(All imaginary people in this fantasy world are 18, the age you legally have to be in order to have sex in magical worlds. –Theworldspins)
Chapter Four: the Red Flower
Faithful readers, I've received wonderful news: my execution is to take place by the executioner's axe, and not, as I'd expected, by being burned at the stake. This stroke of luck has left me in such good spirits that I've been moved to write once more.
Where did I leave you, dear readers? Ah yes, I believe I was still in the clutches of the bandits, fearful after hearing Kali's pledge to destroy me, yet hopeful that a blowjob from the bandit wench Lina might take the edge off my certain death.
In truth, the feeling of her moist, magnificent mouth around my massive member made me forget my fears and foul temper. As a captive/bandit-in-training, I, of course, had to wait my turn; watching her service the bandits with her talented mouth, however, was in a way its own reward.
That night, the nameless bandit, whom I had taken to calling the "fourth man," if you recall, came to me alone. I assumed it was his intention to do me in, perhaps, or to initiate me into the gang—it was not clear yet what was intended. All I knew at that point was that he possessed some form of magic, powerful enough to form the indelible bandit's mark that now adorned the creamy skin of Lina, Kali, and some other countless number of bandit's wenches. These unfortunate women had been reduced through the perfidy of bandits to simply a set of holes for their deviant gratification (gratification which, to be fair, I myself enjoyed thoroughly, though with a somewhat guilty conscience). Now, Kali had sworn to become a witch to avenge her stolen honor, her fiery eyes making it painfully clear she intended to tear me apart at the first chance she got.
"You want in?" he queried quietly.
Before I could answer, he fished out his cock—no small thing, though also no competition to my own—and began to piss a stream as wide as it was foul-smelling. Though he pointed his cock to the left of my face, pissing a good two feet from me, his affect was menacing. Perhaps the only thing worse than being simply run through with a dagger is to bleed out while soaked in your killer's urine—in any event, I didn't want either to occur and was, as always, compliant.
"I...I...I would," I stuttered, certainly not putting on a display of composure in front of the mystically-empowered, vicious, menacingly-urinating brigand before me. "What would you have me do?"
"Good boy," he said patronizingly. "We've got a score, set us up before we have to strike camp and make trails. Think you could handle a simple smash-and-grab?"
Fortunately, bandits' lingo is often quite literal, and I could figure the meaning of the expression with ease.
"Yes, sir, you just send me, and I'll bring you back whatever you want."
I didn't mention the part about escaping at the first chance I had; after the catastrophe with Kali, my strategic acumen was steadily improving.
"Well, you're not going alone. You and Mr. Pitts are heading to pick up something for me. He's in charge, so you don't even imagine back-talking, or gods forbid, trying to run away. Pitts'd love a chance to wet his dagger in you—metaphorically and otherwise."
I had no clue at that juncture what a metaphor was; suffice it to say, I didn't want anything to do with a disappointed Mr. Pitts. My plans would have to be shelved until better opportunities presented themselves. I probably should have simply shut my mouth, but at that moment, my curiosity got the best of me.
"What was that you said over Kali's body?" I asked impudently. "The words, I mean. Magic?"
"I can't cast spells, boy," the fourth man said ominously. "The magic comes from Him."
Again with my big mouth: "Him who?"
"The one who speaks when He should be silent, who laughs while others weep. He limps, yet dances, never sows, yet reaps a hundredfold. He is but a Man, yet makes love to a goddess. It is His magic you saw, boy."
"The Left-Handed One?"
"Aye."
I know what you're thinking, dear reader: that certainly didn't suffice to ease my curiosity. In any event, I still slept under the stars by that tree, and the next morning, my bonds were cut, to set off with Mr. Pitts.
There are few things that inspire a simultaneous feeling of intense fear and utter boredom than riding for miles with a man who doesn't want you to know whether he plans to kill you or not. Pitts, far from the jovial sadism of his compatriots, was almost utterly silent on our journey. At least now I was fed, though all my actions came at the prompting of monosyllabic orders from Pitts: "Eat." "Shit." "Wait." "Sleep."
