Yearning Man Quest For The Consort

The stare Aniz leveled at her first minister would have stopped an autumn elk in mid-charge.

"What? What do you mean 'not enough men'?" The flash from her dark eyes caught everyone's attention and the dozen assembled men and women in the room held their collective breath.

Rothner returned her gaze, level and even as hers. His sharp chin jutted forward, the weight of his body supported by wide-spread hands resting on the long wooden table between them. Hot desert air from a midday breeze ruffled the russet-brown linen draperies of the narrow windows of the summer palace. He had known the news would not sit well.

"Your Highness, one of the villars, it appears, is disqualified."

Silence hung heavy in the hot indoor air, eyes darting from one to another.

"Only seven then, you say? A most unlucky number." Aniz went on, gathering her thoughts, as if not quite believing her minister. "Tradition dictates an even eight men, or the challenge is invalid. We would have to wait another year."

"Another year," she repeated.

She stopped, eyebrows furrowed, arms crossed, and her eyes went to each of the men and women assembled around the table. Her grey-streaked but still flaxen hair was distraught, and the linen fabric of her long crimson garment moved slightly from the open-window breeze while she strove to take in the minister's statement.

"Disqualified? How so? What has he done? How is it he does not measure up?" This made no sense.

How did this idiot minister, supposedly acting in her interests, not understand the magnitude of the situation and the consequences?

"What is this 'disqualification' about?"

"The villar from my district has sired a daughter." Shana, Fernwood 's governor, tall and stately with her swept back salt-and-pepper hair, spoke quietly. "We only just received notice. The consul there is quite certain."

"The fellow simply won't do as a candidate."

Aniz stared back at her, then looked at the rest of the room, her husband and the other ministers, all tense and unnaturally silent.

"We can produce the mother of the child if you insist, and her story is convincing enough," Shana continued.

Aniz raised her chin.

"This cannot happen. There can't be a child. Such a daughter would jeopardize everything." She paced the length of the table.

"Ah, but the wench, this 'mother,' may be aggrieved." She spoke rapidly, urgently. "She might be lying. Have a reason to slight this villar, deny his chances for a place in our house. Was the fellow married? Surely you would have checked."

"No, but of course that part does not matter. The girl is almost two, the mother's story is corroborated by multiple sources from their region. The fellow has been seen holding the youngster in his own arms."

Aniz frowned.

"Is there no alternate? The second villar from Fernwood? Someone to replace him? No other way to proceed? We cannot postpone another year, Darya is only just past twenty summers now. We are overdue."

"The provinces aren't always perfectly standardized in their competitions. Sometimes the villars fade back to their villages straight after the contests have ended. The focus, as it should be, is on the winner, it isn't always clear who was second."

Aniz turned her gaze to Shana and raised an eyebrow. She did not need to voice her request.

"Yes. I will make inquiries, see what we can do." Shana bowed.

"I need another villar! Time is crucial. Don't just 'make inquiries.' Furnish me with a candidate!"

****

In the adjacent room, two young women could scarcely avoid overhearing the tumult next door, if not the exact words. The late summer sun slanted in through the windows of the summer palace, the hot desert breeze pushing the red linen drapes ever so slightly.

The vast playa, that wide, dry, fine-dirt basin that sat between the Black Mountains and the Elkhorns, was searing this time of year, the dust always rising in the afternoon heated breeze. The rocky hilltops in the distance gleamed an ominous dark in the wavering, heat-stoked, air.

Alya spoke quietly to Darya, as they gazed out over the playa, trying not to eavesdrop.

"Your mother does not sound happy. There may be troubles, again, this year."

Darya nodded. "These times are frightful for her. This would be three wasted summers in a row now. Mother does not take well to delays, the heaviness of events, squandered opportunities of fate."

"I believe I heard something about an insufficient number of villars."

"Again? This was an issue last year as well. Surely there is some way around it all."

"Timing. It is all timing. Everything has to happen before the New Moon, not but ten days away."

They stared at each other, but activity outside on the playa caught their attention.

Alya nudged Darya, "See, there they are now, the first practice," pointing out the window.

The two moved to the window and looked down at the dusty playa.

