Mark Wildyr's Blog, page 24

PRESCIENT(Part 3)Today, we go to the third part of “The P...

PRESCIENT(Part 3)
Today, we go to the third part of “The Prescient,” a short story originally published in a Bold Strokes anthology called Erotica/Exotica, Tales of Sex, Magic, and the Supernatural, edited by Richard Labonte. In our last post, Tancready made contact through the boy’s interest in chess. They’ve agreed to a phto-trip during daylight hours—a difficult time for Tancready. Here we go.
NOTE: Because this is a 7,700-word short story, I will post every two weeks until it is finished. After that, I will resume my regular blogging on the first of each month.***** Courtesy of Stock.Free.orgTHE PRESCIENT (Part 3)
     I roused myself the following morning with difficulty. Despite the excitement of my coming time with Boris, I was reluctant to expose myself to the dreadful sunburn and excruciating headaches an all-day excursion necessarily entailed. Nonetheless, it was necessary. The prospect depressed me so deeply that I was only able to function by concentrating on my approaching proximity to the delectable Boris. Briefly, I wondered why I did not simply overwhelm the boy and take what I wanted, as with the Hispanic and the towhead and countless others, but something within me cautioned against rashness. This prize was unique in both physical sensuality and an innate sensitivity to the unusual.     And that brought me face-to-face with a potential problem I had sought unsuccessfully to ignore. As I gathered the equipment and awaited the boy’s arrival, I considered the unease that was twin to my pleasure in his exciting presence. The youth was extraordinarily aware of me. For all the studied casualness of one of his age, his halo betrayed his true, perhaps unconscious feelings. There were, of course, individuals who were quite perceptive when it came to Eternals, although they would be rare in this part of the Western Hemisphere, given its lack of such lore. Dhampires, sons of Vampires, existed, of course, and were attuned to our rhythms. That would present no particular problem, but there was a sensitive of another sort, presenting another problem.     Was it possible Boris was a Prescient? Mortals with an uncanny sensitivity to Eternals, Prescients are sometimes dangerous since many are Betrayers, or worse, Slayers. Over the ages, I have known many Prescients, some of whom, the ignorant, fled in terror. Others, more enlightened, provided many hours of pleasant company. One, a delightful woman of lush body and bright mind was a constant companion in a long-ago lifetime. She occupied my mind and body as few have done over the centuries…a role I envisioned for Boris in this one. Those were my blood days, and Sara willingly presented her veins to me when my hunger became truly demanding … without ill effect, I might add. Even today, I speculate on her given name, Sara, the Gypsy version of the black goddess Kali.     A few Prescients have betrayed me into the hands of enraged, terrified mortals, who are the deadliest and most bloodthirsty of all creatures, and a small number have sought my doom. These I dealt with as brutally as Vlad dispatched his enemies.     Boris’s bloodlines allowed for this possibility, but his family had been in the New World for generations with no exposure to my kind. Yet, his aura clearly showed he was unusually receptive to my mere presence. That did not necessarily mean he knew the why or the what of his apprehension. Shrugging away my usual caution, I completed preparations for our outing, thereby laying bare the depth of my need. My hunger for the boy was both natural and unnatural; natural in craving his pranic energy, his semen, and unnatural in a lust that was overwhelmingly sensual, a different thing altogether.     At the appointed hour, his white Jeep appeared before my closed gate, and I threw the lever to admit him. Carefully placing our equipment atop an old tent he carried in the back, I was pleased to note he drove an enclosed vehicle, which would ease my exposure to the sun. I had agreed to allow him to provide the conveyance, suspecting this would satisfy his masculine code of etiquette.     We elected to explore the Bosque, a unique hundred-mile swath of cottonwoods lining both sides of the Rio Grande, an ecological treasure sentenced to a slow death once a system of dams put an end to the annual flooding of the river that was required to nurture seedlings. The once mighty Rio Grande now trickled through a narrow channel that wandered willy-nilly in its wide, sandy bed.     Boris took to the Leica Minilux like a born photographer. It fit his hand and eye perfectly. He shot images of driftwood on white sand, river birds in flight, an ancient turtle sunning on a semi-submerged log, and even a reclusive red fox. He rolled up his pant legs to reveal strong calves lightly brushed with fine brown hair and waded the river, cavorting like a boy. His aura ran wild with joy and budding friendship. He grew so comfortable that he dared tease me about the abundance of clothing covering me from head to foot on this warm, autumn day. I explained it for what it was, the protection of sensitive skin against the brutal sun. He had no such constraints. He tore off his shirt, baring his broad, muscled chest to my famished gaze. I briefly lost control and sopped up his radiations, but recovered before any damage occurred.      My desirable young companion had a commitment that night, so we made arrangements to meet the following morning for a quick trip to the mountains before developing our film in my darkroom. Once he was gone, I applied ointments and unguents to my poor flesh and retired.     In the dark of night, I rose and prowled the alleyways behind the bars on East Central, locating a man whose aura showed no trace of disease. I took his cum while he swore and sang drunkenly until the shock of his extraordinary climax silenced him.