Knight Tactics

Erotic short. An elf serves as a distraction and an exhaustion tactic for a bandit camp. By letting them fuck him.

3k, trans M/loads of cocks, assumed as cis M. Amaethon gets himself stuck in a wall so that the bandits will work out their stamina fucking him rather than fighting off the king’s guard.

Stuck in wall, free use, fully (and gleefully) consensual whilst pretending he isn’t, mild belly bulging and come inflation, gaping, exhaustion, messy and come-spattered, etc. All the fun stuff.

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It’s hardly the first time Amaethon has been asked to use his cunt to distract the target of one fight or other — if anything, it’s one of his favourite things to use his cunt for, and certainly one of the most consistently entertaining.

This particular evening is a bit different — the queen’s guard had said that they’d tried twice or three times over to apprehend the members of this bandit camp without too much bloodshed, but they’re primarily big, hulking bastards, and the majority are barbarians, possessed of that delightful — and oh-so-dangerous — berserkers’ rage.

“We’ll just need to hire an assassin,” the knight captain had groaned into the pillows while warming Amaethon’s bed a few nights previous, and Amaethon had sighed, sitting up and resting his chin on his hand. “And I don’t want to kill them, let alone exterminate a whole fucking thirty people when if you take three of them out of the equation, the rest’ll get other employ instead of keeping at this thieving and banditry business, but — ”

“Darling,” Amaethon had told him amusedly, stroking his fingers back and forth through the well of sweat the base of Woods’ spine, pressing deep into the muscle and smirking when the other man groaned, “there’s really no need for all this drama.”

“Two assassins? None of my men have the stealth to — ”

“Why not simply employ a distraction and then have your men come upon the bandits?”

“What distraction? Once two or three of them go berserk, the force of them is insurmountable, but twenty, there’s — ”

“You’ve really no imagination, Woods, which is part of the reason I so enjoy you,” Amaethon had advised him, “but in this case, you’d do well to ask for outside advice. Since you haven’t, and I’m an impatient sort, I’ll have to give it to you without your asking — a berserker’s state isn’t only brought out of them by a fight.”

Woods had sat up, turning to stare at him.

“If I go in at about, hm… Six o’clock in the evening? Thereabouts? By dawn, they should be plenty exhausted for you.”

“And who do you tell them paid for it?” Woods had demanded. “Are they going to believe that the knight captain of the Petrus Queen’s Guard just very kindly paid for them to enjoy your services for the evening?”

“Again,” Amaethon had said mildly, squeezing his generous backside. “No imagination.”

It’s earlier in the afternoon than he’d initially planned for — he’d scouted out the bandit camp beforehand, watched them at work with one another, examining their movements. Half of the band had gone out hunting, the rest patrolling one of the roads for new victims, and while there were a handful still left in the camp, guarding its perimeter, settled in the tents and getting on with other work — breaking down animals or flensing skins, sorting out inventory to pass to the fence.

It hadn’t been difficult to sneak past all of them, to slip unseen through the lines of tents — not as neat as he would like, but not as messy and unregimented as he’d seen other camps of this sort.

He chooses his time carefully — they’d shaken down a crew of adventurers the week before last and Amaethon had talked to them, known what they were carrying: various treasures stolen from a dungeon, of course, but amongst them, a booby-trapped chest they’d thought would be fun to play with.

He’d been delighted when he’d realised they still had it — it made it all so much easier.

Waiting until the moment where enough of the bandits begin to return to their fort for him to be noticed, he suddenly runs through the camp with the chest thrown over one of his shoulders, and when some of the idiots seem too concentrated on their cheerful hunting song to notice, he slows down a little, kicks a metal pot and makes a big clang so that they finally look over, and then he sprints in earnest.

Keeping his finger on the clasp of the chest, he runs for the gap in the fence he’d noticed earlier, jumping through head first and letting it loose. It makes a low whoomp as the spell releases, and he groans at the explosion of thick slime that traps him in place. It’s a deep blue, and it’s thicker, has less give, than organic, living slime, the sort attached to the monsters, but it works out rather nicely — it forms a web along the gap so that he’s trapped in the middle of it, stuck through the whole with it clutching about his waist. He’s delighted to have escaped getting any in his hair — he’d already made a choice to get a more disposable rope than usual, something he wouldn’t mind being cut out of.

“Well, well, well,” he hears one of the bandits say behind him, on the other side of the log fence — ahead of him, two guardsmen are approaching him from the front, and he puts on his best, most fearful expression as they look down at him.

The thick curls of his white hair make him somewhat too recognisable, and so he’d dyed them and his eyebrows — not to mention the landing strip over his crotch — black for the evening, and the two bandits before him laugh as they look down at him, their weapons resting on their shoulder and hip respectively.

“You know who we’ve got?” calls one of the bandits on the other side, and Amaethon jumps and whimpers as they unbuckle his satchel — it’s stuck in the goo, but they get it loose enough to drop it down from his thigh, clinking with twice-begotten treasure.

