Erotic short. A student at Camelot University gets involved with a stablemaster.
More smut at the university in Camelot! Some fun magical worldbuilding stuff too.
Explicit M/M short between two cis men. 7k. Featuring size kink, size different, large cocks, overstimulation, stomach bulging, mind break/aheago, dirty talk, D/s, age difference, rough sex, being pinned down, and dirty talk about piss play but no actual piss play.
Content warnings for mild classism and racism, and for dubious consent in the context of undernegotiated kink.
Words used are cock, cunt, boycunt, arse, and hole.
The Royal University of Cymru-Loegr was, naturally, located in the city of Camelot. It had been established in 1282, although of course Camelot had always been a seat of magical learning, ever Arthur was crowned king, and Myrddin Wyllt took his place to the left of his throne, Gwenhwyfar at the right.
It had changed considerably since all that time ago, Cicero expected — once upon a time, it had been little more than a stone hall off the palace, with its own library, but now, its campus spanned several miles, spanned far wider than the bounds of the palace itself, and was home to a thousand or so academics who lived and taught and researched, and took a few thousand more each year as students.
It was quite the hub, and Cicero was glad indeed to study here — it was far better than studying in London, and while there were other prominent universities across Cymru and Loegr, none of them compared to Camelot’s resources nor its prestige.
The grounds, however, did leave something to be desired.
His family’s holdings on the Conwy were a great many acres, and you could ride and hunt within the magical woods there for quite a few miles before you ever strayed into public lands or someone else’s property, and while Camelot was close to the boundary of Llallwg, there were… rules.
All he wanted was good space to practice and train and a little bit of privacy in the process. Wasn’t it natural that he should want to be able to work without any of the idiots populating the rest of the student body ogling him or offering useless feedback on his form, trying so desperately to be a part of someone else’s expertise?
He was good at manipulating magic, at manipulating fire, water, electricity: he was very good at manipulating magic in a purer form, generating light and concentrated beams, but he needed space, and he needed silence.
No distractions.
No onlookers.
Just magic.
This was the beginning of his second year of his Bachelors in Rite and Ritual, and while his grades were impeccable, his academic performance nothing short of tremendous, it had been a terrible chore spending time with his family over the summer.
He’d been rusty, channelling active magic — he used magic quite frequently on the day to day, of course, used it to do everything from make his bed to repair tears in his clothes to heal little wounds — but the Penllwynogs were battle mages and had carried on the tradition for centuries. Battle magic required rather a lot more training — and practice — than lighting a candle or folding a blanket over, and his cousins and siblings all had run rings around him.
It didn’t matter how much better one had done in one’s exams, when one’s eyebrows were singed as a result of a clumsy shield execution.
There were two arenas that anyone could book out during the course of a week, excellent dust-floored things with enchanted stone walls that you could have either absorb awry spells or encourage to aim back at you. He’d seen them used by some of the duellists, and had been in them for practical rituals, too, and the space was wonderful, with no ceilings, wide floor space and tall walls, protected from the elements. They would be utterly perfect for Cicero’s purposes, were it not for the fact that both arenas had huge step-style stands for audiences, and that there were always, always people sitting about on them, watching the arenas below.
Even when he tuned out all the noise, ignoring people making sounds of awe or shouting down comments or questions — there were battle magic modules available in some of the active magic courses, but they were either basic courses in hex-slinging and magical shielding, or based more in history than in applied magic, and almost anything Cicero did seemed very impressive and exciting to novices — people would come up to him afterward, and it was irritating.
He was quite happy to be thought of on the campus as impressive and skilled, just as he was happy to be thought of as handsome and charming, because it was all true, but all he wanted to do was practice and work, not sit about answering basic questions from people who’d never even begin to match him, holding their hands and explaining things they could find out for themselves, if they saw fit to do the most basic of research into battle magic, or even into the Penllwynogs themselves.
He had asked about on campus as to where he might be able to work in peace, and after some thought, a few of his lecturers had suggested he go to the east side of the campus. There were stables for riders and a handful of farms that directly supplied the university’s kitchens, and outside of official events like races and fairs, he ought be fine to use the land, so long as he didn’t disturb the ground too badly.
Best of all, it was protected by a line of trees between the racecourse and its grounds, and it would only have been visible from some of the uppermost residential towers in the university proper — and from a few miles away, the most they’d see would be bursts of light and colour, and little else.
