Candle in a Hurricane - Beinir’s Chosen

I remember well the crushing weight of slavery. 

The stench of misery, the heft and clank of iron chains, the wails of the forsaken. None from my village, nor from countless others, were spared the indignity, and the righteous wrath of the gods seemed a distant and fleeting hope, lost to the blurring endlessness of the days like a candle in a hurricane. 

Eight years I spent a slave. Eight agonising, backbreaking, soul crushing years, forced to work in quarries, mines and in combat for the sport of my captors. And when liberation came on the back of a vengeful centaur, an eldritch wolf and a stallion with burning eyes, I was so lost in my desperation for survival that I bolted into the night. Others did too, although to the best of my knowledge, none of us crossed paths again, and if we did, we did not recognise each other. 

My name is Varah. That was what my father called me, although after eight years of never hearing my name spoken by another, it seemed a distant memory of myself. Alone, lost in the wilderness in a strange land, I wandered for days. I foraged as best I could, sheltered wherever possible, and slowly, painfully slowly, became aware that the slavers were not coming for me. They were all dead. The hurricane slowed, and the candle of hope was relit by a simple monk - a middle aged, ascetically skinny goat in a rough homespun robe. 

He was in the woods alone, foraging for mushrooms and wild berries when instead he found an emaciated, filthy zebra - me. The shock on his face was quickly replaced by compassion, and he urged me out of my hiding place in the undergrowth to join him. I was naked save for a filthy scrap of cloth that just barely covered my manhood, and the monk's breath caught in his throat at the sight of the dense web of whip scars that covered my body. We had no common language besides smiles and gestures, but his kindness shone through the barrier and I followed him like a puppy back to the monastery on the edge of a small town a few miles away. He talked softly as we walked, and I learned that his name was Eral. 

The monastery was an island of peace, of calm and refuge. It was an ancient building, clinging to a rocky outcrop that effectively isolated it from the sprawling town behind it. The road to its external gate was steep and treacherous, cut into the rock face and climbing higher and higher above the river valley below. As we approached, the gate cracked open, and Eral called for assistance as we entered its walled compound. Similarly attired monks came running, and they did what they could to ease the pain of my ordeal. They clothed and fed me, although I did not have the words to thank them, nor to tell them any of what had happened to me beyond that which they could clearly see. 

Even as I ate a simple fare of bread, mushroom soup and a strange herbal tisane I’d never encountered before, a healer was summoned. He hovered over me, wringing his hands and muttering. I couldn’t understand a word of what he said, of course, although I picked up a word here and there and deduced its meaning. He examined my whip scars, applied a salve to the fresher ones, and looked me over with such pity in his eyes that I felt a spike of anger in the pit of my stomach. I’d been a strong, virile young stallion back home, far across the southern sea. I’d wielded spear and axe, defended my home against invasions and raids by neighbouring warlords, and wielded my own spear - yes, that one - as a tool of diplomacy at festivals and fertility rituals. With some success, all told. 

I did not need that simpering fool’s sympathy. 

While the healer fussed and muttered, my mind travelled back to those festivals, the hedonistic joy of the sexual abandon that pervaded them. My thoughts were never on the mare I was pounding my jelly into at the time. I’d known from a very young age that other males were my true attraction. There was no taboo in our society associated with two males sharing a bed - indeed the hatred of such a natural thing was not something I’d encountered until the slavers found me entwined with Aramad, a hulking stallion with limbs like tree trunks and a member to match. It had only been a month or two into my capture, and the very first week of Aramad’s. We sought comfort in each other’s arms, a custom we were both familiar with. The bastard slavers beat us both senseless, and made it abundantly clear that if they found such a thing happening again they’d geld us both. Of course it happened again, but from that day on we were exceedingly careful - and in slavery, privacy is a precious thing indeed. 

I growled at the sharpness of the memory, forcing my mind to return to the present before the trauma of what happened in the days following came to the surface. The healer gasped and flinched away from me. Eral chased him away, and handed me more bread. I thanked him in my own tongue, and he smiled thinly, knowingly. Clearly, there were wounds that could not be tended with bandages and pity.

Once I’d eaten my fill, Eral and one other monk, a young satyr acolyte, showed me to what I assumed would be my sleeping quarters. It was basic, to say the very least. All of the younger monks slept in what seemed little better than a stable, on hard wooden benches softened with straw and covered with sheets of the same homespun fabric as their robes. Their sleeping quarters were separated only by wicker partitions. Eral smiled reassuringly in response to my confusion at such bizarre sleeping arrangements in what was otherwise a seemingly luxurious compound, and the two monks left me alone in the dormitory. It was better than sleeping on the hard ground, I supposed; and a far cry from the conditions the slavers had kept me under. Once I was alone, I laid down on the straw-covered bench, and found it to be surprisingly comfortable. 

I do not recall for how long I slept. It must have been some considerable time, because when I awoke, the dormitory was in darkness, the candles long since guttered. My stomach rumbled with renewed hunger, and all around me I could hear the snores and deep, steady breaths of a dozen or more monks and acolytes. I could smell the satyr acolyte nearby - his scent was unique, humanoid as he was. Had I more presence of mind, enough to catch the way he’d been looking at me, he might have intrigued me earlier than he did. But in that moment, my stomach was not the only part of me that had awoken. 

I suppose it must have been the notion of safety, at least relatively speaking, but I could not recall the last time I’d woken up as erect as that. There was a good reason the tribes back home deified lust and sexuality as we did, particularly among the equine races. Virility flowed in our veins, and sexual release was the purest expression of that which we held in highest regard. The straw beneath my body rustled as my hands worked at the rope holding my robes shut. The friction of the rough fabric as it slid aside over my turgid spire drew a grunt from my lips. Looking down, I could just barely make out the outline of my penis, the faintest glimmer of moonlight illuminating it in an indistinct, raven-blue halo. A ghost of what I’d once been. 

I found surprisingly little joy in masturbating. It was a mechanical job, a chore, in response to a bodily urge. My hands worked my shaft with practised ease, one gripping my medial ring while the other slid and bumped against the back of my broad, blunt glans. Precum - slick, musky and plentiful - bubbled forth. At first it pooled in the soft indented flesh around my urethra, until a flex of my muscles caused it to overflow over my fingers, to be twisted and spread around the skin of my inner shaft. The scent was familiar, and strong. The scent of home. My eyes fluttered closed, and my mind wandered as I tugged and stroked, building myself up to a climax that I knew would be underwhelming here in this foreign monastery. I recalled the festivals, again. That, at least, was a memory that would always get me off. The sweating, thrusting, grunting piles of zebras from all tribes, gathered in pursuit of diplomacy and of joy. Sharing the most virile, the most fertile among them like trophies, public displays of hedonism watched and witnessed by all the diverse races of the vast southern land. Offerings, almost, to the pantheon of the arid homelands. The mesmerising, all-consuming musk of zebra - sweat, breath and cum, would hang in the air like smoke on a still night, incense in a plein-air temple to a pantheon we barely knew the names of. 

