He noted with dismay a hole wearing through one well-worn glove. His long ears drooped a bit. "Great", he thought, "Another errand."
Leaning his elbows on the table and tapping his fingers almost soundlessly, he waited for his drink. He downed it quickly when it arrived and nodded with satisfaction as the barmaid unloaded four more onto his table from her tray. She leaned forward and conspicuously jiggled her pressed-together cleavage as she took his empty glass. He pretended not to notice. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, downing his second drink after she had turned away. The female troll's scent filled his nostrils briefly as she waggled her plump behind, obviously for his benefit. He kept his eyes on his third drink as he waited for his meal.
The cook stepped out of the kitchen gracefully, and planted the dish full of popped grubs (That's how you know the little gems are cooked just right) and three seared and juicy-thick cuts of Jurumungar worm meat between the steadily growing crowd of empty glasses. Fyve silently thanked the gods that it wasn't anything resembling gnome... He had no remorse for the little bastards that managed to find themselves beneath the knife... He just thought they tasted as shitty as they smelled. As with many other delicacies, the point of eating gnome completely eluded him.
The gangly troll squatted with his hands on his knobby knees as he watched Fyve lift the heavy and thick-handled fork (designed specifically to fit in the large hands of a male troll) and plant it in the pile of exploded bugs.
The food was heavenly. The cooked aromatic spices perfectly balanced the sweet and squishy-crunchy side dish. There was no hint of the offensive odor the herbs had given off when raw. Fyve shoveled them into his mouth greedily, getting some burnt bug shell on his sweat-stained linen shirt. His features remained impassive as he dropped the fork carelessly and grabbed up one of the oozing steaks between two fat fingers. He lifted the meat between his long, curved tusks and ripped into it, finishing it in two massive bites that looked to be large enough to choke a dragon. He chewed with his mouth partway open and stared at the plate blankly as he swallowed briefly before reaching for the next huge steak.
The cook smiled with delight as the troll finished the meal without looking at his next drink - Certainly a rare occasion. Having finished the last scrap of meat, Fyve swiped the wet dish with a hunk of bread before wolfing that down as well.
"En waddaya tink of that?", asked Awilo. Fyve didn't pause before answering quietly, "Goo". He accented this by nodding slightly as he pushed the plate aside and sighed. It was good to be satiated.
The other troll circled behind Fyve and sat down beside him on the bench. Fyve turned, slightly red-eyed, to face him. He was a bit drunk and that was no mistake on the establishment's part. He made sure the barmaid always served Fyve well before the meal was served. It loosened his hesitant tongue up and afforded more details about the quality of the meal.
"The grubbies not overdid?"... "No. Was like dey pop on da plate affer ya puttem dere." Oh yes, descriptive for Fyve. He must've been on a very empty stomach because he was considerably inebriated by the sound of it. His tone was almost amicable... Almost.
"The spices"... "Much better cooked, mon." The cook could have squealed with delight. "Smell like shit raw. Much better cooked."
"Okay. Good, good. Now, the steaks. Tell me evrytin'."...
"Da steak was like a woman." Fyve belched and sniffed with a furrowed brow. He was drunk as hell and he had no clue how the steak was like a woman. The comment seemed to please Awilo, strangely enough, but Fyve felt compelled to answer honestly for the troll that regularly supplied him free meals. He started over, "Steak was goo. Ber' goo. Soff ta bite. Heavy taste. Goo amoun' fat in it. Fresh, aye?" The cook nodded, grinning. "Was spittin' en crawlin' an hour ago." Fyve added, "Make goo juice affer." The chef actually DID let out a little squeal of delight at that detail.
Now matter how drunk his "taste-tester" was, he knew he could depend on him for absolute honesty. Jues last week, he had devoured an entire steak of the same type, finished it (stopping to empty two drinks between bites) and then calmly summed up the meal in one unmistakable term: "Shit."
