Re: Prompt (Pocahontas)guiltyhousewifeApril 21 2011, 03:40:54 UTC
John Smith didn’t know quite what he was expecting when he burst through the rocks and into the water- the source of the noise could have been a number of things, an animal, a fellow English-man, the wind- but what he did find took his breath more surely away than any bear or cougar could have.
A man, a man staring at him with wild, frightened, yet flinty eyes, raising his bow as level as John raised his gun. A man, tall and sturdy like a tree, or a cut of the time-resistant rock behind him, though with skin a deeper, smoother swath of brown. He was certainly no Englishman, with a liquid curtain of black hair resting gently against hs bare back, clothed in soft, beaten-hide pants. And though John Smith was both seasoned soldier and explorer, he found his grip on the gun loosing, his muscles un-tensing, staring into those black, bright eyes.
Without any sort of warning or tell, the Indian man gave a burst of movement, giving out a ferocious yell as he cast aside his bow, whipping out from his boot a short, curved knife. John attempted to raise his gun again, but it was too late, and the air left his chest as the man collided with him. It was a mad, yet silent scrabble on the slippery rocks and cool water as John Smith tried to gain leverage once more, but the Indian put his boot on his stomach and held the knife to his throat in a panting half-crouch, ending John Smith’s fighting for the moment.
The man uttered something, commanding yet inquisitive. A question about his identity? A jab to the throat indicated his impatience with John Smith’s lack of an answer. Swallowing hard, John Smith managed to laugh good spiritedly.
“Well we may not be able to speak the same language, sport, but that doesn’t mean we can’t go through all the polite-motions, hmm?”
Fuming incomprehension in the other man’s eyes.
John smiled genially, and placed a hand to his chest.
“I’m John Smith.”
If he was expecting some sort of connection, some sort of empathetic reply, he got none, as the other man stepped away only to snatch him up by the cuff like some unruly-youngster and spin him about, twisting his arm as means of restraint. John cried out lightly in pain, but moved when the Indian nudged him in the back with his blade. He was awkwardly, but swiftly marched forward, through the underbrush, towards the English-encampment.
John’s mind struggled to make sense of it all. Was he, famous Indian-slayer, conqueror of lands, going to die at the hands of one single, albeit extraordinarily captivating, stranger? And more importantly, why was his heart beating so fast, if not entirely in fear? Was it the muscled body pressed so firm and unrelenting against him, the smell of herbs and sweat and oil?
Re: Prompt (Pocahontas)guiltyhousewifeApril 21 2011, 03:42:14 UTC
His train of thought was disturbed when he was brought to a stop. Through their forested enclosure, they could make out the men guarding the doors, the patrollers marching the border. Even Thomas, there, entering the fort with an armload of shovels. Should he cry out? But as soon as he voiced the idea, at least internally, he rejected it. He was John Smith, he didn’t need rescue.
He jumped, shamefully, when the previously silent and still Indian-man behind him leaned down, speaking directly into his ear more rhythmic, low words he couldn’t understand, but he understood the gesture, the hard finger in his chest, the urgent pointing at the camp, then back to him.
Did he belong there? Was he, one of them?
What to say, then, in response? To be honest, and risk being understood, being split by the man’s knife? To lie, to risk his lie being misunderstood and be split by the man’s knife?
He steeled his jaw, and wrenched himself around in the firm grip of the other man, ignoring the pain in his arm as it was jerked free, determined to get the better of the situation, only to have his mind scream to a halt when an awkward misjudging of their proximity and angles led to his mouth, more than softly, being pressed against the lips of the other man.
There was a moment, when he truly felt that for once he had surprised the other man, had him off guard, but he too was far too surprised himself to take advantage it. Though stock still in shock beneath his lips, the mouth of the other man was pleasant, firm and strong and smooth.