The vision grew stronger, more distinct, and I could hear the steady drumbeats, the ululations of the gathered elders. All thoughts of the monastery, of slavery, of fear, slipped away from my consciousness. My hands worked faster, squeezing and milking upward against my increasingly sensitive, flared glans, while the other tugged and twisted my medial ring. Precum spritzed through my fist, and my breathing grew ragged. I was no longer in that monastery, surrounded by cold stone and foreign customs. I was under the stars, bathed in moonlight, and coated in the unshackled lust of my people. Heavy, glistening shafts bobbed and swung in my vision, and my mind locked onto them. There was nothing, nothing, so erotic as the feeling of a male body against mine. The strength of his thrusts, the urgency in his voice, and the white-hot eruption of his lust mingling with mine. My breath caught in my throat, and my eyes flew open as the fuse was lit. 

What was I going to do with my eruption, here, in a monastery?

I rotated against the wall beside me, bracing my hooves on the stone, and elevated my hips such that my drooling, flared penis hung rigidly over my face. My flare was swollen and engorged, a great flat-topped mushroom glistening with need. My heavy, over-full balls bounced and tightened as my masturbation grew fitful. Finally, I opened my mouth, convulsions rocking my body and causing my straw-bench to creak and bang against the stone floor. Hot, thick seed erupted as my hand squeezed around the rim of my flare, blasting against my muzzle and lips. My aim was off, and I coated my face and neck before getting it right. My seed was a little sour, but palatable enough. And as I came down from my climax, I wiped my face roughly on the hem of my robe. 

*

I must not have cleaned up well. Eral greeted me in the morning with a scowl on his face. A dozen monks and acolytes milled around behind him with a mixture of amusement and horror on their faces. The satyr was right beside Eral, staring openly. As soon as I moved my lips I could feel the crust of semen cracking, and my ears flattened back. It was clear these monks did not approve. After some moments, I covered my nakedness, to which Eral nodded. I got a lot of stares and hushed laughter from the monks who gathered for breakfast that morning, and Eral did his best to explain some of their customs to me using the few words of my native tongue he knew.

“No... happy... body... Tintep god... starve love. Yes?”

Tintep. At least I knew whose service the monks were in. 

“In my home, we worship fertility, and do not see shame in displays of it,” I replied, slowly. “What do you worship?”

After some time, awkward exchanges of single words, I got the picture. Restraint. Denial. Humility. Celibacy.

It was as though the chains of slavery had never been removed from my body. For the rest of that day, and the week, all I wanted to do was leave. To ghost into the night as I’d done once before, and never to look back. But where could I go? I still barely knew a word of the local language, and being a zebra, I felt I would surely stand out among these comparatively plain-pelted people. Tintep’s monastery at least offered shelter, food, water and a measure of safety. Could I learn to live with the caveats?

*

Over the following weeks and months, I learned all I could of the language, and of the gods people worshipped in this land. Tintep was, I discovered, a passive god. One who rewarded sacrifice in this life with joy and eternal succour in the next. It was an alien concept to me, and it took me some time to work out that these people believed a soul was only born into a physical body once. My people, by contrast, knew that souls were born and reborn, an endless cycle. New souls were to be welcomed by the old and taught the spiritual rites, sharing experiences and knowledge gained since time immemorial. Yet these monks seemed to truly believe that living a life of self-inflicted poverty and celibacy would grant them some grandiose reward after they died.

I tried asking Eral what those rewards were meant to be, but he could not answer. He shrugged, smiled and gave me cryptic responses. And over time, it became clear that the monks expected that if I were to remain within the shelter of the monastery, I would follow and adhere to their belief system in some measure.

I had noted fairly quickly upon my arrival that there were no stallions among their number. They were nearly all caprine, with the exception of a few bovine, camelid, humanoid and ursine members. And then there was Iladys, the satyr. The only one of his kind I’d ever met in the flesh.

I did my level best to adhere to the monks’ requests. I understood, on some level, how my displays of virility would ‘distract’ the monks from their solemn duties to deny their own pleasures. It was perhaps a hubristic stance to take, but it worked for me. But a stallion is not an easy creature to tame - his cock even less so. I’d gone weeks, sometimes months, without release as a slave, but that was out of fear, exhaustion and despair. Here, safe in a monastery, I had nothing but time. The monks were in no hurry to do anything, it seemed. They rarely left the walled compound, and had warned me stridently against doing so myself without an escort. Apparently the town below was filled with temptations, and I was their weakest acolyte.

“When did I become an acolyte to Tintep?” I asked Eral one morning, as we walked through the compound. 

The goat’s hands were clasped behind him and he stared at the ground as he walked. I walked upright beside him, proudly, my chest pushed out and arms swinging by my sides. My body had recovered quickly, and well, from the years spent in chains. Gone was the starved, scruffy creature I’d become, eclipsed by a return to sculpted muscle and glistening pelt. The homespun robes I wore rubbed and irritated against my swollen sheath with every step I took. My manhood hung heavy within my prepuce, the ebony skin taut and threatening to spill forth the flesh within at any moment. It had been a week since I’d released the pressure, and I was constantly aware of my organs. More so than usual.

“Varah, you are in the hands of Tintep,” Eral replied, at length. “Always you were. It was Tintep’s will that you and I find each other that day in the forest. Your soul is lost, my friend, and I believe it is our duty to rescue it.”

“Rescue my soul from what? Eral, souls are immortal, they will find their own path, as you have!”

The old goat looked up at me and gave a grin. “Ah hah! Ready to debate theology, are we?”

“Debate? No! I am stating my own truth.”

“As am I! Varah, your soul is dark and tainted!” Eral abruptly stopped walking, moving to block my path and gripping me by the shoulders. “You... give in to the pleasures of the flesh, to that which is most fleeting in this life, and it leaves you bereft of a higher purpose.”

I did not quite understand all of his words, but I caught the gist. And such were our theological ‘debates.’ Always they were about me, how lost and broken I was, how lucky I was to have fallen on Tintep’s supplication. And how much I owed the god in repentance. Gradually, I came to accept that. The monks had shown me nothing but kindness, and if in return I had to respect their beliefs and wishes, so be it. But it was far from easy. And I promised myself that I would seek another place to live as soon as I were able.

*

The days blurred together. Four weeks since my escape from the slavers, and I was itching for a change of scenery. Something different. At night, I’d taken to binding my wrists to the bench I slept on, to prevent me from touching myself. Or rather, the monks did so, with my consent. Without it, I doubt ten of the skinny bastards could’ve held me down. What they couldn’t have known, of course, is that stallions are... gifted. We are more than capable of masturbating without needing the use of our hands. Gifts of the flesh, as it were. But I tried, on their behalf, to control myself. 

But even without consciously masturbating, my body reached its breaking point only every week or so. Often it happened while I slumbered, and I awoke drenched in my nocturnal emissions. But sometimes, I awoke in time to enjoy it. Those moments, when my chest glistened with lustful sweat, and the thickly furred valley of muscle that ran from my throat to my groin seemed to channel my lustful energy directly from my brain to the aching, trembling spire of masculinity, those were my weakness. In Tintep’s eyes, at least. Those nights when my flare blossomed of its own accord, and the slightest flex of my muscles brought the hot, tender weight of my penis to my torso in wet, heavy slaps - I grew to love those nights. A primal lust was released, which I never could have attained by masturbating manually every day or two. Ejaculation was a trance-like state, a minute or so of utter transcendence when even taking breath seemed a petty, worldly concern. And as my penis flooded my torso with gush after white-hot gush of musk-laden, desperately virile seed, I think I experienced the ‘higher purpose’ Eral kept going on about.