Cicero stepped into the centre of the wide, sanded ground that was typically used, he expected, for dressage or for parading horses. It was a wonderful spot, and the sand was good under his feet, would be quite the excellent training ground, once he set wards around the edge to ensure everything he did was contained.
He had good control, but it was always best to avoid any potential accidents, especially if any people or animals came upon him at work, as the ward circle would keep other people out as much as it kept his magic in.
“You lost?” asked a voice behind him, and Cicero turned, meeting the gaze of the fellow behind him.
He was a very large man, perhaps six feet tall or a little under, and packed with fat and brawn, rather like a bear, and just as hairy. He had thick swathes of black, wavy hair and an equally thick beard, and he was dressed in a loose peasant shirt, its strings open. The curls on his chest pushed up through the lacing, all but threatening to burst from underneath the cotton of the fabric as well, and even the backs of his hands were hairy, which Cicero noticed when he came to lean on the side of the fence, and he gripped loosely at its wood with strong fingers. Underneath all this prodigious hair, his skin was a coppery brown colour, and he had strong cheekbones, although the rest of his facial features were a mystery.
“I am not,” said Cicero. “I’m going to be using this place to practise some magic, that’s all.”
“Are you now?” asked the bear, arching black, bushy eyebrows, and he looked at Cicero expectantly. “And who says that?”
He was a local — a Yorkshireman — and his accent was strong.
“I do,” said Cicero coolly. “I was told that so long as this area isn’t being used, it should be no trouble — and I shall be laying wards down, so you needn’t worry yourself about my damaging the surroundings.”
“The fence?” prompted the bear. “The sand?”
“My boundaries will be within the fence, and I’ll lay all this sand back down — who are you, might I ask?”
“Fenwick. Stablemaster. Who’re you?”
“I hardly see how it’s any business of yours. I’m a student at the university.”
“Aye, yeah,” said Fenwick, with a sort of knowing laugh that made Cicero’s hackles rise further. “Got that.”
“Sorry?”
“I see,” said Fenwick, speaking a little louder and emphasising the word, “that you’re a student. Shows right obvious — entitled little bitch as you are.”
Cicero, stunned, stared at him. “I beg your pardon?” he demanded, indignant. “Who do you think you are, to speak to me like — ”
“Don’t turn that sand to glass,” said Fenwick, turning and already walking away. “And don’t fuck my fences up.”
Cicero stared after him, furious, but made no attempt to follow: instead, he turned to putting his wardstones down, pocket-sized things meant for a portable safety circle, and worked his temper out the best way he knew how.
With fire.
* * *
It was a relief beyond measure, going out to the little sanded ground by the stables. So long as he went in the late afternoon or early evening on non-race days, he was able to work quite happily in peace, and while it wasn’t the same as training with anybody at home, that was alright.
He had a dispensation to access the sections of the library that were ordinarily restricted to undergraduates — he was a far more capable mage, at his age, than most would be in their thirties, and he would be more than a credit to the university when it came to tournaments over the next few years, even though his battle magic had naught to little to do with his degree — and there was a whole host of resources rather different to the ones in their library at home. There were books about similar and parallel schools of magic from all around the world, not to mention more books about theory, different angles…
It was refreshing.
He’d not done much practical magic last year — there was more ahead of him this year, but everything they were primed to do was magic as part of a group, or magic on certain powerful nights after a great deal of preparation beforehand, and while it was utterly fascinating, and truly very rewarding, it simply wasn’t the same as commanding one’s own power in isolation.
Particularly when one’s power was that much more significant than one’s peers.
The stablemaster watched him, at times. He wasn’t very obvious about it at first, but Cicero would occasionally turn and see him stood out on the course, stopping for a moment to glance down to Cicero at work, or walking past rather slowly.
He stopped being subtle, after a few weeks.
He’d come and lean on the edge of the fence, protected by the ward circle Cicero had laid down to shield, and he wouldn’t just silently watch — he’d make commentary. And he wouldn’t ask questions, either, wouldn’t say anything even remotely complimentary about the magic himself.
He’d say, “Queer little ballet you put yourself at, in’t it?”
Or he’d say, “No wonder you wear them sleeveless robes, no matter the cold. Keep yourself right warm, don’t ya, with all that flame?”
