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Subject: {ASSM} Hilasko {Paul Stacy} (furry magic MM rough bd anal)
Date: Tue,  2 Jul 2002 12:10:04 -0400
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"Hilasko"
   by Paul Stacy


   The horse's hooves skittered for a moment on the thick crust
of ice before breaking through into the snow. It was a bitter,
cold night to be outside the dwellings of men, between the
kingdoms of Vergas and Drur, but Hilasko had no home now. His
world had thrown him out. And though he had agreed to his own
carefully planned betrayal, still Hilasko seethed inside. Perhaps
the hot anger alone was the only thing that kept his blood from
freezing solid.

   Days before, Hilasko had been the rising star of the Riverbend
garrison. He had climbed in mere months from a patrol leader to an
officer of the Pelaran free mercenaries. It was her doing, Hilasko
reminded himself. She planned his rise and engineered his fall.

   T'Pala was an officer of the Pelaran free mercenaries, the
company of warriors exiled from Pelara when Drur forcibly annexed
the border territory nine years previously. They served Vergas,
Hilasko's kingdom, for pay and the promise of some day recovering
their homes. T'Pala was known for cold, efficient cruelty, deadly
feats of espionage, the swordsmanship of a master, and the
bitterness of a name taken from a village razed and burned years
before by the Drur invaders.

   She was also the only female warrior in the whole border
garrison.

   Hilasko had given his freedom to T'Pala in exchange for power.
That had been the strange paradox of her service, that the
greatest power was born of submission. He had become the finest
swordsman in the garrison only for her. He had killed men in her
name, both in battle and in secret, spied, invented, mislead, and
sent armies to victory or ruin as T'Pala chose. Hilasko had slept
at the foot of her bed and learned the strange terror and
exaltation of kneeling at her booted feet, feeling the burn of a
leather strap on his back, then the kiss of a blade teasing blood
from his skin, then the kiss of her lips, and at last the
long-delayed orgasm. T'Pala was a bloodthirsty, but ultimately
satisfying lover.

   Hilasko had been her slave. His only pleasure had been that
she notice him, his terror that she send him away. Perhaps he had
even loved her. That love had destroyed him.

   T'Pala had secretly sent Hilasko to spy upon their mutual
employer, the Vergan military command. She had engineered his
capture, indictment, and conviction for treason. Before the entire
army T'Pala had disowned Hilasko, then overseen his punishment.

   They hung him up by the hands over the pit of Lord Melanion
Hunter, where the bodies of the slain were thrown as sacrifice,
and whipped him until the blood poured down. T'Pala had watched,
but did not wield the whip herself, and that was the worst of it
for Hilasko. Afterwards he had had to kneel and thank her for not
hanging him by the neck.

   Destroying her own slave was not merely a whim of T'Pala's.
She was preparing him as bait for the Drur kingdom, Verga's
opponent through thirteen years of war. Soon enough Drur spies
were making offers to the disgraced Hilasko. He had shared the
highest counsels of the military command, then they cast him out.
He had skill, contacts, and resentment. Would he change sides?

   Hilasko, on T'Pala's order, agreed. The Drur believed his
defection to be genuine. Perhaps, he thought bitterly, they were
right. Once over the border, he had no particular reason to
pretend loyalty to T'Pala. Like this borderland, he belonged to no
one.

   The snowed-over wilderness was the domain of Lord Melanion,
hunter of animals and men, master of the spaces between cities and
ruler of the land of the dead. Men could die there alone at night,
but Hilasko had no choice. Still, he wondered, wouldn't he rather
have clung shivering to the inhospitable town of Riverbend than
travel on such a night?

   At least the snow had ceased before sunset. The sky was almost
clear, with shreds of clouds drifting like feathers across the
full moon. Hilasko could see almost as well as in full daylight.
But not as well as the horse.

   Hilasko's bay gelding halted, staring apprehensively ahead,
suddenly immune to the prick of the spurs. Unsettled, Hilasko
called a challenge. There was no answer, not the slightest
movement in the trees. He jerked the reins, then reached forward
to club the intransigent horse between the ears.

   The animal snorted angrily, then leapt sideways, dumping
Hilasko off into the snow. The crunch of hoofbeats retreated
behind Hilasko as his horse returned to Riverbend without him.

