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The Trial of the Lovers

by Declan Xavier

The rules seemed straightforward enough, which is why Ashendale sat repeating them to himself over and over before setting foot on the spiral stairs. He knew a little magic, all of his kind did, but that only meant he knew the dangers inherent in misunderstanding. The elf turned the card over and over in his hand as he repeated the rules of the trial. One side was matte black, reflecting no light, the other side depicted a pair of humanoid figures, hands locked together underneath a smiling sun.

Select a card from the wizard's table - that card will be your reward, your punishment, and your trial. The card will let you know if you have won or lost. No magic can alter it, nor your perception of it. Everything else you face up there may be real or false, people may be honest or deceitful. Handle the trial howsoever you wish, you will not be told how to pass.

Those were the only words that the mage spoke before Ashendale had selected his card. Everyone knew the stakes of approaching Zythan's tower, seeking a boon from the old wizard. Ashendale stared at the painted card, examining his fingers to make sure that none of the pigment had rubbed off. No color marred his fingers.

Satisfied that there was nothing more to learn from his idle musings, Ashendale took a deep breath, tucking the card into the belt. He ascended the stairs, his footfalls echoing off the stone. After reaching the second level, the elf found himself at the end of a corridor lined with wooden doors, each marked with a symbol. Other trials, he supposed, holding his breath so that he might hear snippets of what went on beyond the portals. All was silent, however, and after letting his breath out, Ashendale continued to the door whose symbol bore his card's mark.

Pushing open the door, Ashendale paused at the threshold, seeing only darkness beyond. Taking a deep breath and steeling his resolve, Ashendale stepped through the door and onto solid ground. Ashendale shut the door behind him.

As soon as he was inside, the tableau before him was revealed. He stood on a brick-paved path that led up the gentle slope of a hill. Off the path, trees that could not possibly have been contained in the wizard's tower loomed, their branches lit by an artificial sun. Birdsong filled the air, and Ashendale swore that he could hear the gentle gurgle of a river somewhere in the distance.

The room looked as though it could fill the entire footprint of the wizard's tower, and Ashendale's head started to throb as he tried to wrap his mind around how his room fit next to the other ones in the corridor. Settling on the thought that he had stepped through a portal that led him to another floor rather than confining him to a small room, Ashendale sighed in relief as the pounding receded.

So, this is the Lovers Trial, Ashendale thought to himself as he left the path and headed beneath the canopy of the trees. Though this doesn't seem too harrowing, yet.

Fingers gracefully touched the bark of the trees as he passed, pulling away as though they were charged. The bark felt real, its rough texture matching what Ashendale's eyes could see, but the trees lacked in spirit, in life. Illusions, Ashendale rationalized, eyes immediately looking through the constructed forest. He was surrounded by illusions. _Everything else you face up there may be real or false..._the wizard's words.

Ashendale drew his the knife from his belt, the card fluttering to the 'forest' floor as he disturbed it. Picking it up, he checked the two sides. Both were as they had been, meaning that he had not yet failed the trial. He wondered how the card would communicate to him that he had lost. Securing it once again, the elf moved through the forest, parallel to the path.

Leaping silently over the small creek that he encountered, keeping sight of the bridge that spanned in along the path, Ashendale made his way towards the center of the 'room.' So far, he hadn't seen or heard anything that he could consider a trial. His eyes narrowed and his heart began to race as the thumbed the edge of the card stock

A short distance from the termination of the bridge sat a small park. The path flared out into a brick pad, three dozen yards or so in diameter and ringed by the false trees. If I had walked the path, it would have left me primed for an ambush, Ashendale thought. Though what would have ambushed him or why, he couldn't say. This was supposed to be the trial of lovers.

Ashendale's hand once again fell by his dagger's sheath and patted the card in his belt. The thought of his reward, of finally having the means and the courage to ask Mirival to wed him, caused his heart to beat faster and rise in his chest, nestling at the base of his throat and making it difficult to swallow. His mind started to turn towards the darker side, the matte black side of the card, wondering what his punishment would be for failure. Shaking away the thought, Ashendale tightened his grip on his knife. It would not matter, for he would not fail, right?

Returning to the previous fork in his thoughts, Ashendale glanced upwards into the canopy of the trees. There did not seem to be anyone or anything within them, despite the almost ubiquitous birdsong. In fact, other than himself, Ashendale had not found a single other living creature within the confines. Starting to move onward, the elf's progress halted before his next footfall as a sound reached his ears.

