The Wood That Bends, A Gay Elf Story

                                 ===THE WOOD THAT BENDS, AN ELVEN GAY-DOM STORY==

 

Lord Cruril the Harpblade swaggered down the unpaved streets of Waymoot, his badge of authority prominently displayed on his breast. He was a tall Moon Elf, part of the breed of elves known as Eladrin. His hair was a pale-gold, flowing beautifully down his long slender neck, and framing angular, almost feminine cheeks, and a perfect aquiline nose. His smile was perfect and white, and his eyes were an almost violet blue. He had recently been appointed head of the enforcers that guarded this crossroads town, the inhabitants of Waymoot were already thoroughly sick of this arrogant, boastful Eladrin. He openly invited all ex-adventurers and those who “felt lucky” to engage him in single combat, though almost all declined. Those who accepted quickly found that, even more insufferably, he was indeed an accomplished swordsman, and worse, a sword mage to boot.  

This alone might have been bearable. But in recent weeks he had become increasingly abusive with his authority, demanding anyone who broke or appeared to break even the most minor of laws and customs of the town face him in combat, or suffer increasingly humiliating punishment. More and more of the townspeople were forced to spend cold, lonely nights in the stocks, as the eladrin law enforcer took great pleasure in asserting his dominion over them all.

 

Complaints were lodged with the other enforcers, of course, and they promised to do something about the problem. But before they could act, rumours spread through the town of the return of a marauding dragon from the Stormhorn Mountains to the south. Cruril nobly volunteered to remain behind and look after the town, whilst the rest of the towns guardians road south to find the dragon.

 

Many in town suspected the rumours were a lie spread by the high elf, but they couldn’t be sure.

And so it was that one early autumn day he was going about his usual rounds, townspeople cowed and shifting their gaze away from. He smiled cruelly, enjoying the sight of their deference. Truly, he thought, there had never been an eladrin as worthy as he of this respect. Had he not guarded them from many dangers? Had he not rooted out and destroyed petty criminality? He glowed with self-love, revelling in his own magnificence.

 

He entered the Moon and Stars, famed throughout Cormyr and the wider world as arguably one of the Greatest Taverns in Faerun. He nodded to the barkeep, who reluctantly acknowledged his presence. Cruril cast a withering glance over the clientele, sighing and tutting to himself. The usual assortment of riff-raff and road-scum, he thought. A Centaur, some faerie dragons, and a gaggle of obvious rookie adventurers, talking and eating amongst themselves in the centre of the room, the shady corners occupied by the tavern’s more well-respected clientele, and the private drinking chambers all occupied with adventurers preparing to go south, chasing the rumours of the Dragon.

He marched across to the central table, throwing his regal red cloak over his shoulder as he did so, his mailed greaves clinking as he walked.

 

The adventurers sat around the table looked up, all save one, a fellow in coarse hide armour and a thick brown cloak, decorated with various leaves sewn into it at various points.

“Ah, uh, officer, is there something we can-“ Began one of the adventurers, a human in leather armour with a simple, unadorned iron sword, clearly intimidated by the well armoured, looming high elf now amongst them.

“Sit down, rookie.” He commanded, enthusing his voice with centuries of practiced nobility and command. “Well, you all look as if you must be new around here. New to Waymoot. New to the rules.” He smirked.

One of them, a sweet young Halfling in mages robes, paled, clutching tightly at her wizard’s staff. “I hope we have not broken any-“

 

“THAT is what I aim precisely to establish.” He cut across her with a shout, causing her to flinch. His eyes fixated on the stranger in the leaf-cloak, who still sat quietly, ignoring him and the others, sipping his mug of ale.  “And who exactly are you, stranger, hmm? Don’t you know it’s rude to hide your face in public company? More than rude even, yes. Suspicious. Got something to hide?” He drew in closer, practically breathing on the stranger.

The stranger remained unfazed, and continued to drink his ale in measured sips.