#     The lush conifer forest on the east side of Sandia Mountain, a ten-thousand foot peak directly east of Albuquerque that the local Indians called Sleeping Turtle, was less harsh on my system, and the boy’s growing amity made the effort worthwhile. He was an odd combination of venturesome youth, childish juvenile, and mature man. His company delighted me even as it aggravated my lust. It was not merely his physical presence that kindled me, but his mind and spirit, as well. We discussed the great photographers. He was much taken with Ansel Adams and Ernest Haas, but agreed that Dmitri Kessel’s powerful plates of the ornate Benedictine church at Zwiefalten, Germany placed him among the elite. With difficulty, I stopped short of boasting that I had served as a seminarian at that magnificent structure in another lifetime.     We stood for long intervals and listened to the forest speak while I fought a raging battle to control my impatience for him. Boris blundered upon a black bear rooting for acorns, disturbed grazing mule deer, and photographed a magnificent golden eagle. We ascended Sandia Crest, named for the watermelon pink hhue the autumn sun gave its western face at sunset, to cast our eyes west over the broad Rio Grande Valley to Mt. Taylor, one of the Navajo’s four sacred peaks. At a turnout lower on the mountainside we gazed north to Santa Fe hidden in the foothills of the towering Sangre de Cristos…a beautiful name, Blood of Christ! With that thought, I hungrily observed the vein pulsing in the boy’s neck as he snapped a picture. I wanted him so badly that I achieved an erection, something I rarely do until it is required. Sexual energy escaped my control, lapping against him in mauve waves of desire.     He dropped the camera from his eye and faced me. From the sudden flare of warning red, I saw he was alarmed. His mood changed dramatically; Boris was more thoughtful and less gregarious on our return trip despite my attempt to keep a conversation going.     The boy was quite skilled in the darkroom. Devoting our attention to this task, we labored into the night. Prolonged proximity to his sculpted body taxed my control to the limit. Waiting for our prints to dry, I hovered near him and carelessly sent a wave of desire up his back, retreating when his aura flared. But the damage was done. Boris turned to me, his color heightened by the crimson of the developing lamp. He licked his lips nervously.     “Y…you’re a homosexual, aren’t you?” The tone was wary.     “I have lain with men,” I answered rather pompously.     “That’s what you want with me, isn’t it?” he rasped; his energy flaring alarmingly. “You want in my pants!”     “That is crude, Boris.”     “Oh, hell! You do! You want to…do things to me. No way, Tancready! I don’t go for that stuff. I like my girl. We make love. Oh, man, I knew something wasn’t right about this. Shit!” he cursed, tearing off the protective apron I had given him for working with the darkroom chemicals. Without another word, he slammed out of the room. I caught up with him in the hallway.     “I gotta go now. Early class tomorrow,” he babbled.     “Your prints, Boris! Your photographs?”     “I don’t know,” he waved a hand in the air. “Maybe I’ll come get them later.”     The boy fled into the night. I sadly opened the gate by remote control as his vehicle raced down the long drive. The house was lonely and oppressive once he was gone. My black mood turned into rage. They made love, did they? He and that…that girl! A bottomless jealousy tinted the room an iridescent green, overpowering even my anger. Straightening things in the darkroom and pulling prints from the dryer, I considered removing my competition. It would be easy enough. I could sate my newly awakened blood lust, turning it into a deadly feast. By a narrow margin, reason prevailed over impetuosity. The female creature’s demise, especially in such a manner, would excite unwelcome attention, not only from Boris, but also from the authorities. Such a disastrous end to a magnificent, albeit a taxing day! Abruptly, I abandoned the house.     Using that other dimension, I easily reached the campus ahead of Boris. From a place of concealment, I observed him pull into a parking spot and crawl out of the Jeep. Slowly, as if totally exhausted, he trudged toward the buildings, passing his dormitory and making for the Duck Pond to claim the bench where we had played chess. He sat down heavily.     Cautiously, I drew near, but his psychic energy flared. He glanced around warily as I eased back into the shadows. Even from afar, I observed the erection trapped between his leg and the denim of his trousers. He sat with his chin on his chest while his blood subsided and the goose bumps that puckered his flesh faded away. He was as frightened as he had ever been in his short lifetime, but he had not yet divined his true fear. He perceived his present agitation as merely a challenge to his manhood by a pervert. I wondered when he would truly understand. Finally, he rose and walked directly to his dorm.     Craving Boris more desperately than ever, I found a rowdy bar and fed my ravenous appetite by absorbing the frantic energy flooding the place. When the tavern closed, I roamed the night until I chanced upon a youth hurrying through an alley. My dark psychic energy brought him to a halt. He was an Indian in his late teens, good-looking, innocent. I sucked the seed from his long, pulsing cock while he stood frozen against an adobe wall in the darkness. Then, ignoring his terrified, soulful eyes, I threw him to the ground and shoved my swollen prick between his buns, penetrating him the way I so ardently desired to ravish Boris. Still not sated, I licked the smooth, pulsing neck and drew blood for the first time in a century. I left him lying half-naked and weakened, but alive in that silent alleyway. His body would heal; I closed my mind to any other damage that may have been inflicted.
*****Tancready has had a successful trip or two, but has he exposed himself and frightened Boris away? We’ll learn a little more in the post scheduled for March 15.
I’m interested in your reaction to this story. Please feel free to contact me at markwildyr@aol.com.
Thanks for being a reader.