“Must you watch me like that?” demanded Cicero. “I’m sure you can see your fill of homosexuals in Camelot proper if you’re so desperate to examine a foreign species.”
“None of them homosexuals sweat like you do,” replied Fenwick. “All that glisten on their skin. You sweat like that when someone fucks you?”
Cicero, the back of his neck hot, turned and glanced at Fenwick, at his concentrated gaze, his focused expression. Hungry, that expression seemed, and when Cicero swallowed, he turned his head so that Fenwick couldn’t see the bob of the apple in his throat.
“Perhaps I do,” he said haughtily. “Not that you’d ever find out, without looking through a keyhole.”
“No?” asked Fenwick.
“No,” said Cicero. “You’ll find I am rather more discerning in my partners than you might hope — I’ve no particular interest in spreading my legs for a great, unwashed beast of a thing like you. I like men of — Poise. Grace. Charm.”
“Men with small cocks? That’s alright,” said Fenwick. “Means you’ll be tighter when I get my go.”
Cicero suppressed his shiver, and grit his teeth. “This technique of sexual harassment work well for you as a rule?”
“Aye,” said Fenwick. “It does. Posh little fucks with tight boycunts come out my way, I talk to ’em as they like to be talked to.”
“You are mistaking polite embarrassment and humour at how pathetic you are for liking it, I think.”
“Yeah? If I hiked up that robe skirt of yours, I wouldn’t see your cock all hard and begging for attention?”
“Come try it, I dare you,” said Cicero, and Fenwick grinned, tipping his head back.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asked quietly, and Cicero threw up a wall of flame, feeling its heat radiate out: with the hot shield of fire between him and Fenwick, he couldn’t see him any longer, and by the time he pulled it down again, Fenwick had walked back up to the stables.
It rather went on like that, for a while.
Fenwick would come, make his little comments — about Cicero’s body, about the muscle in his arms, about how his hair was long enough to pull on, about how little he was, compared to Fenwick, how Fenwick would like to split him apart.
Cicero didn’t care to allow it, of course, but it was an enticing fantasy, the idea of Fenwick’s huge, hulking mass behind him, Fenwick’s strong hands pinning him down. Fenwick was thirty or forty, as low-down as they came, but that only really added to the appeal.
Fenwick, Fenwick advised, had a prodigiously large cock, and while he was absolutely the sort to bluster, so it seemed, Cicero believed this, because he was —
Big.
Cicero thought of it, under the hot spray of the shower in his flat, forehead pressed against the cool tile of the shower and his hand wrapped tight around his cock, thought of Fenwick forcing his cock inside him, shoving him down with all his weight, choking him, biting him.
He’d be rough, Cicero expected — there was an appeal in that, an impossible appeal, as there might be to fucking the staff at home, not that he’d ever stoop that low.
Fenwick picked up on that too, of course.
* * *
“You have staff at that mansion you’ve come from?” asked Fenwick as Cicero juggled balls of cold flame, experimenting with their flow around him, to be used as projectiles or as shields against other people’s.
“Who says I’m from a mansion?” asked Cicero. He was smiling — it was difficult not to smile, when Fenwick came for their little chats. There was something strangely refreshing in how blunt he was, how crass, how sharp and nasty and crudely sexual Fenwick could be. A lot of boys Cicero spoke to were a little intimidated by him, the other regular students, and while other noble boys — fae royalty, boys who came from titled or landed families like his — knew how to play the game, none of them would dare be as plain and obvious as Fenwick was being right now.
“Fat arse on you,” said Fenwick, “for not being so fat everywhere else. Says you sit on it an awful lot. Means you have servants, means you have land.”
“Am I a slag or am I lazy, Mr Fenwick?” asked Cicero, twisting his wrist to set the orbs of fire spinning and studying their trajectory, making sure they were ringing around him at the right angle before casting another line of them, affecting them to circle him in the other direction. “Either I’m sitting on my arse all day or having it fucked near constantly, but it can hardly be both.”
“Guess I’ll be able to tell when I fuck it, see how loose it is,” said Fenwick, and Cicero laughed.
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“They let us poors have breaks these days,” said Fenwick. “Disgusting, I know. You ever fuck the staff at home?”
“You think I’d stoop?”
“I think you’d bend over.”
“Not for staff, Mr Fenwick,” said Cicero. “I’d be frightened of catching something.”