The monks pretended to be disgusted, but I’d been aware of more than one of the acolytes frantically masturbating in the moments after my body relieved itself on those nights. Iladys was always the first, only inches away from where I lay on the other side of the wicker partition. His urgent, desperate little grunts and the rhythmic, fleshy sound of his hand flying along his length was all the confirmation I needed, beyond his reedy, grassy scent. And the looks Iladys gave me in the bathhouse when he thought no one else would notice told me that he was as curious about me as I was about him. But he was elusive, and never allowed himself into my presence alone. It was infuriating. 

*

In the ninth week of my stay at the monastery, the stag appeared. I had joined a number of acolytes in one of the chapels adjoining the monastery, as I regularly did, for evening prayers. 

I was at the rear of a group of eight acolytes, on my knees with them, my head bowed. The repetitive, plaintive mumbling of the monks lulled me into distraction. A fleeting memory of the acolyte beside me bleating in orgasm quickly devolved into far more luscious imagery. The taste of a male’s sweat. The scent of his lust, and the fiery heat throbbing forth from his loins against my skin. Fragments of memory mingled with fantasy, and I found myself erect beneath my robes, my tail flagging briefly as my prepuce gave way to the flesh within, sending my penis forth to hang heavy between my thighs. I captured my length between my legs, holding it there and flexing my muscles. I could feel hot fluid flowing along my length, precum drooling forth onto the mosaic beneath me. And I could smell myself. The acolytes around me pretended not to notice, but they shifted uncomfortably. Except Iladys. He knelt right beside me. His messy, russet hair could not cover the fact that his eyes were fixed on me, and I could not help but notice the little peak in his robes. I grit my teeth. If Iladys was so interested, why did he not come forth?

When the prayer session finally concluded, I remained. I told the elderly monk who’d led the prayers that I wished to remain in the presence of Tintep for my own salvation, which he seemed to approve of. 

Within moments I was alone in the chapel, hard as a rock beneath my robes. I parted my thighs slightly, and sighed in relief as my penis sprang upward, tenting out the rough fabric with lazy, heavy throbs. 

A soft chuckle came from behind me, and my eyes flew open. In my distraction I had entirely forgotten that the chapel was open to the townspeople, so rare was it for anyone to come here to offer prayer to Tintep. But there, standing in the doorway, stood a stag. He was tall, and impossibly handsome, and my thoughts were immediately far from pure. I tried my best to force my penis into submission and stood, intending to pass by him and leave him to his contemplation. But something stopped me. 

The stag stepped forward into the chapel, and as he did so a hot, dry blast of air whistled around the cold stone prayer-blocks set into the floor. Candles along the walls sputtered and extinguished in curls of smoke. I stared at the stag. He was glancing around the chapel as if judging it, and did not appear pleased with what he saw. 

“Frightful place, wouldn’t you agree?” The stag intoned. His voice was low and smooth, and the skin along my spine prickled with a strange energy. He spoke my native tongue flawlessly. 

“How do you know my language?”

“I speak many tongues, stallion. A better question might be; what brought such a creature as you into the service of a god like Tintep?”

The stag approached me, and the closer he came, the more uneasy I felt. He seemed to exude a strange energy - he radiated it, almost, like heat from a fire. It was raw, masculine sensuality, but focused. Concentrated. My eyelids felt heavy, and I struggled to find words to reply to him. 

“Surely you have noticed how different you are from your compatriots in this place,” He continued. “A specimen such as you does not fit in this place, here with these fools.”

Anger flared inside me then, and I retorted; “Of course I do not belong here! I belong a thousand miles distant, over the sea and home with my people! You think I am here by choice? A strange land, filled with strange people and their strange customs? These people offered me shelter when I had none; sustenance and security. I offer service to their kindness, not to Tintep!”

The stag smiled, and reached out to rest a hand on my shoulder. It was as though liquid fire flowed from his touch into my body, and I struggled to contain a grunt of... lust? My knees trembled, and I felt my cock surge back to erection, drooling onto the stones between my hooves as the familiar pressure of my glans flaring threatened to make my arousal painfully evident. My eyes met his and I realised that I was talking to a creature of power - power that I could not recognise, nor truly describe. But sparks of heat flowed through my body from the stag’s touch.

“Ahh, so you are indeed the one I have heard about. Truly, a monument to masculinity such as you should never be chained. You are Varah, are you not?”

I nodded dumbly. 

“Excellent. Well met. I am Tior. Remember me, in the days ahead, and watch for our signs.”

He smiled cryptically at me, and as he turned to leave, his hand fell, fingers curling briefly around the solidity of my cock. And then with a chuckle and a flick of his white tail, he swept from the chapel with another blast of hot air. I swung around as if to give chase, my cock slapping heavily against my thigh, but he had already gone.

The heat of Tior’s touch stayed with me, and seemed to seep into my veins. Flashing images of the stag’s naked body invaded my thoughts, and I was powerless to control them. My balls ached, my cock throbbed, and my heart raced. I desperately needed to get off. Cursing Tintep’s demands for celibacy, I forced my body into compliance, and made my way to the monks’ dining hall for the evening meal.

*

“Varah? Walk with me.”

Eral’s kindly face interrupted my troubled thoughts, and I found his presence to be a source of comfort. I rose to my hooves and accompanied him from the library out towards the edge of the monastery compound. 

“Where are we going?” I asked him. 

“Into town. You have not left the walls of this compound since you arrived. I figure it is time you were allowed to enjoy the freedom you have fought so hard for.”

I stared at Eral for a long moment, and my heart warmed to the old monk. 

We exited the compound through the chapel. Beyond its heavy doors lay another wall, across a courtyard clearly designed with protection in mind. A wooden drawbridge lay across a defensive ditch, beyond which was another wall, and yet another gate. Eral looked to me as we approached it, and I took his meaning. The beam which held the gate shut was solid and incredibly heavy, and even I could only just lift it. My body was still weak from the weeks of inactivity.

The township beyond had grown right up to the gate, a jumble of buildings and narrow streets filled with throngs of people. 

“You can see, Varah, why we choose such seclusion. Our chapel is open to those who wish to enter, but few know that it is such. That is how we like it.”

My eyes did not know where to rest. There were people everywhere, of all races, all backgrounds, and resentment flared in my heart momentarily. “And you did not think to let me choose from the beginning whether or not to remain in your cloistered midst?”

Eral grunted. “I will admit to you, our judgement may have been flawed. But you must remember, Varah, that this is a world filled with temptations for those who lack the strength to deny them.”

My gaze was drawn in that moment to a centaur - a centaur. I’d never seen one in the flesh before, and he exuded a power and beauty I’d not been expecting. That he was emphatically male only heightened my curiosity, and Eral gently steered me past him as the centaur’s gaze landed on me, his handsome faced creased into a haughty scowl. What was wrong with me? I was not some wide-eyed colt, overawed and completely without guile or wit! And yet there I was, behaving just as such. 

Maybe it was the celibacy. 

“You speak of temptation as though the joy of another’s body against yours is a sin for all, not just for those loyal to Tintep,” I pointed out.

Eral gave me a tired stare, and sighed. “Aye, there is truth in what you say. I am beginning to see that your place may not be with us, Varah. I found you in the forest and I spoke to Tintep through my prayers, and he seemed to indicate to me that keeping you with us was the right path. Perhaps I misread the signs.”

I stopped walking, and rounded on Eral. “You mean to say that Tintep does not speak directly to you?”