Next blog to be posted at 6:00 a.m. on March 1.

THE PRESCIENT(Part 2)In response to readers’ requests, he...

THE PRESCIENT(Part 2)
In response to readers’ requests, here is the second part of “The Prescient,” a short story originally published in a Bold Strokes anthology called Erotica/Exotica, Tales of Sex, Magic, and the Supernatural, edited by Richard Labonte. Last post, we were introduced to a pranic vampire named Tancready, who is in pursuit of a young man named Boris Balint on the campus of the University of New Mexico.
NOTE: Because this is a 7,700-word short story, I will be posting every two weeks until it is finished. After that, I will resume my regular blogging on the first of each month.***** Courtesy of Public Domain-PicturesTHE PRESCIENT (Part 2)
     Born the seventh son of an Upir, a Russian Vampire Prince to a mother who was also an Eternal, I came squalling into this world with my head hidden by a caul. Thus was my fate sealed; I was given the kinetic challenge of all Vampires, inverted circadian rhythms and odd body cycles that bring temperature peaks and sleep hormones at unusual times, thus dictating that I was a night creature on a biochemical level. Even so, I can function in daylight, although with difficulty. Sunlight is painful, whether or not it reaches my skin. My eyes are ultra photosensitive, which gives me marvelous night vision, yet renders me myopic in normal light. Although shaded eyewear lessens that condition, I am most comfortable during sunlit hours in repose, not in some draconian coffin, but comfortably abed in a well-shrouded room.     Amassing huge amounts of wealth during an endless series of lives presented no difficult challenge; however, reclaiming it upon each new emergence was trickier. I was careful that adequate assets remained available to me regardless of where they were concealed at the time. Most of my many lifetimes were spent ranging from Russia to Europe, with long periods in the Hungarian Carpathians and Transylvania. The persistent, amorous pursuit of a Romanian strigoivii, a live witch who became a Vampire upon her death, hounded me out of the Old World and into the New. I had been in the Western Hemisphere for the past century and in this unassuming place called New Mexico for a fifth of that time. Why this place? Why not? Except for some of the more remote northern mountains where Penitentes held sway, Vampires, even pranics, were merely the stuff of novels and films.     Now, as I prepared for the ordeal of a daytime pursuit of the fair Boris, I examined one of my more exotic treasures, an ornate Arabic chess set, observing its intricate carvings with renewed pleasure. Then, moving through a secret dimension denied to ordinary mortals, I arrived instantly on the university campus in a sheltered spot near what is quaintly called the Duck Pond. Recovering my equilibrium, one of the effects of my unorthodox mode of transportation, I scanned the area near the near the path Boris Balint would shortly tread if the past was any true measure of the future.     Troubled by our near encounter last night, I puzzled over the possible reasons for my disquiet as I placed the inlaid board on a backless concrete bench shaded by an evergreen bower. Carefully arranging pawns and pieces, all fashioned of ivory, ebony, silver, gold, and Persian turquoise, I grew irritable over the unwelcome attention of passing students drawn by the marvelous old set. I discouraged most with subtle tendrils of hostility and put off the boldest with a display of cold curtness. Anticipation always brought out the unpleasant side of my nature...unless, of course, it is narrowly focused on a particular target. At last, a long, manly stride bore the beautiful Boris into view.     As he came within eyesight, his calm aura flickered. At fifty feet, I washed the boy in the aura of friendship and congeniality, seeking to smother the orange of his alarm. Gradually, his emanations subsided, and he slowed as he spotted my irresistible bait—the ancient set. Appearing reluctant, he nevertheless approached across the horribly bright green grass.     “That’s a gorgeous set. Unusual,” he observed in a voice that came up out of his belly like a mature man’s. His slate gray eyes examined my present persona, a slender, aristocratic man of approximately thirty, possessed of dark good looks.     “I acquired it years ago at a New York auction,” I lied smoothly. In truth, I took it as booty from a slain Moorish emir when Ferdinand and Isabella’s troops, of which I was one, sacked a castle in Leon. “You may examine it, if you wish,” I added graciously.     Instantly, he laid the camera he carried on the bench and slid his long legs astride the concrete slab. Rather than touching the board, he examined the positioning of the pieces and looked up at me with a question in his eyes. Regretting my need for the dark glasses that prevented me from directly engaging his beautiful orbs, I satisfied his curiosity.     “Capablanca versus Corzo, 1901, Havana. End game. Ninth match game.”     “Capablanca was just a kid, wasn’t he? A prodigy.”     “Twelve at the time. He won.”     Only then did Boris carefully cradle an exquisite ebony Knight trimmed in gold and silver in his strong, brown hand. Gypsy blood likely coursed with the Hungarian in those pulsing veins.     “Beautiful. How old is it?”     “It is likely Arabic, but possibly Persian, dating from circa 1100.”     “Geez, almost a thousand years old!” His husky voice was rich with awe.     “Do you play?”     “Love it!” he enthused. “But I’m not very good.”     “Black or white?” I asked by way of invitation. He hesitated only a moment before claiming the white.     The boy was an instinctive player, and with tutoring could become quite good. I beat him readily the first game, and then critiqued his handling of the pieces. His enthusiasm fired, we undertook another game while I nearly swooned from the effort of refraining from draining his energy. Eventually, onlookers gathered, and I sent my thirsting quests toward them, sopping up their energy while refracted sunlight bled away my own.     By the end of the third game, I was sweating and weakened, but by the effort of pure will, I held onto the self-possession needed to advance to the second phase of my plan. “You carry a camera, I see.” I pointed to the instrument between his exciting legs. “Canon Z155 thirty-five millimeter. Nice.”     “I’m sort of a shutterbug,” he said with a depreciating grin that sent blood rushing to my head.     “I have some equipment that might be of interest. I own some Leicas. A M7 Rangefinder, for example.”     “Wow! That’s worth a couple of grand.”     “And a Hasselblad 205. Also some Japanese equipment, but I prefer the German lenses.”     “Man, I’d give my eyeteeth for a Leica. I found a Minilux Point and Shoot for five hundred the other day, but my budget doesn’t stretch that far.”     “Perhaps you would like to go shooting some afternoon. I will be happy to allow you the use of some of my cameras.”     Uncertainty scrolled across his fine features. His aura flared in warning. He ran an agitated hand through his shaggy brown locks. He was fighting a furious battle without knowing or understanding it.     I quickly extended my arm. “My name is Tancready,” I announced, exuding all the magnetic charm I possessed, which was considerable. His hand closed around mine firmly. Washed in the yellows and golds of my will, he relented.     “Sure. I’d like that. My name’s Boris. Boris Balint.”     “Ah, Hungarian,” I noted.     “Way back, maybe,” he grinned engagingly. “Well, my great-grandfather, I guess. I probably know more about my mother’s people.”     “Spanish?” I ventured. “No, let me guess. Pyrenees Gypsies.”     He laughed. “Right. Mountain people all the way.” He began to look uncomfortable, so I reluctantly released his manly grip.     “Tomorrow is Saturday, and I am free,” I ventured.     “I guess I could,” he said hesitantly. “No classes. Can I try the Leica?”     “Of course. I have a Minilux such as you described that I will bring along.”     “Great!” he allowed his enthusiasm to surface, costing me my control. I drew energy from him before I could stop myself. He wilted visibly, but quickly drew on reserves. After we made arrangements, he walked away with vivid, warning blues among the more pacific hues of his halo. I watched him hungrily.     In years past, I was a bloody Vampire, although my donors were voluntary and survived my feeding without lasting harm. None, for example succumbed to that ridiculous old wives’ tale that the bite of a Vampire created a Vampire. Preposterous! Were it so, the preponderance of the global population would be Eternal after all this time, undoubtedly overwhelming the world’s resources and dooming us all … Eternal or not.     It took half a millennium, but I discovered another powerful source of pranic energy and rarely opened human veins thereafter. That source was semen, the distillation of the essence of a man…his cum. Since then, I prefer the company of men, young men, mature men, seniors. But the most powerful and intoxicating elixir is the seed of a youth in his sexual prime. And this I needed from Boris Balint. But there was also a strange, long dormant stirring deep within me that I recognized as a yearning for the taste of his rich, ruby blood. Only a Vampire can directly absorb the life energy of blood. After all, as the Bible correctly states, the blood is the life!     Harvesting a man’s semen for the maintenance of my life force exposed me to yet another danger. The human’s irrational terror of Vampires is matched only by his homophobic fear of deviants. The pursuit of a man’s seed resulted more than once in the hasty use of my other dimension to escape the wrath of closed minds.     Returning to my home, I ate voracious amounts of fresh fruits and vegetables, another source of energy, and then retired to my bedchamber. I slept soundly, but awoke after sundown, hungry and restless again.     I returned to the university and prowled the night until I found young Boris beneath the blinding lights of the campus tennis courts doing battle with the young woman who had accompanied him last night. They played at playing, obviously enjoying one another’s company, which sent me into a sudden fit of unbridled jealousy. My halo flared dangerously. Worse, his aura blazed in unconscious response. He sensed a presence…my presence.     In the grip of a deep melancholy, I withdrew and chanced upon a blond student retiring from the courts. Embroiling this hapless substitute in reds and yellows, I overpowered the youth quickly and pulled him into a darkened recess. After licking the sweat of recent exercise from his exposed belly, I quickly coaxed the seed from him. Barely in control of my senses because of hunger and lust and jaundiced envy, I entered the towhead and fucked him brutally while watching the distant, manly grace of Boris Balint. When I came, I bent to the whimpering boy again and replaced my spent seed with fresh cum.*****Tancready has made his opening gambit. Will it pay off in a way satisfactory to him, or will he learn that young Boris’s aural reaction to him heralds a Prescient? And if so will the student’s affinity for a vampire be as a willing victim or as a hunter?
I’m interested in your reaction to this story. Please feel free to contact me at markwildyr@aol.com.
Thanks for being a reader.

Next blog to be posted at 6:00 a.m. on February 15.