   Hilasko pulled his face out of the snow and stared straight
into the eyes of a wolf.

   The animal was huge, easily outweighing Hilasko. Its pelt was
thick and black. The eyes that watched him were luminous,
unearthly silver, and so were the fangs and the tongue that lolled
steaming from the beast's muzzle. And then the wolf vanished.

   Hilasko shivered with reaction. He had expected to die in the
in the instant he saw the wolf, though death would come soon
enough without the horse or the fire-tools in the saddlebag. Maybe
he had been lying in the snow all night, and only then started to
hallucinate. He climbed to his feet, feeling the melting snow work
its way into his clothes.

   Up ahead Hilasko saw a building. It was a small stronghold set
up on a slope, built of stone, and proof positive that Hilasko was
indeed out of his mind. It had not existed but a moment before.
Yet he could smell the smoke tumbling from the chimneys, so he
decided to freeze to death in this comforting hallucination.

   The outer gate stood open. The courtyard was empty and unlit.
The formidable wooden door swung open when he knocked upon it.
Inside Hilasko came to a hall with a roaring fireplace. There was
a door at the far end, and a long tapestry on one wall, depicting
a hunt. The door swung shut behind him.

   "I am Hilasko," he called into the emptiness, "Once Hilasko
vel Tregenis, the last son of duke Harlisto vel Tregenis, once a
patrol leader in the garrison of the Verdan army, once an officer
of the Pelaran free mercenaries, now a nobody freezing on your
doorstep. In the names of all the gods of hospitality, I beg the
shelter of your hearth!"

   "Welcome."

   The man had appeared in the disturbing manner of all things in
this hallucination; out of nowhere.

   His face was black, not the hue of human skin, but the color
of darkness under the trees. Or the color of a wolf-pelt. His
hair, like rain at night, spilled down to the middle of his back.
He stood somewhat taller than Hilasko and wore a plain, brown
leather hunting costume with worn boots and a knife-belt fashioned
to look like a snake. His eyes were blank, luminescent silver, as
were the long nails of the hand he offered Hilasko.

   "You know my name."

   In the sagas, the gods could not say their own names. For this
reason they invented men.

   Hilasko took the silver-nailed hand in his own and knew he was
not dreaming.

   "My Lord Melanion Hunter."

   The god smiled. His teeth were silver, and pointed. "The gods
of hospitality would reproach me. You are cold, wet and most
likely hungry."

   Hilasko found himself propelled towards the inner door.

   "A bath for you, and dry clothes. Then you will be served
dinner."

   The chamber seemed ordinary enough. There were rushes on the
floor, a smaller fireplace, and more tapestries on the stone
walls. Behind a second door Hilasko found the promised tub of
steaming water, together with a jar of sweet oil and several large
towels. He soaked just long enough to warm his aching bones, then
dried himself and anointed his chapped skin hastily.

   Hilasko saw himself in the mirror. He was about twenty-five
and well muscled, even though he had scarcely eaten in days.
T'Pala had thought him pretty enough, and she'd had her pick.

   His thick, tawny mane of hair was rubbed dry before the fire
and combed with fingers. It would not do to keep a god waiting for
dinner. But then, Hilasko thought, most likely dinner, if not the
entire building, were for Hilasko's benefit only. Melanion was no
creature fond of roofs.

   There were clothes laid out on a chest when Hilasko returned
to the chamber. They were plain but well-made and fit exactly. The
tunic was of thick, soft silk and felt delicious against his skin.
His old clothes, together with his weapons, had vanished.

   A small table had been set up in the main hall. There were two
chairs. A hawk sat perched on the back of one. It glided up to the
mantelpiece as Hilasko approached and stared down at him with
unwinking eyes. Hilasko took a seat. Glancing up, he saw Melanion
sitting across the table.

   "I wish you wouldn't do that," Hilasko said.

   Melanion laughed. Food appeared on the table.

   There were thick slices of some meat, bread, cheese, and a
clay jug of wine.

   Hilasko speared a piece of meat on the small dinner knife and
eyed it suspiciously.

   "That is roast pork. I know, for I killed the pig myself. You
needn't fear me feeding you unsavory flesh."