“He speaks directly to no one, Varah. That is his nature.”

“Then how do you claim to know him? Or his teachings?”

How do you know he exists at all? A quiet voice in the back of my mind suggested.

“Through prayer, and contemplation, and the wisdom of a hundred generations of his faithful. There is rarely certainty in faith to any god.”

We had, by that point, walked as far as the town’s bustling bazaar, and I let the debate drop as my senses were overwhelmed by an onslaught of stimuli. Brightly coloured awnings, flags and stalls littered a long, broad expanse of cobbled street, and the noise was incredible. 

Eral seemed grimly determined, while I was nearly overcome by wonder. He turned to me, and handed me a few coins. 

“Wander as you will, Varah. I have an errand to run - the Abbot is unaware that you are unattended. Please do not make me regret my leniency. Meet me back here before dusk. If we do not return to the monastery together you will not be allowed to return at all. We protect our solitude with draconian rules, and none are exempt.”

“I... thank you,” I replied, slightly dumbfounded. 

As Eral moved away from me into the crowd, I felt as though a lead weight had been lifted from my soul. For the first time in almost as long as I could remember I was truly free. 

I wandered aimlessly for some time, simply absorbing the bustle and hubbub of the bazaar and its surrounding alleyways, shops, streets and taverns. Surprisingly, barely anyone gave a zebra in monks’ robes a second glance, even as bizarre a sight as I must have been. I, however, was giving plenty of people second glances. And third glances. And lingering, hungry stares. Aside from the centaur stallion, who I did not see again, the bazaar was packed with bodies I would’ve very much enjoyed pressing up against, worshipping with my hands and pounding myself into with wild abandon. My mouth watered at the sight of a heavyset draft stallion, tied up at a corral outside one of several taverns. He was dropped and swinging as though he were alone in his stable, and not surrounded by half a dozen other horses and hundreds of people. I caught myself, momentarily disgusted at my thirst for an animal of all things. But then the stallion made eye contact with me across the bazaar, and in that moment his eyes seemed to convey an intelligence I had not been expecting to see. And with our eyes locked, he flexed, sending his mighty shaft hammering up against his belly with a snort, launching a spray of precum against his forelegs I could see from a dozen yards distant. I was so pent up that in that moment I wanted nothing more than to drop to my knees beneath him, to worship his mighty pole and feel his seed paint my chest. I was shocked by the strength of that feeling.

“Varah?”

I was wrenched from my filthy fantasy by a soft, effeminate voice, and spun around to see who had mentioned me by name. My cock, which had dropped all the way from my sheath, swung heavily between my thighs. Iladys stood behind me, and the satyr chuckled apologetically. 

“I apologise if I startled you. I was not expecting to see you here, alone.”

“Iladys. I was not expecting to be here!”

“Where is Eral?”

“He gave me leave to wander, and said he had errands to run. I did not like to pry, nor to follow him like a lost puppy,” I replied. Then my eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here, alone? Are you not also an acolyte?”

My eyes met the satyr’s, and he blushed and glanced away. Downward, I noticed. 

“I... have my ways. I have always struggled with the strictures of Tintep’s worship. The Abbot does not know, but I found a disused exit from the monastery, through the kitchens. I... We have not spoken much, at least alone,” Iladys said, after a moment’s pause. His eyes lifted once again to mine.

“No, we have not. But we sleep mere inches apart. It is... comforting to know I am not alone in struggling with... how does Eral describe it? Pleasures of the flesh?”

Iladys’ face turned beet red, and he bit his lip. It was an enchanting gesture, and I stepped closer to him. We were at the entrance to a narrow, quiet alleyway off the main bazaar strip, and abruptly, he grabbed the front of my robe and pulled me in, causing my body to crash into his and push him up against the wall.

I gasped in surprise, but my hands were on his body almost as quickly as his were on mine. We only just managed to maintain the presence of mind to move further away from the thronging crowds, to a secluded and dark nook between two buildings, before our lust overtook our senses. 

Iladys’ robe hit the dirty cobbles, and my hands moved across tender, bare skin. His upper body was pale and hairless, aside from a gentle peak of wiry fur extending upward in a trail from his groin almost to his sternum. His hooves scrabbled on the cobblestones, and his hips urgently ground his rigid, humanoid penis against my thigh even as my own throbbed against his belly, trapped between us and spilling precum against his fair skin. 

“Ahhn... you...”

I was so desperate to taste of a male’s flesh, to feel the pulsing vigour of masculinity, that I sank to my knees before him without a second’s hesitation. He was clearly surprised by the gesture, but made no attempt to stop me. His penis was pressed to my cheek, and I buried my snout in his thick, auburn fur, inhaling deeply the rich, tangy scent of his crotch and cupping his erection to my face with an open palm. He was slender and small compared to my girth, a half dozen inches of iron-hard flesh with a soft foreskin that retracted of its own accord, overwhelmed by the force of his arousal. I pulled his foreskin forward, and then pushed it back with my lips. I swallowed every inch of him. The little bleats of pleasure Iladys made while he hunched over me, humping into my muzzle were music to my ears, and my own throbbing ebony rod slapped my abdomen in a lusty rhythm. Precum flung from my flare, splattering the fur of the satyr’s legs, until with a high-pitched moan, he fluttered and unloaded several warm, salty squirts over my broad tongue, which were summarily tasted, milked, swallowed and greatly appreciated.

He fell from my muzzle back against the wall, and I rose, the aching spire of my lust grinding up the inside of his thighs and catching in his groin. I pushed up against him, bracing myself on the wall over his shoulder, and he gazed into my eyes.

“Wait,” he murmured, and disappeared from my view for a moment to rummage through the folds of his discarded robe. 

When he re-appeared, Iladys had a small bottle of oil in his hand, with a small cork stoppering it. It was mostly empty, but what was left of it he poured along the top of my penis, and used his hands to liberally smear it, slickening my length. 

“You’ve done this before,” I noted, with a grin. 

He flushed bright red again, and swallowed thickly. “That is... not the sole reason I steal away from the monastery some nights...”

I chuckled. “Turn around.”

He did so, and flagged his little tail. His buttocks were firm and fuzzy, and I moved up behind him, my glistening cock jutting out of my monks’ robes like the very embodiment of sin. Pressing my blunt glans between the soft globes of the satyr’s rump, I squeezed my shaft and flexed, sending a spritz of slick precum against his gateway, to be smeared and teased within by the peak of my glans.

“Don’t worry,” Iladys murmured. “I have taken stallions before. You won’t hurt me.”

My ears perked at that. What a little tease! I took his advice though, and gripped his shoulder. My hips flexed, and although my muscle memory was a little rusty, it all came flooding back as tight, eager flesh opened and then gripped my cock, drawing me in. Oh, what glory it was to have a male in my arms again! It had been so long, so many years since I had performed such an act without it being on pain of death! I revelled in Iladys’ willingness to submit to me - even if I had just drawn his own fluid from him with my mouth. His body was young and firm and the curve of his spine fit against my abdomen perfectly. Our bodies moved in harmony, and within minutes I was hilted within the satyr. 

“You could have been mine weeks ago... Why did you wait?” I murmured into his ear, before dragging my agile lips down the side of his neck to plant a firm bite in the soft flesh of his shoulder, drawing a yelp from him.

“Ahhn! Tintep... forbids it!”

“Oh, and your god can’t see you here?”