He had the perspective knocked back into him, however, when the Indian knocked him to the ground in with an angry noise. His ears rang at the hard cuff, but didn’t have the spirit to really struggle when yet again the Indian crawled atop him, hard knees pining down his legs, hands around John Smith’s throat.
Re: Prompt (Pocahontas)guiltyhousewifeApril 21 2011, 03:44:30 UTC
John laughed with what little air he had, marveling that after his first kiss with a man, he was going to die.
The Indian, however, didn’t tighten his grip, merely used it to leverage John Smith’s head up off the moss beneath him and bring their mouths together again. John Smith hummed. Well, this was a better alternative to being strangled. He was pleased to find, as well, the other man’s jaw drop and his lips fully part, finding a new territory for his tongue to explore. He pulled away to catch his breath, of which the eager Indian seemed to need none of.
“Now, be fair man, if you want this to go anywhere at all, you’re going to have to ease up a bit.”
He gave a light push with one of his free hands to the Indian’s chest, which, miraculously, backed off, only to have the Indian pull him into his lap, a half crouch across his muscular thighs.
His face was forcefully brought back into the Indian man’s possession and John struggled to regain some control of the situation, chancing upon accidental brilliance when his hand found the other man’s erection through his pants, earning a low, half-growled groan.
“Well, I’ll take that as a sign to continue, shall I?” he quipped to his new friend.
The man couldn’t respond in his language, but made himself clear by wrapping his palms around John’s slim hips and bringing him closer, guiding with a hand over the blonde’s own into a pumping motion around his impressive girth, freed quickly from his trousers.
John obliged, though not before musing uselessly to his partner.
“You’re lucky I haven’t gotten laid in quite awhile - you’re a bit demanding for my tastes.”
But he didn’t really mean it. There was nothing he could think of in his long list of sexual conquests that could compare to the thrill and adventure of this, knee-deep in wet, tall grass, mere meters away from being observed, working willingly another man, an Indian, to completion---the way the rippled flesh moved under his hand with powerful currents, how the man beneath him grunted and shifted and breathed hard through his nose, hand going up towards the end to tangle frighteningly hard in his blonde hair, wrenching it back as he came.
John Smith was impressed at the generous outpouring over his hand and into the ground, and let out a soft whistle, satisfied for now, shocked when the Indian yet again moved in a quick burst, recovering from his orgasm far faster than John Smith could ever boast, and flipped the blonde over onto his stomach, using his greater weight to keep him relatively still as he ground into his back, hand impatiently searching for a way to John’s cock, only to have John himself pull his erection free for the other man’s use.
He let himself let go, he let himself pant and gasp and squirm, rutting shamelessly into the impossibly firm grip around his cock, cursing and sweating and scrabbling for purchase. He felt his vision shift as the Indian began to rut against him, leisurely, but with a strong surge each time, and he realized his spent partner was hard again.
John laughed yet again as yet another powerful snap of the Indian’s hips against his clothed behind sent him forward into the dirt. If any of his men could see him now, his friends, his fellow soldiers and explorers could see with their own eyes the famous John Smith, rutting like an animal into the hand of a stranger, canting his hips up to meet the pleasing pressure of another man’s erection against his ass….What would they say?
Re: Prompt (Pocahontas)guiltyhousewifeApril 21 2011, 03:45:59 UTC
His eyes snapped out of their content-half-mast when he heard his name, called out in inquiry. Did they see him? Shit, Thomas, that was Thomas.
“John, where are you, its dinner! Come along John, before Stevens eats it all….”
(a laugh, good natured, of yet another man, Stevens giving Thomas a slug on the arm).
They were so close, so terrifyingly close to finding his hiding space, his secret sex-grove.
His mouth was dry, aware of the ever present motion on his cock.
“Okay, come on man, that’s enough.”
He tried to push up, to push the Indian off him, only to, his surprise, have the Indian shove him down with angry, indecipherable words, the motion around his cock becoming harsher, more possessive.
“Oh God….” John murmured hopelessly.