THE PRESCIENT

For this post, I excerpted the beginning of a short story that was originally published in a Bold Strokes anthology called Erotica/Exotica, Tales of Sex, Magic, and the Supernatural, edited by Richard Labonte. If you like the story, perhaps I will give you some more of it. But you have to let me know your wishes.***** THE PRESCIENT
     From a park bench cloaked in the deep shadow of night, I observed the progress of the quasi-organized brawl these people called baseball, a neighborhood game of frequent bawdy disputes, usually resolved just short of mayhem. Despite the throbbing pain occasioned by bright, glaring lights mounted atop poles, only marginally eased by heavily smoked glasses, the raucous vigor and raw emotions of the participants were ambrosia, feeding my vortex, easing the gnawing of a voracious hunger and restoring my pranic energy sufficiently to dull the edge of my depression, a condition I often suffer.     Yet, even the massed force of those straining, sweating, cursing young men on the field did not sate my appetite—not completely. For that, I required an intimate confrontation with the tall, wiry young man with the broad Magyar brow generations of New World blood had not significantly altered. This youth, whose towering aura occasionally flickered in my direction, surpassed the collective beauty of all who cavorted on the field.     My name is Tancready, although that is not the appellation bestowed at my birth in 1047 Anno Domini. While not my first alias, Tancready is the one that has served for the last two hundred years. I am an Eternal, or if you prefer, a Vampire; not the idiotic caricature of fiction or the loathsome, bloody fiend of legend who stalks the unwary with deadly intent, but one of a miniscule elite who escape the usual constraints of humanity. I exercise an eccentric lifestyle and develop unorthodox relationships, such as that I seek from the most uncommonly beautiful human I have encountered since the Italian Renaissance, the youth I patiently stalk.     Over virtually a millennium, I have endured many lifetimes, embracing death often over the centuries, but true to my ilk, I endlessly return from the earth to assume another name, another persona. I endured Vlad the Impaler’s tortured reign. I died at Hastings with the Conqueror’s army and attended Henry’s knights as they slew Thomas à Becket at Canterbury, fought with the Mongols on the Steppes when Temujin became Genghis Khan. I battled the Emperor in Russia and again at Waterloo. I died at the hands of German Nazis at Stalingrad. I have seen … lived … momentous history!     The game on the sports grounds ended in a pungent burst of sweaty enthusiasm as redolent as a potent Russian brew. The field cleared and the terrible lights slowly died, allowing my photosensitive eyesight to regain its sharpness. Body vibrating, nimbus soaring, the boy approached on the paved walkway, his corded arm riding the shoulders of a young lady. The easy, comfortable companionship between the two elicited an instant burst of energy. His rich luminescence, yellow with affection and friendship for the creature under his arm, suddenly flashed red as he crossed the path in front of my sheltered bench. Tentacles reached toward me uncertainly. I quickly reined in my raging jealousy and sent a more benign form of kinetic energy toward him, seeking to block his unconscious curiosity. I overdid it, as was frequently the case; he visibly staggered, but recovered and continued across the park, his aura drawn close against his body. His flesh, I knew, would be puckered in a case of ‘heebie-jeebies,’ in today’s pedestrian vernacular.    The boy was aware of me now, too much so at this point, although he had no real understanding of that fact. Nonetheless, I would need to proceed carefully. His name was Boris Balint, a good Hungarian patronymic miraculously not yet Anglicized into Valentine. Born in the northern New Mexico mountains twenty years past, he now attended classes at the university in Albuquerque. His passions were chess and photography. All this and more, I knew from clandestine midnight visits to the university records room. Chess, I decided, would be my gateway into his life.     As my quarry passed from sight, my energy level dropped precipitously. Edginess and irritability, frequent companions, returned until I focused on a distant figure on the field. My need honed to a keen edge, I moved toward the sleek young Hispanic putting away the game equipment. Anticipating the touch of his smooth, dark flesh, I literally salivated. He was at that brief age when adolescent mestizos were as pretty as girls, yet exuded the budding machismo of their elders. Delicious!     Although he had not yet seen me, the youth demonstrated a sharp alertness as he slowly turned from the equipment shed to nervously scan the darkened pathway. I flooded his slender form in tentacles of friendship yellow and purple desire, overpowering the fearful red of his suspicion. His resolve faltered, and enveloped in my powerful sexuality, the boy obediently trailed me into the deep shadows behind the equipment shed. Without physically touching him, I pulled him to a halt before me. He swallowed hard.     “What is your name, my beautiful young friend?”     “Car…Carlos.”     “Ah, Carlos. You bear a noble name.”     He flinched at my hand on his cheek; no sign of a beard. Beautiful. The boy stood hypnotized while I stripped him naked in the cool, high-desert air. My sensitive fingers traced the broad, bony shoulders, the curve of the chest. His heart raced at my touch. I inhaled the push of air from his diaphragm as I slid down the gently bowed belly. He awakened at my touch. Well-endowed for one so young and slight, the boy responded readily.     Young Carlos moaned, torn between fright and desire. I wrapped my physical arms around his buttocks and pulled him to me, allowing the salt of recent sweat, the aroma of strenuous exercise and sexual arousal to tease my nostrils pleasantly. His hands closed on my head; his hips twitched. He was lost, and I was greedy for his fresh young semen.     The youth’s thin frame jerked in the throes of an orgasm he would fruitlessly strive to match for the remainder of his days. Shuddering, this fledgling Carlos, this namesake of powerful kings and emperors, would have fallen had I not eased his weight to the ground. I contemplated arousing him again, but he was drained beyond quick recovery. Satisfied for the moment, I disappeared into the night, leaving the boy naked and spent. I smiled to myself. The boy’s seed, while sweet, had yet to reach the peak of potency. The lad was an immature eighteen; in a year or two, his sperm would ripen.*****Well, well, well. Will Tancready find a way to connect with young Boris Balint? Has the hungry Eternal realized at this point his target is a Prescient, one who has an awareness of and affinity for vampires? Sometimes they are companions and willing victims, but sometimes they are dreaded hunters of the Eternals. Let me know if you want to hear more of this story by contacting me at markwildyr@aol.com.
Thanks for being a reader.

New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.

LOCKER ROOM SHOWDOWNAnother short, short this week. Enjoy...

LOCKER ROOM SHOWDOWN
Another short, short this week. Enjoy.*****LOCKER ROOM SHOWDOWN     Asher noted how quiet the locker room was after he turned off the shower. He’d stayed late in last period PE to take some extra laps around the track. He wasn’t a good runner, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. He turned to reach for his towel and froze. Jack Jaxon, naked but for a towel snugged around his trim waist, stood in front of the shower stall. Jack the Jock was the best looking, buffest, sexiest guy in school.     “Oh!” Ash exclaimed. “Didn’t know anyone else was here.”     “Tell me something, guy. How come you’re a fag?”     Ash’s knees went weak. Oh crap! This could turn bad. “Don’t have any idea. I’m just who I am, that’s all.”     “So you’re admitting it.”     He reached over and grabbed a towel from the peg and started drying off. He’d be in for it if he got a bone in front of this stud, and the towel would be good cover. “Not admitting anything. If you’ll move out of the way, I’ll get dressed.”     “Yeah. I think you just admitted it.”     Neither of them spoke for a minute, but Ash couldn’t keep from examining the handsome guy from beneath lowered lashes. Then Jack spoke again.     “I got a snapshot of Wilma’s boobs in my wallet. You wanna see it?”Wilma was half of the school’s power couple. The hunky guy standing in front of him was the other half.     Ash’s head shook before he worked up enough saliva to answer. “No, thanks.”     “You rather look at these, huh?” Jack ran his hands over his pecs. Jack’s voice hardened. “I said take a look.”     Swallowing hard, he did just that. Stared at two sexy, slabbed muscles with an enchanting dark aureole in the middle of each.     Jack laughed. “I also got a picture of Wilma naked. With her legs spread. I'll give you a peek?”     Ash decided on honesty. “Yuk.”     “Yeah, I figured. You’d rather see this, wouldn’t you?”     The jock deliberately unfastened his towel and dropped it to the floor. Ash couldn’t help himself. He stared at the exciting tube of flesh hanging from a black-pelted groin.     “I thought so,” Jack said with an odd pitch to his voice. “Well, take a good look. Hell, you can even touch it.”     Ash thought for a long moment before falling to his knees. This could be a trap. An invitation to a beating.     But it wasn’t. *****Ash and Jack playing in the locker room. Can you guess what went on? Send your guesses to markwildyr@aol.com.
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New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.

