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FindingSoubi
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Jul 14, 2011
RP already in progress. . .
Mir wasn't offended by the pompous brats words or even his laughter. He knew hysterics when he saw them. His new “wife” was scared shitless, but like most nobles he had been taught to temper fear with brash bravado, and false airs. Foolish git, he should have drank the booze—at least it had confidence boosting power and a nice pain tranquilizing effect.
“I'm glad you're so amused. I also hope your sense of mirth stay steady and you've unflappable courage. You'll need it before all this is over.”Mir watched Kibum as cat would stalking a foolish bird.
“No one here in the camp has ever told me no before. Prince of the camp, no matter how young tends to get deferred to in all things. No is as foreign to me as it likely is to you. I must admit though, it's sorta hot coming from your mouth Gaje!” Mir's eye's filled with wonder and lust, even as he palmed his knife and reached for Kibum's pants with the other hand. Then in a quick flash his blade released several important threads that wove his breeches shut—causing the fine linen (already stressed past any normal bounds of a nobleman's requirements) to give way. Mir even helped the material along tearing it down the way on sleekly muscular thighs. Boots went next, with the fine leather riding boots thrown over Mir's shoulder somewhere back near the wagon door.
“Oi Gaje! You've no braises on! Is this perhaps a aristocrat thing to skip about with no undergarments on?” Mir's eyes glittered with dangerous mirth while he unabashedly eyed his prey's lower nudity. “And your kind call us heathens? Hell even as “free” as we are—we wear knickers man!”
As if to prove his point, Mir stood once more and released the thick rope holding up his rough sturdy work breeches. When the heavy material dropped a crisp pair of white cotton cut-sewed into shortie pants revealed themselves. Mir give Kibum a wicked wink and smirk before dropping those too and revealing his semi-aroused state. The smirking turned into full on laughter when Kibum snapped his legs shut and drew them up up to his chest. Mir shrugged unconcerned and turned to his chest of drawers, naked as the day his sweet Umma dropped him from her womb.
“I can't say that I've really done this before. . .” Mir murmured absentmindedly over his shoulder. It was true—even though he had dallied here and there with an older widow or two, like all young men did once the youthful crack of puberty left their voice, Mir had never had any real sex experiences. Some wayward sloppy kissing, and a few gropes of babe suckling breasts—but nothing serious, and definitely nothing with another male. Even he and Minho had never went there, despite twin like closeness. However, Mir did know that male bodies were not like the melty wet butter cream of female bodies that smelled like honey and milk. He knew he would need something to make this easier, so he didn't kill this new spouse of his. Make him scream bloody murder yes—but he still needed to be able to work with the caravan tomorrow.
“Contrary to your mistaken belief the woman you saw leaving here, was my dear sister. You'll be meeting her directly—though if I were you I'd be weary of calling her a whore in her hearing. That'd quite be like the pot calling the kettle black. Particularly, since she's far more untouched, then you will be momentarily. Besides she can handle a sword like a battalion commander.” Right then. . .very sore but not dead. Maybe wish he was dead, as he had just likened his beloved Eun to a doxy.
Mir grabbed the first thing of promise on his dresser. The rendered sheep fat was probably would not have been his first choice of sexual aid, but it would definitely do the job it needed to. Besides he was looking forward to the lordling's response to the rather pungent scent. Unscrewing the lid, the pungent musk filled the small space of the wagon. To Mir the beastly scent was pure and earthy—but he was sure the pompous gaje would find it repulsive. Shrugging, jar in hand, Mir turned back to the man who looked much smaller and somewhat frail with his lack of heavy boots and fine threads. The muslin shirt that had likely once been white was now nearly gray from the turns on the ground it had this day, and gaped obscenely in places with swathes of large rips. The lording was pressed into the furthermost corner of Mir's bed—but he didn't look the slightest bit cowed by what was about to happen, if anything his eyes were flashing pure murder.