"It was a variation of a ting I cook ya last week - Same kind of steak." Fyve nodded and recalled with a slight slur, "Dat one was sshit." "Aye, I racall ya sayin' sometin' ta dat effect." He smiled gratefully and cleared the plate, leaving Fyve to his drink. He had work to do in the kitchen - This was the most excited he'd ever seen Fyve over a meal!
Fyve wiggled a finger at the barmaid and dropped more coins on the table.
A half hour later, Fyve emerged, squinting, into the sunlit and crowded street. Robes fluttered and plate and shining mail clinked as visitors of assorted races rushed between buildings and vendors. Land mounts of all species hurried by. An orc warrior nodded at him briefly, and he returned the gesture as the green-skinned man made his way into the Inn. Fyve wasn't the only early drinker in town, apparently.
Hugging the wall to avoid being bumped around as he swayed along the narrow side street, he hefted his bags tiredly and headed through the center of the city, to the other side where Horde, Alliance, and neutral peoples converged for noisy trade. He brushed past a heavily made-up blood elf woman (She could have been the sister of the man he had killed early that morning, but blood elves all struck him as strangely similar in appearance) that batted her eyelashes and smiled at him seductively. He ignored her pointedly and made his way toward the clink of metal against anvil and the rumble and hiss of the blazing forge.
Passing the blast of heat that greeted those who were aimed at working with metal in the city, he stopped into a shop that catered to tinkerers and engineers. He spoke quietly with the proprietor and they both nodded as they discussed his home-made machine and its troubles. After a few minutes of back and forth, he paid for a few assorted metal items and dropped them into his bag before taking his leave. The shopkeeper turned to lean over the counter for the next customer, a little green goblin with a big nasally voice.
Lurching through the crowd, carefully avoiding the blood elf woman with the painted face, he dipped into the metalworking section and dropped his bag, fishing out a raw bit of ore he had picked from the ground earlier, along with the random looking items he had grabbed from the shop. Slapping the ore down on the burning hot surface, he proceeded to extract the felsteel from the raw material, utilizing limestone and charcoal to remove the slag. Molding the heated metal into a rough bar, he moved his station to an area dedicated to basic casts. He spent the next hour on the tedious task of creating felsteel bolts. The copper ones obviously weren't doing the job.
Sweating profusely, he returned to the inn and went upstairs to tear off his soaked shirt and replace it with a clean one. He removed his leather pants, savoring the sensation of cooler air on his suffocated scrotum and penis, as he removed a clean pair of soft black pants from his things. Pulling his limp dick from his uncomfortably sticky balls, he wiped at himself quickly with a piece of silk cloth he had pilfered from one victim or another (it was not like they needed it anymore) and practically purred at the relief of his skin becoming smooth and dry again. He pulled on the pants, adjusting his bulge for comfort and proceeded back down the stairs, feeling like a new man.
The oversexed barmaid had seen him enter and held out a tall glass of cool ale to him as he passed. He gulped it hurriedly and dropped a coin in her little hand, careful not to touch it. Mimbihi smiled sweetly at Fyve as he headed back out the door. Her dainty fingers wandered absently toward the slight dampness against her skirt before she turned back to the bar and resumed her business. She found the tall, quiet troll sexy, despite his mean deep-set eyes and rude dismissive manner. Maybe it was his unusually long tusks. It wasn't simply that he was handsome. Plenty of the customers could be considered handsome. She shrugged to herself. More likely, it was his complete lack of interest in her. She wasn't used to that from any man.
Fyve stepped up to the counter at the Leather and Mail merchant. Dropping his gloves on the counter, he indicated the wounded one to the human girl behind the counter, "Make dat..." he pointed at the less-damaged glove, "loo lie dat." "Sixteen gold, non refundable", she answered, annoyed at the rude, tusked customer. Trolls were usually so friendly... "Rippin' me off, ya know. Migh' well buy a new pair in Orgrimma". He slapped the coins on the counter and grunted, "Three hours". She shook her head, "Tomorrow." "Dammit" he growled, turning and leaving the gloves and the coins. 'What a freaking day', both parties thought to themselves. The bearded dwarf who worked with metal armor chuckled, and she gave him a cutting glare as he shook his head and laughed more loudly. She smiled despite herself, gathering the coins and taking the gloves to the back room.
