A young Apothecary situated in a seedy tent-market entertains the request of a soldier, one who lacks the discipline to follow the instructions.
Elio was the youngest Apothecary, at least the youngest on this side of the great hills. A waifish little thing, clearly a man but without any of the trimmings. Aside from the sunset hued fuzz lining his jaw, the only notable hair he sported were short curls of autumn atop his head. In the town of hirsute men, many of the colour of winter, he had no choice but to stand out. His boyish demeanor had helped convince the townspeople not to begrudge his market square tent, so he’d never cursed it. To work as an Apothecary is to tread the line between society and the occult, even in tolerant towns such as his the upper class considered the craft a form of witchery they weren’t yet able to stamp out.
“Ensure only your mother takes these. Two drops, daily, no gin,” Elio said, scribbling a pictograph of his explanation on a piece of parchment. He gathered the little tincture bottle alongside the instructions and wrapped them in jute twine, snipping off the ends with little silver shears and passing the package to his anxious customer. The frizzy haired anxious girl took the items graciously but still dropped the coins directly on the counter top to avoid touching the young medicine man, turning swiftly to leave.
Elio regarded the coins with a sigh before reaching his short body over the counter to collect them into his little wooden coffer. It was not uncommon for the superstitious ones to consider him unclean even as they relied on him, but that did not make the relentlessness of the rejections hurt any less. As he pulled open the flap to the back of his tent he heard the front flap open, smoke and roasted meat scents wafting in from the bright square outside. “I will be with you in a moment,” he called back, letting the leather hide fall to cover the entranceway.
His back tent doubled as his resting quarters. A palace it was not, with oaken barrels stacked three-high lining the walls and rough jute sacks of assorted spices, herbs and flowers covering all corners of the floor. It wasn’t all work though, behind a little nook Elio had managed to eke out a sleeping area with a little lamp, a furry bedroll and a short pile of books. His only pleasure, the only one available to him within his means. As always he eyed the bedroll wistfully before emptying the content of his coffer into the lockbox for safe keeping, making sure to tuck the box back into its flour sack hiding place before returning to the front.
Instead of the usual anxious teen, belligerent house-wife or apologetic barmaid he was greeted by an unexpected sight. A soldier, and one of decent rank at that. The blue and purple silken cloth of nobles had between wound into rope and frayed to create his plume, a styling Elio had only ever been given the privilege of seeing from afar during tournament days. Suddenly conscious of the single rough brown tunic he owned for work wear, Elio greeted the soldier with a short bow.
“How may I help you Ser?” he asked, keeping his eyes low. This could spell danger. In the past at most a crooked guardsman would try to shake him down, nary a soldier let alone a noble had ever crossed the threshold. The soldier didn’t respond at first, tucking his arms behind his back and meandering along the shelves as if browsing.
“Do your preparations work?” the soldier asked curtly, lifting a squat bottle of some brown slush to inspect it. “Can they truly sway lust? Or love?”
“Yes Ser, they may,” Elio paused before carefully finishing. “…if their ritual were followed”
The soldier turned slowly to face the Apothecary boy and approached the counter. “Be it witchcraft?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow, reconsidering a moment later and dropping his voice to a husky whisper. “Matters not. I have a need for such a preparation. Lust, infatuation, can you do this?”
Elio nodded his head in agreement, eyes pointed to the floor. “C-can you read, Ser?” he asked timidly.
The soldier sputtered, but after a moment shook his head. “…No, I cannot. You must teach me this ritual then. Be quick.”
Elio grabbed the ingredients and his measures, taking care to mix everything in the open so as to disarm himself to the soldier. As for the soldier, he immediately approached the front tent flap and affixed it shut to avoid interruption. As Elio ground the dry ingredients he explained the ritual to the soldier: the figure of his affection must drink the tonic and be left for an hour, upon the hour he must return to her and he must create the conditions for lovemaking. Thus, he would need to solicit the girl openly once her inhibitions had been affected by the tonic.
Finally finished, Elio held up the tonic. A tiny glass vial the size of a thumb filled with what looked like a golden oil, little eddy currents swirling around inside as if moved by their own volition. The soldier reached out and clasped his fingers around it, the rough calluses gently scraping along Elio’s soft digits. Within moments he was gone, a silver coin shoved into Elio’s palm alongside three oily fingerprints.