“John? John!!”
Closer now, maybe right there, on the other side of the bushes.
“Please.” He said softly, insistently, trying to push up weakly once more. The Indian was louder this time, with his refusal to let John go and with a snarl, bit harder into John’s clothed shoulder, his spurting cock deep against the John’s ass. John almost screamed, cumming helplessly twisted in the Indian’s grasp.
He was blissfully aware of nothing save his body for a moment, spinning somewhere in space as he littered the grass with his seed. Not aware of the louder calls of his friends, indicating their near-arrival, not aware of the growing cold around him, signaling the end of the day. When he came to himself once more, he quickly shoved up his pants, scrabbling to his feet and shooting a look behind him.
But the Indian man was gone, the trees and undergrowth around him as undisturbed as if the brown-skinned apparition was never truly there in the first place.
Re: Prompt (Pocahontas)afterandalasiaApril 21 2011, 11:41:05 UTC
Unf. Just unf. I wasn't even sure whether I was expecting smut from this, but man, I think I'm beginning to see the appeal of slash!
I love the way that you wrote Kocoum, without naming him or giving any words from him or anything. It makes for a really interesting POV.
One thing I will say -- antepenultimate paragraph, starting with "Please". It seems a little garbled to me, and I'm struggling to understand it a bit. It doesn't take away from the story, though~
Re: Prompt (Pocahontas)guiltyhousewifeApril 21 2011, 19:15:58 UTC
:( Meh, I had to write fast. I can't actually save anything on my computer, because I share it, so it was a race to finish. If I would have proofread, I would have noticed the lack of clarity. I'm glad you liked it in spite of that, though.
Re: Prompt (Pocahontas)guiltyhousewifeApril 21 2011, 21:20:00 UTC
Agreed.
So are you a slash convert, then? I mean, femslash seems to be your thing, that and romantic gen, but have I lured you fully into the dark side? (We have chocolate!)
Re: Prompt (Pocahontas)afterandalasiaApril 21 2011, 21:31:36 UTC
XD I'm kinda waiting for the unfilled prompt list to be updated... tbh I think that overall villains are just my thing, and Jafar has to fight with the others for my attention.
I really need to try and get hold of some of the series online... I vaguely remember Mozenrath, but haven't watched the series since... hell, probably the nineties. I think I had the VHS tapes, which dates it quite a lot.
This user has uploaded every single episode. Mozenrath is SUCH an awesome character. Mozenrath/Aladdin was my first slash pairing. I wrote so much stuff on them, but I haven't in quite awhile (this place sort of took over my brain, lol)
Now I will say this: to my chagrin, the artwork of Aladdin the series is somewhat...uglier....than the movie. It feels more rushed, more cartoony.
Re: Prompt (Pocahontas)dedlitMay 5 2011, 11:16:38 UTC
OH MY GOD!!!! I love those two together, I'm totally the slasher who does like dub-con (and non-con) in combination with two strong men, this just fullfilled both of my favorite fantasies!
A man, a man staring at him with wild, frightened, yet flinty eyes, raising his bow as level as John raised his gun. A man, tall and sturdy like a tree, or a cut of the time-resistant rock behind him, though with skin a deeper, smoother swath of brown. He was certainly no Englishman, with a liquid curtain of black hair resting gently against hs bare back, clothed in soft, beaten-hide pants. And though John Smith was both seasoned soldier and explorer, he found his grip on the gun loosing, his muscles un-tensing, staring into those black, bright eyes.
Without any sort of warning or tell, the Indian man gave a burst of movement, giving out a ferocious yell as he cast aside his bow, whipping out from his boot a short, curved knife. John attempted to raise his gun again, but it was too late, and the air left his chest as the man collided with him. It was a mad, yet silent scrabble on the slippery rocks and cool water as John Smith tried to gain leverage once more, but the Indian put his boot on his stomach and held the knife to his throat in a panting half-crouch, ending John Smith’s fighting for the moment.