“Some thief, looks like,” says one of the men before him, leaning in and cupping Amaethon’s cheek and tilting his chin up.

“Oh, better than a thief,” laughs one of the bandits on the other side — he’s pushed Amaethon’s skirts up and is sliding his hand around the garter temporarily tattooed around his thigh, one that would mark him as a member of the Alfasian Burlesque, were he actually a member. “This one’s a grade-A whore.”

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Limon,” Amaethon lies, trying his best to struggle free, knowing he won’t be able to — he lets out a sharp, breathless noise as the bandits behind him tear his robe skirts away from him, dropping them all in tatters on the floor. “Please, I was just, um, I — ”

“Just stealing,” muses one of the bandits behind him, and Amaethon jumps as one of them strokes a rough palm over the curve of his ass and the meat of his thigh, feeling him up as one might a prize animal at a fair. “Well, if he’s a prized whore, we might as well take back the value he was going to steal from us, eh, boys?”

Amaethon outwardly lets out a desperate keen, one muffled by the two fingers that slide over his tongue in mirror to the two that slide into his cunt, already wet and waiting — he’d given his ass a cursory lubrication too, just in case. This garners no suspicion, of course — they all crow and laugh around him, unsurprised, expectant that this whore dropped in their laps should be wet and open and ready for them.

Inwardly, he smiles. There are few things in the world so predictable as men.

* * *

They form lines either side of the fences, and Amaethon’s moan is real as the first thick, fat cock slides into his waiting cunt — it’s one of the wolfmen, his prick smooth and tapered at its tip such that it slides right into him and spreads him wider and wider, and when he yells at the pressure of the knot against his ring, one of the orcs slides his prick home, over Amaethon’s tongue and into his throat.

Amaethon’s squeal is muffled around the thick weight of it, feeling the nodules and texture along its shaft, the heavy ridges around its base and the thick, pearl-like protuberances about its body. He whines as he feels the pressure in his throat, trying to shift the position of his neck to better breathe, but he can’t — all he can do is heave in gasps when the orc pulls back to thrust inside him again.

He moves fast, jerking his hips in place, and it’s all Amaethon can do to keep his concentration and to breathe as best he can, sucking at the prick that so easily splits his lips apart, taste the acrid salt and musk on his tongue and filling up his nose, feeling the heavy green balls slap hard against his chin.

The wolfman’s cock pistons into him, his clawed fingertips digging into Amaethon’s ass — he can’t fully grip at his waist where Amatheon is glued into place through the wall, and Amaethon tries to rest his hands on the slime beneath him to steady himself, but it does nothing, provides no purchase. He’s stuck in place with cock filling him from both ends, and it’s sublime.

Why should assassins have all the fun?

The wolfman’s cock inflates at its base, and Amaethon yells at the stretch as his cunt is forced to open up and take it, as it pops past the ring and locks him in place.

“Fuck’s sake, Dez, already!?”

“Ah, fuck off, I’m getting him nice and wet for you,” growls the beastman, and Amaethon groans as he feels the bulge and jerk of his cock, imagines the slick pink length of it in him as it spurts out come and delivers it, hot and heavy and so fucking slick, deep into his cunt. “And you won’t fucking care once you start anyway, and the rage takes over. This is a premium whore right here — worth all of us using him.”

Someone’s fingers start to work their way into his ass, and Amaethon chokes around the fat prick filling up his throat, feeling his eyes water, and fuck, but he loves a good orc cock like this one, loves the way the texture of it drags at his tongue and the inside of his throat, the way he can feel its rough skin on the inside of his lips and the way it makes them tingle. He doesn’t even have to be careful about his teeth, what with how thick the skin is, and there’s something wonderful about the way he’s being filled from every end, made all the sweeter by the fact that these idiots think they’re taking something from him, think they’re triumphing where they’re soon to be triumphed over.

The orc is coming, and Amaethon swallows as best he can around the spray of it as it hits the back of his throat, pumps into him — no sooner has he pulled back than another, smaller prick is sliding into his mouth, and Amaethon groans around it, looks up at the laughing warrior over him.

The bandits are moving about him — some are standing watch still, but the rest are splitting up on either side of the fence to take their turns on him. He can smell food cooking over the fire further into camp, can hear them laughing and talking about the choice treat in front of them, complaining about how long it’s been since they shelled out for a whore.

A hand grips at his hair and forces his head further back, and he moans as the man fucking him pulls his cock out and pats the side of his cheek, smears wetness over his lips, down his chin.

It’s a different warrior that’s looking at him, peering down at him with a thoughtful expression. “Do we know each other?” he asks softly.

Amaethon doesn’t recognise him, but that’s hardly special — people recognise him without his recognising them in turn all the time. He leans in closer, his lips shifting into a frown, and Amaethon sees a flicker of recognition, of comprehension, in his eyes before he glances at the situation unfolding around him, no doubt doing the maths as to how much he’ll be believed.

“Lemme go,” he whines, trying to kick out with his legs as the beastman’s knot stays firmly rooted in him, although it’s starting to deflate. “Let me — fuck, let me — ”

“Gods’ sake, Uri, let me fuck him already,” complains the other warrior, and slams his cock home again.

