The spring

by BRK   

Ever hear of that fountain of youth thing? Well, there are fountains of other things as well.

Everyone knows of Ponce de Leon, the famed explorer who penetrated unknown Florida in fruitless search of the legendary Fountain of Youth. But few speak of Don Rodrigo Fernando, a contemporary whose passion was the same quest, a man whose secret tale is the more interesting for its happy ending.

Rodrigo set out from his base on the Caribbean island of Hispanola with a hundred men, and armed with stories purporting that the Fountain lay deep in the uncharted Florida interior, guarded by a seldom-seen but reportedly strikingly comely tribe of natives. The sun was setting on their first day out of port when disaster struck.

Rodrigo was dining below in his cramped but well-appointed quarters with his captain of the guards, Christoforo, a young man of noble family recommended to Rodrigo shortly before the expedition had set out. Though he did not—or had not—considered himself inclined toward men, Rodrigo was having trouble taking his eyes off the boy, and much of his dinner was uneaten.

Christoforo was sitting at Rodrigo's right. He had risen fast and was only twenty, and though of noble family was powerfully built, with startlingly broad shoulders and heavy muscles in his chest and arms that shifted under his tight uniform blouse as he ate in a way Rodrigo found freshly tantalizing. Yet he had the face not of a brute but a god, fair and pleasant, with bright laughing eyes of crystal blue and a broad smile as well. His wavy black hair was longer than the current fashion and fell loosely about his shoulders.

Rodrigo himself was a handsome man in his own right, tall and well-proportioned, and his finely chiseled face, slightly weathered and tanned by his years under the Caribbean sun, was well set off by a narrow yellow beard, kept carefully trimmed. His body was tighter than many a nobleman's reaching his 35th year, and in a certain respect was far better developed than almost any European knight or squire—a fact of some pride but more embarrassment, where it was known, to the gallant don.

Christoforo at last finished his meal and glanced laughing at Rodrigo's empty plate. “Are you so distracted by our quest that you cannot eat, Don Rodrigo?” he asked still laughing. “Or am I being poisoned, and you fear to take too much?”

Rodrigo, who was indeed distracted but not by the quest, forced a laugh. “No, no, nothing of the kind,” he said. “I was wagering with myself whether you took more exercise than you ought, or simply pad your uniform to make you appear more manly, as happens more often these days, I hear.”

Christoforo leaned back in mock indignation. “Neither, sir. I take little exercise, though I like swordplay well enough. I was always this way, even as a boy. The servants of my household say that even when I was born my shoulders were broader than I was long.”

Rodrigo affected to look him over shrewdly and shook his head. “No, I do not believe it. I'll wager it is a deception of some kind.”

Christoforo grinned and stood up, tossing his fork clattering on the table. “You wager badly, sir!” he laughed, and as Rodrigo watched—amazed that he had to struggle to keep an impassive face, amazed at the pounding of his own heartbeat, surely audible to the young stallion before him—Christoforo shucked the blouse of his uniform, and tossing it idly aside, stood before Rodrigo with a great smile.

“I must say,” Rodrigo said at last, barely trusting his voice, “that you are a magnificent specimen.” And he was—his facial beauty acquired new sexuality in concert with the thick, ponderous muscles of his upper body which tapered to a tight, trim waist.

Christoforo, meanwhile, seemed in no hurry to put the shirt back on. “I'm glad to have the excuse to have the blouse off for a while, actually, if it doesn't offend you,” he said, sitting down again. “I hope you don't think me to undignified if I say I've never felt comfortable in a shirt my whole life. These fellows,” he added, drawing a hand across the thick, spherical muscles of his chest—they reminded Rodrigo of cannonballs—in a way that sent an unexpected thrill through the don's body, “don't like to be held back.”

“We're both men here,” Rodrigo said agreeably. He was going to say more, but his mouth was suddenly filled with water, and he was forced to swallow. Christoforo was nearer the brazier, and a couple drops of sweat had started to trickle down the two lumps of muscle; a few beads had formed on the rounded muscles of his shoulders as well.

“That we are,” Christoforo said. It sounded like he said it innocently enough, but it was enough to send anothr thrill through Rodrigo and make him realize—to his alarm—that his massive manhood was rapidly swelling and hardening. Alarm because in its fully enlarged state—which was seconds away—it was much too large to hide in any way.

Christoforo was picking at a few remaining pieces of meat, but Rodrigo's move to bring up his hands to hide his condition drew Christoforo's attention, and when he looked over he saw, behind the thin, tight blouse, a thick, throbbing organ advancing almost all the way up the reddening don's abdomen. By now Rodrigo was covering the display with his hands, but Christoforo leaned forward and drew them gently away, his eyes wide and glittering.

“Another magnificent specimen!” he said. “Pray, sir, turnabout is only fair. I have shown you my deformity,” he went on, indicating his abnormally developed musculature; “you must show me yours.”

“Really, Christoforo, I—”

“Please, sir.”

And so, less willingly than Christoforo, Rodrigo removed his uniform shirt, revealing a well-proportioned torso and a startlingly long, thick, throbbing manhood, now fully hard and obscuring much of his abdomen nearly as far as the sternum.

Christoforo was transfixed, and Rodrigo admitted to himself that it felt marvellously good to have this intoxicating man stirred by his, Rodrigo's, body. “I vouchsafe that only what shows above your slacks is enough organ for three men,” he said in wonder. Then after a moment he added, “But as I am alone—” And before Rodrigo realized what was happening Christoforo had taken the shaft in his hand and was running a long, hot tongue around the head.

Rodrigo's rebuke was silenced by a gasp as his body shuddered with pleasure; he grabbed an iropn ring on the wall to keep his balance against the rocking of the ship and the sudden weakening of his knees. Immediately a great quantity of precum issued from the slit, and Christoforo used this as lubricant as he slowly stroked the broad lower shaft in his hand while he ministered to the tip. He tried to take the organ into his mouth, but the girth was too great; so he was forced to content himself with the use of his tongue and his right hand, the left hand being busy first in freeing his own manhood through the complicated fly of his uniform, then in diligently working it. Rodrigo was in ecstasy; unaware of Christoforo's difficulties his mind was suddenly swimming with things he wanted to do with Christoforo, things he'd never even heard of before today, but which were all plain before him now. Just the image of his body was enough to drive him near the edge, and as he gazed down at magnificent Christoforo, his great heavy muscles jumping as he worked both his own large organ and Rodrigo's monster, he suddenly plunged into a cascade of orgasms, bringing Christoforo's along with it, and they both splattered a great quantity of seed over Christoforo's face and sweat-glistening torso.

Now Rodrigo fell to his knees, and laughing with delight and relief at the release of long-pent-up desires took Christoforo into his arms, regardless of the semen, stroking the broad back as Christoforo didthe same to him. Rodrigo's massive organ, still hard, jounched between them, grazing the underside of Christoforo's thick pectorals. They kissed, Christoforo's long hot tongue now entering Rodrigo's mouth as if it belonged there. Time passed, and much might have happened worthy of the tale had not the first mate burst in at that moment.

He took it all in in a glance and cast it aside. “The storm, don Rodrigo!” he panted. “We're in danger of capsizing!” In fact in his passion he had not noticed the greater than usual bucking of the ship, but even as he spoke the ship heaved suddenly and the first mate was knocked off his feet. He hit his head and was out cold.

Swiftly both the half-naked men ran out into the storm to try to save the ship; but the storm was too violent. Rodrigo's last memory was of Christoforo manfully striggling at the wheel, his massive muscles straining with the effort.

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