Mir moved then, feeling a bit excited by the promise of fight and rebellion in his captives eyes. It was well and good the little jar or sheep fat had a tight lid and was made of sturdy glass, anything less would have been shattered by the vicious leg to arm battle the two men engaged in. Mir was still careful not to actually strike his “spouse”, but that didn't mean he didn't use every other manner of combat at his disposal. Once more Mir was pleasantly shocked by the variety of and the creative usage of expletives that rained from the high born mouth. Shocked but unmoved and with sheer greater bulk and a more determined brawn he forced the struggling noble to his belly, his head pushed on it's side facing the wall. Mir shoved a knee between trembling straining legs, that kicked air futilely.
“You won't win against me you arrogant git! I have not been making tea cakes, and licking cream from my fingers all my life as you have. I'm stronger and faster, and best you realize it. I'm going to fuck you on my bed this minute, quickly, for my pleasure—not yours. A pound of your ass every night as I please for every horse we lost today, your fucking highness!” The pathetic shirt Kimbum still wore had ridden practically to his neck, and suddenly Mir's hand was there cupping and then palming his bare ass. The other hand laid the small glass jar of sheep grease right at eye level of the debased aristocrat. Mir unscrewed the lid of the jar with frightful slowness, savoring the way the body beneath him renewed it's struggles.
“Easy. . . you'll wear yourself out before the REAL fun begins.” Mir dipped his fingers deep in the jar, and jerk his captive around by a leg, flipping him on his back. He then used the same leg to shove back toward the still tied nobles chest, pinning him. Mir grinned down cheekily at the furious red faced noble staring rage up at him. He held his fingers up so Kibum had to watch as he warmed the musky makeshift lube before sliding those same nimble rough digits along the hills and valleys of hard chest and stomach heaving with exhaustion and already slick with sweat.
“Oi! You've no hairs? Shaved? All of you?! Like a female?” Mir murmured in a shocked voice as his fingers trailed down Kibum's smooth hairless flesh, to his flaccid bare pink shaft and ruddy sack. Mir's own semi-arousal had tiny smooth silky hairs at the base. He poked an experimental finger the wrinkled dark flesh, causing Kibum's balls to inch away—as if in fear. As if he already knew the final destination of those curious oil shiny fingers the noble immediately tensed close the firm cheeks of his buttocks.
“Fool. I told you, this is mine now,” Mir whispered aggressively in pale shell ear he leaned his lips too. “Your all mine! Fight it all you want but there is no escaping that fact. My own personal whore to bugger until I decide otherwise.”
With that promise, Mir forced his finger past the tightened muscles, sinking two in one go past his prisoner's resisting heat. He ignored the cursing, the swearing, the attempted bucking to dislodge him. Instead he concentrated on rhythmically working his fingers in and out of the virginal body, that had no choice but to give in to his fingers invading thrusts. The resisting body only made the experience that much better for Mir. Nothing but tight, soft heat surrounded his fingers, it was like sticking a hand in warm fresh baked puddings to find sweet meat. Only the sweet meat in this case was wring and twisting against him and shouting. Mir frown down at the lording who was in his opinion currently ruining the moment—some screaming was fine, hell no absolutely necessary. . .But the spoiled man in his hands carried it too far.
“You're damned noisy. . .” Mir removed his fingers reluctantly long enough to reach down and retrieve his simple cotton underpants. Then with no preamble he shoved them full into the yelling mouth on his bed. Nodding in satisfaction, Mir winked again as the noble's shock was muffed while he attempted to spit the gag free. It did him little good, and he was left with a jaw of Mirue flavored cotton to try and yelp his displeasure around.
“Better.” Mir gave him a pleasant grin. “You're actually sorta good looking once you've been shut up. Now we fuck. Time's a wasting.”
Mirue wished he had more time for seduction—or at the very least giving the man in his bed a more memorable first time. Unfortunately, as the only male heir in camp at the moment he had much to see to in way of how they could salve the camp losses before Appa and his brothers returned. It was ok in his mind however, he had plenty of time to “seduce” the young lord, he had only been half joking with Eun about making the noble fall for him part. That was the best part of his plan—he would have this arrogant shit pining for him long after they dumped him and his ruined reputation by the side of the road.