“Ah, don’t worry about him, officer, he’s not with us-“

 

“Shut up.” He said, pushing the human fighter back with a shove. “I am not talking to you. Well, stranger? What do you have to say for yourself?” He reached out, grabbing the mug from the traveller’s hand.

Except now the traveller had his free hand on the eladrin’s arm. Cruril blinked, shocked at the speed with which the traveller had grabbed hold of him. He hadn’t even seen his hands move. “You dare lay hands on an officer of the law?!” He shouted, ripping his mailed arm free from the traveller’s deathgrip. Astonishingly, his gauntlet remained in the traveller’s hand. Somehow he had undone the straps, and Cruril gazed at his pale, elegant hand, exposed.

 

The stranger resumed drinking his ale, dropping the gauntlet as if nothing had happened.

Cruril seethed. This man DARED ignore him? His blood boiled with rage.

“Alright mister, that’s enough of your cheek. I’m taking you outside to answer for your, your, disgusting insolence-“He reached forward with both hands, seizing him with sudden force.

Instead, he flowed out of the leaf cloak, still in Cruril’s hands, and stood, unharmed in his plain hide armour, his face clearly visible for the first time.

 

The stranger was an Elf, too. Worse, he was clearly a Wild Elf. Chestnut brown hair spilled across a delicate face in long locks, framing a face that was proud and fierce, yet oddly feminine at the same time. He looked back at the arrogant eladrin through sharp, yellow eyes, eyes like that of a hawk’s. He seemed to stare right through the enforcer, and his lips curled slightly in disdain. His expression was one that Cruril himself had worn often, but never seen in others, much less directed at himself.

“A Moon elf, tugging at my cloak. Would you pull the stars down and ask them to dance for you?” The Wild elf spoke in the Elven tongue, as if chastising a child.

Cruril burned at the temerity of this outsider, this lowly bush squatter, to address him in such a manner. He felt his fists clench and unclench, determined to assert his authority.

“Your rank insubordination and flagrant disrespect for the authority of an officer of the Law will not stand. I challenge you to a contest of arms!” He picked up his gauntlet and flung it at the wild elf, who simply bent out of the way, smoothly, unruffled.

 

“A child cries at the sea, demanding it reverse the tide. Why should I accept your feeble challenge?”

Cruril spluttered, unable to believe the arrogance of this interloper. “If you do not, I will arrest your friends here as accomplices, and force them to endure your punishment in the cells.”

The Wild elf’s face twisted into a mask of total contempt. “No mere child, but a bully, pulling on the wings of flies.  They are not my friends, but what profit I from their suffering? I accept your....”challenge”.”

“Good. The rules are simple. No magic, only the weapons you carry. We fight until submission. When you lose, you will be interred in the stocks until sunrise, and anyone in town may heap on you any indignity they so choose without consequence.” Cruril smirked, confident now he would humble this tree-hugger.

“The same terms must apply for your own defeat. You cling to the Law so dearly, like a mother’s hem. To pretend its strings do not hold you now would be...beyond contempt.”

“Whatever. Fight me, outside, or these...people will suffer in your place.”

The other adventurers began to protest, but the Wild elf silenced them with a gesture. “I do not do this for you.  Do not interfere for my sake, either.”

 

The townsfolk gathered outside as the sun rose to the mid-point in the sky.  They peered from windows and around corners, as the two elves squared up for a show-down in the middle of the street, outside the Moon and Stars. Even some of the veteran adventurers and seasoned travellers gathered at the tavern windows, intrigued by the prospect of a fight, or perhaps drawn by the prospect of that asshole Cruril finally getting what’s his.

Cruril nodded, and placed an hourglass on a barrel to the side of the street. “You have sharp eyes, woodsy, so we’ll do this simple. When the last sand from the top hits the bottom, we draw swords, and fight till the other one quits.”