Give the Man His Jollies

Another short, short this week. Hope you enjoy it.*****GIVE THE MAN HIS JOLLIES
I first saw him in profile standing on the sidewalk as I exited Macy’s in Coronado Center. Normally, I can take a handsome guy or leave him, but this one rocked me on my heels. I did an about face and retreated behind the glass doors to observe not only one of the handsomest men I’d ever seen but also one of the sexiest. I took a moment to drink him in. Early twenties, clear brown skin that didn’t owe all of its coloring to the sun—Spanish blood?—thick black hair that tended to curl at the end. His white polo shirt hugged a tapered torso with a faint six-pack. And the rest…oh my word. The rest was as breathtaking as the other parts.He was looking up and down the service road, making me panic as I realized he was waiting for someone to pick him up. He glanced at a watch on his wrist. Would he leave before I worked up the courage to speak to him? Usually careful… even shy… about approaching strangers, I tossed caution to the winds in the face of such masculine beauty, pushing through the doors once again to walk up and ask his name. He turned big eyes the color of French silk chocolate on me.“Ace. My name’s Ace. Do I know you?”“No, but I’d like to know you. My name’s Clark. You look like a man in need of a ride.”“A buddy was supposed to pick me up, but we got our wires crossed somehow.”“I nodded over his shoulder. My car’s right over there. What say we get in it and go have some jollies.”A huge grin split his fantastic lips. “Jollies. I love jollies.”“Then let’s go, my man. I know where to find a bunch of them.”“Sounds good.”I’m reluctant to take casual pickups to my home, but once again, this guy threw me off my game. I wanted privacy with an uncommonly handsome man who was as enthusiastic about getting his jollies as I was.Ace looked a little disconcerted when I parked in my driveway on Monaco SE, but bounded out of the car when I said, “Okay, let’s go get those jollies.”I ushered him inside and indicated a left turn at the hallway. “Bedroom’s down there.”“Bedroom?”“Yep. That’s where we’re gonna get our jollies.”“Oh. Okay.”He followed me down the hall and into my master bedroom, halting beside the bed as I stripped off my shirt. “All right, let’s get naked.”“W-why?”“That’s the best way to get those jollies.”Looking uncertain, he peeled that form-fitting shirt over his head, leaving me speechless.”“All of them?” he asked. I’ll swear he was totally oblivious to how breathtaking he was.“Ever stitch and then on the bed.”He silently complied and glanced shyly at me from beneath long, sable lashes as I approached as bare-assed as he was. He licked his lips. “We’re gonna get jollies, right?”“Oh, yeah. We gonna get lots of jollies. All you can handle.”Ace was very compliant but not at all aggressive. He did only what I asked, but he did that very well. I’d never had a more competent lover in all my thirty years. I pleasured him and then he pleasured me. And then we did it all over again. At the end of that, I toppled off him and collapsed on the bed with my head on his outstretched arm. Totally sated and uncommonly comfortable with the amazing young man beside me, I suffered none of the post- coitus anxiety that often comes with boffing strangers. I could have remained there indefinitely, lying with our thighs and calves touching.After a few minutes, I sensed impatience in my new best friend. “What’s the matter?”“What about our jollies?”I sat up in bed and glanced down, almost losing the ability to speak as I took in anew his comeliness. “O-our jollies? My god, man, we did about everything known to man. But if you need more, I’ll try." I moved to lower my head to his groin. His hands on my shoulders stopped me. “Not that. My jollies.” He blinked at me through those magnificent eyes and made a small circle with his thumb and index finger. "You know, jollies. I like the red ones best. And the lemons, too. Not much for the black ones, but they’re better than nothing.”I almost choked but kept my composure. “You mean jelly beans? Jellies?”That winning smile again. “Yeah. That’s it, jelly beans.”“Okay we’ll get you some jelly beans. A whole bag, if you want.”“Great.”As he started to rise from the bed, I put a palm to his chest. “But if you want your jellies next week, you’re going to have to do better.”My insides turned to butter as he answered. “Okay. I’ll try harder.” *****Oh, my word. In my dreams! I once had almost what Clark found, but alas, it doesn’t last forever, does it? If you want to describe your Ace, you can reach me at  markwildyr@aol.com.
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New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.

Harris

Let’s try a short-short story this week that has nothing to do with Europe and nobility and serfs to see what excitement we can stir. A tale set right here in beautiful New Mexico.*****HARRIS
Dootl'izhiidzill
Courtesy of Wikipedia   The stately evergreens and flaming deciduous trees ahead and to our right beckoned us onward. The exposed slope of the mountain trail we trod gave a breathtaking view of the deep valley to our left. But all I could do was eye the strong, wiry form of the guy in front of me. The manly grace with which he moved, the flex of long, tight muscles in his legs, the curve of trim buttocks beneath khaki walking shorts demanded my full attention.
     I’d known Harris Keltjourn for three years, but only now had I really looked at him. At least, I examined his lower extremities more closely than ever before as he’d walked and climbed no more than six feet ahead of me for the past two hours. Why had it taken me this long to discover how attractive he was? I knew he was handsome, but so were a lot of other guys on the UNM campus. For me “handsome” isn’t always sexy. And how had I found myself alone with him on an isolated trail on a Saturday afternoon?     Harris and I took some classes together, but we weren’t close. Then two days ago, he’d plopped down at my table in the Zimmerman Library and let out a whoosh of air. “I’m tired of this shit,” he announced.     I grinned at him. “Already? It’s only October. Long way to go yet.”     “Man, I need to be shooting rapids or scaling mountains or something.”     “There’s water in the Rio Grande this year. Course, I don’t know of many rapids nearby. And there’s Sandia Peak right on the eastern horizon.”     “You’re right. No rapids. And I’ve been up Sandia enough already.”     I leaned back in my chair to look at him full on. He returned my stare, and I discerned he was serious. “There’s always Dootl’izhiidzill over by Grants.” I stumbled over the word, unsure of Navajo pronunciation. “That’s not too far away.”     His eyes widened. “What in the hell’s that?”     “Mount Taylor. It known as Turquoise Mountain to the Navajo. One of their holy mountains.”     "How’d a mountain holy to the Navajo get to be called Mount Taylor.”     “Haven’t you heard? The white man came out on top and got to write the history books and the maps. First they named it San Mateo. I guess it’s a part of the San Mateo Mountains. Then when Zachary Taylor whipped the Mexicans, we saw fit to change the name to pay him homage.”     “How you know all this stuff, Frank?”     I shrugged. “Lived here all my life. Grew up on the stuff.”     He pursed his lips and nodded. “Let’s do it. Saturday.”     And that’s how I found myself ogling that intriguing butt. I would have liked to continue doing just that, but my bladder had reached capacity and I pled for a halt. He agreed, so we stood side by side to ease our discomfort. When I’d peed enough to get rid of the urgency, I slid my gaze downward and to the right. I almost dried up at the sight.     Harris had finished urinating and was shaking away the last drop… the one that’s not supposed to end up in your underwear. But what caught my attention was that the thing he held was growing. Rapidly. Then he turned away and seemed to have some difficulty zipping his shorts. Without a word, he took off up the trail.     Dry mouthed, I stuffed myself away and hurried after him, my own excitement causing an uncomfortable chafing. Even so, I managed to almost catch up before he cambered atop a big rock and turned to look back the way we’d come. I scrambled up beside him, puffing hard.     The view was stunning. The dark green forest below was studied with the reds and yellows and oranges of thousands of autumn leaves. We seemed to be looking out over a vast kingdom peopled only by us… ourselves. Alone.     I glanced down at his crotch. It seemed full… inflamed. He turned and caught me looking. I had to swallow twice to work up enough saliva to speak. “Y-you seem to have a problem. Let me know if you need some help with it.”     He studied me with eyes as gray as an angry sky before turning to look at the panorama again. “Yeah. I might. Thought for a while you weren’t going to offer.”*****Makes me wonder if Frank is calling Harris “Harry” by the time they get back down old Dootl’izhiidzill. By the way, I've seen the mountain spelled Tootl'izhiidzill, also.
Please let me know what you think of the story at markwildyr@aol.com.
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New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.