He returned to Krasus's Landing, unhappily getting right to work on the crippled flying machine. After much cursing and spitting and dropping parts and bending metal, accompanied by noisy clanking and grinding... he climbed into the metal contraption and started it. It shook but held, nothing noticably creaking or squeaking. He nodded to himself and packed up his belongings, checking the padlocks on the tough saddlebags that he left unwatched before finally turning to go back to the inn. Maybe he'd grab another bite before he got completely wasted and turned in for some much-needed rest.
Back at the inn, he was disappointed to see that all of the seats were full. The sun was on its way down already, most of the day wasted when he should have been drunk and sleeping. He turned away and considered the neutral bar, but the idea of gold-digging blood elf hussies hanging off of him and purring like cats in heat turned his stomach. He stopped in the cheese shop and bought a large hunk of cheese and a stale loaf of bread (not because of the price, but because he preferred it stale. Chewing hard bread was satisfying to him.) before heading for the Sunreaver's sanctuary and the portals. He glanced over his shoulder regretfully as he passed his prized drinking spot again.
The sunreaver's sanctuary was a section of Dalaran in the shape of a circle (most of the buildings in Dalaran were all or part of a circular shape). The half -moon of the wall that greeted the visitors was lined with five magick portals. Usually the business of mages, portals brought a body directly to their destination in the blink of an eye. In this case, each portal opened into a major Horde faction city. Fyve stepped through the Orgrimmar portal without blinking and walked out into the area of Orgrimmar known as the Valley of Spirits. This was the training place of mages and priests. He nodded to the mage minding the Orgimmar side of the portal and walked down the winding stairs of the open, multilevel hut.
Standing his full, impressive height, he towered intimidatingly over any passersby as he adjusted his shoulder straps and flexed his tired muscles. Relaxing again into his hunched position, he walked briskly through the packed and dry earthen streets and beheld the whimsically unorganized-looking city that was mostly peopled with orcs and trolls like himself. The normal route of descent into the city would have been to follow the winding path over a hanging bridge to the tall flight tower (where the rented flying mounts landed and took off unendingly) and then to take the tall ramp that wound toward the ground floor. Fyve took the shortcut. Looking around quickly, he vanished from sight. His clothes, his bags, everything became invisible. He wasn't trained in any school of actual magick. He was neither a mage nor a warlock... he didn't deal with any herbs that weren't already cooked into his food or brewed into his ale. He didn't understand or care to understand the 'why' or 'how' of this ability. It was a rare one, but he wasn't the only troll capable of this.
He didn't "stealth" to protect himself from any real danger. He just had no interest in attracting undue attention as he leapt, catlike off the path and onto a roof far below. There was hardly a sound as he quickly crossed the roof hunched with his hands on the shingles as well as his feet, and leapt to the next building. In this way, he saved himself the hassle of the "long way" and landed gracefully and unscathed on the ground outside of a shop door, his landing barely raising any dust.
Once he was sure nobody was looking, (he couldn't stand the questions, "How'd ya do that, mister?" "Can you teach me?" - he could not teach anyone. He hadn't learned it.) and allowed himself to become visible again before continuing his brief journey to the inn situated near the front gates of Orgrimmar. He entered the section known as the Valley of Strength (A very orcish name. So dramatic.) and made a beeline for the inn and the drink vendor. Purchasing potent refills for three of his flasks (one for each pocket, and spares in his bags... he hated to be out and unprepared.), he payed the sweaty smelling orc (Dalaran was much more comfortable... floating over Northrend as it did. Orgimmar was in a dry, hot place known as Durotar. It never snowed there.) and took his leave. He considered entering the "Cleft of Shadows", a cooler, subterranean section of the city, but his bags stunk from his sweaty clothing and he might as well take advantage of the sun and dry his laundry now, instead of putting it off.