The man uttered something, commanding yet inquisitive. A question about his identity? A jab to the throat indicated his impatience with John Smith’s lack of an answer. Swallowing hard, John Smith managed to laugh good spiritedly.
“Well we may not be able to speak the same language, sport, but that doesn’t mean we can’t go through all the polite-motions, hmm?”
Fuming incomprehension in the other man’s eyes.
John smiled genially, and placed a hand to his chest.
“I’m John Smith.”
If he was expecting some sort of connection, some sort of empathetic reply, he got none, as the other man stepped away only to snatch him up by the cuff like some unruly-youngster and spin him about, twisting his arm as means of restraint. John cried out lightly in pain, but moved when the Indian nudged him in the back with his blade. He was awkwardly, but swiftly marched forward, through the underbrush, towards the English-encampment.
John’s mind struggled to make sense of it all. Was he, famous Indian-slayer, conqueror of lands, going to die at the hands of one single, albeit extraordinarily captivating, stranger? And more importantly, why was his heart beating so fast, if not entirely in fear? Was it the muscled body pressed so firm and unrelenting against him, the smell of herbs and sweat and oil?
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He jumped, shamefully, when the previously silent and still Indian-man behind him leaned down, speaking directly into his ear more rhythmic, low words he couldn’t understand, but he understood the gesture, the hard finger in his chest, the urgent pointing at the camp, then back to him.
Did he belong there? Was he, one of them?
What to say, then, in response? To be honest, and risk being understood, being split by the man’s knife? To lie, to risk his lie being misunderstood and be split by the man’s knife?
He steeled his jaw, and wrenched himself around in the firm grip of the other man, ignoring the pain in his arm as it was jerked free, determined to get the better of the situation, only to have his mind scream to a halt when an awkward misjudging of their proximity and angles led to his mouth, more than softly, being pressed against the lips of the other man.
There was a moment, when he truly felt that for once he had surprised the other man, had him off guard, but he too was far too surprised himself to take advantage it. Though stock still in shock beneath his lips, the mouth of the other man was pleasant, firm and strong and smooth.
He had the perspective knocked back into him, however, when the Indian knocked him to the ground in with an angry noise. His ears rang at the hard cuff, but didn’t have the spirit to really struggle when yet again the Indian crawled atop him, hard knees pining down his legs, hands around John Smith’s throat.
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The Indian, however, didn’t tighten his grip, merely used it to leverage John Smith’s head up off the moss beneath him and bring their mouths together again. John Smith hummed. Well, this was a better alternative to being strangled. He was pleased to find, as well, the other man’s jaw drop and his lips fully part, finding a new territory for his tongue to explore. He pulled away to catch his breath, of which the eager Indian seemed to need none of.
“Now, be fair man, if you want this to go anywhere at all, you’re going to have to ease up a bit.”
He gave a light push with one of his free hands to the Indian’s chest, which, miraculously, backed off, only to have the Indian pull him into his lap, a half crouch across his muscular thighs.
His face was forcefully brought back into the Indian man’s possession and John struggled to regain some control of the situation, chancing upon accidental brilliance when his hand found the other man’s erection through his pants, earning a low, half-growled groan.
“Well, I’ll take that as a sign to continue, shall I?” he quipped to his new friend.
The man couldn’t respond in his language, but made himself clear by wrapping his palms around John’s slim hips and bringing him closer, guiding with a hand over the blonde’s own into a pumping motion around his impressive girth, freed quickly from his trousers.
John obliged, though not before musing uselessly to his partner.
“You’re lucky I haven’t gotten laid in quite awhile - you’re a bit demanding for my tastes.”
