Forbidden

His shoulders burned from defending himself from his uncle’s blows. Time and time again, his sword came up and met with another blade in a great showering of sparks, as his responses became more and more automatic. Sweat dripped into his eyes and his dark hair hung limply on his damp forehead. And along his inner thighs, the sweat burned a series of regular, shallow cuts.

“Pay attention, Teleziel!”

The sword whistled overhead and the young Haradrim barely had time to duck low enough to avoid being decapitated. “Sorry, uncle,” he panted after he staggered backward and landed hard.

“Fool! Lazy child!” Teleziel’s uncle ranted. “You fight like a girl, boy. All that daydreaming will get you killed when you face those blood-thirsty Gondorians. And good riddance, if that’s how you’re going to fight.” His booted foot kicked his nephew in the thigh. “Get up.”

Slowly, ignoring the pain in his thigh and his arms and the sweat stinging his skin, Teleziel climbed to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he saw Imiro walking towards the practice circle and immediately forced his spine to straighten and to wipe the grimace off his face. He couldn’t stand the thought of his best friend seeing him with dirt on his trousers and his face a twisted mask of pain. Not this man, anyway, for while Imiro only thought of Teleziel as a friend, Teleziel’s heart spoke a different language completely.
Raising his sword, Teleziel steadied himself for another bout.

“Never mind, boy,” his uncle said to the soldier who was not really a boy any more. “Here comes Imiro. Go clean up.”

Sheathing his scimitar, Teleziel sketched a quick bow and then turned to leave the practice circle. He grinned at Imiro, who smiled back. “Good luck, my friend. He’s a demon today.”

“Every day your uncle is a demon,” Imiro reminded Teleziel. “But he’s teaching us how to defeat the whoresons in Gondor.”

Teleziel strode away without comment to clean his weapons. He went to the tent he shared with his older brothers. The tent was large enough to be divided by heavy tapestries into four sections, three as private sleeping chambers and one large one for a common area. In the common area, there was a smoking brazier in the center of several low divans and cushions and small, carved tables. Thick, colorful rugs covered the floor, carpeting his footfalls, muffling all sounds. No one was about yet and Teleziel went to his own private chamber to change out of his dusty clothes. His own chamber was spacious enough to allow him to have a small bed, clothes press, and a small couch of his own, in case he had company and wanted a bit of privacy. That happened infrequently as his closest friend, Imiro, saw no need for private conversations and his other friends were too casual for such things.

Besides, the only private things he’d do with Imiro were forbidden and Imiro would have been appalled had he known of Teleziel’s fantasies. Those Teleziel kept to himself. His secret desires were shameful to the Haradrim. They were shameful to him, as well, but he could not seem to stop them. Even when he was allowed in the company of his future wife, he could find nothing about her that sparked his imagination the way Imiro had. At first, he though perhaps it was that he did not know her well enough to entertain such thoughts. After all, the young men and women were quite separate after the boys left to live with the men and contact between the sexes was completely regulated. He also believed that perhaps her youth caused him some distress, but after a while, he dismissed that, as well. In his heart of hearts, he knew the truth. He had no taste for women.

Stripping off his sweaty, dusty clothes, Teleziel tossed them into a pile and poured a basin of water from a pitcher. With a soft cloth dipped in the tepid liquid, Teleziel wiped away the grime from his practice with his uncle. His hands glided over his body, skimming the small cuts on his body. The stinging increased as the water washed away the salt from his sweat. Closing his eyes, Teleziel tilted back his head and his long dark hair fanned over his shoulders. The pain did not feel good in a sexual way, but it made him feel more alive. All his life, he’d felt as though he was a ghost, wandering blindly among the living. His washing completed, he tossed the cloth aside and sat on his bed, among the rumpled covers and contemplated the bruise his uncle’s boot left behind. It was already an ugly blue black tinged with faint yellow. That was his price for letting his attention wander. He shouldn’t have and his uncle was right, in battle, distractions could be fatal.

Lightly, his hand moved from the bruise to his thigh and touched the small chevrons freshly carved into his skin. They would heal quickly, that he knew. Today they stung, but tomorrow he would not feel them at all. And tomorrow he would not touch his skin with a knife, he vowed. Moving his hand further, he grazed his fingers over his limp member where it nestled against curls as fine and dark as the hair on his scalp. It stirred beneath his hand, as if a thing alive and separate from himself. Sometimes he felt as though it was independent of his own will for it roused itself at the oddest times and without his consent. In fact, often he found himself embarrassed by it like when he was with Imiro. But never when he thought of his betrothed.

With a sigh, he cast himself back on the bed and stared at the tent ceiling and his manhood flopped gently on the top of his thigh and lay there quivering in the warm air. Unbidden, his hand moved to cup himself gently and his thumb rubbed his delicate skinned scrotum. He tried to focus his energy on the appropriate images, female bodies writhing sensuously to music, like the dancing slaves who entertained the older men during clan gatherings. But every time, his mind conjured images of Imiro, with his cocoa colored skin and eyes like black ink. He felt his body stir beneath his hand and gave himself over to the sensation as his fingers curled about his thickening cock and caressed his tightening sac.

Imiro’s face hovered in his mind’s eye as slowly his hand and fingers moved over the hard flesh, sending tendrils of pleasure arching through his groin and along his spine. His other hand moved over his chest, as he imagined Imiro’s fine boned hand doing the same. He stroked his nipples, feeling them peak lightly, before grasping and twisting them between his thumb and forefinger. The soft groan he heard was Imiro’s as he stroked engorged flesh, lightly coating it with its own pearly essence. A soft moan escaped his lips as he arched into his own eager hand. He stroked himself languidly, from tip to base, feeling the push-pull on his scrotum. The wicked, forbidden pleasure spiraled through him so that he thrashed his head from side to side and tendrils of dark hair clung to his cheeks. Fine beads of sweat dotted his chest and stomach as he arched upward, straining his thighs as he pumped faster into his palm.

Swiping is tongue over his lips Teleziel imagined Imiro’s kisses, forceful and demanding.
Once more, the cuts on his legs burned from the salty sweat on his skin. His throat felt raw as he gasped and whimpered. His hips cleared his small bed in fits as he thrust into his palm. His free hand dropped to his side and twined in his bright bedcovers as his seed spurted over his palm. He lay panting and boneless on his bed, listening to the sound of his heart thudding painfully in his chest. He felt his own sticky essence in his hand and splashed, still warm, over his belly and thighs. He made a disgusted face and scrambled from the bed. What was he doing? What had he been thinking? Any one could have come into the tent and caught him pleasuring himself. Had he called Imiro’s name aloud? Oh, please, say he had not. The tent walls were thick, but not so thick that his voice crying out his friend’s name wouldn’t be heard.

Guiltily, he washed his skin, erasing the visible signs of his pleasure. There were other signs that he could not erase and he whimpered a little as the musky scent permeated his nose. Panic seized him. With a flurry of activity, he shook out the silk covers and lit a small cone of incense. Tears welled in his large dark eyes. Such dangerous games he played with himself. Such futile, empty games. He knelt on the heavy rugs and rocked back and forth even as he hands groped beneath the mattress for his small, sharp knife.