“I bet,” said Fenwick, and stood back from the fence.
“Break over?”
“Gonna have a cuppa before I get back to it.”
“You aren’t going to invite me to join you?”
Fenwick laughed, open-mouthed and quite loud, as he walked away, and Cicero stifled his grin, sending his orbs of fire scattering outward.
A little clumsy — he struggled to juggle them all, when he had so many at once, so that some of them ended up weak or filmy, or went out of their orbit or lost their way… but he was improving. Time would only fix that.
* * *
“Brought a sex doll?” asked Fenwick as Cicero was finishing up his training. It was warm in the ring now, but the day was very cold, and he’d had to burn up the thin film of snow on the ground before he’d been able to work.
“A target,” said Cicero. “I thought about asking you into the ring with me, but I realised an old bastard like you might not be able to take the punishment, no matter that all that grime is no doubt as good as a shield wall.”
“You want to keep it in the stables, save you lugging it back down to the college?”
Cicero glanced up at Fenwick’s face, searching for some trace of irony or mockery in his expression, but he saw neither.
“You wouldn’t mind?” he asked.
“So long as it don’t spook the horses none, but I don’t see why it would,” said Fenwick. “You can put it where the jocks set their shit, put it in the corner and no one should fiddle with it — can’t promise no one will play about with it, but they normally know not to touch what in’t theirs.”
“That’s very kind,” said Cicero, and he broke his stone circle, setting a shimmer on the air as the wall dropped, and he picked up each of the wardstones, dropping them back into their bag at his waist.
The mannequin was a simple six foot thing, cloth and stuffing on a steel frame with a blank face and movable joints — it would be little more than a scarecrow, were it not for all the enchantments he’d added to it, over the years. Everyone in his family learned to train with their own target, and part of their initial education in schooling their magic was in learning to modify it — two of his sisters had enchanted theirs to run and dodge and move, sometimes to roam seemingly freely; one of his brothers had loaded his with a fair few words and phrases, so that when he fought it blindfolded, he could find it without seeing it.
Cicero’s bounced his magic back at him — not just that, but it would throw out some spells of its own at random, and while it wasn’t the same as fighting someone else (the mannequin could only learn spells that Cicero himself knew and could replicate via enchantment, and it was naturally slower and more mechanical in this process than even a stumbling mage would be), it could sometimes catch him by surprise, force him to innovate in the moment.
“It heavy?” asked Fenwick, pulling the gate open.
“About the same as a man,” said Cicero, “I can — ”
Fenwick had already dropped to hoist the mannequin up by the waist, throwing it over his shoulder and letting its base rest against his hip. Hoisted like this, the mannequin’s limbs went loose, losing their tension, and it slumped over Fenwick’s broad, muscled back like a corpse.
Cicero’s skin prickled under his tunic, and he picked up his coat.
Not all of the undergraduates wore robes — perhaps a quarter or a third of them went in for the traditionalism, because it was the sign of an academic, but the rest of the students on campus still wore jeans or trousers, or only wore robes on certain days or for certain classes. Cicero wore robes every day, but it was what he and his family wore at home: he wore tight, silk-lined tunics with no sleeves and a skirt that stopped just below the knee, wore thin tights underneath in summer and heavier leggings in winter. He needed a coat too, around his time, and it had a longer skirt, thick sleeves, a heavy, ruffed coat — he huddled in it once he stepped into the freezing bite of the air outside of the ring he’d heated with his work, and Fenwick laughed at him.
“Don’t like the cold, do ya?”
“Does anybody?”
Fenwick shrugged, leading the way, one great arm banded around the back of the mannequin’s knees. “This is okay. Don’t like the snow much, but it’s okay when it’s not too deep — it’s rain I don’t like, when it’s cold, bitter. When it leaves films of ice after. Rain in the summer is different, comes down on the skin and is cool at worst, but when it’s warm? S’hot. Nectar of the earth.”
“Miss the monsoon season, I suppose?”
“Dunno, never been in it. S’pose I would miss it, if I’d had it.”
Cicero frowned slightly, glancing at him. “Oh, you’ve never… been back to India?”
Fenwick scoffed. “Fenwick sound like an Indian name to you?”
“Not particularly, but I’m hardly an expert,” said Cicero.
“My da was Sri Lankan, not Indian,” said Fenwick.