Several men were crouched at a line drawn across the hard-packed sand. Various heights and weights, barefoot, all without clothes, all with erections, sky-clad only, tense and ready in the midday sun.

"Look at them. There's only seven."

They were a sight, some beards sparse and patchy, others quite full. Skin tones from dark to pale, but all with taut sinews, limbs accustomed to exertion. Eyes were bright and directed towards the race official.

"We missed seeing them getting their staffs stiff," laughed Darya, pointing. "Almost always the most entertaining part of the short race, at least in the practice runs."

Perhaps half of the men had cock-rings of various types, usually just a knotted leather string, accentuating a pair of pulled together balls and pushing an erection forward. But one fellow, stocky and muscular, wore some sort of white, bone-like encasing around his staff, a polished white circle with odd projections that squeezed a hefty pair of balls together and pushed forth a thick member, the head just visible behind the sheath-skin.

This one event, unlike all the rest for the villars, was held naked and with erections. The long races, the strength and wrestling competitions, all the other events happened with loincloths. But this race, to determine the fastest of them all, was a favorite for the crowds who were to come -- strong, handsome, aroused men were always a charming sight.

Alya nudged Darya.

"A unique arrangement on that one! Not the usual look! What must it feel like to run with a stiff shaft? I don't even like hurrying with swaying breasts." Darya looked at Alya, whose soft chest was far heftier than her own.

"I cannot imagine," said Darya

"For the short time of the race, discomfort likely matters little. Yet it drew your attention, does it not?"

They both laughed.

A middle-aged toadstool of a man in a loose red tunic, squat and supercilious, raised a short flag.

"Ready!" He shouted, gazing down the line, checking that all toes were safely behind the line.

Tense, the men steadied their positions at the starting line, each set of eyes, each erection, pointing forward, down the playa.

"Go!" He dropped his flag, and the men hurtled off, limbs churning, thighs rippling, staffs wagging, aiming for the finish mark several hundred paces down the playa.

A tall lean fellow had taken the lead. Alya pointed at his heaving haunches.

"Some serious meat there," she said. "Impressive."

The backs of the men were an appealing sight, their arse cheeks dimpling in frantic contraction to gain speed and arrive first.

Arms waved in geometric arcs, hamstrings tensed and released, calves contracted, bare feet rose and fell.

The tall straining leader was challenged by a smaller lean man with dark, well-corded thighs and a long and skinny wagging member. Alya held her breath.

The race lasted but the shortest of times, a dozen heaving breaths. After crossing the finish line, the men bent over, panting, their ribs expanding and contracting as they drew in the dusty air. The tall one had retaken the lead and won by a half a stride. Several of heavier men looked particularly fatigued.

"It will be a long and entertaining week," said Darya, examining each of the villars. "This is but the first exhibition."

"Let us hope all goes well."

"Do you know any of them? Their names and provinces?" Darya asked.

Alya shook her head. "We should get a list tonight perhaps, it is only the first day of practice and they've only just arrived."

"How I wish there were eight! This all may be for naught."

The runners bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard.

Darya lingered at the window. Such handsome bums, all of them different. Smooth, hairy, well formed, lean, they came in every shape. She examined the now wilting staffs, depleted from their owners' exertions. Would one of them find a home within her shortly, as tradition dictated? As her mother sought? She shuddered. All of this was unsettling and all of it completely out of her hands.

****

Aniz and her husband exchanged glances when Darya arrived at dinner. While early evening, there was still sunlight. Only two tapers were needed for lighting the long oaken table.

"Sorry to be late," Darya mumbled, sliding into her seat.

Aniz watched her daughter closely, her thin light hair tied into a knot at the back of her head, the scarce down on her forearms the same color as her fair skin, not sun-darkened like the working girls of the palace, whose efforts took them outside. Aniz tried to remember herself at that age, and shook her head. Had she been that handsome? Others had told her so but it was hard to tell. Darya was smaller, with angular features and a sharp nose. She lacked both patience and common-sense.

If only her precious daughter didn't rail against the restrictions normal of her station, if only she knew better the importance of her future.

"The first sprint was today, the first trial anyway," Darya said, starting the conversation before anyone else could begin.