Grunt. Thrust. Flare. Bite.

“Nnnh! D-don’t care!”

Thrust. Grind. Flex. Shudder.

“I can tell,” I growled.

“Make me yours, Varah!”

“You’re already mine,” I replied, without pause. 

And it was true. 

My hips drove my rod deep into his core, piledriving the little satyr so hard his hooves left the ground. My balls ached for release, so swollen and full they were. I was already flared, the sensitive, crenellated ridge of my glans dragging deliciously against the mess of oil and precum already soaking his innards. My eyes fluttered closed, and I lost myself fully in the moment, railing Iladys against a wall in the town, our modesty thrown to the muddy cobbles along with our robes. 

And when I came, I bit down almost hard enough to break his skin to muffle my triumphant vocalisation. My legs were jelly, and my entire body convulsed against Iladys as hot, virile stallion seed exploded into him, marking him as belonging to me. It was ecstasy the likes of which I had not felt in many years, and when I was done, I braced myself on the wall over him, panting hard against his cheek and just holding him against me as I gradually softened. Eventually my cock fell from him, followed by a flood of seed over both our hooves, and all over Iladys’ discarded robe. 

In my mind, something connected, and for a reason I did not yet understand, my memory of that brief, desperate mating with Iladys was linked to the sight of the draft stallion in the bazaar, and the intelligence in his eyes.

*

Two more days passed before I had my first vision. At the time, I thought it was simply another vivid, lucid dream about the festivals back home, a continuation of my horny thoughts of the day, but there was something different about this one. 

There were no mares, and all eyes in my dream were upon me. 

The drumbeats were heavy in my ears, as though they were inside my head, and the campfire was odd, somehow. Its light was off colour, seeming undersaturated and ethereal. Its light was harsh, heavy, and I could feel its heat even through the mass of writhing male bodies that surrounded it. It was an all-male orgy of the most captivating scale and scope. I could see my father off in the distance, rutting his way through a harem of younger, less dominant males. All around similar scenes unfolded - great ebony spires swayed and throbbed, erupting their joy as if their offerings were sacred trophies on the altar of... whom? My understanding of my tribal pantheon seemed clouded, indistinct.

My people had always conveyed to me that their worship of virility, of sexual lust and energy was to do with fertility rites, ensuring the continuance of our people and the peace between the many tribes. But my dreams of these festivals had been taking on a heavier, deeper undertone, and this one seemed to bring it into sharp focus. 

My cock hung heavy between my thighs. I was naked, as everyone was. And as I approached the heaving morass of sweaty, cum-streaked bodies, all eyes turned to me. But all of their eyes were shut. My heart fluttered in my chest, even as my cock, dropped but flaccid, rose steadily to raging, flared erection. 

You know me.

Breath escaped my lips in a frightened, equine squeal. The voice was inside my head. Deep, smooth, but oddly discordant and more than a little terrifying. 

You have always known me, deep inside. Few can claim as much.

It exuded power. It oozed power, like molasses boiling over in a pot.

Come forth, child of mine, and behold.

Fluidly, the orgy parted before me, exposing the fire in the centre. I had no sense of moving my legs, of walking, but I was drawn in towards the flames. Hands, bodies, caressing me as I passed through the orgy to the very centre. The scent was incredible. But as I drew closer and closer to the flames, the heat became more and more until it was near unbearable, and I tried to dig my hooves into the ground to stop myself. The drums continued, heavier and faster, and the voice in my head seemed to chuckle.

Gaze upon me, child. 

Somehow, I knew the raging, unearthly fire was the source of the voice. I knelt, and stared into the heart of the flames. Sweat soaked through my pelt, glistening and dripping to the sandy ground beneath me.

And out of the fire, something stared back. 

My heart stopped. A pair of great, glowing yellow eyes, framed in an equine face as dark as raven’s wing, stared back out at me. It was a static image, but it burned itself into my brain. A discordant hum began between my ears, in the very core of my brain. It spread, turning into a buzz, and I thought I could hear the voice laughing behind it. The buzz expanded, becoming a howl that drowned out all other sound, and I shouted for it to stop.

All was silent. 

Deathly, chthonic silence.

And then a drumbeat. Slow, simple. One. Two. Three. Echoing the beating of my heart.

The zebra orgy had disappeared from my vision. And all that remained, beyond the ethereal fire, was the very embodiment of masculinity.

A great four-legged black stallion stood, pawing at the dusty ground and whinnying his desire to the sky. He was truly enormous; the build of a draft, but bigger still, and every inch of him as black as night. Hooves danced, and my eye was drawn to the massive, swinging length of flesh between his hind legs. My own throbbed, and slapped heavily of its own accord against my abdomen. Precum splattered forth against his forelegs, just as the stallion in the bazaar had done. The voice gave a chuckle. It was coming from the stallion now. His lips did not move, but the intelligence in his eyes matched that of the voice that echoed in my skull.

Gaze upon what you know to be your true calling, Varah, son of mine. And find your path.

A rolling thunderclap brought me crashing back to reality, and I gasped, my lungs clawing in air as though I’d not tasted breath for some minutes. The dream had been so real. So tangible. I looked down, a chill blowing across my naked torso, and realised that I was drenched yet again with my own seed. Irritably, I wrestled my hands free from their loose bindings, and rose to my hooves. Cum dripped down my thighs and from the end of my shrinking cock, a couple of stray spurts splattering the stone. 

Iladys was absent from the sleeping partition beside me, I noticed. Curious. Picking my way through the maze of sleeping monks as silently as I could, I made my way across the monastery compound from the dormitory to the bath house, to wash away my indiscretions before the monks awoke for their pre-dawn prayers. The air was heavy and turgid, the kind of pregnant, weighty stillness that comes in the hour before a great storm. The thunder I’d heard was real, it seemed. Lightning flickered at the periphery of my vision, and another rolling boom echoed across the heavens. 

And there, illuminated in the harsh blue light of the courtyard, was a horse.

My hooves slipped on the stone as I forced myself to a halt, and a frightened whinny, barely suppressed, drew a smile from the other equine. He was tall and broad of shoulder, dressed in a green tunic and brown breeches. The long, horn-tipped stave of a bow was strapped across his back and its string was coiled at his hip, although I could not see a quiver of arrows in his possession. Odd that a hunter should carry a weapon without ammunition, I recalled later.

His eyes travelled the length of my body. My robes were open, and I was on full display to him, drenched in my own seed. His gaze lingered between my legs, before returning to my face. 

“Truly a masterpiece you are, Varah. And truly, you are in service to the wrong god.”

He stepped forward, and pressed something into my hand. Something warm, and hard - a stone. 

Lightning flashed across the sky again. I reflexively looked up, and when my gaze returned to the strange stallion, he was gone. Completely, impossibly gone. But there in my hand, was a gemstone. A citrine. Perfectly cut, it seemed to shine with a faint inner light of its own.

I was frightened. I can admit that in hindsight. I seemed to be surrounded by powers I barely understood, vying for my... for my what? My soul? I briefly contemplated bringing up my experiences with Eral, to seek guidance. Eldritch creatures were invading the monastery, and all knew my name. But I continued to the bathhouse as I’d intended. There was no way I could talk to Eral about any of the strange goings-on without endangering Iladys and his place in the monastery - or indeed, my own. I trusted Eral, but not that much. Fat, heavy raindrops began to strike the dark stone of the courtyard as I entered the colonnade surrounding the bathhouse, and the wind picked up to a squall, as if to illustrate to me how much I still needed the monks’ protection.

