Shelter from the Storm Pt. 02 - Sex Stories

Shelter from the Storm Pt. 02

... wanted to say. But before I could speak, we both heard a noise.

Echoing from the other side of the great courtyard, around the curve of the tower, came a long, heartfelt cry, half a scream and half a moan, with an intensity in it like I had never heard before.

James' eyes lit up. "Come on," he told me. "This will be something valuable for you to see."

He began to lead me along a path between small gardens and groves of trees, heading towards the sound. The cries had not stopped. The boy, whoever he was, was wailing and moaning like I had never heard anybody moan in my life. There was an anguished, overwhelming intensity in those noises, as though this were the sound of a pain or pleasure that could barely even be expressed.

And then we rounded a corner, came out into a smaller courtyard, and I stopped dead in my tracks as I saw what was happening.

In the centre of this courtyard stood a large wooden frame. Strapped into that frame, with his wrists and ankles boundly tightly in leather restraints, was a completely naked boy. He looked as young as I was -- a slim, smooth-faced twink with a mop of blonde hair. He had been strapped in so that he was bent over as though on all fours, with his head at crotch height, his legs spread, and his ass raised.

A huge naked man -- over six feet tall, with a mane of shoulder-length blonde hair, broad, massive shoulders, and bulging, breathtaking muscles -- was fucking the boy's ass with all the force and energy of a ...

... revved-up motor. He was pounding him with rough, furious abandon, hammering his cock into the boy's peachy little ass. And though I couldn't see more than a glimpse of the shaft, I knew that cock was frighteningly, shudderingly big.

The boy's eyes had rolled back in his face. He was gasping and screaming and moaning at the top of his lungs, as every thrust made him cry out afresh. Standing around watching were a small handful of men, some of them watching with silent, amused satisfaction on their faces, one or two of them actually laughing at the sight of the slave-boy being pounded. A few of these men had shirtless slave-boys standing at their side, also watching the spectacle. But none of those boys were laughing. They were all staring, wide-eyed, with expressions of ... fear? Awe? A kind of horrified fascination?

With a twisting, queasy feeling in my tummy, I realised that I recognised the emotion on those faces. Because it was the exact same emotion that rose up inside me at the sight -- and the sound -- of the boy in that frame being fucked. There was fear in it, yes. But there was also a deep, powerful, fascinated attraction.

A man strolled over to me and James, and stood beside us, watching. He was tall, with thick chestnut hair, and he wore a casual t-shirt and jeans.

"Morning James," he grinned. "Come to watch the show?"

"What did he do?" asked James, his eyes on the wailing slave-boy.

"Oh, it was with me, actually," the man said casually. "He didn't want ...