Not long after the Sun set and so business began to dwindle. While even the superstitious townsfolk could tolerate his business during the day they seemed timid to do so at night, leaving him alone for hours at a time. At first lamplight he would enjoy his night time treat, a short glass of gin or sherry by way of reward for a day’s commerce.
Whichever tipple he chose he watered it generously, spirits generally cost silver where his revenue was mostly copper. The quick influx of liquid had an inevitable consequence, frequent bladder relief became a necessity. Unlike the merchants who could afford brick or stone, the tent market had no plumbing to speak of, instead a series of metal grills built into the cobbles at random locations were used by all to sneak out their urinary needs. It stank and he risked being caught out by a guard, but he couldn’t afford any better.
As always he had to lean over one of the outside barrels to aim, unlike the winter-skinned men his manhood did not project past his testicles when flaccid. The short squat member was positioned perfectly to pass urine down his tight smooth sack if unaided, causing the young man to habitually squat when he urinated. Always mindful of the vulnerability of his position, Elio would rush to drain his straining bladder and return inside as quickly as he could.
It was on one of these frequent piss breaks that Elio was finally interrupted, by the sound of metal leggings clanking softly around the corner of his tent. Cheeks flushing red, he attempted to shut off the flow but his overflowing bladder refused to play along. It forced him to continue even as the sounds rounded the corner, his face burning red with embarrassment.
It was the soldier from earlier in the day, stood at the corner and gazing impassively down at the urinating young man. Thirty seconds of tension later the stream finally dwindled before cutting off and Elio collapsed backward on to his behind, pulling his knees to his face in shame. “Up,” the soldier snapped, grabbing Elio by the collar and dragging him into the backroom of his tent.
“’M so sorry Ser” the boy repeated, his breath rattling as his heart pounded from fear. It was not unusual for guardsmen to punish public displays of poor behaviour, lechery alone earned the cane. Public urination could be a flogging. Who knows which punishment a soldier would choose, especially given the rush to privacy.
“My name is Doran, not ‘Ser’” the soldier said, letting go of Elio’s collar abruptly. The boy cringed, expecting to hit the hard floor but instead landed with a soft puff of air. The soldier — Doran — had dropped him back on to his bedroll, comfortable except for the trousers wrapped around his ankles exposing his modest endowment to the cool air.
“You need not bother,” Doran barked as Elio began frantically trying to pull his trousers up, “I will just be removing them again if you do.” The young man whimpered but sat back on his hands, closing his eyes in wait of his punishment.
Elio heard the sounds of leather and metal adjusting in the dim storage room, his eyes pinching shut harder whenever any of the noises seemed like they were approaching. Oddly it seemed like nothing was happening for five or so minutes, before he felt something warm and prickly pressing between his package and his thigh. Eyes snapping open he looked down to see Doran the soldier, unarmoured and undressed except for his trousers, pressed face first into the gap between his legs and nuzzling his stubble into the soft skin.
Elio gasped and flinched back but Doran had already wrapped his arms around the younger man’s waist, biceps bulging for a moment before Elio gave up the struggle. The older man’s warm breath puffed along Elio’s thighs, taint and balls, tickling him gently. This did not seem like a punishment, rather a curious wave of erotic energy crackled through Elio’s body as he felt the flat of Doran’s tongue lap up the side of his ball bag.
“Ser, did- I mean, Doran, did you drink the tonic yourself?” Elio asked, grabbing fistfuls of his bedroll so to not gasp at the sensation of Doran’s hot tongue slathering spit all over his tight testicles. The older man didn’t respond, his eyes glazed over and half closed with happiness as he pressed little kisses all over the young man’s humble softie.
Elio’s self control seemed like it could hold, until Doran lifted his cock with the tip of his tongue and dipped his head forward to encapsulate it. Hot spit, scratchy moustache and beard, the scale of the man’s rough tongue in comparison to his burgeoning erection, every part of his predicament was new and overwhelming.
“Doran, please st- you cannot- it is unclean!” he squeaked out, grabbing fistfuls of the man’s messy blond hair and pushing weakly at him. He was half motivated by embarrassment and half by the complete overstimulation of every one of his stub’s nerve endings.
“Unclean, clean, beauty is beauty,” the older man mumbled around the semi on his tongue, slipping both the young man’s member and his testicles into his mouth to suck softly on the entire package. His tongue sought out the crevices where stray traces of the boy’s urination remained, gently replacing piss with spit wherever he found it. Elio whimpered again, relaxing his arms but keeping his hands on the man’s head to keep some feeling of control.