 

The wood elf nodded, emotionless. He carried a simple wooden quarterstaff, and nothing else. Cruril regarded the man with suspicion. A druid? “I told you, no magic. Any magic and the rest of this town will come down on you like a tonne of bricks.”

 

“No magic, child. Just my staff.” He said, almost bored. This only infuriated Cruril further.

“Till the sand drops.”

 

Cruril readied himself, spacing his feet in a perfect swordsman’s stance. His hand twitched, hovering over his scabbard. The wood elf simply slouched a little, yawning, his staff held slack in his hands.

A soft wind blew, rustling some of the leaves. Cruril felt sweat run down his brow. He glanced at the hourglass. The sands dripped, a tiny trickle and then...nothing.

 

The ground exploded, as both Elven warriors sprang with the force of a jet from their positions, Cruril’s sword raking across the wood elf’s staff. He was shocked at how fast the man was. Was he some kind of ranger? Cruril gritted his teeth, and disengaged, flipping back and adopting a defensive pose.  Immediately the wood elf’s staff was jabbing and swinging, constantly trying to knock him off balance. He began to panic. This was no rookie woodsy, but an experienced warrior. He briefly worried what he had got himself into, before he had to dodge lightning blows aimed at his head.

 

His sword, though made of mithril, clanged like it was striking a solid wall when he tried to cleave the ranger’s wooden staff. “What?! Imposs-“ He barely had time to exclaim, before the staff –bent- in the wood elf’s hand, like a snake coiling, and struck his overextended wrist, causing him to drop his sword in shock.

“No!” He shouted, but before he could dive to retrieve it he was forced to shield himself with his gauntlets, a storm of blows hammering on him, battering and bruising his arms, impossibly denting the gauntlets.

“Magic? You cheat!” He spluttered, trying to regain his balance.

“I told you. No Magic.” The wood elf smiled with a cocky grin. The staff again bent in his hands, curving around the eladrin’s defence, and knocking his arms down. As the arms and staff fell, the wood elf reached back and punched the arrogant swordsman full in his face, cracking some teeth and cutting his lip.

He spat blood, staggering, his head woozy. “Punch-“

“Its in the rules you set, Child.”

Staggering, he could barely fend off the flurry of blows, as staff and fists pummelled him, bruising him, knocking away parts of his armour, leaving him panting and gasping, bloody, in his fine white tunic and pantaloons.

“You yield?”

“Neve-“

THWACK!

The staff drove itself deep into his belly, knocking all the wind from him, and he curled up in a ball, shuddering, wheezing, his mind reaching out for arcane spells. He tried to move his fingers to cast spells wordlessly, but the Wood Elf slammed his staff down on his hands, breaking a few fingers, causing Cruril to gasp out in pain.

“Now who is the Cheater? Child, you best yield now, before I am forced to break something important.” He ran his staff under the shuddering eladrin’s crotch, almost teasingly. He flinched. “I yield! I yield!” He practically sobbed.

 

The Wood Elf stepped back, triumphant. “He has lost his contest. I believe the stakes he set were...ah yes, a night in the stocks.”

The townspeople were stunned, unable to believe the hated braggart had finally been beaten, and beaten so conclusively.

Someone started clapping.  The clapping spread, and soon there was a wild standing ovation. The Wood Elf shrugged nonchalantly. “I do not need your praise.” He said, and swung his leaf-cloak back on. He hoisted up his staff, and walked back to the Moon and Stars. “I have ale to finish.”

Wheezing, gasping, bloodied and bruised, the disgraced sword mage was dragged through the streets by a shouting, laughing mob, which pelted him with rotten fruit and pebbles, blacking one of his eyes, causing tears to run down his perfect cheeks. He was thrown into the stocks with a slam, the heavy wooden board locking his arms and head in place, where he coughed and spluttered. Someone threw a bucket of piss right in his face, the yellow, foul-stinking fluid running down his one aquiline nose and causing him to gag and retch.