The bathhouse was dark, even darker than outside. I picked my way around the edge of the raised pool until my hoof struck the stone stair with a hollow clunk. My mind was a swirling maelstrom of thoughts, fears, fantasies - loose threads seeking to be woven together, and all of them tinged with curiosity. I could feel the citrine in my hand radiating a gentle warmth that went beyond that which my own body heat imparted to it, and in the darkness of the bathhouse, I saw that it most definitely was glowing. A very faint glimmer, barely enough to illuminate the creases of my palm. I kept it in my hand, and left my robe at the foot of the stone steps. 

The feeling of the bath water swirling around my legs and soaking through to my skin was pleasant, still lukewarm as it was from the previous day. I sank into the bath, laying back and allowing the buoyancy of the water to support me. My eyes closed, and I felt my worries being washed away, if only briefly, by the combination of darkness, the warm water, the rolling thunder and hissing rain outside. Some minutes passed, and I made my way to the edge of the bath to sit on the stone bench that surrounded it. The water lapped around my chest, and I scrubbed at my matted pelt. The citrine gem seemed to be getting brighter, but at first I attributed it to my eyes growing used to the darkness. 

But I was mistaken - it was definitely getting brighter. As I set it down on the edge of the bath, my breath caught in my throat and my heart stopped, momentarily. The yellow glow of the stone reflected on the rippling surface of the bath water, and glinted from a pair of eyes in the darkness. 

A low, reverberating chuckle echoed across the water, and I surged to my hooves. The glowing citrine, knocked from the edge of the bath, sank to the bottom. Its refracted light cast an ethereal glow through the water onto...

“You!”

“Yes. I.”

Tior stood, and moved through the water towards me. The stag, who I’d first met in the chapel. His naked body, fur plastered to his skin, was like the sculpted form of a god. His eyes, rather than reflecting the light of the citrine, glowed with the same yellow inner light, and the deep V of his abdominal muscles drew my eye naturally to the rigid pink flesh bobbing just below the water’s surface. 

My mouth watered. The stag was like all of my fantasies, all my furtive masturbatory thoughts rolled into one being. The energy he radiated enveloped me once again, like a blast of hot, dry air out of the searing deserts of home, and my cock swelled, hardening into the bath water. 

“What is happening here? Speak, I know you are involved somehow!” I demanded, although my voice seemed small and lost in his presence - a candle in a hurricane. 

“Hush, stallion. Have no fear. You have dreamt the answers you seek. You already know what is happening, who is involved and what He wants. You have worshipped Him your whole life, you simply do not know it. He came to you in the dream, did He not?” 

Tior’s voice was like honey. Cloyingly sweet, an elixir that promised truth and yet danced around it like one of Eral’s theological speeches. His hands lifted, and rested upon my chest. Pictures flashed through my mind, vivid as daylight. Fertility festivals, and the countless males I’d railed and been railed by. The days afterward when my balls ached from being drained so many times over, but when I could not resist spilling myself to the fresh memories. The hushed urgency of Aramad and myself, sating our lusts under the chains of the slavers. The great draft stallion in the bazaar, and the urgency of my subsequent meeting with Iladys. The raven-dark stallion in my dream. Tior the stag. The hunter in the courtyard. All these threads seemed to be seeking convergence, suddenly.

“All stallions are temples to the glory of Beinir, Varah. And He has taken note of you. You worship Beinir by your very existence. You know this to be true. You’ve read about Him in the books of these dusty monks, alongside a plethora of others.”

“Beinir...” I repeated. The word looked like it should sound awkward, but spoken aloud, in the presence of Tior, it carried power that I could feel. Like a thunderclap.

“The triune farmer’s god of fertility, and of male pleasure. Two of His avatars have you met, now.” Tior stooped, and retrieved the glowing citrine from the bottom of the bath. “The second of whom gave you this gift. The third... well... you shall meet the Beast of Beinir in time, of that I am sure.”

“This is... how can this be real?” I breathed. “Surely you jest, stag. .”

Tior’s hands returned to my body, resting on my pectorals. He was close enough that I could taste his breath. And I knew that he was not making fun of me, taking advantage of a stallion pent up beyond all decency. All I could think of was rutting with this glorious male. There was an almost visceral friction between us, two strong sexualities, of just the type that fired my blood and made my cock ache for release. I flexed, sending my shaft swinging upward out of the water to slap wetly against my abdomen. Tior grinned, and his hand slid down my body to curl around the base of my shaft while I held it upward, and his touch caused me to flare and grunt.

“I have always been jealous of stallions for that ability,” he murmured, stepping in closer, close enough that I could feel his cervine cock pulsing against my hip. “How long has it been, Varah, since you felt another male in your arms, shared between you that which Beinir loves most?”

My mind flashed back to Iladys in the bazaar, and I gave Tior a mischievous whicker. “Two days.”

The stag paused, then snorted with laughter. “Oh, Varah! He chose you well! Come, dear stallion, it is unseemly for such a glory as yours to be denied. Let us together sing the praises of Beinir!”

I tilted my head. “A hymn?”

“A hymn sung with our bodies, Varah! Beinir knows all languages, but the one He speaks most fluently is that of lust and pleasure! Recall again the festivals of your youth, stallion. You have always been a temple to Beinir, a shrine to His will and His glory.”

Tior’s hands danced along my equine penis as he spoke, and his words rang true. His glowing eyes met mine, and finally whatever barrier there may have been between me and my pursuit of pleasure broke down, like a dam collapsing after a storm. My lips sought Tior’s, and our arms surrounded each other in a joyous, urgent embrace. There was no more foreplay. No teasing. Our tongues met, a glorious dance, even as our cocks did likewise. Two throbbing spires, two minarets on the temple of Beinir, pulsing and oozing and sliding alongside one another; one slender and pointed, the other thick and blunt-tipped. His hips mashed roughly against mine, and his hand fell between us to surround both our shafts, squeezing and pumping them in hedonistic joy. 

“Tell me how you shall worship Him, Varah! How shall your seed grace His avatar?”

I told him. But not with words. 

I pulled back from Tior’s embrace, and forcibly turned the stag away from myself, pushing him forward so that he had to brace his hands against the edge of the bath to remain on his hooves. His buttocks, two white-furred globes of muscle, glistened with wetness. He flagged his tail high, and arched his spine. I could hear him murmuring his prayers to Beinir, and the tight pink pucker of his entrance winked to me like a mare in heat. 

Just as I had done with Iladys, I gripped my ebony shaft, pressing its broad tip to Tior’s anus and milking out a heavy spurt of precum. The stag straightened his legs, pushing his backside out and leaning his elbows on the edge of the bath. And I pushed forward. 

It was like I sank into the very embodiment of ecstasy. Pleasure crackled like lightning up my spine, and the sky outside flashed with its own show of power. My cock, usually a challenge even for the most experienced of males, sank into Tior like a hot knife into butter. He gripped and fluttered around me, and his moans were like warm caramel. 

I drew my hips back, and sank in again. And again, and again. I couldn’t get enough of that feeling, and every time was like the first. But there was no way that I could hold back for long. Within moments I could feel the fiery heat in my loins, the tightening of the bowstring that would quickly send me into convulsive fits of pleasure. And Tior encouraged me, murmuring to keep going, to speed up, to spill myself within him.