Grinding. Something sharp was grinding against stone. And it was...getting...closer? Ducking further into the trees, Ashendale watched the path, trying to spy the source of the noise before it spotted him. His people's natural ability to camouflage themselves among the forest was legendary, but he was in the wizard's domain. Just because the trees felt and looked and even smelled real to him didn't mean that it applied equally to everything he would find here.

The grinding sound came closer, and closer, until through the timbers Ashendale spotted its origin. A large bovine creature moved along the path, its hooves making the horrid scraping sound whenever they contacted the bricks. Being many feet away, Ashendale felt his toes curl within his boots with every step of the beast. He couldn't imagine how it must sound to the thing, whose ears were surely as sensitive as the elf's.

The creature stood on two legs, and was easier two feet taller than the elf, even if one discounted the pair of white horns that extended from its head before curling upwards and ending in sharp points. The creature's brown-and-white fur did little to hide its musculature, muscles that looked like they could easily remove any and all of the trees between them. It was clad only in a loincloth that may have been white at one point, and did little to hide its modesty when it stepped forward on its far leg. The bull carried a large clay jug that was as tall as Ashendale himself, and was heading straight for the river.

The monster stopped, turning its head towards Ashendale's position. Large oval nostrils flared, and the horrific scraping sound was replaced by the sound of snuffling. Snuffling, muffled by the sound of Ashendale's blood pulsing through his ears. Crouching, the elf held his knife at the ready. For seconds that seemed to stretch on into minutes, counted by the beats of heart. Ashendale stared at the eyes of the thing that seemed to sense him, waiting for himself to be discovered. The eyes never fell onto him, there was no dilation of the pupils, no changing of the creature's posture. Turning its face back to the path, the monster started walking again.

Ashendale slowly let the sigh of relief out through his nose, creeping forward, his thighs burning from the squatting position he had taken up. He gingerly touched the trees as he passed, partly due to the fear that they would become intangible or invisible at any moment, partly because he hated touching the trees that were like standing pillars of void. The horrible grinding noise stopped, and Ashendale watched as the bull-man knelt by the river, dipping the lip of the clay jar into the water.

Closing his eyes, Ashendale tried once more to gather his wits. This was clearly the trial. A monster, one that had someone, perhaps a facsimile of Mirival captive. Something to be overcome and defeated, a perfect trial. Almost storybook. Passing the knife into his other hand, gripping the tip of the blade between his thumb and forefinger, Ashendale moved forward, his eyes focusing on the broad back of the creature.

As it moved to dip the jug lower, Ashendale watched its shoulder blades separate slightly, providing

Ashendale with the opening that he needed. Cocking his hand back over his shoulder, Ashendale extended his other arm for balance. One breath. Two breaths. On the third breath, his heartbeat had slowed enough that Ashendale could notice the space between them. Four breaths.

Silently, the blade flew from the elf's grip, righting itself on its way to its target. Ashendale watched as the tip of the blade struck true-

-and then as his weapon clattered to the ground below. The bull-man stood, leaving its clay jug bobbing in the creek. Turning on its hooves, the bull-creature immediately locked eyes with Ashendale. The elf's thoughts raced as he tried to view his possible avenues of escape, cursing his poor planning. His eyes passing to the monster again, he expected to see signs of aggression, but the creature instead lifted its hand, crooking its finger and beckoning Ashendale forward.

Trying to swallow the plug that had appeared in the back of his throat, Ashendale knew that the last thing he wanted to do was obey. Ducking behind the trunk of the tree, Ashendale pressed his back against the bark and winced. The soulless feeling of the illusion he was relying on for support made his skin shiver, and distracted him for too many moments.

"Check the card," a bass voice rumbled to Ashendale's ears like distant thunder. Licking his lips to moisten them, Ashendale tugged the card stock from his belt and gazed at it. Horror tightened around his chest like the claws of a beast. Where the card had once displayed a picture of two humanoids holding hands and smiling under a radiant sun on one side and black matte on the other, it now was black on both sides. He knew, as he knew he didn't want to obey the monster he had just failed to kill, as he knew his own name, that he had failed. The Lovers were gone.

Hands shaking as he emerged from the woods, Ashendale's mind reeled at the thought of having lost the trial. He despaired, he mourned, he cried internally for the loss of Mirival, his mind trying to process that before he could focus on anything else.

"I-I lost," Ashendale spoke, his voice cracking as it escaped his lips. It wasn't a question, it was a flat statement of act. Now he had to face his punishment, a punishment that was approaching on two large hooves.

"You did," the bull-creature confirmed, stepping forward, tugging at the knot that bound the loincloth to its hips. "And even though it didn't work, I have to say, that hurt a bit."