The Duke’s Man

Courtesy of PixabayBy popular demand, Hugh Duxman is back. You may recall that the peasant boy had been companion and whipping boy to the heir of the Sixth Duke of Dormont. Upon the succession of Raymond to the Dukedom, the two friends spend one glorious night enjoying what both had long anticipated. Immediately thereafter, the new duke had Hugh thrown into the dungeon out of fright over the intensity of their union. The story is a bit long for a blog post, but let’s see what comes next.*****THE DUKE’S MAN     By my imprecise reckoning, they came for me on the 450th day of my imprisonment.     The sight of the duke’s bodyguard striding into my cell set my heart to hammering. I had not seen the Spaniard since the day Rodrigo cast me into this dungeon. He had thickened a bit about the waist, but the heavy, cruel face remained unchanged This ordeal would now come to an end, likely spurred by the discovery and confiscation of my journal a fortnight ago.     But what would that ending be? The axe to ensure the duke’s secret was safe? Banishment to some strange, foreign shore where I was free to babel words that would likely not be understood? Or a reversal of fortune? His demeanor gave me no clue.     “On your feet,” Rodrigo ordered in his usual monotone.     I rose from the rude table the guards had provided at my request. The desk remained, but the writing implements and supplies had been removed along with my journal.     Putting a playful but not disrespectful banter into my voice, I asked, “To what do I owe this honor?”     He spun on his heel. “Come with me.”     I trailed him into the corridor where two slovenly guards stood respectfully as we mounted a flight of rough, cold stone steps. The upper reaches of the cavernous room swirled with the acrid smoke of torches dimly lighting the area below. My spirits took a lift when we reached the main floor of the castle and headed for the servants’ quarters. There Rodrigo indicated I should strip and bathe in the murky water of the common bath. Then he rushed me to the pool reserved for a higher class of servants where I again soaped myself, this time in cleaner water, luxuriating in the aroma of ordinary lye soap.     That done, Rodrigo indicated a razor and instructed me to remove my beard. A good sign. An axe man might rebel at executing a smelly wretch but would not permit a beard to bother him.     I felt rather grand in a plain tunic and ordinary hose and inhaled the perfume of red and pink roses as we crossed the baily to the great hall. The subdued chatter of others going about their duties fell pleasantly on my ear. When we climbed the balustraded staircase to Duke Raymond’s private quarters, halls draped with the black bunting of mourning set me to shivering. Was Diego taking me to view the corpse of my one-time lover? Was I to join him? I took a shaky breath, half hoping the grief-notes were for the Dowager Duchess Eleanora, the bane of my youth. She somehow saw early on what neither her son nor I suspected lurked within us.     For better than a decade, I had been Raymond’s whipping boy—and his companion. As such, I trained with him and studied with him. He proved superior in weapons and warfare, but I excelled at scholastics. And a rising friendship ripped asunder the barriers of rank and privilege.     Thus, I knew not what to expect when Rodrigo pounded on the entrance to the duke’s private apartments before opening the door and entering. My heart leapt when I saw the familiar form of Raymond de Cheville, Seventh Duke of Dormont, standing in the middle of the room, obviously awaiting our arrival. He held his visage stern until he waved Rodrigo away, and then he loosed a huge smile.     “Hugh Druxman,” he boomed. “Good to lay eyes on you, my friend.”     Biting back a sharp retort, I bowed. "My lord.”     “Set aside all that nonsense when we’re alone. I am still the Mundo of our carefree days.”     I gazed on him frankly. He remained fair and boyish—and handsome. Yet there was a subtle maturity I had not noted before. “I am not certain I remain the Hugh of those times,” I ventured to say.     He frowned before grinning the grin of our adolescence. “Come now. I did what I had to do to provide for the line. Yes, I confined you, but I also I saw that you were not treated like an ordinary criminal. You received decent food and were given the leisure of exercise to keep fit.” He paused. “I have read your journal and know that you understood.”     I inclined my head. “Yes, I knew that what we had discovered between us might well deny you an heir to the title. So you stowed me away out of harm’s way until you were ready for me.” Could he hear the bitterness churning in my gut?     His eyes grew shadowed. “And danger was more eminent than either of us knew. I learned the duchess”—he referred to his mother, of course—“had plans for you. Even from the Abbey where she retired, she reached out to harm you. I learned shortly after our wonderful night together that you would have been struck down.” He turned and walked toward his bedchamber. “That threat has been eliminated.”     His words caused my blood to slow. Had he murdered his own mother? Was the black cloaking the castle for her? Mundo paused to watch me finger a smooth, black silk drape over a gilded mirror.     “The mourning is for my wife.” He must have seen the surprise on my face because he returned to my side. “I thought word would have reached your ears. But I see you are ignorant of what has happened.”     He took me by the arm and led me into the bedchamber as he explained that during my “isolation,” he had married and bedded a wife. The Duchess Matilda successfully bore him a healthy son but died in the doing of it. I read sorrow on Mundo’s face. Had he found true love?     He read me well, this childhood playmate of mine. He saw my confusion. “I loved her, Hugh. She was good and kind and brave. But she was not strong enough for both of them, and she gave her life for his. For my son Goodrich. I honored her by waiting the end of the mourning period before sending for you.”     “I am sorry for your loss.” The words were automatic, unfelt although not unmeant.     “How do you regard me, Hugh?” Uncertainty hid somewhere in his voice.     I permitted a smile to reach my face. “Unchanged. I am fond of you.”     “Fond? As a man or as a ruler?”     I lowered my gaze. “As a man. As a… a lover.”     He reached for me and enfolded me in his strong arms. “I have dreamed of this moment. Can we recapture the excitement of that night a year and a quarter ago? I would like to try.” With that, he lifted my chin—he was half a hand taller than I—and laid his lips on mine.     A weakness struck me at the touch of those lips. Every hair on my body tingled. Waves of goosebumps swept over me. Then a fierce hunger rose, bringing with it strength and recklessness. I clutched him closer and ground my lips against his. His mouth slackened, and I invaded it with an eager tongue. He moaned and tore himself away from me. His intense gaze held a hint of wonder. Without a word, he led me to the bed. I pulled his gown from him and pushed him onto the mattress. He watched with rising excitement as I tore the clothing from myself. When I stood naked before him, he reached out and grasped my throbbing rod.     “Oh, Hugh,” he whispered.     Those two words released me. I fell on him and covered his face and neck with hot kisses. I slid down is hard, wiry body to suckle his nipples, causing him to squirm beneath me. His navel had always fascinated me, even before I was permitted to touch it. Deep and dark and mysterious. Now I invaded it with my tongue. His long, hard manhood throbbed against me, demanding attention. I slipped my lips over the big, bulbous head and swirled my tongue around it. He pulled my head down on him, and it was as if there had been no interruption, no long, cold, months of separation. He was mine; I was his.     I sensed his approach to the edge and just before his release, I came off him and slid up to kiss his mouth, already in rictus from his anticipated ejaculation. I hooked my elbows beneath his knees and pulled his legs up. His fundament rose toward me. With one hand, I guided the tip of my rod, already dripping from excitement, to his sensitive rosebud. His eyes flew wide open as I stroked that sensitive place. Gently testing. Teasing.     After a long, hesitant pause, he brought his legs around me, pressing me to him. His flesh parted. I entered him. At the pain etched on his face, I faltered and lost my courage. But his eyes cleared and he stared at me as his legs closed on my buttocks, driving me deeper.     Encouraged, I began to move. Everything—possibly even my life—depended upon what came next. So I rutted like an animal, pounding into him, exciting his internal tissues. But as I worked, something claimed me. My resentment of what he had done fell away, and tender emotions took control. I slowed my pace and eased my thrusts into loving lunges. I kissed him, and he matched my fervor.     I know not how long we kept at it, but it seemed too long to endure, too short to enjoy. I erupted, spewing semen into him accompanied by long gasps and loving words. Once through my extraordinary ordeal, I grasped his hard, hot core and brought him to orgasm with my spent rod still embedded in him.     He came suddenly, with copious spurts of seed and spastic jerks of his manly body. After what seemed a very long ejaculation, he grew still and quiet. He turned on his side, and I knew this was the crucial stage of our dance of love. I had dared what I did based on one thing. When we swam in the nearby river in youthful days, he had always taken pleasure in drying his private parts by pulling the toweling between his legs so that it bit deep between his round buns. I had noted it and remembered it. And tonight, I had tested my belief that his fundament was key to his sexual pleasure… and something his dead duchess could not give him.     Perhaps I had miscalculated. Frightened by his turning away from me, I moved to rise. His hand grasped my arm, although he said nothing. I lay down again, my body molded against his long back. In time, I realized he slept, a reassuring sign. Yet, I remained alert and uncertain—even alarmed—until sometime in the middle of the night when he ground his handsome buns hard against my groin. *****It seems that Hugh is “back on top” so to speak. Who knows, we might see Hugh and his Mundo again sometime in the future.
Please let me know what you think of the story at markwildyr@aol.com. I received more comments (and requests for additional stories) about The Duke’s Valet than any other post. Let’s see if this sequel elicits as much interest.
Thanks for being a reader.