Mir didn't have a a lot of of time, but he damn sure planned to enjoy this himself. Using the rope he usually used to keep his pants in their place above his hips—he tied his now much quieter captive's ankle, up over his head to the bed headboard. The headboard of most caravan beds were carved from the wall. The bondage would kill two birds with one stone, pinning the noble and providing the camp with much need entertainment. Hands free now, Mir went back to seeing about his own pleasure, ignoring Kibum's awkward struggles. His hands roamed the helpless body, and Mir leaned down to nip several possessive marking imprints along his “spouses” collarbone. Not only would this lordling be debased—Mir wanted him to look the part too.
The young man under him had skin cool to the touch, since he had been naked so long, but he was still sweaty in some places smelling vaguely of lemons and musky sheep. It was a real smell, dark and delicious, more like the familiar smells of traveler men who had worked a good long day—a smell that Mir was comforted by and use to. Mir inhaled a little more, liking the way his belly fluttered like butterflies had taken up residence. He grabbed hold of his own shaft with a free hand, flicking the still semi-hard tip with a thumb. The other hand tugged gently on a pert pink high born nipple, his captive wiggled and some more muffed sounds came—that Mir was fairly sure were more cuss words.
He took up the sheep oil once more and then slathered his now hard cock. The noble might feel like pudding to his fingers but he high doubt his dick was gonna feel that pleasant to him. jerking the leg not tied to the bed apart wider, Mir hovered over a body that was freshly renewing what struggling it could in such a bound predicament.
“Keep still. . .I rather not injure you more than necessary!” Mir snapped sharply. Once more his fingers dipped pass the resistant circle of muscle, and this time Mir pumped his harder—drawing a muffed cry of protest. But he didn't stop pushing still harder, and faster, until his fingers can saw in and out with no resistances and the cries turned to twitches and muffed whimpers. Satisfied the noble was about as ready for this as he'd ever be, he dropped the leg he had been holding kneeling between the slightly quivering legs—leaning over until Kibum's tied leg lightly brushed his shoulder. He positioned his cock head and slammed his hips forward.
“Oh. . .so tight. I didn't think, didn't know you would be so. . .tight.” Mir closed his eyes and groaned. Instinct took over then, and he moved onto his elbows thrusting slowly, experimentally at first before losing himself to the endless slick heat enveloping his body. Soon he was pounding away a relentless rhythm with merciless relish.
* * *
It had started to feel. . .weird. . .Of course he wasn’t going to think it felt good, he wasn’t depraved or a raving lunatic, but he couldn’t do anything but helplessly twitch as the fingers wiggled inside of him, making his pulse flare erratically and his breath catch. It was like they were forcing something out of him, a side that confused his nerves into firing randomly, making his feet flex, his toes curl, and his legs twitch. The foreign sensation had somehow taken his full attention, so when the fingers slid out of him and the cool of the air licked at the warmed entrance, Kibum felt goosebumps trickle along his skin, starting at his ass and spreading to all his limbs.
He didn’t have a moment of rest from the finger’s assault for long though, as something decidedly much hotter was pressing against his sheep-fat slicked hole. He felt the gypsy’s much warmer body press around his, making him attempt to cringe away despite being unable to. The smell of animal and musk clouded Kibum’s senses, leaving him to bury his face into the bedding. That wasn’t much better, as it too smelled of the gypsy’s body odor and their lye soap. Warm moist breath laden with anticipation puffed against his neck as the captor leaned closer to him, smothering him in that parasite ridden skin. He was just wondering what terrible disease he’d come out of this with when the hot silky flesh of hard cock pushed to get inside him.
Not possible. It’s not possible.
Apparently it was.