“Fenwick a tremendously popular surname on the shores of ancient Ceylon?”
Fenwick laughed, shaking his head. “S’my mam’s name, you stupid little prick. He and my mam din’t stay together, and he was dead by the time I was thirteen. He was a cunt anyway.”
“Like father like son, I take it?”
Fenwick laughed again, a derisive huff. “I in’t half the cunt he was,” he said. “Daddy issues is dangerous ground for you, mind. He angry you’re a homo, or angry you don’t live up to family, eh? Disappointed you decided to go to university ‘stead of joining the family muscle business?”
Cicero blinked, indignation, vulnerability, and then sudden realisation hitting him all at once, and turned to look at Fenwick, who was forward-facing, expression unchanged.
“Posh little idiot,” said Fenwick, laughing to himself. “You think I don’t know nothing, as if I an’t got fucking eyes, as if there’s another fat-arsed bitch like you in this city with a name like Cicero.”
“My apologies for not assuming you’d naturally been stalking me,” said Cicero.
“Don’t need to stalk you,” said Fenwick. “No shortage of people around who say your name, as many of ’em admiring as scornful.”
They came in through the wide barn doors, but Fenwick led him through an archway into a room with a door for people in it — there was no hay floor in here but stone, and apart from a wall of wood lockers and a few tables with papers and clipboards, helmets and bridles on shelves and hooks, there were a few crates of beer stacked up. It was behind these that Fenwick settled the mannequin, leaning it back against the corner.
Fenwick was frowning at the way the mannequin’s joints went stiff again once it was set upright, and Cicero watched the way he moved its shoulders and elbows, wrinkling his nose at the quiet click-click-click of the joints moving in their rotors.
“Fucking creepy, in’t it?” he asked.
“Mine not so much,” said Cicero. “Some of my cousins’ and siblings’, their mannequins stand freely and walk back and forth, or even run — my sister’s still has the rotary joints with the mechanical click like those, rather like a gearbox, but even with a looser connection at the joint, they never move like people do. Unsettling things.”
“You never named him?” asked Fenwick.
“No,” said Cicero. “I was never fond of it enough to name it. It’s a tool — not a training partner.”
“He looks like a Clarence,” said Fenwick, and Cicero hummed. “Cuppa tea?”
“Is that all you’re offering?”
“You want me to fuck you?”
“It’s cold outside,” said Cicero. “It’s warm, in here.”
Fenwick smirked, and Cicero followed him as he led the way past the horses in their stalls and into another barn. This one was smaller, was left open because it adjoined a field — he could see the three mares and two foals out in the field — and as Fenwick led the way up the stairs, each one of them creaked under his weight.
He half-expected a nest made of hay on the ground, but the first floor of the barn was surprisingly well-appointed — the smell of noises didn’t float up as he expected, and the room itself had almost no hay at all. There was a wood-framed bed with a hand-made quilt on it, a standalone wash basin, a wardrobe, a few chests, a writing desk, all made of the same red wood.
“How charmingly rustic,” said Cicero. “No chamber pot?”
“That your way of asking me to piss down your throat?” asked Fenwick, and took his coat off his shoulders.
Cicero didn’t gasp, but his jaw was agape and his cheeks were burning, no matter that he tried to keep himself collected.
He undid the fastenings on the front of his tunic, slipping that off his shoulders as well, and he crouched to unlace his boots, wriggle out of his leggings. Fenwick wasn’t undressing, just sat back and watched him, and then snapped his fingers: water poured from the air itself into the iron kettle beside the fire, and the fire flickered to life at the same time, burning hotter, and a metal box of tea came into his hand from over the mantel.
It wasn’t complicated magic, but it was subtle work, doing all of that in one motion, and Cicero hung his tunic and coat up on the back of the closed door, folding his leggings and putting them aside too.
He palmed over himself, didn’t grip himself properly just yet, just touched himself enough that the ache in it was soothed for a second, burned hot and bright. He sighed in satisfaction.
“Is this the moment where you tell me you’ve secretly been quite the powerful witch all this time?” asked Cicero idly.
“Nah,” said Fenwick. “Just do a little to get by, do a bit for the horses. Help me labour. No need for grand spells and that out my way, just grease for the wheels.”
“Speaking of grease — ”
“Tea first,” said Fenwick, and took the kettle, already bubbling, off the fire.