   Hilasko asked "Why are you doing this?"

   Melanion gestured towards the hearth. "You called on my
hospitality."

   "No, you chose to appear to me."

   "I am present in all the woods, and everywhere men die. You
were once dedicated to me."

   "The Hunter of men," Hilasko mused, feeling the memory of the
whip burn his skin. "Do you hunt women as well?"

   The god's smile faded. "On occasion. Men are more interesting
to me. They fancy themselves rulers in this world. The stronger
they are, the more they are deluded, and the more fascinating the
struggle. Still every one is surprised that he can die. The women
usually know better."

   Power is submission to the inevitable. That was T'Pala's
lesson. Hilasko finished his meal in silence.

   Melanion rested his chin in his hands and watched, still
wearing that disturbing, serene smile. When Hilasko finally put
his knife down, Lord Melanion Hunter stood and gestured to a door
that had just appeared in the wall.

   "I fear there is but one bed in my home. Will you share it
with me?" The sagas were filled with tales of mortals who had
shared the beds of gods and then perished. And this was Melanion,
eater of the corpses of the slain. Hilasko remembered the brutal
beating, received in the name of the god as he hung over the
sacrificial pit.

   To refuse would leave Hilasko out in the snow, at the mercy of
wolves. His choice was between being a willing sacrifice and a
hunted beast. Hilasko had lain face-down on the beds of soldiers
while they made use of his body, and played the victim of T'Pala's
cruel and meticulously executed rapes. Surely the god would prove
no worse a lover.

   "I will share your bed," Hilasko answered, his voice trembling
against his will.

   Melanion fed the remaining pork to a large lynx that crawled
out from under the table, saving a scrap for the hawk, which
snapped the thrown meat out of mid air.

   The god's hand on Hilasko's elbow guided him to the bedchamber
door. Out of the corner of his eye, Hilasko saw the table vanish.

   The bedchamber was lit by several candles. Like the rest of
the rooms there were no windows. The bed was a thick pile of
animal pelts of all descriptions. Then Hilasko could see nothing
but the Hunter's eyes, set like jewelry in his inhuman face, empty
of iris or pupil. His scent, a musky aroma of animals, greased and
snow-dampened leather, dead leaves and growing pines, filled
Hilasko's nostrils. A silver-nailed hand tipped Hilasko's chin up.
Almost he turned his face away, nearly he fled from the immortal
kiss. Then Hilasko was past choice.

   The lips covered his own. The silver teeth nipped at him, then
Melanion's tongue snaked playfully into Hilasko's mouth. The taste
was incomparably sweeter than the most honeyed wine. A slow
burning intoxication spread from Hilasko's mouth down through his
stomach and out to the trembling tips of his limbs. He cried
softly and wrapped his arms around Melanion's leather- clad waist.
The tongue probed deeper. The god's black hair tickled Hilasko's
neck. One knee parted his own, and a thigh pressed against his
heated crotch.

   Hilasko let himself sag into the arms that held him, rubbing
himself against the leg, trembling to the marrow of his melting
bones. There was fear in him still, but it had become merely
another interesting sensation, slightly bitter, pulsing somewhere
under his ribs.

   "So eager," Melanion said, and let Hilasko fall back onto the
bed. "Almost too eager. I like the taste of sweat on my prey." He
drew his knife. "I forged this blade from a tooth of the oldest
dragon. To touch the hilt would annihilate your soul. I have
killed animals with it, and men, and gods." The blade flashed,
parting Hilasko's tunic. The point stroked his neck, traced the
old scars left by T'Pala, and played with his nipples. Hilasko
moaned and bit his lips. Gladly he would die at the hands of this
divine lover. The knife point pressed against Hilasko's nipple,
drawing blood. Hilasko moaned again, arching his back. He never
thought to resist, for in that moment he existed for the pleasure
of the god alone.

   "Clean it," Melanion said, touching Hilasko's lips with the
knife.

   Hilasko licked at the blade, savoring the strange, metallic
taste. It twisted suddenly, slicing his mouth. The Hunter kissed
him again, this time lapping the blood from his mouth.