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Eun had found him sitting at the edge of their camp, already in the process of making a new mandolin, as his other had been fairly destroyed in the mayhem. Minho was not happy. It would take tens of hours of hard work to make himself a new quality instrument, and he was rather sure that there wouldn’t be a lot of time to spare while their camp had money to make up for with the loss of their stock, and plenty of repairs to be done. Still, his mood improved considerably as he watched the fight between Mir and the noble boy, vicariously taking a thrill in the way Mir hauled the aristocrat away for the two to become better acquainted. He was still smirking darkly to himself when Eun found him.
He greeted her with a smile warmer than the one he’d been wearing while watching the little show, though the edge of slightly sadistic satisfaction came back to his expression when she relayed his task. Unlike Eun, he and Mir had completely agreed on the order of treatment for their prisoner. While Minho would have been happy to do the honors himself, they’d both decided it would be best for Mir to have something to chalk up to his father when he arrived. Minho himself didn’t have a father to intimidate and threaten him any more, though he could easily understand any anxieties his friend might have about taking the blame for the unfortunate events – even if none of it was Mir’s fault.
It was more than clear that Eun didn’t exactly approve of the way the two boys seemed to be thinking this more fun than it should have been, but Minho wouldn’t try to convince her to their point of view. Trying to change Eun’s mind in anything was probably only less improbable than getting the punkish noble to willingly do chores around here. Minho didn’t engage in pointless fights or arguments, and so he wouldn’t try to sway her, though he did try to reassure her from simply worrying, even if it probably wouldn’t do much good. He stepped closer to her and ran a hand in her hair, which probably wouldn’t have been permissible by another else but her brothers if not for the fact that Minho had never once tried to grab her, or look upon her with those lustful male eyes. He saw her as a sister, and gave her affection as such.
“This is just another one of those things you’d consider part of the nonsensical male mentality. That noble is a man too, so I’m sure he’ll read the message we’re sending exactly as intended. Besides, if anything does go wrong, its not like its any skin off our backs.”
He patted a hand on her shoulder and gave her just a small edge of his trademark playful smile before making his way across camp with a spring in his step and a tune on his lips.
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It was hot, stinky, sweaty, musky, and heavy. It was far from the way he'd imagined his first time to be. Sex, Kibum had been told, was a man's greatest pleasurable duty to his wife. True, Kibum at this time had no wife, and his partner had been a man, not to mention there had been a lack of consent from both parties, but even with all that, to even call the act that he'd just been forced into sex seemed altogether wrong. Rutting was a much more appropriate term.
In all intents and purposes, the gypsy had taken him like a winning stallion takes their mare. It was heavy and stung strongly of dominance. The pain had been frightful, but even more frightening was the proof of his pain - the blood. Kibum wasn't able to understand exactly the extent of his injury or why he'd bled for that matter, leaving him to wonder if indeed it was a marker of his deflowering, the same as a woman. Yes, he well understood that an asshole and a pussy were two things of separate universes, but to admit knowing anything about the actual anatomy of either he could not. The closest he'd gotten to intimacy with his fiancee had been laying a kiss on the back of her hand, essentially, the lad was probably more virginal than the virgin Mary herself. Or, rather, had been.
Now, with his ass burning to a degree only found somewhere on the surface of the sun, it was fairly impossible to ignore his situation. Try as he might to disappear into the mattress, there was no getting around the fact that he had been thoroughly raped by a country born miscreant. If the warm gypsy sludge running between his ass cheeks didn't turn him into a goblin or some other hellish creature like he feared, then Kibum would have to live with the painful reality of being another man's bitch. He lay there too tired and boneless and sore and shamed to move, and wondered vaguely how any woman endured such a thing from a heathen like a gypsy.