And so I did. 

My hips slammed against Tior’s buttocks, water splashing between us and our guttural, urgent moans echoing softly from the stone walls of the bathhouse. My hands gripped the stag’s hips, and then up to his antlers. He bleated like a doe when I did that, and I pulled back on his headgear to assert my dominance. My body laid over his, and I built myself up to a climax that would be unlike any I’d had before. My entire body was consumed by fiery lust. Jet after jet of seed erupted forth from me into the depths of Tior’s body, and my head was filled with the image of a great raven-dark stallion, snorting his lust and his approval at our praise of Him. I couldn’t stop cumming. My orgasm just kept rolling, and did not slow until my balls were drained. And even then, Tior ground back into my groin, milking every drop he could out of me. 

And when our bodies did eventually part, it was only to change positions. Tior kissed me once again, and urged me to turn from him, to brace myself for the favour to be returned. His throbbing pink member bobbed stiffly, and in spite of the sheer draining power of the orgasm I’d just had, I felt myself hardening again. I couldn’t help it. 

Tior didn’t go easy on me. But then, he knew he didn’t need to. Like Iladys, I’d taken stallions before. And while it had been a long time, such a skill never truly goes away. 

The stag entered me, the tight ring of muscle at my entrance giving way with a gentle spasm, and he was in. And oh, the glory I felt. It was like the last second before climax, but never ending. My cock, even as drained as it had been moments before, strained with arousal beneath me. It was as though Tior’s touch refilled my balls in an instant. I was hard as iron, fully flared and bouncing stiffly against my abdomen, and Tior had barely begun. Within half a dozen measured, deep thrusts from the stag, I was a whinnying, trembling mess. My tail was hiked up over my back, and he gripped it in his hand, the other pushing downward on the small of my back. I was begging him silently to reach below, to give my straining cock just one stroke... it would have been enough to make me cum again. 

But he didn’t. Tior moved with a steady, ascending rhythm, building up gradually and dragging his turgid flesh against my prostate with every powerful, confident roll of his hips. And as he fucked me, he was murmuring prayers to Beinir: “The scent of this son of Beinir is my hope, and my issue is his sustenance... As I worship his mortal body, be you worshipped... ah!”

And Tior, avatar of Beinir, climaxed. 

Burning hot seed pulsed forth within my body, a flood of virile masculinity that seemed to spread like liquor through my veins, intoxicating me with its succour. I came again and again, touch free, my penis slapping wetly against my abdomen and releasing desperate, hot jets of cum against the edge of the bath and into the swirling water beneath me. I had nothing against which to benchmark this level of pleasure; nothing in my life to that moment had felt anywhere near that good. Nothing had a right to feel that good. I was humbled, awed and filled with hope like never before. The storm howled outside, and within me, against all odds, the candle set fire to the hurricane, a blazing maelstrom of fire that forged my soul and showed me the path to benediction.

*

Eral’s calm monotone was a stark contrast to the enraged snarl of the Abbot of Tintep. Later that same day I had been summoned to the Abbot’s presence, and then left to wait while Eral pleaded my case in advance. Unbeknownst to me, Tior and I had not been alone in the bathhouse. The stag had disappeared into the night like smoke on the wind moments after our lustful union, leaving me with nothing but a dull, mundane-seeming citrine gem, aching nuts and a gut full of his offering. All the release in the world could not have sated me any longer - I had been touched by a god of lust, and my balls would never be drained.

That, of course, would be my undoing in the eyes of the Tintep clergy. But with my soul afire as it was, I was beyond caring. I knew I would have to leave this monastery, one way or another. And unsurprisingly, it would be without the blessing of the Abbot. 

I endured a blast of heated rhetoric from him, although Eral’s disappointment was somehow more withering than the impotent rage that erupted from the Abbot’s spit-flecked lips. And without any further ado, I was ordered to leave the monastery. 

I had no belongings save the robe I wore and the citrine gem, but I held my head high as I made my way to the chapel to leave, intending to exit into the town by the same route Eral had shown me.

But in the shadow of the inner wall, a hand plucked at my sleeve. 

“Iladys! What are you doing? Get back into the compound, you don’t want to be seen with me now,” I whispered. 

The satyr was flushed and breathless - he’d obviously run to catch me. 

“Varah... if this is because of me...”

“It isn’t.”

He paused, confused.

“A higher purpose has found me, Iladys. Just as Eral said it would. Would you be kind enough to pass on my thanks to him, once the dust settles?”

“Purpose be damned! I... I wish to accompany you, Varah.”

My ears pricked, and a smile plucked at the corners of my mouth. 

“I have no idea where I am going, Iladys. I have nowhere to stay, and all I have are a couple of silver coins to buy lodgings at an inn until I find more permanent shelter. You should not join me. I enjoyed our meeting in the bazaar, but your place is here, with the monks. I am only a distraction.”

Iladys pouted, but at length, he nodded. He slipped forward to hug me, his skinny arms encircling my waist and his cheek pressed into my chest. I felt him draw breath through my pelt, filling his lungs with me for one last time, and my cock swelled against his groin. I did not try to disguise it, and was pleased to feel him stiffen in response against me. 

“You are kind to think of me as such, Varah. But I am not defenceless. And one way or another, you cannot order me to stay,” Iladys murmured.

“Aye, that’s the truth. But I would urge you to stay, for your safety. Maybe in the future, our paths will cross once more.”

I hugged the satyr close, moving my hips to grind my cock against him, and he turned his head upward. Our lips met, and he trembled in my arms. And then he gasped, his body tensing and convulsing, hips bucking against mine for a moment. And when he fell away, there was a wet stain in his robes. Maybe I had been mistaken. Iladys moaned in embarrassment, and I cupped his cheek in my hand. 

“I urge you to remain,” I repeated. “But I will be at the Silver Stallion. Go. Be well.”

And with that, we parted, and I left the monastery for the last time.

*

The Silver Stallion was the inn outside which I’d seen the draft stallion in the bazaar. I went to it because it was the only one I knew of. I was bereft of possession or stability, but in the short term my monks’ robes afforded me a level of comfort from the townsfolk. 

The barkeep at the Silver Stallion narrowed his eyes when I asked for ale, and asked me which of the gods I served, that I was allowed to partake in liquor. 

I paused for a moment. I couldn’t say Tintep, not any longer. But the answer seemed self-explanatory, and it flowed from my lips. 

“I serve the triune god Beinir, the farmer’s god of fertility.”

The barkeep’s eyes opened wide when I opened my palm to show the citrine gem, and he backed away reverently. Apparently Beinir was not quite so unknown as the monastery’s library had led me to believe. 

I paid for my lodgings for a week, although the barkeep insisted that I not pay for food or ale. I could not argue with that. That evening, my dreams were vivid. I dreamt of a vast, heavenly black stallion, standing over a heaving maelstrom of male bodies. Bodies streaked with sweat and striped with ochre, glowing in the pale yellow light of the stallion’s gaze. Cocks of all shapes and sizes glistened between them, pulsing forth their lust in a glorious miasma of rut, the guttural choir of male lust filling my ears. I awoke at dawn, my cock painfully erect and drooling precum into my fur. But I felt no urgency to climax, no need to furtively spill myself and disguise my sexuality. 