Stepping through the gates of Orgrimmar, he called out a single word, "Bear!". After a few moments, his favored mount grudgingly appeared from a bend in the road that led between a pair of golden cliffs. "Dere ya are, bruddah. Ya be up ta no goo?" he greeted the massive animal, patting his hide roughly and then attaching his bags to the riding saddle. The huge, furry, brown giant lifted his nose and bellowed in response to his master's greeting. He bent and allowed the heavy troll to mount up. His weight was nothing to the several thousand-pound warbear.
Without a word or a command, Bear (as Fyve had named him in a moment of brilliant originality) took off with surprising speed. He headed south and west across Durotar, directly for the river that separated it from the plains that were appropriately named The Barrens.
The river flowed cool and clear. Fyve removed all of the warbear's armor and accessories before slapping him on the rump to let him know it was ok to leap into the river, as he happily obliged. Squatting on the cracked earth, the troll removed several soiled shirts and his one other pair of black cloth pants from his bags and tossed them into the shallows. He fished out a fragrant, tallowy brown bar that he had purchased in the city of Shattrath (another popular sanctuary city) from an ugly old woman from whom he regularly purchased minor remedies and the occasional useless snake oil (most of these he ended up drinking or using to using to condition his leather, depending on the smell and consistency), just to kill the monotony.
He looked around to be sure that nobody was out in the brutal heat except the crocolisks that lazily drifted up and down the water, favoring the shadows beneath the occasional tree. He wasn't surprised to see that nobody else was interested in burning up by the river as the fish slept waiting for the sunset before they would eat. Glancing around furtively, he removed his shirt and pants, piling them with the rest of the soiled clothing as he stepped into the water wearing only his belt, a dagger at each hip, and a small throwing knife toward the back of his right side.
The shallows were obnoxiously warm and he waded to a deeper hole, avoiding the lazy small crocs as they drifted, uninterested in this rude intruder that would hardly fit in their toothy little maws. As much as they were capable of a nasty bite, the three-foot reptilians didn't worry him unduly. He had shared a bath with much larger cousins to these squirts. A greenish brown croc paddled slowly by, its six legs kicking lazily as it completely ignored him. Having allowed the scaly beast to pass him, he stepped forward into the deeper water and groaned in ecstasy at the sudden drop in temperature. Cool water cleans best, he always felt, and despite its shrinking effect on his angrily tightening balls and his penis that desperately sought to hide from the chill, he dipped beneath the crystal waters and bellowed happily, bubbles bursting forth from his mouth and exploding noisily at the surface. Bear looked over at the sound, and then returned his attention to the flayed open young crocolisk that he was worrying with his sharp teeth near the shore. It was turning out to be a fine day after all.
Fyve tossed the clothes on the steeper bank, then scrubbed them one by one with the bar of brown, oily-looking soap. It proved to clean quite well, and didn't leave any brown stains on his shirts at all, as the toothless hag had promised when he paid her for the strange product. It had a dark, slightly musky smell that was very pleasant. After draping his clothes over an overhanging branch to dry, Fyve proceeded to rub the soap on his hands and slick it over his sweat-sticky body. It did the trick splendidly, rinsing away the grime of several days' sitting in the disgusting Zul'Drak. He ran the misshapen bar over a tusk experimentally, but the taste of the soap managed to travel in the water down to his tongue, and he grimaced in disgust. Dipping below the water, he gulped and spit in a splendid mimicry of a catfish.
Returning to the shore, he shook the excess moisture off of the partially depleted bar and wrapped it in a spare scrap of silk to preserve it. He'd have to remember to stop in Shattrath for more of it. The sun began to dry his nude body instantly, and he turned back to the water to get cool again. He had nowhere he had to be for a few days, with plenty of gold and hours to spend, and he planned to thoroughly enjoy his break. Just as his balls had relaxed back down to their normal position, he shocked them again in the cool water. They complained to eachother as they fought for the space closest to his body, the skin around them wrinkling tightly. His penis swayed shrunkenly in the gentle current, like a limp aquatic plant frond. Fyve dove down to feel the water combing through his long, blue-black dredlocks. He hadn't felt so good in days.