 

“Oh there once was a braggart named Cruril the Blade

Who thought he could master any passer he waylaid

But up came a Woodsy with a Staff of Fey Oak

And the braggart’s sword, spirit and body he broke

Now there lies Cruril in stocks and disgraced

With shit on his head and piss in his face!”

 

A passing bard sang, taunting Cruril. He closed his eyes, his cheeks burning with intense humiliation, trying to block out the jeering and ignore the pelting of fruit and other, less savoury things.

So, at least he knew how the elf had beaten him. The Staff was carved from wood from the Feywild. Technically magical, it nonetheless conformed to the letter of the rules in not being active magic, per se.

He fumed nonetheless, swearing bitter oaths of vile vengeance on him, on everyone in this rotten shithole of a town.

 

Light began to fade, and the crowd finally dispersed, cheered by the unusual sight of their tormenter broken and humiliated, but having other chores to do and growing bored of his sullen sulking.

Cruril sighed, gazing across the empty town square, watching the last villagers leave, the suns setting rays dappling the square with orange hues and lengthening shadow.

Out of one of the shadows emerged the Wood Elf.

 

“Come to gloat?”

“Not exactly, Child. Come to see if my seed has taken root.”

“Fuck you and your mystic babble! You’re a liar, a cheat, a mewling quim, a mountebank -“

The Wood Elf sighed. “Such a filthy mouth. I’ll have to wash it out with soap.”

The Wood Elf was carrying a bucket, sloshing about with soapy water and a rag.

“What are you doing with that?”

“I have come to clean you. One way or the other.”

He began to lather a rag with soap-water, and began washing out the rotting fruit and shit and piss from the thoroughly humiliated eladrin, whose cheeks burned that his enemy should show such consideration.

“I don’t need your fucking charity, you backwoods bearfucker-“

Suddenly the filthy, soapy rag was shoved in his mouth, and he nearly retched from the awful taste. It was removed, and he gagged, gasping for air. Suddenly a block of soap was rammed in, and the awful taste stained his tongue and lips. “Grbghalpsh!” He gargled, trying to speak.

“Quite, child. I see I am going to have to teach you many lessons. The seed will be planted.”

Having cleaned his mouth, he let the eladrin splutter and gasp for breath, whilst he cleaned the rest of him, removing his soiled clothes and pantaloons, revealing a slender, pale body, with lean, whipcord muscles.

“Hey! What are you doing now?”

“You have much to learn yet.” The Wood Elf began to unbutton his thick hide trousers, revealing a lengthy, hardening cock. Cruril’s eyes went wide with shock. “By Corellon, no, not that-“

“You are rigid and brittle. You will break, unless you learn to bend. I will –bend- you.”

“What! No-“

 

Suddenly he felt a piercing, blinding pain, as the sylvan ranger buried his shaft deep into the shocked eladrin’s anus. Agony shot through his body, but he was held rigidly firm by the stocks, unable to see what was going on, or do anything but buck his hips against the pounding.

“Aaagh! No! Stop! Please!”

 

“Very tight. Almost too tight.” He withdrew, letting Cruril flop free, his anal cavity stretched and throbbing. He produced a flask from his belt, containing a strange, milky fluid. “The Sap of the Fey Oak. It will lubricate my staff and allow me to bury my seed deep inside you.”

He rubbed the sap into his hard prick, making it slick and ready. “Are you ready, Child?”

“No!”

“Good.”

 

He penetrated the eladrin again, his spearhead thrusting deep, stretching and tearing his fuckhole loose. The sap eased his passage, and numbed some of the incredible pain the elf felt. He wept bitter tears at this rough treatment. “Please, stop!”

“My seed will grow.” The wood elf said, losing some of his calm, tremors of lust creeping into his voice. “Yes...Yess...This will be a good work!”