The suckling motions increased in pressure slightly, Doran closing his eyes in comfort. The young Apothecary boy had never experienced this before, he had never tested the lust tonics he had been preparing for lack of confidence. He could not be certain that any lady he approached would consider him even with the tonic’s effect given his lack of endowment, he wasn’t sure if he could father children. Unfortunately no other medicine men had ever found a cure for his affliction.
Due to that lack of action, he was sufficiently wound tight. Doran’s regular suckling motion was drawing him inextricably toward climax, his legs beginning to shake and his toes beginning to curl at the foot of the bedroll. “I will taint your mouth if you do not release me, Ser,” he whispered, his rattling voice belying his difficulty keeping control. The soldier did not respond except to flex his biceps around the young man’s waist again, unwilling to let go.
Mere moments later it happened, he lost the ability to hold back. A heavy intake of breath through teeth, one hand on Doran’s head and the other gripping that flexing bicep and he came. Shooting four or five short squirts of completely clear fluid right on to the soldier’s waiting tongue, not a trace of fertility in his member’s essence. After a couple moments, when the younger man stopped twitching, the soldier pulled of the boy’s package with a soft pop — plus another gasp from the boy — and reared up on his knees.
Doran worked quickly, whipping his straining erection out from the waistband of his trousers and spitting half of the boy’s clear sap into his rough palm. Elio watched him spread the shiny liquid around the tip from underneath, the man’s erection seeming outrageously large compared to his own. On every down stroke he watched Doran’s hand pull back his slick foreskin, the head bulging for a moment before the hand returned to bunch the skin over the head again. This repeating motion had spread the cum and spit hybrid into a milky froth, with the additional weight of Doran’s precum making it drip down on to Elio’s body with every quick stroke.
Where Elio couldn’t take his eyes off the older man’s ministrations, Doran could not snatch his eyes away from the rapidly shrinking penis between the younger man’s legs. It looked like just the tip of a thumb, the pink head and just the barest hint of shaft poking from the medicine man’s smooth abdomen. His sack, covered in spit, was cooling quickly in the night air too. The entire package had pulled up tight, shrinking to protect itself from the cold. The mere sight caused Doran’s heart to beat loudly in his chest, his own pale cheeks now filling with hot red blood.
A little bead of crystal clear sap emerged at the tip of Elio’s cock and that was it, the sight broke Doran. He tilted his cock downward to point it at the younger man’s — inadvertently giving Elio a perfect enough view to know his entire member could fit within the space of the older man’s cock head — and began corkscrewing the wet head urgently. Unlike Elio’s emissions, Doran was made for fathering children, he began firing rope after rope of glossy thick white goo into the boy’s crotch. Each shot glazed the young man’s soft hairless skin, the unexpected warmth causing him to shudder in unison with his impromptu lover.
Doran panted and twitched for a moment, his eyes shut and his semi-erect member waving dangerously to the beat of his heart. He was breathing hard, wiry blond chest hair matted to the skin with sweat. Post orgasm bliss, before he opened his eyes with a serious expression. Elio tensed, wondering if he should make to escape.
Doran reached down to cup his hand around the back of the younger man’s ball sack, spreading his own cum around idly with his thumb. “Mmm… beautiful,” he sighed, infatuated.
Ten minutes later and they were both dressed. Doran in his armour and Elio in just Doran’s oversized trousers, bound on with a rope tied around the waist. He had insisted that the younger man wear them, not allowing him to wear the cold urine soaked clothing he had been wearing in the alleyway.
“How long does this tonic last?” the soldier asked, setting his helmet back on his head and tightening the screw in his visor.
“At most a week, you will be back to yourself in no time Ser,” Elio responded, bare toes scrunching against the fur of the bedroll compulsively. The soldier’s protective streak had felt nice, he worried for the man’s actions when he returned to his normal self.
“Can you make a permanent solution?” Doran continued, sliding scabbards back into the grip on his waist. He paused and looked in Elio’s direction, forcing a nod from the young man.
“You have a week, procure a permanent source of this infatuation,” Doran barked gruffly, approaching the side of the bedroll before breaking into a smile and tousling the younger man’s hair affectionately. He turned to leave, pausing at the flap for a moment before looking back over his shoulder at the smaller man. “I told you to call me Doran, little one. Remember me, I will be back.”
He pushed through the tent flap into the cold night air, leaving Elio alone to pull his jaw from the floor.