"They looked good, although it is even hotter than usual. Handsome, vigorous." She dipped a piece of bread into a lentil spread and chewed quietly, but she noted that eyes were downcast. She was undone by the silence.

"We have a difficulty," her mother began.

Darya looked at her parents in turn. Her mother's left eye would twitch whenever anxiety claimed her. Her father's face also was not that of an optimist. She guessed what they would likely say, but not how they would frame it all.

"We always have difficulties. Our world is never perfect, although I knew you wish it were so." Darya thought it best to adopt a matter-of-fact tone.

Aniz scowled at her daughter's manner. She did not appreciate this overdone stab at maturity.

"Villars, Darya. We don't have enough." Aniz's mouth formed a line as level as the playa.

Darya paused. "Wasn't this an issue last year, too? Don't tell me..."

"I'm afraid so." Darya's mother looked aggrieved.

"We're making inquiries," her father began. "There's been a last-minute disqualification, but we are working on a replacement."

Darya put down her bread.

"This is my future of which you speak. Surely..." she felt her voice catch.

"Yes, yes, Darya. We are quite aware. It is not just you, of course. The whole tradition depends on this...being done properly."

Her father interrupted. "I have some faith that all will work out. There is still some time."

"But not much! The New Moon is only ten days away!" Darya felt her voice catch. She put her hands into her lap, grasping them carefully together so as keep them still. Each summer now at this month had become an ordeal, each one worse than the one before.

Her mother's eyes flashed. "It seems again the provinces have not done their due diligence. I will do everything possible within my power to make it all good."

Darya felt the keen gaze of her mother upon her. Once again she wished to be free like Alya. Who did her service, handled her responsibilities but otherwise could come and go as she wished, unbound by complex and innumerable protocols. Who did not need to be guarded and protected and catered to.

Had Aniz felt this way at this stage of her life, just before her own culmination? Darya could not imagine this and looked at each of her parents in turn.

"Our own time did not go perfectly," her father began.

Darya shook her head, she did not need to hear this story again.

Her father continued. "Of course you know all this, what matters is that your mother dropped the kirfa in time, and things went as they should."

"And your loins were sufficient!" said Aniz, the first time she had smiled at dinner in a long time, for which Darya was grateful.

"Yours too," replied her father warmly. "We are but humans, caterpillars of the gods. We do our part, but so much is beyond our control."

"But what we can control, we will." Aniz was stern again, squaring her narrow shoulders. Her clavicle, prominent just above the hem of her tunic reminded Darya of the rafter of a roof or the inner supporting rib of a slender but swift ship. Her nose was long and pointed. "With luck, we'll have good news shortly."

Darya was pleased to finally finish her meal and escape down the central hallway of the summer palace to Alya's chambers.

"You were right, Alya. We're a villar short. Another curse for us all this summer, but they think there is hope still."

"Alya, I almost want to run away. Would you come with me?"

"I would if it were feasible." Alya's head went from side to side and she issued a rueful smile. "And where, exactly, would we run to? The coast is two days away, and then what? Build a boat and hope for fair winds? To where? Or to the eastern desert, so endless? I do not recollect you being overly fond of spiders and scorpions. You have a better place in mind, perhaps?"

"No." Darya's thin fine hair had loosened from its knot and waved as she shook her head.

Alya put a hand on Darya's fair shoulder, smooth in the evening air.

"Besides, you'd miss the events, some handsome villars, and perhaps a mate."

"If this year is like the past few, I'd prefer to run away. But you're right of course. Sensible Alya."

They continued to speak with some slight lessening of Darya's agitation. Finally she turned to her maidservant.

"I should like a man tonight. Although it always means extra work for you."

Alya shook her head. "Never a chore," she lied, although her charge's evening events were not always without some vicarious enjoyment for herself. "You should choose who you wish. Luke? One of your favorites, with his long skinny staff and those sweet energetic haunches that enchant you so?"

"No, I want Nomed. The last time with him was luscious, like a juicy ripe pear in early autumn."

Alya winced in a way that she hoped would remain unnoticed by her mistress. She had had Nomed herself but the night previous. It would likely take three days for him to recover if Darya had him this evening.

"Excellent. I'll have him alerted. Your bedchambers?"

"No, it is sultry warm tonight. The roof."