He rocked back and forth, his balls slapping against Cruril’s flesh, and he felt the ranger’s hands reach around, slide down his smooth, hairless belly, and grip hold of his own vulnerable, dangling shaft.

“Don’t touch me! Please! Aaah!”

 

“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to assert your dominance too? To plant your seed in this barren garden of a town? To make your mark?” The wood elf snarled, as he shuddered with building lust. He began to jerk the high elf roughly,  coating his hand with  wet sap, lubricating the smaller prick and marking it hard, unyielding like steel.

“Your sword will not bend, but I will make it explode.” He rammed him harder, one hand now fingering his prostrate, the other jerking him with smooth, practiced motions.

 

“Uggh! Please...” Something broke within the eladrin, snapping like an old twig. He found his body responding to the expert ministrations of the ranger, his ass burning, his prostrate enflamed with pleasure, his cock twitching and the pressure in his balls rising.

“Now...I...Come!” Shouted the ranger with triumph, blasting his seed deep into the swordsman’s rear. Jizz leaked from his sodden, abused asshole, and he felt his own orgasm come, unbidden, a quivering, powerful eruption that tremored from his prostrate and up his penis, bursting forth with semen of his own.

“Aaaah! Aaaah!” Cruril cried out, splattering the street with his cum, his cock shrinking now, his anus throbbing with a mixture of pain and unwanted pleasure.

“Ah. Night has fallen. Tell me, have you Bent yet, Child?”

“Aah...uh...” Cruril sobbed, shamed by the pleasure he had felt, determined not to give in. “No more, please.”

“No more? Tell me, when you threw your victims into these stocks, did they beg no more? When you ground peasants’ faces into the dirt, making them lick your boots, did you grant them no more?”

“I...”

 

“No, Child. Cruril Harpblade. I have heard of you. Your story has spread. Your comrades knew your rumour of the Dragon was a lie, so they sought me out, and told me to teach you a lesson. I said I would give you one last chance, a chance to avoid my instruction. But you came to me, like an overeager child, a big fish in a small pond. You couldn’t stand even the smallest sign of defiance. You couldn’t stand to be ignored. Now, you will be ignored no longer.”

 

“Please...” He sobbed, tears flowing freely, realising how truly foolish he had been.

“My name is Ethiliel. In some parts I am called the Gardener. In others, Teacher or Steward. For tonight, I am all this, and also your Master. We have until Sunrise, and by then you will beg your Master to teach you more, to plant my seed deeper in you, to bend you fully. Only then will I grant you reprieve.”

Cruril looked up, straining his neck, as the Wood Elf walked around, his prick standing free, coated in his own juices.  He saw the shark-like grin Ethiliel wore, and knew it was a mirror of his own face from before.

“Now, you will begin. Suck.”

 

=====================================

 

 

It was a very long night for Cruril Harpblade. By the end of it, he had indeed been thoroughly seeded, and a garden would soon bloom. When the sun rose, he begged for more, pleaded with the Ranger.

The Ranger put away his tool, panting, exhausted, having climaxed many times. “My work here is done, Swordsman. Perhaps you will greet your travellers more kindly from now on. Or perhaps you will beg them to master you.” He smiled. “Either way, my lesson has been taught.”

He walked away, leaving the pilloried, cum-hungry eladrin, his shaft still stiff and sore, still craving more climaxes. “Please! Let me out so i can cum! Aaaaah!” He flapped his hands vainly, trying to reach his throbbing member, desperate to climax one more time, and sobbing at this last lesson, the lesson of Denial.

 

The Sword; made of Steel, Mithril or Iron. Unyielding, rigid, demanding. It thrusts, it cuts, it draws blood, and it is satisfied.  But it grows rusty in the storm, and can break when brittle with rust. But the Wood, the Wood can bend, even the Oak, and so it can endure the storm, and grow many, many more times.  

The teacher walked on, his leaf-cloak blowing in the soft wind, and looked forward to his next pupil, the next garden he would plant.

 

==THE END==