Bucing Bronco

bucking bronco

(ˈbʌkɪŋ ˈbrɒŋkəʊ)

noun

US informal

an untamed horse that cowboys try to ride in a rodeo

A wanted, vigilante swashbuckler stumbles upon a fellow adventurer tending to his own wounds in a natural hot spring deep in the forest... a gruff, angry adventurer who does not take kindly to anyone witnessing his body for what it shouldn't be. The vigilante manages to settle the bull long enough to get something truly good out of it.

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I've been doing some psychological work to try and cope + seethe + mald about my body. However, there is very little porn about men like me that doesn't set me off. The solution to this problem is to write it myself.

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Magic projectiles arc through gnarled branches and thorny brambles, singing their shrill warnings of pure energy as they narrowly miss Varin's retreating back. Adrenaline dulls the pain of plant hooks grabbing onto his skin through several layers of clothing as he bounds through towering pillars of trees. He grabs onto a thin one and vaults himself forward, then throws his shoulders sideways to dart between two others. A crackling white ball flashes through the space between his ear and shoulder; fingers of electricity branch out and latch onto his skin for the nanosecond it's within range, uploading heat into his muscle fibers. It smashes against a dark tree trunk ahead of him, splattering into static, angry particles and instantly searing the bark into blackened char with a glowing, orange center.

Varin leaps past the tree as they shout after him and completely unleash the pack - you forget how terrifying barking is until you hear it all around you, hear them talking to each other, a bloodthirsty note in their echoing calls that shake your brain back to a primordial state.

The forest floor isn't flat. This part least of all. It's a myriad of topsoil being pushed up by spiderwebs of root systems and sudden drops into micro valleys and fairy creeks as the entire landscape troughs and crests steadily downward, like wrinkles in a massive bed sheet. The crumbs in this bed sheet are massive boulders covered in moss and lichen. Dead trees lie as logs where they had the privilege of falling all the way to the forest floor, unlucky others had their antlers caught in the living trees and are stuck on a diagonal. More obstacles he needs to get past without a second to lose.

He leaps again, lands poorly, and rolls his ankle with a wounded shout. The barking grows sharper; he sees shapes darting through the leaves. He runs for two, three, five more paces, just long enough for him to pull yet another surge of magic from his origin muscle. On the next footfall, he lets himself collapse into a splattering of moss around and on the base of a tree.

Varin's moss is black, which would give him away if these woods weren't so dim and dark. He blends right in with the dark green moss his faux imitation fell on - everything looks black or dark green this far in. The men and their dogs come immediately; they were that close behind. The dogs snivel at the ground, but not in any particular direction because his scent does not carry over to this temporary form. They can't hear his thundering footsteps anymore, so they know he pulled some funny business, but the range of possibilities is uncountable. The seconds tick by slower than Varin would like them to, and even though he isn't hurt by their heavy boots and rough paws stepping on his moss, he hates the alien, out-of-body, third-person view that is granted to him in this form. His "eyes" are fixed an inch or so above the mean center point of his moss spread. It makes him nauseous, derealized. He wishes he could generate a sound off to the side so they'd leave, but he can't cast additional magic in this form. He technically has no origin muscle to cast with.

Eventually, they spit at the ground in defiance and slink back from whence they chased. The forest is rot with bandits and hooligans; they don't belong here. When their noise fades and silence has more than a moment to settle in, Varin reforms. Immediately, all soreness, aches, and pains overtake him, and he groans softly in slight anguish. He got a shallow gash from a sword across the upper abdominals in the preceding fight, not enough to injure the muscle, but enough to stain his white, linen undershirt red and the surrounding skin also red from rubbing the open wound while running through untamed woods. His arms and legs spill pinpricks of blood and souvenirs of thorns, his clothing bears spurs, and there are leaves and spiderwebs and an actual spider in his hair. He flings it from himself with a dignified level of terror.

He feels like shit. His stomach heaves as he catches his breath.

After gulping, licking his lips, and returning to normal intensities of breathing, he instinctively turns towards where he knows there is a natural hot spring.

The fairy creeks trickle down through the land, coming together like strands of a braid in a larger river. Varin slinks along through the foliage, keeping to the shade and avoiding the scatterings of warm sunlight penetrating through the canopy. Sweat collects on his forehead and his neck; he feels beads seep past hair follicles on his scalp. Pulling aside a rudimentary curtain of woody vines reveals the wide expanse of the hot spring basin. Steam curls up from warm, cloudy water which is enchanted to ward off water striders and other bugs from coming near. Relief floods his body as he licks his dry lips and shucks his dirty, ripped, bloodied clothing and lightweight armor in the bush. Once completely naked, he places his hands on his pile of belongings and generates more magic from his origin muscle. The fibers of his serratus anterior thrum as warmth spills down his arms and through his fingers, turning his pile into an inconspicuous rock. No thief wants a rock.