We were deep in the forest, and as far as I could tell, we were headed away from anything remotely approaching civilization. It was difficult for me to imagine what thing of value might be found so deep in the woods. Despite my trepidation, I finally appealed to Pitts to inform me as to our quarry.
"What's that?" he said, a picture of ignorance.
"Just asking, sir, what're we looking for? What're we gonna steal?"
"We ain't thieves," he replied. "We don't sneak around and nick things. We...capture."
"Well, sir, what are trying to capture?"
"Trying?"
I could feel my collar tightening.
"What're we taking back?"
"He wants the Red Flower."
"Red Flower?" I asked, intrigued but trying to hide it.
"Very rare. Very valuable. Not to keep, too precious. Fetch a tidy sum, I imagine."
I could only imagine the "Red Flower" was perhaps a ruby, or an object of great magical enchantment. Perhaps it summoned a powerful creature to the assistance of its possessor, or sparkled like a thousand suns, even within the dark recesses of the earth. My mind was enraptured with what the "Red Flower" might be.
"And it's out here in the woods?" I continued, a little unwisely given the way Mr. Pitts was rubbing one finger across the pommel of his blade.
"It's up your mother's ass," he countered, "we're just out 'ere for the
scenery
."
I took that as my cue to be silent. We traveled for four days—far and away the furthest I'd ever been from home, and all of it in dense forest that slowed our passage at times to a crawl. I felt remorse for ever having struck the Baron's son, plunging my life, as it did, into one unremitting train of horrors (with the occasional blowjob sprinkled in to make things bearable).
Finally, when I'd begun to lose faith we'd ever reach any sort of destination, Pitts simply pulled up, a finger to his lips, and stuck his hand into my chest. I halted, waiting for some word, anything, to tell me what was going on.
In the faintest whisper, Pitts spoke: "He's up ahead. We'll approach together, then you go through the front, and I step around the backways. Open the door and distract 'im, and I'll put 'im down."
Suddenly I realized that the "smash" part of a "smash-and-grab" might involve a poor, innocent old hermit in the forest. I'd often hear tales of how such hermits would care for poor travelers lost in the woods—it's funny to recall how trusting of the good intentions of strange men living alone in the forest I was back then. In any event, it appeared I would soon be an accomplice to murder, and I had to choose whether to go along to save my own skin, or hope that by changing my allegiances, I might, together with whomever I encountered at the cottage, turn the tables on Mr. Pitts.
We crept forward, as silently as possible, until I finally saw the cottage up ahead. It was twilight by the time we approached, and though no smoke escaped from the cottage, it appeared to be lit from within, as though a hearthfire burned without smoldering. As I continued a direct path towards the door, Pitts broke off to circle around back. I asked whatever gods I could think of for guidance, and, once I'd made my approach, knocked on the door of the hut.
"Kind sir," I called out, "I beg you of aid. I'm lost and—"
At that moment, the hovel door swung open, and a wizened old man with a patchy white beard and bald head opened.
"If you think for one second that—"
"Sir," I interrupted, "in one moment a man is going to come through your back door—"
"And get a nasty shock," he laughed.
At that moment, Pitts burst through the back door, and my vision went white. When my eyes focused again, Pitts was flat on his back, and the old man had a gnarled staff crowned with a rusty iron spike in his hand.
"You boys must not know who I am," he said, wheezing a little and backing me away from his cottage.
"Sir, I do not," I said, praying the man took my warning as a sign of good faith. "Though I promise you I—"
"Not interested in bandits' words," he said, backing me away with the pointed end of his makeshift spear until my back struck a tree.
"I'm no bandit," I swore, "only a captive looking for a chance to escape."
"That so?" he asked, still not lowering his blade. "Seems a risky move for a bandit to try one job while holding the spoils of another."
"Spoils?"
"You got a cock, boy?"
If he only knew...
"Yes, sir. Last I checked."
"Well that means they'd've killed you, unless you were worth some gold. They only keep women—whores, really."
"Sir," I said, at little more at ease now, "do I look I'm worth some gold?"
The old man laughed, a dry, wheezing laugh.
"You like day-old shit," he said.
"But not a bandit?"
"Not a bandit," he relented, finally dropping his spear. "Come inside and help me drag his carcass out."