Contrary to what one might believe, the women in Kibum’s family always possessed the greater wit. His father surely was no dull man, but his mother, and even more so, his grandmother, both had minds the likes of which many a man would be outdone with. Kibum saw this despite being raised to think otherwise, and while neither woman contained the qualities his father did to make them amiable a personality, they had taught him many important things even with his limited exposure. His grandmother had grown looser in tongue as she had aged, and so her wit was often taken for senility. Perhaps it partly was, but to Kibum she had been nothing short of the single most sharp witted old bitch he’d ever known. And if there was one lesson that his grandmother had taught him to stick in his mind far longer than the image of her, it was not to lose yourself to your emotions, and to instead even the score.
Kibum figured he had endured the worst of whatever it was the gypsy had to offer him. How much more could he honestly be debased? How much more could his pride be ruined? He daresay getting a dick shoved up one’s ass was the lowest point in life he would ever endure, and now the only way to go was up again.
The gypsy wanted him to stay and “learn their life”? Fine. Kibum would learn. He would discreetly study everything that this disgusting traveling zoo in the mud had to offer. After he had learned their ways, he would use it against them. He would find what they held near and dear to their corrupt little hearts and take it from them, as obviously the destruction of their camp and materials meant little (he wasn’t too surprised as their belongings combined was probably worth as much as a single one of his boots). Kibum would find the way to effectively damage their pride forever, most of all the pride of that ridiculous self-proclaimed “prince” of the rejects. That barbarian had even gone so far as to draw a comparison between them, though to Kibum he could in no way agree with any such likeness. The gypsy wanted Kibum to know what it felt like here, well, Kibum would return the favor. He’d teach that low bred vermin just what he’d felt, and that there was no way of escaping punishment for the act that had been committed upon a high born individual like himself. In short, the conceited fucker could kiss his sorry little life goodbye.
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Minho had quieted when he’d neared Mir’s trailer, not that he probably would have been heard if he had continued with his merry whistling. It was just that whistling a chipper tune was quite impossible when one was close enough to over hear the activity from within. The actual yelling that had probably carried far beyond their camp, and could possibly be comparable in vocal traveling distance to a wolf’s howl (honestly, if they hadn’t been in a secluded spot in the woods Minho might have thought that those foul screams would carry straight to town), had stopped some time ago. Now there was only the creaking of the wagon, or, was, until he stepped closer out of curiosity. Pants and choked breaths, muffled dry half sobs and groans that were obviously trying to be held back. So the cocky son of a bitch was embarrassed was he? Good.
Minho settled outside the carriage and waited, getting a little entertainment out of the dirty phrases he could catch, only his pal Mir was capable of inspiring humor while losing his virginity. When things had quieted for some time, Miho stood up and stretched his legs out leisurely. Time to do his small part.
He quietly ducked into the carriage, stopping only for a beat when the smell of sex and the makeshift lube hit him as he eyed the mess of the place. He was inclined to stand in awe at the fight that had obviously continued inside the wagon, what with clothes thrown about, belongings knocked from their shelves and hooks, blankets kicked off the bed, and pieces of rope discarded from their former retraining holds on the lordling. He stepped over a dark leather boot, obviously a belonging of the noble’s, and reached the bed.
Minho allowed himself a healthy eyeful of the young man turned gypsy bitch, and he didn’t think Mir could have done a better job. The camp would be more than content with their youngest’s prince’s revenge, the morale would soar from the pit it had fallen into.
He noticed that the aristocrat had sensed him when the young man pulled his legs up, obviously causing him a fair amount of pain as he tucked his body into a fetal position. Their eyes met and Minho openly smirked, though his eyes held no sympathy, seeing this as nothing but a deserved punishment. The other’s eyes glared back, as though he had some kind of strength left with which to fight. Minho resisted the urge to scoff at him. He’d allow the ridiculing laughter to come from the rest of camp.
With a quick movement that seemed to register some alarm in the noble, Minho swiped up the cotton bedsheet. Its creamy white color was now forever stained. When they sent the brat packing Minho thought it might be fitting to take his clothes and spare him only this sheet.
He quickly backed out of the trailer and jumped off the step, waving the dirtied cotton like a flag as he tied it up across the front of Mir’s wagon. A perfect display for all.