Varin grins and turns back to the water eagerly. He unravels the tight string that kept most of his long, brown hair from getting in his eyes while running. It's tangled from the action and the humidity, and he can feel the flyaways. He props his hands on the flat slab of rock and slides his lithe, injured body gingerly down into the water. A shaky, relieved moan punches out of his throat when the heat engulfs his cock and balls, then stings the shallow slash on his abdomen.

He hears a gruff sound.

Through the swirling, opaque clouds is the body of a man, hard with muscle and a head of short black hair. His face is gritty and handsome, but his expression is like that of a territorial wild animal that has caught a trespasser. Varin's eyes follow a sweat trickle down from the man's jugular, over collarbones and rippling abs, down the v-line to...

"Oh." Leaves his lips in an aroused whisper. Varin isn't displeased. Quite the opposite. But the man's pupils shrink and he lunges violently through mid-thigh-deep water. Wrong response.

Varin does not have the brainpower - or the grappling skill - to sufficiently defend against the onslaught of strength that charges through the water and pins him to a large, flat rock that lies only an inch below the water's surface. "Stop, stop! I mean you no harm!"

Heat water sloshes around their bodies as a forearm is shoved under his jaw, pinning his head and throat to the rock. Black forearm hair tickles his nostrils as he gets a proper look at the handsome stranger's face.

Fearful. Guarded.

The man's voice is cagey, low, and rough. "You have seen my shame. That's harm enough. I'll burn you into-"

He stops when he feels Varin's hard cock rise to greet his, bumping the underside of the head. The man glances down at where he is hovering over Varin's pelvis, then back at Varin's nervous grin.

"I do love frottage." Varin tries to settle the raging bull. His choice of a masculine word is purposeful.

It gets him a pause - the man stares hard at his expression, gauging if there is an ounce of mockery or pandering in his words. But it's pretty difficult to fake a hard-on, and equally difficult to not feel flattered that its cause was you.

Varin takes the pause as an opportunity to get daring (it's what he's good at), and places his hands on the tops of the man's thighs, where they join the hips. He feels the instinctive recoil and the hawklike gaze boring into his skull, but the stranger's cock engorges a little from the vaguely-trimmed field of black hair. He's allowed to keep going, so he places his thumb against the side while an upward thrust rubs the man's head along the entire length of his underside. The man shudders and his eyes shut for the briefest moment as he sighs.

"What's your name, handsome?"

A sneer. "None of your concern."

"Alright, guess I'll moan something random, then. Like Binglesworth."

The man's face screws up in mild agony. "Koth."

Varin smiles up at the flushed mass of muscle and anger hovering over him. "'Koth'... fitting. I'm Varin."

Koth grinds down on his dick, slotting theirs together over and over again. Their collective huffs and groans muffle into the steam clouds. Varin feels Koth's thigh muscles shifting and twitching under the hairy skin, and a faint thrumming from one oddly specific, winding line of fibers that starts at his hip bones and ends on his inner knees. Varin hears a growl and looks up to see Koth glaring at him through continued humping.

'Found his origin muscle. Sartorius.' Varin thinks, then backs off by adding his thumbs to the fray between their legs. Koth jolts from the added stimulation and moans heavily.

'This is so hot.' Varin's mind is awash with nothing but heat. He can tell Koth is shorter than his own tall, wiry self, but so much thicker with muscle and a thin layer of fat where natural. Power. Just pure, aggressive, physical power. Koth has taken the lead a while ago, using Varin's cock like a tool for his own pleasure. 'This is so hot.' He thinks again.

They both cum one after the other, Koth first, Varin second, spilling onto Koth's happy trail and onto his own lower stomach. Varin knows that Koth's parts allow him to go again right away, but his own needs time for recovery. He does not verbalize this, however, as he suspects that would put him in bodily danger. The bull has not been tamed, only pacified.

"Let me- can I suck you off?" He changes it from a demand to a question halfway through. Submit. Beg. Again, he's good at smooth talking. He's smooth talked his way into Lord's wive's chambers, out of jail cells, and out of far too many bar tabs. The breathy air to his voice must've helped his case because Koth nods and grunts despite his initial bristling. They swap places so that Koth is lying on his broad back against the water-smoothed flat rock, legs spread and his line of sparse body hair guiding Varin's greedy eyes down a rising chest, twitching abs, and a different - albeit just as masculine and arousing - dick.