But he didn’t really mean it. There was nothing he could think of in his long list of sexual conquests that could compare to the thrill and adventure of this, knee-deep in wet, tall grass, mere meters away from being observed, working willingly another man, an Indian, to completion---the way the rippled flesh moved under his hand with powerful currents, how the man beneath him grunted and shifted and breathed hard through his nose, hand going up towards the end to tangle frighteningly hard in his blonde hair, wrenching it back as he came.
John Smith was impressed at the generous outpouring over his hand and into the ground, and let out a soft whistle, satisfied for now, shocked when the Indian yet again moved in a quick burst, recovering from his orgasm far faster than John Smith could ever boast, and flipped the blonde over onto his stomach, using his greater weight to keep him relatively still as he ground into his back, hand impatiently searching for a way to John’s cock, only to have John himself pull his erection free for the other man’s use.
He let himself let go, he let himself pant and gasp and squirm, rutting shamelessly into the impossibly firm grip around his cock, cursing and sweating and scrabbling for purchase. He felt his vision shift as the Indian began to rut against him, leisurely, but with a strong surge each time, and he realized his spent partner was hard again.
John laughed yet again as yet another powerful snap of the Indian’s hips against his clothed behind sent him forward into the dirt. If any of his men could see him now, his friends, his fellow soldiers and explorers could see with their own eyes the famous John Smith, rutting like an animal into the hand of a stranger, canting his hips up to meet the pleasing pressure of another man’s erection against his ass….What would they say?
“John?”
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“John, where are you, its dinner! Come along John, before Stevens eats it all….”
(a laugh, good natured, of yet another man, Stevens giving Thomas a slug on the arm).
They were so close, so terrifyingly close to finding his hiding space, his secret sex-grove.
His mouth was dry, aware of the ever present motion on his cock.
“Okay, come on man, that’s enough.”
He tried to push up, to push the Indian off him, only to, his surprise, have the Indian shove him down with angry, indecipherable words, the motion around his cock becoming harsher, more possessive.
“Oh God….” John murmured hopelessly.
“John? John!!”
Closer now, maybe right there, on the other side of the bushes.
“Please.” He said softly, insistently, trying to push up weakly once more.
The Indian was louder this time, with his refusal to let John go and with a snarl, bit harder into John’s clothed shoulder, his spurting cock deep against the John’s ass. John almost screamed, cumming helplessly twisted in the Indian’s grasp.
He was blissfully aware of nothing save his body for a moment, spinning somewhere in space as he littered the grass with his seed. Not aware of the louder calls of his friends, indicating their near-arrival, not aware of the growing cold around him, signaling the end of the day. When he came to himself once more, he quickly shoved up his pants, scrabbling to his feet and shooting a look behind him.
But the Indian man was gone, the trees and undergrowth around him as undisturbed as if the brown-skinned apparition was never truly there in the first place.
Reply
I love the way that you wrote Kocoum, without naming him or giving any words from him or anything. It makes for a really interesting POV.
One thing I will say -- antepenultimate paragraph, starting with "Please". It seems a little garbled to me, and I'm struggling to understand it a bit. It doesn't take away from the story, though~
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Meh, I had to write fast. I can't actually save anything on my computer, because I share it, so it was a race to finish. If I would have proofread, I would have noticed the lack of clarity. I'm glad you liked it in spite of that, though.
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So are you a slash convert, then? I mean, femslash seems to be your thing, that and romantic gen, but have I lured you fully into the dark side? (We have chocolate!)
*small voice* moaraladdinslashmaybe?
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I really need to try and get hold of some of the series online... I vaguely remember Mozenrath, but haven't watched the series since... hell, probably the nineties. I think I had the VHS tapes, which dates it quite a lot.
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This user has uploaded every single episode. Mozenrath is SUCH an awesome character. Mozenrath/Aladdin was my first slash pairing. I wrote so much stuff on them, but I haven't in quite awhile (this place sort of took over my brain, lol)
Now I will say this: to my chagrin, the artwork of Aladdin the series is somewhat...uglier....than the movie. It feels more rushed, more cartoony.
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