"But...how? How was I supposed to win?"

"Does it matter? Would it change the fact that you have lost?"

Ashendale closed his lips, ultimately shaking his head slowly. No, it wouldn't change anything. The knowledge would only serve as an anchor to draw him further into despair.

"So, what is the punishment for failure?"Ashendale asked, the elf feeling like each word was barbed, being pulled from his throat.

The bovine laughed, and its laughter was the rumble of a gurgling volcano. "You came looking for love. Instead, you have granted me a lover." Before Ashendale could react, the Minotaur lowered its snout towards his face. Large lips aggressively latched onto the elf's face, and Ashendale's attempts to dislodge the bull-creature did nothing to free him.

When the monster decided he was done, he lifted his mouth away from the elf's, licking his lips as though he had just tasted something sweet. Ashendale wiped his mouth, trying to get the taste off his lips. If the beast was unhappy with the reaction, it didn't show it. It just stood, staring down at Ashendale with surprisingly soft brown eyes.

Turning once again toward the beast, Ashendale's eyes caught a momentary glimpse of the fact that it had lost its loincloth. The momentary glimpse became a longer stare as it, no, he, definitively_he_, chuckled. The elf's eyes widened at the nearly foot-long shaft hung low between bovine's thighs, barely obscuring the large sac behind it. The Minotaur's shaft was not even hard but was on its way. Ashendale felt the bovine's thick fingers wrap underneath his chin and lift slowly, breaking the elf's hypnotized gaze. The creature's smile turned into a sneer.

"You two will get to know each other real well," the Minotaur said, stretching out the last two words of his sentence. Ashendale tried to swallow the plug that was keeping his breath from escaping, even as the beast slid its hands underneath fabric of the elf's shirt, groping at the soft, white flesh below. Despite himself, Ashendale let out a whimpering moan at the larger male's touch.

Half the buttons on the elf's garment slid off, half popped as the Minotaur worked his way up Ashendale's stomach and chest. Realization dawned on Ashendale that the disregard for his clothing was only indicative of how the rest of this was going to go. Resigning himself to this, Ashendale's fingers started working at his belt, undoing the clasp and letting his leggings fall to the bricks below as his shirt was stripped off his back.

The air around the pair was a comfortable temperature, to the point that Ashendale had not noticed it being either too warm or cold when he entered the area, but still, the elf shivered a bit. Standing, now naked before the Minotaur that was taller, stronger, more masculine than him in every way made him feel smaller.

The Minotaur looked Ashendale up and down. His skin was pale and without blemish, as was common with elves, and aside from the long black braid extending from his head, devoid of hair. There was a softness to Ashendale's form, though the contender had some definite muscle, gained from a life of hunting and scouting. Done with the visual appraisal, the Minotaur reached out to inspect with his hands.

Ashendale let out a small moan as the beast's thumbs grazed his nipples. Not willing to look the creature in the eyes, he instead turned his gaze downward, intending to look at his feet, but caught sight of the rapidly thickening member that the Minotaur was sporting. Like the rest of the Minotaur's body, his cock was two toned, and something between an animal's and a man's. There was no sheath to speak of, but there was a thick ring of flesh in the middle and the head was broad and flat, unlike Ashendale's own rounded tip.

The elf felt pressure on his shoulders as the Minotaur's hands had migrated upwards, and he knew what was being silently asked of him. Sinking to his knees, the elf found himself at eye level with the beast's now erect shaft. He opened his mouth, letting his tongue fall out of his mouth as the Minotaur moved his hips forward, bringing the blunt head of his cock within range of the elf's lips.

A few seconds of prodding and poking followed, Ashendale's lips glistening with less of his saliva and more of the bull-man's fluids. His tongue ran along the bottom of the flare, tasting the almost barnyard musk of the animalistic member. After a few more seconds of trying to gain access to the hot, wet confines of the elf's mouth, the Minotaur grunted with dissatisfaction.

"Well, I'm not getting it in there without it getting bitten to shit. I'm guessing you haven't had much backdoor experience either."

Ashendale shook his head. He has never had a male lover, though in elves it wasn't uncommon, certainly never one that he had been intimate with. The Minotaur grunted again, nostrils flaring. "Some fucking prize then. Keep licking and rubbing, then we'll work on getting you ready."

Ashendale nodded, reaching up with one hand to wrap around the large shaft of his Minotaur lover, the other reaching back to try and cradle the large orbs. Unfortunately, the smaller arms of the elf male didn't allow him to do that comfortably, and he quickly found that his single hand was only barely able to wrap around the Minotaur's girth. Settling instead to do as he was told, Ashendale grabbed onto the cock with both hands, rubbing at first simultaneously, but then letting his rhythm drift apart.