Varin tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear as he sets his mouth upon the display before him. While he is thin and lanky, he is far from delicate or feminine. His hand tendons and veins are prominent, his jaw is square, his eyebrows thick, his eyes sunken. What he lacks in muscle he makes up for in wit. He wraps his lips around Koth's cock (he laughs internally) and languidly begins to suck, tonguing the head inside his mouth. Koth had initially had his head strained up to keep a watchful, jaded eye on him, but he allows it to fall back with a shallow splash to heave a moan. Varin watches pridefully as gleaming pectorals rise and fall with shuddering breaths. That sort of magic is somewhat easier to do, for men like Koth, who are altogether quite rare. The magic that would alter his parts... neigh impossible. Varin sympathizes. He's never known men like Koth, not even in his people-dense escapades, but he'd gathered much intel and heard the stories and gossip.

He also knew men like that were more than welcome in his bed.

His hands wander greedily as he bobs his head, feeling thigh muscle and abdominals and coming back to center stage to idly reach below Koth's dick-

"No." Koth snarls, his voice hard and stern. His whole body had seized up and he'd grabbed Varin's head by a hard fistful of hair. Varin peers up at Koth's face, 'wrong move. Don't touch that', and whimpers an apology onto his dick. The vibrations are sent directly into his pelvis, and his eyelids flutter down once more.

Varin cannot begin to articulate how hot that whole exchange was. He returns to sucking dick like he was before, trying even harder to be a good boy. He's a matador in the bull ring, and the red flag is his skin.

He tests fingers at Koth's asshole, waiting for approval or teeth at his neck. Koth's hips jump and his hole clenches, but the hand that remains on his head does not threaten to grab his hair. He pulls magic from his origin muscle - seemingly at the same time Koth offers some from his - and oil coats his fingers and Koth's ass. Idly, Varin wishes it were all over him, highlighting the volume and definition of Koth's iron body. He sinks his index finger into hot, smooth walls, then quickly adds a second. Koth shudders. He's reminded of all the muscles that make up human genitals, of the muscle he's currently touching. There are stories of people whose origin muscles are the internal or external anal sphincters, people who cut off penises using their magic for grotesque means of justice against baited criminals and lowlifes. Koth's origin muscle isn't either of those, but Varin feels the threat of violence nevertheless.

And that turns him on soooo much.

It doesn't take long before Koth grits his teeth and his whole body spasms - Varin feels his dick shake and jolt back in his mouth. And Varin's hard again.

Koth lurches up and grabs Varin by the thighs, 'Oh, of course, he can pick me up easily' Varin sings in his mind as he is manhandled onto his back once more. He gasps out a long, whimpering moan when Koth braces his hands on Varin's knees and sinks down fully onto Varin's lap. Varin feels the hot, tight walls engulf his twitching, wet cock. He feels Koth's dick and pubic hair rubbing on his lower abdomen where he is seated. His eyes - delirious with begging arousal - meet Koth's - wild and crazed with power-hungry arousal.

Koth begins to ride. Varin watches hungrily as his every muscle works like the machine it is to allow the motion, thigh to hip to stomach to tricep. Once again, he is used as a convenient tool for pleasure, and he is so turned on. 'He could destroy me.' Varin thinks. 'If I made another wrong move. Crush his whole body weight onto my ribs. Like throwing a dining room table at a wire birdcage. Fuck, this is sooo hot...'

They both start to lose it as Koth's motions get more sloppy and Varin bucks up desperately. Varin loves sex, he loves cumming, and he seeks out this feeling whenever he can. Through the pink, hazy mist of arousal, his higher-level brain deduces that Koth seems to be scared of the feeling. He's stuttering to stop himself from slamming down too hard, too fast.

Varin groans long and beggingly and grabs Koth's hips again, making him grind down and chase the feeling. They climax together. Varin's cum pumps into his ass while Koth's dick shudders on itself, into Varin's skin.

The moment of bliss lets them sit silently in the hot water in the dark forest, and then it passes. Koth gets off the saddle - Varin watches with dull arousal as ropes of white seep down powerful hamstrings - and stalks back towards the other end of the hot spring to sit by himself.

"No aftercare?" Varin calls, halfway as a joke and halfway a genuine, mournful request. He gets up on shaky fawn legs and follows the prickly stranger through the swirling cloud, sitting down next to him in the water and leaning back against the gray rocks.

Koth glances at him for only a second, then his eyes dart away. "I let you live. I'm letting you stay. That's plenty hospitable."

Varin leans back against the rocks properly and grins idly up at the canopy.