As he broke the surface again, he reached up to grasp both of his long, thick tusks in his hands... It was a habit he had had since he could remember and he mostly did it unconciously. He flinched and frowned as he felt that the soap had left a sticky residue on his left tusk. Apparently, the soap wasn't meant for use on ivory. Rubbing at the surface of his tusk with his thumb only seemed to spread the stuff around. He crossed his eyes comically, tilting his head as he tried to see the soap, but apparently it was just as invisible as it had been on his clothing. Thoroughly disgusted, he suddenly dove down into a shallower part of the stream, where the water was warmer. He dug his tusks into the silty, sandy bottom, sending up clouds of debris and scaring more than a few fish into scattering. A two foot croc wiggled to the surface and darted downstream, only to be caught in Bear's greedy jaws and crunched to death with a squeaking bark.
Just over three minutes passed and Fyve broke the surface again, taking a deep breath and then another before resubmerging and working his tusks back into the riverbed. It took two more tries to get his tusk completely free of residue. He would reserve the soap for skin and clothes.
Stealthing again, he floated with his face just breaking the surface, letting the sun warm his face as its light passed through him. He kept his eyes tightly shut and relaxed, nearly dozing as he let the current that played through the deeper hole spin him with his heels digging into the bottom of the river. Life was... not pissing him off. This was good.
...
Fyve snapped sharply awake- er... not that he'd been sleeping. He planted his large feet in the river bottom and stood quickly and quietly. Bear lie nearby on the shore, his side rising and falling slowly. He appeared to be asleep, but he'd heard it too - One eye was half-open and he stared at the place where Fyve was still stealthed. "I heard it too, Brother", he thought at his shaggy pet. He loved his cunning furry companion more than... Well, Bear was the only living thing he had ever loved. He loved him a lot, though.
Climbing the bank carefully, hissing to himself as he dislodged a scatter of loose pebbles and they plinked into the cooling waters, he stood on the bank. The orange glow of the sunset passed through him as his hands hovered near his weapons. He heard the sound again, a quiet clinking and a shuffle. The sound itself wasn't disturbing... It was the proximity of the sound. The fact that someone had somehow what... snuck? Snuck right past both bear and Fyve without rousing them right away.
Stepping forward through a small copse of trees, he beheld something he had not noticed before: It was a simple hut. Several tanned kodo-beast hides were stretched over a wooden-looking frame. There were a few pots outside of the dwelling. Nothing moved within his view. His ears twitched as the sound resumed: Now it was accompanied by the sudden flick of a flint and the quiet crackle of a fire being built. A small column of smoke rose from the open roof of the hut. Out of curiousity, certainly not necessity, the naked and invisible troll stepped slowly forward, his eyes narrowing and his head cocked to the side as he peeked into the doorway of the hut.
A female troll was there, kneeling before a small fire with a clay bowl full of raw meat. She seared each piece, using a long metal fork to hold it over the flame, before dropping it carefully onto a wooden board. Fyve's mouth watered as he watched the girl and inhaled the delicious aroma wafting from the hut. The scent of the meat was strong... It was almost definitely boar. She was a hunter, judging by the quiver and bow set just inside the door. Her thin tunic drifted between the cool evening air and the heat from the small blaze. He spied her bracers and vest piled nearby and they appeared to be a softer, thinner leather than his. Everything about her looked softer than his. Her lighter blue-green hair stood up in a proud, full mane, with braids trailing down her smooth-looking back. She sat back from the fire and began to eat daintily, her delicate little hands holding the meat as she took tiny bites and chewed carefully. Every once in a while, she drank from a skin of water and wiped her mouth with her wrist. She chewed with her mouth closed. He watched this all in fascination.