His efforts were obviously effective, as he learned when he resumed licking the head only to find that the slit in the middle of the flare was now leaking clear fluid down the flare to drip onto the ground. Moving his hands upwards, he used the Minotaur's own lubrication to make his massaging fingers slide along the turgid flesh smoother and easier.

The Minotaur snorted and stamped a hoof at the feeling of the elf's masturbation, the smell of his own arousal hitting his nostrils as he heard the slurping and squelching from below. He bucked his hips in the elf's hands, the frustration of not being able to penetrate his lover melting away at the feeling of what the elf's mouth and fingers were capable of given the situation.

As Ashendale continued to lick along the flared head of the Minotaur's cock, his tongue tingling with the taste of the fluid he managed to coax from the python already, he lifted the shaft above his eyes. His tongue immediately fell to the shiny, thick tube on the underside of the male's cock, the conduit for the nectar that was now dribbling down the shaft, onto his tongue, and sometimes with a powerful buck, into his hair.

The male's scent only grew more powerful, or perhaps Ashendale was simply taking more of the now delicious honey into his mouth and swallowing it down, smelling it through the back of his throat. Whatever reservations he had about the Minotaur and his intentions, they were rapidly receding as he was pleased that he was doing such a good job pleasing his lover despite the initial set-back.

For his part, the Minotaur's bucking hips became wilder and fiercer. Soon, Ashendale was merely holding his hands still, greasy ring of fingers being used like a hole for the beast-man to thrust into violently. Whether by virtue of what he was doing being effective, or perhaps the creature was pent-up for being in the wizard's tower, soon it let out a final snort and thrust.

Ashendale felt something hot and stick land on top of his head. As he pulled back and let go of one hand to see what it was, the Minotaur's hips retreated, and the second blast of what turned out to be Minotaur cum hit the elf squarely in the face. Ashendale cried out in surprise, allowing for the third shot of off-white bovine jizz to land in his mouth. Surprised, Ashendale shut his lips and swallowed, gagging at the taste and the consistency of the thick, potent seed as it wormed his way down to his stomach.

The Minotaur continued to climax, subsequent ropy strands of hot cum landed on the elf's neck and chest, painting the already porcelain skin a more natural shade of pearly white. After what seemed like minutes, Ashendale felt the hammering blows come to a stop, and only then did he dare open his eyes.

His head, neck, and chest were covered in not-quite-white, sticky goo that made him smell like a farm and that tasted like salt and regret. Sputtering, Ashendale used the back of his left wrist, the only spot he felt clean enough, to clear his vision. What greeted him was the vision of a pair of large brown-and-white hands grabbing him by the armpits and lifting him, carrying him off-

-toward the creek. Ashendale cried out as he was suddenly submerged in the water, only to be brought back up again. Water rained down on his head from the Minotaur's cupped hand, gradually washing away the semen that seemed determined to stick to his skin forever. Shivering from the chill of the water, the elf looked up at his Minotaur, who in turn was smiling down at him, gently washing his prize.

"Sorry about that, lover," the Minotaur said, his voice like the grinding of stone. Ashendale chanced another glance between the beast-man's legs, spying the dripping, shrinking erection and wondering how he was ever going to be able to take that, if they were going to continue to be paramours.

"It's...thank you for not forcing it into my mouth. It could have broken my jaw."

The Minotaur nodded. "That's fine. You aren't the type who can do that, I will just have to adjust. Besides, there are other lovers."

Ashendale's heart stopped in his chest when he heard that. "Other...lovers?"

The Minotaur nodded, leaning down and kissing him tenderly. This time, Ashendale did not struggle, did not try to push away as the bovine's lips enveloped his own. Instead, he closed his eyes and moaned into his lover's snout.

"You are the first to have failed, and you won't be the last. After I clean you up, I'll present you to the others."

Ashendale smiled for the first time since entering the wizard's tower, watching as the last of his bovine lover's seed drifted with the current of the creek. He gingerly touched his own erection, spurred by the actions and the thought of others, but unattended to by the Minotaur "I'd like that," Ashendale blinked. "I don't even know what to call you."

"Amos," the Minotaur said, lifting his newest lover out of the creek and throwing him over his shoulder as though he were a rag doll "Come, let's go home."

Ashendale sighed softly, arms wrapping around the thick, muscled neck as the Minotaur stepped past the discarded clothes and carried him through the trial arena.