Instead, I donned my robe and walked out of my room into the inn proudly erect, and drank in the stares of the morning’s patrons. There was no disgust on those faces, and for the first time since I was captured from my homeland all those years earlier, I met the gazes of those who openly admired my manhood.

On the second day, Tior came to me again. Crowds of people in the bazaar seemed to part around him like water around the prow of a ship, and he commanded respect by virtue of the eldritch power he exuded, even while going about his daily business. 

“Varah. It is good to see you once again.”

“Likewise, Tior. How did you know I was here?”

The stag sat on a bench opposite me, and gazed at me over the wooden table between us. 

“I have my sources. And Beinir speaks to us, through us, in ways that most other gods will not. Beinir looks after His faithful, as you will discover. I am pleased to hear that you used His name to identify yourself. Pleased that you have accepted His invitation to His service.”

My eyes narrowed briefly, but everything Tior said rang true. Was I an acolyte of Beinir now?

“Come now, Varah. All that remains is your formal anointment into Beinir’s service. You will be His very first, and will sit at the very top of His priesthood. If you desire it.”

“I... what are to be my duties?”

Tior laughed. “The ritual of sharing pleasure with another male is Beinir’s prayer, His temple is your body. You shall not be a stuffy Abbot in a robe, cloistered into a monastery somewhere! Come, He has empowered me to grant your anointment at any time.”

Varah stood, and grinned when I followed suit without a moment’s hesitation. I am unsure what I had been expecting. A mass gathering of Beinir’s followers, perhaps, or a grand ceremony. But few knew of Beinir, and fewer still openly worshipped Him. Tior led me a few miles out of the town, into the woods near to where Eral had first stumbled across me. It was a beautiful place, with sunlight spilling through verdant green onto the loamy ground; birds and insects buzzed and the murmur of a trickling stream was our guide. We followed it along what might have been a deer track - fitting, I supposed - until we emerged into a small pool of direct sunlight, glinting on the surface of the stream which flowed through the tiny clearing. 

“This is where the ritual shall occur,” Tior said, turning to face me. “Disrobe, stallion. Allow no cloth to obscure the altar of Beinir.”

I shivered, and my heart raced. As I shrugged off the robe I wore, Tior also exposed his body, and I drank in the sight of his sculpted form. Sunlight painted his body in a flickering concert of gold and green.

“Do you have the citrine gem presented to you by Isaac the Hunter, Stallion of Beinir?” Tior asked me, formally.

Hidden in a small pouch inside my robe with my remaining silver coins, the citrine had never left my presence, and I presented it to Tior. 

The moment he touched it, the gem flared with its eldritch inner fire, and I gasped. It was almost too brilliant to look at, like a tiny sun held in the stag’s hand. I saw that Tior’s eyes had taken on the very same glow. I could feel the power flowing from him once again, just like it had been in the chapel, or the bathhouse. But I no longer felt any fear; I felt joy. Exultation. For I could feel the power of Beinir flowing over me, and I revelled in his service. Without being commanded to do so, I fell to my knees on the mossy ground, and bowed my head. 

Tior grunted his approval and began to chant, a low, guttural hymn that was in a language I did not recognise. What I did recognise was that my face was at the level of Tior’s crotch, and my eyes fixed upon the stag’s fuzzy sheath, and the weighty, dangling balls that filled out the pouch below it. They seemed so heavy they were pulling his sheath downward, and even the sight of that caused mine to twitch, my penis spilling easily forth from my sheath to hang between my thighs. My tip brushed the moss beneath me, and Tior chuckled softly at the sight of my eagerness to prove my worth to Beinir. He was hardening too, his pink spire pushing forth from his sheath into the warm air, and my mouth watered for it. I wanted nothing more than to taste it, to feel him spill his blessed essence down my throat. 

Tior’s chanting picked up in pace and cadence, and he held the glowing citrine in his clasped hands, his cock bobbing and bouncing mere inches from my muzzle. Precum drooled down the glistening shaft, and dripped from his balls.

And then he ceased to chant, abruptly. And before me stood Tior no longer. The body of the stag was still there in all his glory, but the entity which peered down at me was not Tior. Those glowing yellow eyes burned through me, I could feel their gaze as tangibly as a touch, and that touch was like pleasure incarnate. I gasped and shook, and my penis surged upward, slapping my belly and sending a shower of precum splattering across Tior’s lower legs. I knew I was in the presence of Beinir Himself, and His presence was the embodiment of lust.

His hand, the citrine held within it, dropped to my head. Fingers brushed back by mane, and I felt the burning hardness of the gem against my forehead. 

“Varah, stallion of the savannah. You have served me your entire life, as do all of my children. For all stallions are my sons, though I fathered them not. Your body is a temple to my glory, your lust my altar, and my ritual.”

The words of a god. To be spoken to by such a being, even through an avatar, was like a spear punching through my body, so penetrating was that voice. I trembled in lust, and felt the urgent need to serve Beinir. To fuck, and be fucked in turn. Tior’s cock bobbed in my vision, and I wanted nothing more than to swallow it. But I knew I could not. Unless Beinir commanded otherwise, I would remain in place. Power flowed through Tior’s hand, and I felt the heat of the citrine burrowing through my skull, into my brain, and through my body like molten metal.

I lost consciousness shortly thereafter, if only for a moment. But when I awoke, Beinir had gone, and I felt such a surge of emptiness that I was momentarily terrified that he had changed his mind and abandoned me. 

But Tior was there, and he gave me a warm smile. 

“Ahh, you awaken. Good. The ritual is complete, Varah. You are the head of Beinir’s non-deific priesthood. You are mortal, still, but have been touched by the hand of a god. Look, and see for yourself.”

Tior helped me to stand, and guided me towards the water of the stream. There, on its surface, I saw my face reflected. In the centre of my forehead, embedded in my pelt, was the citrine. I had been marked by Beinir, and my soul was his. As if to confirm that, I heard the god speak within my head, directly to me. 

“Behold, my avatars. Serve them well, Varah. As you worship them, and as they worship you in turn; so shall I be worshipped.”

I turned, rising once more to my hooves. And there, alongside Tior the stag, stood Isaac the Hunter. And behind them both, like an eldritch vision, the Beast of Beinir.

I knew what to do, and I revelled in worship of Beinir.

*

It took me some days to recover from my encounter with Beinir and his three avatars in the deep forest. We engaged in such wanton depravity as I had never imagined, in pursuit of Beinir’s worship. And I felt the god’s benediction washing over me like waves on the shore, and I knew that I had found my purpose, and my path. And strangely, I found myself thanking Eral for giving me the clarity of thought to recognise it for what it was. 

I returned to the town alone, the citrine in my forehead marking me as god-touched. Everywhere I went, people showed me reverence, although few immediately recognised the god I was in service to. 

When Iladys came to me, seven days after I’d left the monastery, I welcomed him with open arms. The satyr was bedraggled and bereft, and seemed entirely too worried to have simply snuck out through the kitchens for a day of debauchery. And indeed, I learned that he had been ordered to leave, for his own inability to control his lust. We quickly formed a friendship, an attachment to each other, that was far stronger and more complex than any amount of urgent humping in alleyways might have revealed. Although we did urgently hump in a variety of places where it was perhaps improper to do so. And in Iladys, I saw the potential of a new acolyte to the god of male pleasure, and the beginnings of a clergy that would shout to the heavens the name of the father of stallions. 

Beinir!

*