Bloodraven by P. L. Nunn Page A

threatened to give. He braced himself at a soft command from his master, biting his lip as the ogr’ron parted his fingers, stretching the mouth of Yhalen’s anus open. He played with him a while longer, casual and slow, all the anger he’d exhibited upon his return dissipated. Then the big body shifted, positioning itself behind Yhalen as the fingers disappeared, to be replaced by the heated tip of Bloodraven’s cock. Yhalen tried not to tense. To tense would only cause pain. He tried to make himself relax, tried to make himself accept willingly what was about to be forced into him. He shut his eyes and sighed, thinking of the forest and his favorite glade.
    Bloodraven’s slick spearhead pressed against the swollen, stretched mouth of his entry, the ogr’ron slowly working it inside, methodically overcoming the resistance of muscle and flesh.
    It hurt. No matter the preparation, it hurt. It always did initially. If he’d wanted it with all his heart and soul, it still would have hurt. But the pain was less and this time, with Bloodraven’s strange good humor and patience, his body had time to accept the girth of it, had time to stretch to accommodate it, before the ogr’ron began slowly moving inside him.
    He was filled so completely, with so much powerful heat that it made his vision spiral. His elbows did give way, but Bloodraven let him fall, hands on his hips, holding his lower body in the desired position. Up into his bowels, Bloodraven found a home. Nestled within Yhalen’s belly, the tip of his cock made a way for itself and Yhalen’s body accepted it. With each slow, powerful stroke, a tremor of 25
    sensation passed though him. His balls tightened, his spent penis twitched to life and he moaned into the furs, shamed for the second time this evening.
    ” Seksil o’kron , Yhalen,” Bloodraven said softly, a little breathless himself. It occurred to Yhalen that he’d never heard himself called by name before, that Vorjd must have told Bloodraven. He didn’t have time to dwell on it, for when he didn’t move, the ogr’ron leaned over his back and caught one of his hands, drawing it down his body and wrapping Yhalen’s fingers around his own twitching penis.
    Oh, Goddess—oh please don’t let this happen. Please don’t let him do this to me. Please don’t let me do this to myself. But when Bloodraven withdrew his big hand, Yhalen’s own stayed, pumping his own flesh with desperate vigor, groaning and whimpering into the furs, hips moving of their own accord, pushing back into the body behind him, forward into his own hand. Oh—Goddess—the sensation flared behind his eyes and deep within his gut, flooding his mind and his body and blanking everything else. He hardly noticed when Bloodraven picked up his own pace, finally spilling hot seed deep inside Yhalen’s body.
    The world went white and fuzzy and he came back to his senses curled on his side on the furs, mind reeling from his own orgasm. The ogr’ron sat back on the furs, eyes hooded and speculative. He rose finally, pulling his tunic off, and shedding the trousers that he’d only loosened in his exertions with Yhalen, baring the whole of his thick, muscled body in the dim light of the brazier. He cleaned himself at the basin, then returned with a wet rag to Yhalen. Yhalen lay passively while his master spread his knees and cleaned the leavings between his legs and on his belly.
    It occurred to him dimly, while he lay there, that for hands so big, Bloodraven could be surprisingly precise—surprisingly gentle.
    “It doesn’t mean,” Yhalen whispered, as the ogr’ron settled into the furs, long body stretched out next to his, one large hand straying to settle on Yhalen’s hip as fingers traced a lazy pattern that made his skin pimple. “That you’re not my enemy. That I don’t hate you—for everything you’ve done—just because you lay a gentle hand on me. Just because you’re half human. The other half is what makes you a