The scent of the meat roused him from his quiet contemplation of this scene: Bear... As if on command, the animal lumbered over and bumped him from behind. He turned and became visible for a split second, baring his teeth at Bear and glaring at him with an unspoken message, "Quite.. not now." Bear shook his fatty scruff and turned away, disappointed. Fyve turned back and breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been complete shit, had Bear brought her attention to his belongings scattered along the river. He turned his eyes back to the hut and continued to watch. But why did he feel so guilty? He had done nothing wrong, had he? This woman had snuck right by him... Well, maybe not really snuck. But she was eating right there in the doorway, nothing to hide her. She obviously didn't mind being spied - being watched. And why did he care if it were right or wrong? And why wasn't he drunk?
He became aware that was standing mere yards from the girl's doorway as she ate her dinner... That he was completely naked and that he had been absently stroking his engorged cock as he stood there in the darkening evening and argued with himself in his head. Had he been holding his cock when Bear had come over? He really couldn't remember.
So here he was, holding his stiff, throbbing member as he stared at some strange girl eating cooked boar. What the hell was he doing? He watched for a moment longer before backing hesitantly away. As he neared the river, he turned and looked at the now-cold water with disdain. He was not subjecting his erection to that. No way. He would walk downstream to a shallower spot and cross there. Draping his dried clothing over his arm (it disappearing as it made contact with his skin), he slipped away north, Bear following far behind and snuffling at the soil every few moments. This was his way of saying, "Hey, I need a food break!" Bear would have to wait.
Further upriver, he pulled a shirt on and then crossed, breathing through his teeth as the cold water threatened to send his calves into spasm. He managed to stay dry above the knees. His cock bobbed proudly as he stepped onto the shore, unfazed by the lack of attention. He frowned and headed south again, along the bank, to pack up the rest of his belongings. When he arrived there, he dropped his clean clothes into his bag, leaving out a clean pair of pants. Pulling them over his legs, he frowned down at his neglected cock. It wasn't going down without a fight. He wasn't going to get his pants up with it in his way.
The girl was singing to herself now, quietly. The slight breeze was carrying her voice directly to him, in that peculiar way that nighttime breezes tend to do. Sliding his pants back down, he pulled them completely off and settled onto the sandy shore on the Durotar side of the river. Her voice was lovely and innocent, and she sang only for herself. He listened with his eyes closed as he leaned back on the sand, his knees bent and apart. The two toes of each foot dug into the sand and wiggled slightly as he slowly began to stroke his length, sliding his foreskin back and forth over his cock, stopping just short of the head. His dick was thick and smooth in his hand. The flesh was hot to the touch. His smooth, stretched foreskin did not cover the head when he was erect... It ended just halfway over the head of his cock if he were to pull it tightly forward.
He slid the skin up and down his sensitive member. It had been quite a while since he had done this. His balls ached for release, but he slowed and stopped, lying still and listening to her voice as she sang. The sound was very sweet indeed, and made his stomach and his loins flutter. His anus twitched a few times, as if trying to finish him off itself, but he just lie still and listened to her. Her song was not seductive at all, but he could feel it tickling his ears and driving the blood flow into his stiff cock. His balls lowered themselves in their sack and then pulled up tightly again as he gave his rigid shaft a squeeze, groaning quietly. His throat sounded with a low buzz, something like a purr, but which steadily thickened and became a growl.
His eyes opened and he stared up at the sky, his brow furrowed in concentration as he bared his teeth menacingly. His lust became an animal need, pushing him to push himSELF over the edge. He growled and his muscular frame tensed as he suddenly thrust upward into his own fist. His growl hung low and hungry in the air as he pumped his hips again and again, his toes reaching skyward as he dug his heels into the ground. His eyes rolled and he threw his head back, his growl cut off as he held his breath and dropped his jaw in a silent howl.
His jizz spurted spectacularly, again and again as he arched his back rigid, digging his head and heels and shoulderblades into the sand. His orgasm kept going and going. Bear watched disinterestedly as the cum leapt through the air, before landing on Fyve's chest, between the open front of his unbuttoned shirt. Each explosion that rained down disappeared as soon as it hit his body.
Bear listened to his master panting in the dark as he wondered when he was gonna get some of that cheese he could smell in the bag.
More at: YayMyStories.com