Fire and Ice

He was always the last performer, only appearing when the night was halfway done, but the townsfolk would not have dared retire before seeing his display.

The story he told was long, but he never changed it, nor missed a beat. The cadence of his voice swelled and faded as the tale demanded, the only other sound the crackling of the fire beside him. The audience was rapt. The characters he drew in their minds were strange ones, from lands far across the sea…or so it must surely be, for none of them had ever heard the names before.

Tior, Arax, Nero, Ataxion…Beinir. Foreign sounds in their mouths, but magic words in his. They were the creations that populated the tale, the people he brought to life and made dance for their amusement. They had not heard the names before the strange stallion first came to speak them, but they were well-acquainted now with these heroes and their great lusts. There was a pleasure in knowing how their stories would go, in hearing it play out the same, year on year…but first, always, there was the pleasure of him.

The stallion was always nude; unaroused. He stood calmly, knowing they looked upon him with interest and no small lust. He did not spare words to explain it, but it was clear: this was the nature of things. He stared at them, and they stared back, and when the time was right, he extended a hand above the fire. The flames crackled; higher now, and yet higher. They curled up, detached from the rest, and spun around in the air, a shimmering yellow ball cradled just beneath his palm. The heat from it was fierce, and the light like a small sun, but he did not flinch. His face would turn aside, half his body now bathed in faux sunlight, and extend a second hand. A twitch of those fingers and—like sheep to a shepherd—the very stars swirled down to nestle in his clutch. Pale, cold light there; winter’s sun on fresh snow. The furnace and the glacier. The fire and the ice.

“Do you wish to hear a story?” They did, or they would not be out here, with autumn nipping at their necks and heels, watching a naked stallion spin stories out of the elements. He shifted, his heavy cock swaying, his balls seeming to drop even lower, despite the chill. His maleness swelled a little as he began to speak, as if anticipating what was to come. It would often grow as he spoke, sometimes to full erection, sometimes not. When he was done, a few townsfolk might linger to watch him pleasure himself, but he never paid them mind. His pleasure, it seemed, was in the telling.

“When the world was young, and those who made it both bold and eager, one by the name of Beinir took on himself the mantle of protector and encourager of the love between males…”