Cicero went over to Fenwick’s bed and set himself back on it, spreading his legs and leaning back on one of his hands, the other tickling his own thighs, fingertips delicately brushing over the skin. It was sensitive, made him hum quietly, and he watched his cock stand slowly to attention, watched it get harder.
Fenwick was watching too, and watched with undisguised interest as Cicero wrapped his hand loosely around his cock and tugged gently down, just enough to pull back his foreskin, before he let himself go.
“You like to tease yourself?” asked Fenwick.
“There’s something to be said for delayed gratification, isn’t there?” asked Cicero, arching one eyebrow. “You think you and I might have enjoyed this little liaison half as much, if I’d let you fuck me as soon as you’d laid eyes on me?”
“Wan’t aware you wasn’t letting me before now,” said Fenwick dryly, and took a sip from the mug of tea he’d brewed for himself. “Anything you don’t want me to do to you?”
“Other than strangle me and leave me in the woods? No, I’m happy to give you free reign. Why, are you planning to do something very terrible to me?”
“Ruin your fucking cunt,” said Fenwick. He said it slowly, like he was savouring every word, and afterwards he took another sip of his tea, took a deliberate one, longer this time, swallowed twice or three times before he set the mug down.
Cicero’s cheeks were burning, although he knew the colour never showed particularly in his cheeks — it showed instead on the front of his chest, his neck, and his cock was pinker and duskier than ever. The sweat was wet on a good deal of his skin, but the tip of his cock was slicker in the light from the outdoors, and it shone, glistened.
“Ruin it?” he asked, aware that his breathing was a little faster, doing his best to sound disaffected. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you not to break your toys?”
“Surprised someone told you that,” said Fenwick, approaching the bed, and he hooked one hand under the back of Cicero’s knee and tugged him directly to the edge of the bed, “with you always able to get new ones.”
Fenwick didn’t let him make any reply to that: his mouth took over Cicero’s in a hungry, biting kiss, beard rubbing against Cicero’s face, and Cicero expected to hate it, expected to find its texture unsettling and unpleasant, but Fenwick’s beard smelt faintly of whatever oil he apparently rubbed into it, and its surprisingly soft bristles felt good on Cicero’s mouth, under his nose, his jaw, his chin.
Fenwick’s mouth tasted of peppermint, and his tongue slid wetly against Cicero’s, the muscle there just as strong as the rest of him, as his hands slid over Cicero’s thighs, his hips.
Cicero’s hands were on the older man’s chest, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt before sliding under it and running his hands through more thick hair covering warm skin, and something in him rebelled at the idea of taking Fenwick’s clothes off — there was something all the more exciting, tantalising, in Fenwick being entirely clothed as Cicero was naked.
Fenwick slid his knee between Cicero’s thighs, gripping him by the hair and pulling his head hard to the side so that he could graze his teeth — not biting, not kissing, just dragging in a way that made Cicero feel like the skin underneath was burning with a current — over the side of his neck and down to the juncture of his shoulder, and then he sucked a bruise into place.
Cicero moaned, fisting his hands in the front of Fenwick’s shirt, arching up and into his mouth, and Fenwick laughed a dirty laugh, shuddered and dark and —
There was something commanding in it, controlling, no matter than Fenwick gave no order and gave him no instructions.
And then Fenwick flipped him over.
He did it quickly, so quickly that Cicero almost didn’t have time to realise what was happening: Fenwick gripped him by this left shoulder and as he pulled him, he kicked his legs aside with his knee. Cicero went over hard, falling flat on his belly with Fenwick already crawling on top of him, one knee pinning Cicero’s and one hand on his arm, the other hand and his mouth free to explore Cicero’s body as they pleased.
And they did please.
Cicero groaned into the quilt underneath him as Fenwick licked up the divot of Cicero’s spine, up between his shoulder blades, where he promptly bit and nipped at the skin; in the same moment, two thick fingers, slick with lube he hadn’t even seen, pushed into his arse.
“Mmm,” he growled lowly, and Cicero struggled to concentrate as he pressed downwards, pressing past his prostate and making Cicero see stars, his cock underneath him rubbing into the blankets. Fenwick’s fingers scissored apart with ease, and they did it slowly, working Cicero’s muscles open and making him scrabble on the blankets, gasping, and all the while he was full up with the scents in the room — there was a camphor scent lingering on the wood, and Fenwick must have used something floral to clean his laundry, and Fenwick himself smelled of sandalwood and peppermint and almost no sweat at all, but he did smell of —
Of something.