New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.

The Duke’s Valet, A Short Story

A little different type of short story this week than last. We go back into Medieval times when certain types of desires were dangerous… even deadly. I hope you enjoy what comes next.***** Courtesy of PixabayTHE DUKE’S VALET     Fear dueled with desire, making the moment infinitely more erotic as I was admitted to the duke’s private apartments. Desire because I had loved my childhood playmate for as long as I could remember. Fear because I was about to reach beyond my station… a dangerous thing,     Grown to manhood now and newly burdened by the ducal crown, Raymond de Cheville sat naked in the middle of the pool that served him as a bath. He loosed a brilliant smile upon seeing me.     “Ah, Hugh. Here you are. My new valet.” The playful youth I’d known surfaced for an instant. “It was the only way I could think of to avail myself of the pleasure of your company.”     “Sentiments I reciprocate a thousand times, my Lord Duke.”     He dismissed the two bath attendants and called to me to come scrub his back.     I shed my clothing and waded into the pool. Lathering a sponge with lilac-scented suds, I applied it with a vengeance until my vigorous scrubbing became a caress… real or imagined.     He sighed in contentment. “I am sorry for having ignored you. But the long passing of my father dictated I remained close.” He reached up and clasped my hand resting on his shoulder. “I needed you then. So much. But….”     “I know,” I murmured without pausing in the act of caressing that broad, muscled back.I understood. The stern Dowager Duchess Eleanora held me in suspicion, but she was now safely tucked away in a nearby Abbey.     I moved my hand from his shoulder to his chest as if supporting him against the force of my scrubbing. His heartbeat pulsed against my fingertips. I had been this man’s beating boy for the last ten years—except for the six months of his father’s long dying. Although I suffered corporeal punishment intended for him, there were rewards. He trained better, became a better scholar, and was a more genial and complete person when I was in attendance. Thus, I received training and an education, as well. Ultimately, the old duke bestowed upon my peasant family a second name—a high honor—and I became Hugh Duxman, the surname meaning the duke’s man. Within a twelve-month, my companion became the Seventh Duke of Dormont.     I moved my hand on his smooth chest. My fingers now rested on his upper belly. He squirmed slightly.     “Will you leave me no flesh on my back?” he asked with a lilt in his voice.     “Sorry, my Lord, but I take too much pleasure in my work.”     I stepped back as he rose and gave me a wicked look. Water cascaded from his muscled torso and flooded his nether regions. My pulse quickened. My throat went dry as I lent him my hand up the steps. He stood on a thick rug and held out a towel to me. “Dry me.”     My calloused hands grew gentle caressing that firm, fair flesh. I took my time, and he showed no impatience. He was content to let me explore with the towel. Occasionally, with a hand, as well. Upon reaching his lower body, I took him in hand in a business-like manner, sponging away every bit of moisture from his genitals. Raymond lengthened but did not harden.     When he grew restless, I draped a cloak around his fine shoulders and followed him into his private chamber. He indicated a curtain to the right of his massive canopied bed. “You will sleep there behind the curtain.” He abruptly shrugged out of the thin gown and sat naked on the side of the bed. “Attend me, Hugh. It’s good to have you back.”     “I cannot express my pleasure at being back… my Lord.”     “Stop that nonsense when we’re alone. I’m still the Mundo of our childhood.”     I took in the impressive musculature of his wiry frame. “Hardly that… Mundo.”     He smiled and stretched on his back. “Come massage away the stress of my day.”     “I am still damp from your bath, my… Mundo.     “Then dry yourself on my robe.” He watched me closely as I obeyed. At length, I sat on the bed and grasped his arm to begin a gentle kneading of the muscles.     I listened as he droned on, telling me things I already knew. I’m not sure when my massaging became caressing, but his voice died as I stroked his aureoles. He looked at me sharply and then put his hand to the back of my head, guiding me to his left nipple. I suckled it until he moved me to the other. When he pressed me down to his core, I took that just as eagerly. Now fully engorged, he was as I had always imagined, long and manly and truly exciting. Barely conscious of his gentle murmurs, I worked at him until he found release. He was honey, he was mead, he was the sweet, precious nectar of life. And I took it all.”     We lay still for a moment, stunned by the experience, before he pulled me up beside him and resumed recounting our childhood antics, remembering them somewhat differently than I.     Soon, I noticed a change in his demeanor. He stopped talking and went pensive. Then he bade me remain where I was as he rose to pace the room in his long robe. Puzzled over his apparent distress, I watched carefully.     After a time, he snatched up my clothes and tossed them to me. “Get dressed,” he ordered.     Obediently, I dressed and awaited his pleasure. He sat on the side of the bed, leaving me standing before him.     “Hugh, how do you feel about me?”     “I love you more than life itself,” I said simply.     “Then you will forgive me for what I am about to do.”     I drew in a quick lungful of air.     “If it had not been so magnificent… so earth-moving, it would have been all right. Pleasure I can handle. Obsession, I cannot.”     “I don’t understand, Mundo.”     He shook his head. “I should have known when I allowed you—alone in all the world—to call me that. I looked forward to our times alone when we exposed ourselves and watched one another bring ourselves to excitement. I always wondered why I did not take it further.” He stood so that our eyes were at a level. “Now I understand. That was boys playing at being boys. This tonight… was lovemaking.”     “Aye. That is my take on the thing.”     “But you don’t understand how dangerous that is. I’m besotted with you… with what we did. If I let you remain, it will be the end of the de Chevilles. This is what my mother feared. What she understood. She saw the fondness growing between us.”     He walked over to a wall and tugged on a gold-threaded thong before returning to me. “I am sorry, my love. But I must do this.”     The outer door banged open and his Spanish bodyguard Rodrigo rushed into the room, sword in hand. “My Lord!” he exclaimed.     Raymond tore his gentle look from me and stared at the Spaniard, his eyes turning to flints. “Take him.”     Rodrigo moved forward, a suppressed look of satisfaction on his heavy features. “Take him to—”     “Yes. But do not harm him. Do you understand?”     Rodrigo clasped me roughly by the arm, nodded his head in supplication, and then dragged me from the duke’s private apartments.

