QUENCHED WARRIOR
The lamp burned hot and low, throwing gold across the tent walls. The warrior stood in the light like a statue pulled from dust—bare chest slick with sweat, straps cutting across his shoulders, muscles tight from the road. He tipped the canteen back and let water spill over his mouth and down his ribs. It ran along the grooves of his stomach and vanished into the wrap at his waist. He exhaled. “Still dry,” he said, voice rough. “Like the desert’s inside me.”
I watched the water bead and fall. My tongue felt thick. “That’s because water isn’t what you’re missing.”
He turned, eyes dark, a smile pulling slow. “You always say things like that.”
“Because you always come back thirsty.”
I stepped closer and set the canteen aside. The air smelled of metal and smoke and him. I traced a finger along one strap. He didn’t move. He let me. “Careful,” he said. “You stare like I’m a spell.”
“You are,” I answered. “A loud one.”
He laughed, short and breathy. The lamp flickered. I uncorked a small vial—thick liquid, faintly glowing. “This one warms,” I said. “It opens.”
“Open me, then,” he said, low. “I’ve bled all day.”
I tipped the vial. Not to his mouth—onto my palm. The glow pulsed. I pressed it to his chest. He hissed, not in pain, and leaned back against the tent pole, arms braced, body offered without saying the word. “Feels like fire,” he murmured.
“Magic,” I said. “Old. Hungry.”
He looked down at my hands. “So are you.”
I spread the draught along his skin, slow, deliberate. The glow followed my touch, lighting him in pieces—shoulder, chest, the deep line down his belly. His breath hitched. He tipped his head back, throat bared, the cords of it tight and shining. “Don’t stop,” he said. “You’re… it’s working.”
I leaned close, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. “Say what you want.”
He swallowed. “I want you to finish the spell.”
Our mouths brushed—barely. A promise, not a claim. He grabbed my wrist, guided my hand lower, then paused. “Ask,” he said, teasing, dominant even on his knees to the magic.
“Stand still,” I said. “Let me do this right.”
He obeyed. That was the thrill. I followed the glowing trail downward, my fingers hooking into the waist of his wrap and pulling it loose. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, the tip already beading with need. The glowing oil on my hand was all the lubricant he needed. I wrapped my fingers around his shaft, and he groaned, a raw, broken sound. I stroked him from base to tip, my thumb smearing the wetness across his head. His hips jerked, fucking my fist with a desperate rhythm that belied his stillness. The tent filled with the slick sounds of my hand on his skin and his ragged pants. He was close, his whole body tensing, a bowstring drawn taut. With a guttural cry, he came, spurting hot over my hand and his own stomach. The glow on his skin flared brightly and then faded to embers.
When it was done, he looked steadier, brighter, like a man returned to himself. He pulled me in by the collar, forehead to mine. “Quenched,” he said. “For now.”
I smiled. “Travel makes men thirsty.”
“And mages dangerous,” he replied. The lamp burned on. Outside, the night kept our secret.
--------------
If you want advanced access to the complete chapters of the current story and advanced chapters of the latest Tagalog full fiction story ahead of blog readers and get other perks such as weekly teasers and a feature in one #squirtershorts within the month, please subscribe to patreon.com/jockwonderlust. If you want to support me and my craft, please subscribe!
No comments:
Post a Comment