   Melanion removed the rest of Hilasko's clothing with deft cuts
of the knife. Warm hands found sought out the ticklish places of
his body, stroking Hilasko's penis, which was so hard that it
pained him.

   Melanion unfastened his belt, which proved to be a living
snake. After bestowing one lingering kiss on Hilasko, Melanion
turned him over on his face.

   Hilasko lay on the furs and felt the snake prison his wrist.
It was a cool-blooded creature, supple as a bullwhip. It stared at
him with detached, unblinking eyes. Its tongue flicked against his
wrist. Snakes twined around his other wrist and likewise his
ankles, pulling tight until he could no longer move, only breathe
and feel. There was fear in him but no doubt. Desire made him pant
as Melanion stroked his back and spread buttocks.

   Melanion licked Hilasko's shoulder, and then bit just hard
enough to draw blood. The pain was an almost sweet sensation,
submerged in the sexual heat. He scarcely heard Melanion removing
his hunting costume.

   The Hunter's unclothed body straddled Hilasko.

   "I have taken many a mortal to bed, but none so delicious as
you. You have a body a young stallion could be proud of."

   Hilasko had all but ceased to breathe. The Hunter's hard, hot
phallus nudged between his bound legs.

   "You submit to my will as a proud horse does to the bridle."

   The shock of penetration, like a spear though his heart, made
Hilasko cry out. He pulled uselessly at the snake-bonds, which
tightened, stretching his limbs even farther. Melanion's full
weight pressed down on his back. A tongue licked Hilasko's ears,
neck, and shoulders in time with the long, slow thrusts. It was
too much to bear, to be thrust into and unable to move, not even
to rub his own neglected penis against the bed. The thrusts were
coming faster, then Melanion slowed teasingly. He pulled his
phallus all the way out, then plunged it back into the tight
muscle of Hilasko's anus. The sweet, burning heat at the base of
Hilasko's spine spread through his body. One last, deep thrust
seemed nearly to shatter his bones.

   Melanion stopped, his body trembling. The teeth on Hilasko's
neck became the inch-long canines of a beast. Razor-like claws
ripped into his back. Bound and spread and terrified, Hilasko was
mounted by a beast, a wolf that cried out like a man. Hilasko
writhed and shook as his mortal body absorbed the force of
Melanion's released passion.

   And then it was over. Melanion, in a man's form again, lay
beside him, licking at his wounded back. Aching and very much
afraid of his demonic lover, Hilasko wept into the furs. His penis
had gone soft from the fear and the pain. The bonds loosened just
enough for Melanion to flip Hilasko over on his back, then
tightened again.

   "Other men have lost their minds when I took them so," The
Hunter said. "You only weep." His hands deftly awakened Hilasko's
penis. "You are strong, yes, and now you will have the reward for
your submission."

   Melanion's black tongue licked at Hilasko's nipples. Fingers
probed his balls and gave his penis the softest touches. Hilasko
surrendered to the teasing, feeling Melanion stroke him close to
the edge of orgasm, then leave his twitching penis and stroke his
chest, face, and bound limbs, over and over again. Soon Hilasko
was crying and begging uncontrollably.

   "Please," he said.

   Melanion smiled down at him. His hair brushed Hilasko's face
as the god kissed him once more. A hand closed around Hilasko's
penis, while another stroked his balls. Hilasko tried to scream as
he came, but the sound was lost into the mouth of the god.

   Fingers tapped Hilasko's lips.

   "Clean my hands."

   Still shaking, Hilasko sucked his cum off Melanion's fingers.

   He was not allowed to rest, for soon the Hunter was bringing
Hilasko's emptied, aching penis to attention again.

   "The night has just begun, my pet," said the god.

   Something pushed at Hilasko's shoulder. He was cold, he
realized, but not dangerously so. He blinked. It was daylight.

   Hilasko was lying on a pile of pine needles under a big old
tree. He had been awakened by the nudge of his horse. He proved to
be wearing his own clothes again. His weapons were there as well.

   But it had not been a dream or hallucination. The marks of the
claws of Lord Melanion Hunter still burned on Hilasko's back, and
the sweet taste lingered on his lips.

   Hilasko stretched, sighed. No matter what happened to him
next, he had been the lover of a god, and that was no small thing.


                        -- The End --


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