     My cell in the castle’s dungeon did not have a window to the outside. No sliver of light found its way into the dank place save by the small window in the thick oaken door separating me from the guards in the corridor. Here I would remain, Rodrigo spitefully explained, until the duke decided what to do with me.     What to do with me?     Would exiling me suffice to remove my presence? Or would he part my head from my neck to protect his secret? I sighed and shifted on the hard bunk. His secret did not require protecting from me. But even as my mind raged against him, my heart understood. His primary duty was to produce an heir to continue the line. To create an eighth duke.     And if he fully explored his nature with me, he might be unable to fulfill that obligation. That was what he meant by saying the experience we’d shared had been too intense. Not only that, but exposure of his true nature would surely bring recriminations. From the Crown. The Church. Other barons.     Yes, I was dangerous to him. So I stilled my anger and awaited my fate.     Yet deep inside me, I had little doubt as to the resolution he would settle upon. He would send for me. It might take days or months or years, perhaps not until he located a suitable lady, wooed, wed, and bedded her. But he would send for me.     A love like ours could not long be stilled by an arcane sense of family obligation.
*****Isn’t it amazing that in certain parts of the world, conditions and attitudes haven’t changed a whit. And even in our country, I can recall periods in my own life where they were not much improved.
At any rate, let me know what you think  of the story at markwildyr@aol.com.
Thanks for being a reader.
New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.

What You See Ain’t Always What You Get

Another short, short piece this week. Hope you enjoy it.
*****WHAT YOU SEE AIN’T ALWAYS WHAT YOU GET     When Hollis Littleton saw Rafe Hawkfield give him one more of those surreptitious glances south of the belt, he decided it was time to make a move. His friend of a lifetime had grown up to be good looking but a bit… androgynous. That was the word. Androgynous.     Hollis decided to have some fun in pursuit of a little action. He spread the knees he’d been propping his elbows on as they sat in the grass at Albuquerque’s Roosevelt Park and glanced down at himself. “What? My fly open or something?”     Just like Hollis knew he would, Rafe turned pink. The question was ridiculous, of course, because he was wearing pull-up walking shorts without a fly to leave open. “You interested in what I got down there?” he asked.     Rafe went darker on the color scale. Beet red. Hollis had never seen anyone quite that color before. He kept after him.     “I’ll bet you think about mine every time you take yours out and play with it.”     His friend swallowed hard. His hand shook as he rubbed his cheek. “N-no. Everybody says that’s wrong.”     “Wrong?” Hollis asked, playing with him some. “Your dad caught you jerking off, didn't he?" Now Rafe resembled a ripe tomato. "That's it, isn't it. Probably told you whacking your pole will make you go blind? If that’s true, I oughta be at least wearing glasses by now.”
     Rafe’s color faded a little. He no longer looked like he was about to bust a vein. “No, but you oughta, you know… save your stuff for when you get married.”     Hollis let out a howl. “Come on, you saying you never jerk off?”     Rafe went crimson again. “Try not to.”     He took another look at Rafe and let his eyes wander south. His friend was sitting cross-legged, but Hollis could tell he was swelling up down there from the way he tried to hide things with his hands.     Hollis arched an eyebrow as he felt himself grow. He smiled when Rafe’s eyes locked on. “Come on, now. You want to. Admit it.”     Rafe licked his lips. “Y-yeah. I do. Wanted to for a long time.”     Hollis pressed his fingers against his pant leg, outlining himself. “Here’s your opportunity.”     Rafe moved his hands and gave Hollis a view. Man, he’d ballooned up something fierce. Hollis found himself taking a little more interest in that direction. He glanced around. No one was nearby. This was a hilly park with plenty of trees and shrubs. They weren’t hidden, but nobody was taking any interest in them.     “Can’t lop them out here,” Hollis said. “You got any place to go? My mom and sister are home.”     Eyes still glued to Hollis’s erection, Rafe shook his head. “No.”     “Isn’t your mom working?”     Rafe tore his eyes away and met Hollis’s gaze. “I meant, no, I can’t do it.”     Man, you’re about to rip your trousers over there. Why can’t you?”     “Just can’t. That’s all.” Rafe straightened his shoulders. “We still playing softball tomorrow?”     “Well…yeah, sure. But….”     His voice died away as Rafe stood revealing an unbelievably large lump before stuffing both hands in his pockets. To make things less obvious, probably.     “Where… where you going?” Hollis asked.     “Promised my dad I’d mow the lawn. Guess I’ll go do it now. You know, work things off.”     Too surprised to protest, Hollis leaned back on his hands and watched his friend stride away. Rafe didn’t look so androgynous now. As a matter of fact, he looked like an eighteen-year-old man making his way down the hill and across the green. He paused to kick the ball a couple of times with kids playing soccer in a flat area.      Hollis suddenly smelled the grass surrounding him and detected a hint of honeysuckle in the air. The sun found its way through the overhead elm and warmed his shoulders. Saliva flooded his mouth as he wondered what Rafe would taste like. Even over the din of the kids playing soccer, he heard the throaty roar of Rafe’s Mustang.     Just as he had awakened to his environment, Hollis grappled with the sudden confirmation of who he was… and what he wanted.     And he blinked with the understanding that he was all right with it.
*****Isn’t self-discovery the sweetest thing of all? Let me know what you think at markwildyr@aol.com.
Thanks for being a reader.

New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. on the first of each month.

Hector Standing Wolf and Billy Youngston

The short piece that follows takes me back to my own youth. Maybe it comes right out of my past. Hope it strikes a chord with you, as well.*****HECTOR STANDING WOLF AND BILLY YOUNGSTON     “Heck?”     “Huh?”     “You wanna do it?”     My back went cold from goosebumps while my groin caught fire. We were out in the woods at the old lean-to we’d made back when we were kids. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought about what he was saying. Not by a long shot. But Billy was the white man’s coyote. A trickster. Sometimes he’d come out with these outlandish suggestions and then make a joke of them. Mostly they were for fun, but sometimes they bit.     I didn’t even know why we were best friends. Sons of a white farmer and a Creek carpenter, we were an unlikely pair. White sugar and red pepper, my mom used to say with a shake of her head. But friends we were, ever since we’d laid eyes on one another in middle school five years back.     I remember the first time we went skinny dipping together the summer after we met. We came out of the water with him examining me like I was a mule he was intending on buying, while I snatched furtive glimpses of his equipment. That pretty well summed up the difference between us.     As time went by, our friendship strengthened. On my part, it was almost exclusive, but he was lots more social than I was. I admit to being jealous of his other friends. Seemed like they shared lots more with him than I did. Of course, they did… an entire culture. But it gradually dawned on me that I got more of his time than any of the others. Shoot, than all of the others, and that was what counted.     I didn’t know if half a minute or half an hour had passed since he asked his question, but I answered it anyway.     “Don’t make no difference to me one way or the other.”     The air seemed charged with electricity like when a storm’s approaching. The surrounding pines dropped their sharp scent on us like it was a tangible thing. I grew aware of strange things. The toes in my boots. A beetle crawling over the back of my right hand. A squirrel fussing from the oak tree overhead. And the long, lanky form of Billy Youngston lying beside me.     The world turned normal again as disappointment rose within me. I took a breath and tried to relax my taunt nerves.     And then he reached for me.
*****I’ll ask the same question I asked last time: Did you ever live this scene? Do you long to relive that moment innocence was lost? I think most of us do.
As always, I’m interested in your reaction. Send comments to markwildyr@aol.com.
Thanks for being a reader.

New blogs posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.