Something indescribable, something salty and very distantly musky, the sort of smell one could wrap oneself up in on a cold night like this one.
Cicero’s train of thought was dashed abruptly out of his head as Fenwick crooked his fingers hard and dragged over his prostate with the blunt tips, and Cicero whined, gripped tightly at the blankets and spread his thighs further apart.
“Want it?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Cicero. “Yes, you beastly tease, yes, I do, I do — ”
There was no sound of a zip as Fenwick undid his breeches, but Cicero felt the lace front of them hit the backs of his thighs and he laughed achingly —
And then the weight of Fenwick’s cock fell against his arse with all the weight and punch of a bag of flour, and Cicero froze. Staring forward, he spread his hands on the bed and tried to turn, tried to look, but Fenwick laughed his dirty laugh and kept him pinned, rocked his heavy hips forward so that the weight of his cock slid between his arse cheeks — or, more accurately, it cleaved between them, and shoved them right apart.
“Christ,” Cicero spat out, because he’d never taken a cock as big as the one currently weighing his arse down, pinning him almost as surely as Fenwick’s grip on his arm or his knee on the back of Cicero’s: it was thick around as anything, probably as thick as Cicero’s wrist if not more, and was certainly —
Certainly longer than average.
He felt dizzy.
“I hope you don’t think you’re getting that in my arse,” said Cicero, and Fenwick nudged the huge, blunt head of the obscenity that hung between his legs against Cicero’s arse, and Cicero whimpered.
“Do more’n think,” said Fenwick, and pushed.
It —
It really didn’t hurt as much as he expected it to, not at first: Fenwick’s cock was so wet and slick with grease that Cicero’s arse somehow gave way to it, at least a little, so that where the head was slightly tapered it managed to start getting into him, but it was too big, so big Cicero couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
The muscle burned as it was pushed further apart, Fenwick pushing slowly, inexorably forward, and Cicero was whimpering, he was aware, whining sharp and high in his throat and gripping so tightly at the blankets under them he feared they’d tear — he feared he’d tear.
He was gasping, choking, keening like an animal as the head of Fenwick’s cock popped past the ring of muscle that was his arse, managing to settle inside him like a fucking fist, and Cicero was silent, his mouth open, his eyes staring. His cock was so hard now it was dripping, and he felt as though he were about to die, his arse burning but aching with the want for more, stretched, and the ridiculous mushroom head of Fenwick’s cock was —
Impossible.
Inscrutable.
Maddening.
“Nice and tight,” said Fenwick, voice so low in his chest now that Cicero could feel the vibration from his sternum, and Cicero whimpered a gasping noise. “Think you’ll gape when I’m done with you, boy? Think my come’ll pour out of you like a fucking waterfall?”
Cicero hiccoughed.
Fenwick squeezed his hips, gripped the base of his own cock, and started feeding more of it into him.
“I can’t,” sobbed Cicero. His skin was burning, he was sweating buckets now, and his arse didn’t hurt exactly, only ached, but the sensation was too big to be pleasure either, as much as it wasn’t pain, and he felt like he was being impaled, felt like Fenwick would surely split him in half. “I can’t take it, I can’t take it, Fenwick, Mr Fenwick, I really can’t, you’ll tear me to pieces, you’ll destroy me, I can’t tak — It’s too big, don’t you understand it’s too big?”
“It hurt?”
“Yes, yes — ”
“You’re clenching around me,” said Fenwick, and his cock must have been another inch forward now, but he was moving so fucking slowly, making his arse open up to take him, making his whole body open up to take him. “Fucking winking. Begging me for more — this arse is hungry, in’t it? Needs a good fucking.”
“I’ll die,” whimpered Cicero.
“Maybe,” Fenwick said. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
He pushed slowly forward another inch, another two inches, and Cicero felt like he could feel it in his very guts, in the very core of him, and he was sprawled in a wet patch now, was breathing raggedly, tears in his eyes.