Alya bowed, "Very well."

Nomed came as bidden, barefoot and unclothed. Darya preferred a stiff staff from the very outset, and he took a moment on the staircase with his hand to make sure all was ready.

He paused at the top of the narrow stairs, Alya at the doorway returning his silent smile. He was a handsome one, slender, with hip bones protruding at the front of his pelvis, a glint to his dark eyes, shaggy hair, an easy smile, game for anything.

His cock gleamed stiffly in the dim light.

"Nomed, your staff could make the stars fall from the sky. I wish you were with me tonight, when I could give you a proper ride, but I daresay your presence will soothe some royal nerves," Alya whispered.

Seizing a last kiss, she opened the heavy wooden door to the rooftop porch and urged him on. She would need to keep an eye on both of them and found herself a quiet viewing corner.

Darya turned from the railing overlooking the dark, grey expanse of playa. An owl hoot haunted from the hills.

Her eyes traveled up and down Nomed, her lips compressed in pleasure.

"Nomed, excellent. Please join me."

She turned back to the railing and they gazed out over the playa together.

"The evening star left us not long ago, but the sky glitters, ripples on a wind-swept pond." She waved a hand at the heavens.

Nomed leaned on the railing next to her, his left hand went around her waist. Her kirtle was smooth to the touch, he could feel her heat, emanating.

Darya stretched her own arm out, tracing the outside of his hip. A rub to his rump, smooth and taut.

"I am urgent tonight. Let us not delay. Will you carry me?" Her eyes shone.

Nomed gathered her up. She was so light in his arms, her narrow hips and slender frame an easy burden.

He deposited her on the bedding arranged at a corner of the porch, and slowly eased her kirtle off, slipping it over her head and to the side.

He was pleased to see nipples already erect, tiny star-gazing points of pleasure.

Her hand traveled to his groin, groping, gauging readiness.

Their preliminaries were brief, Darya was insistent. She wanted him on top of her, straddling her ribs, so that she could play with him.

Alya watched from her corner. At least Darya would not have the pleasure of Nomed inside her, something she herself enjoyed. Darya would of necessity seek other amusements from this fine specimen of palace pleasure.

Nomed pushed his cock up and down Darya's sternum, allowing her to suckle his balls at her will. She took his staff in her mouth, languid tongue along his shaft, a wet lick at the tip.

On one level Darya knew these instruments of desire so well, how staffs moved and reacted, how they bobbed and twitched with the right contact, what made them squeeze their sperm out. But she knew so little as well, what one would be like inside her. Fingers had made their way up her entry it was true, and tongues, but nothing like this glorious thing now in front of her, that she had just kissed and licked and made hard.

"Do me," she exhaled. "Rub and lick, if you will."

He knelt between her legs. His fingers pushed, parted the moss entry, slid along the sweet swamp dampness of the valley.

A finger up and down, playful, unhurried. Her hips moved.

He settled in between her legs, she pulled his head into her groin.

Tongue lapping was delicate, she felt the soft beard hairs of his cheeks against the inside of her thighs, which squeezed with pleasure. Tongue up, then retreating, along slippery lips, until her heat began to rise.

"Not quite yet," she said. She wanted longer.

She urged him up alongside her, hand to his staff, taut and responsive.

Mouth to his glans, down his shaft, she could feel him tremble to her touch.

Alya held her breath.

The suckling took little time, Darya was intent and focused.

The rush of sperm was sudden, swift. Darya, no matter how often she had played with Nomed, was caught by surprise. Staffs, even well trained ones, always were so insistent, so that unpredictability was frequent. Warm soft fluid - viscous, frantic - rushed into her mouth in enchanting pulses. After the final spasms of pleasure, she nursed wistfully at the last slippery dregs.

If fortune would be so good to smile on her shortly, an intentional, deliberate staff would be up her for the first time, doing this very thing to her innermost parts. What would it feel like to have such urgent froth pushed inside her? Feel hips pressing against hers? The mashing together of damp fur? It would be so different. She shuddered. She knew however she imagined things, the event would confound expectations.

"Lick," she urged in a frenzy. "Quick!"

He moved down. His own arousal and pleasure had driven Darya's excitement a further step.