Uri, Amaethon notices, makes himself scarce after that.

When the beastman pulls back, leaving Amaethon’s cunt open and aching, the next warrior comes up from the back, and Amaethon hears him say, “What a display.” Fingers brush against his open cunt, his lips spread wide by the wake the beastman’s fat knot has left in its wake, and Amaethon groans around the prick on his tongue, his eyes fluttering closed at the pleasure of it, the tickling pressure, the rub against his cock when he flicks over it with his thumb. “What a pretty cunt he has.”

His cock lands on Amaethon’s lower back, hard and thick and heavy, a weight against his asscheeks, slick — he slowly grinds forward, between Amaethon’s asscheeks, pushes them apart, and teases the head of his cock against Amaethon’s open pussy, sliding the head around the sensitive edges of it. He moans at the pleasure, the way his cunt throbs, tingles — and then instead of pressing his cock into Amaethon’s open cunt, the warrior forces it into his unused asshole instead, and Amaethon screams around the cock buried in his mouth.

They’re all laughing, the sound of it roaring in his ears, and Amaethon scrabbles helplessly at the thighs of the warrior fucking him, at the same time feeling the sudden plunge of thick, heavy cock into his asshole, wet but not nearly as open as his cunt had been, the slight burn of it, the sudden stretch, and the way that the throbbing pleasure feels just too many degrees removed from his aching, hungry cunt.

The laughter echoes around him, and he surges at the way he’s trapped in his place, feeling pinned at three points, the band around his belly and the two cocks buried at his either end. It’s not yet sundown, and he thinks blearily about the fact that the guard won’t fall upon the bandit camp until dawn.

If his throat weren’t stuffed with cock, he might break character and laugh with delight — in the meantime, he moans and tries to grip and grab at the thighs of the man pistoning into him from the front.

“He fucking likes this,” says one of the men behind him, slapping his ass, and Amaethon thrills at the anonymity of it all, the awareness that of all the bandits he can see, milling about in front of him, drinking, nudging each other, there could be countless more behind him, more than he accounted for — dozens, if not hundreds. “His pussy keeps clenching, all fucking greedy for another cock.” A hand reaches under him and starts to pull and squeeze on his own dick, and Amaethon screams around the cock on his tongue, making the bandit fucking him moan in concert.

His orgasm crashes over him all at once, sudden and hard, and he closes his eyes and grips hard at the bandit’s thighs as he feels the shocks of it run through his whole body, feels his body coil abruptly tighter in tension and then releasing. His body goes limp, his legs and arms hanging down, and as the aftershocks of his orgasm throb outward from his cunt and the core of his belly, he keeps feeling the thrumming pleasure of the cock buried in his ass and the satisfying pressure of the one spearing his throat.

“Whore,” one of them says, and they’re all laughing again, jeering at what a slut he is, at how pleased he must be to have gotten caught, how he must have wanted this all along — bless their little hearts.

* * *

Woods can barely breathe as he approaches Amaethon’s body, suddenly so horny his cock is surging in its cup, and fuck, but no one really tells you how uncomfortable an erection is in armour.

The elf is sprawled out on his back, his hand rested on the slight paunch of his come-stuffed, swollen belly — there’s come spattered all over his body, sticky and dried against his arse cheeks, his thighs, over his lower back and shoulders, his neck and chest, his face, in his black-dyed hair. There’s a noticeable band of clean skin around his middle where he’d been stuck through the wall.

He’s never seen the elf look quite so fucking satisfied — Woods has seen him when he’s been fucked and ruined by one monster or other, but has never seen him like this, destroyed and used, spattered and soaked with sweat and come, hair sticky with it, leaving it dripping out of his open, gaping holes, puffy and well-used. His lips are bruised and bright pink and swollen.

“Told you,” Amaethon says, voice hoarse from all the cocks that have battered his throat since yesterday. “They were all quite spent when your men came for them, hm?”

“I bet I wouldn’t even have to take my gauntlet off to fist you,” Woods muses out loud as he looks at Amaethon’s open cunt, his mouth dry as he thinks of how it would feel to slide his cock into the mess, slick as anything, open and sloppy. He and one of the other men at once, perhaps, so that there was still some grip around them. “You’d take it easily.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Amaethon purrs, and then laughs — the laugh becomes a moan when Woods settles his palm on the centre of his swollen belly and presses down, and he watches as come dribbles out of him, puddling beneath him on the bed. “Happy with my night’s labours, sir?”

“How much do you want paying for this?” Woods asks, thumbing over Amaethon’s cock and making him whimper and shudder beneath him.

“Oh, it was a favour for a friend,” Amaethon mumbles, his thighs spreading slightly wider in silent invitation. “And I had a very nice evening, plenty of exercise.”

“Three hundred?”

Amaethon’s drowsy eyes open, narrowing as he meets Woods’ gaze. “Three-fifty.”

Woods’ lips twitch. “Sold.”