“I can’t,” he whimpered again, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t — ”
Fenwick was impatient with this, apparently: he shoved his hips forward in one hard, smooth movement, so that his heavy bollocks knocked against Cicero’s, so that Cicero’s arse kissed the base of his cock, and Cicero had the wind knocked out of him, felt like Fenwick was fucking through his diaphragm, his stomach, probably had Cicero’s kidneys wrapped around his cock, which was probably wearing his appendix like a fucking hat —
“Breathe,” said Fenwick in his ear, and Cicero, suddenly reminded to do so, gasped, and was surprised there was still space in him to fill his lungs. “Seems as if you could take it.”
He couldn’t think.
His brain felt wiped clean, utterly empty, his body narrowed down to the huge, fat cock piercing him open, filling him utterly to the brim, and Fenwick said, “No more clever tongue in that pretty mouth of yours, is there? All that fancy magic, all that dandy cock, all washed away as soon as you have a cock in you — you’re used to being waited on, but you’d like to be on your back like this, wouldn’t you? I could carve you open with a cock like mine, train you nice into a toy just for me. Wouldn’t even be hard, I bet — I could have you trained so good as soon as you laid eyes on me you’d drop to them knees of yours and open your mouth, beg for my cock in your mouth, whether it was to come down your throat or piss down it, you’d want it all.”
Cicero’s jaw was gaping, and he couldn’t move, but he could feel it when one of Fenwick’s big hands slid under his belly and dragged over the bulge there — the bulge of Fenwick’s cock spearing him open.
Visible, probably.
“My da was a fleshturner,” said Fenwick in his ear, nipping at the lobe and making Cicero shudder, the only movement he was capable of making, but for the near constant clench of his arse around Fenwick’s cock, as useless as it was, and the bob of his cock underneath him. “I in’t licensed, but I know enough to get by — he taught me enough for that, thought I’d use it better’n he could. Ha. S’that what you’d like, boy, eh? Could built a cunt out of that cock of yours — you’d not be using it with me, anyway, would give me two holes to fuck you from.” He said it almost experimentally, and Cicero didn’t understand why he was saying it like that, what he meant by it, until he went on, “Or I could use it on myself, of course — give myself a cock even bigger’n this, and the balls to fuck you properly with it. Could fuck you with two cocks at once,” and Cicero came on the spot.
Fenwick was fucking him properly by the time Cicero came around from apparently, for a few moments, having blacked out: Fenwick had hauled his hips up from where they were collapsed on the bed, and when Cicero stared down between his legs he could see his limp cock bouncing and see his stomach shifting whenever Fenwick fucked him open.
Fenwick made sure he’d come again before he came himself, and he pulled out to do it, left Cicero’s stuffed-full hole so suddenly empty and cold and empty that he wailed, and Fenwick’s come spattered over Cicero’s back.
“More?” Fenwick asked him.
Cicero couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, still, was stunned and silent with impossible pleasure, but that was almost for the best — if he’d been able to, he thought later on that he might have said yes.
* * *
Fenwick, afterwards, rubbed a cloth over him, over his stained back and open arse, his sweating skin, his slick cock; he gently tugged Cicero up and directed him into a secreted bathroom for him to piss, and when he stumbled back, Fenwick had spelled the coverlet clean.
To his surprise, Fenwick didn’t bundle him into his clothes and tip him down the hill, and nor did he tuck Cicero into his bed and leave him be: he lifted him up, dropped Cicero into his lap, and let Cicero fall against his chest.
“I think you did kill me,” mumbled Cicero. “Sent me off to some strange paradise.”
Fenwick’s blunt fingernails were scratching wonderful lines up and down his back, and in the state he was in, it was quite hypnotic.
“You really like being pissed on?” asked Fenwick, sounding more baffled than genuinely interested.
“I mean, I’ve seen it in porn,” said Cicero. “It’s hot in that. It’s hard to tell whether it’s a fantasy that translates well to one’s actual life. But who needs piss when you’ve got a cock as gargantuan as yours?”
“Cock like mine puts out a lot of piss.”
“Don’t say that,” said Cicero. “You’ve already sweated out all the water in my body and squeezed the rest out through my cock.”
“Should’ve taken the cuppa,” said Fenwick, and Cicero, helplessly, giggled, and pressed his face into Fenwick’s neck, smelled the sandalwood there, smelled the salted sweetness of Fenwick, too.
“God, how can such a bear of a man smell so good?” he asked dreamily. “Do you do it with the fleshturning?”
“Au naturale, lad,” said Fenwick, and Cicero floated happily away on the scent of it.
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