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Hilasko (m/god)
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Here's something I found today while cleaning up my private archive.
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From: [email protected] (Ron Levy (Armchair))
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bestiality
Subject: Hilasko
Date: 24 Apr 91 22:42:00 GMT
The horse's hooves skittered for a moment on the thick crust
of ice before breaking through into the snow. It was a bitter,
cold night to be outside the dwellings of men, between the king-
doms of Vergas and Drur, but Hilasko had no home now. His world
had thrown him out. And though he had agreed to his own careful-
ly planned betrayal, still Hilasko seethed inside. Perhaps the
hot anger alone was the only thing that kept his blood from
freezing solid.
Days before, Hilasko had been the rising star of the River-
bend garrison. He had climbed in mere months from a patrol
leader to an officer of the Pelaran free mercenaries. It was
_her_ doing, Hilasko reminded himself. She planned his rise and
engineered his fall.
T'Pala was an officer of the Pelaran free mercenaries, the
company of warriors exiled from Pelara when Drur forcibly annexed
the border territory nine years previously. They served Vergas,
Hilasko's kingdom, for pay and the promise of some day recovering
their homes. T'Pala was known for cold, efficient cruelty,
deadly feats of espionage, the swordsmanship of a master, and the
bitterness of a name taken from a village razed and burned years
before by the Drur invaders.
She was also the only female warrior in the whole border
garrison.
Hilasko had given his freedom to T'Pala in exchange for
power. That had been the strange paradox of her service, that
the greatest power was born of submission. He had become the
finest swordsman in the garrison only for her. He had killed men
in her name, both in battle and in secret, spied, invented,
mislead, and sent armies to victory or ruin as T'Pala chose.
Hilasko had slept at the foot of her bed and learned the strange
terror and exaltation of kneeling at her booted feet, feeling the
burn of a leather strap on his back, then the kiss of a blade
teasing blood from his skin, then the kiss of her lips, and at
last the long-delayed orgasm. T'Pala was a bloodthirsty, but
ultimately satisfying lover.
Hilasko had been her slave. His only pleasure had been that
she notice him, his terror that she send him away. Perhaps he
had even loved her. That love had destroyed him.
T'Pala had secretly sent Hilasko to spy upon their mutual
employer, the Vergan military command. She had engineered his
capture, indictment, and conviction for treason. Before the
entire army T'Pala had disowned Hilasko, then overseen his pun-
ishment.
They hung him up by the hands over the pit of Lord Melanion
Hunter, where the bodies of the slain were thrown as sacrifice,
and whipped him until the blood poured down. T'Pala had watched,
but did not wield the whip herself, and that was the worst of it
for Hilasko. Afterwards he had had to kneel and thank her for
not hanging him by the neck.
Destroying her own slave was not merely a whim of T'Pala's.
She was preparing him as bait for the Drur kingdom, Verga's
opponent through thirteen years of war. Soon enough Drur spies
were making offers to the disgraced Hilasko. He had shared the
highest counsels of the military command, then they cast him out.
He had skill, contacts, and resentment. Would he change sides?
Hilasko, on T'Pala's order, agreed. The Drur believed his
defection to be genuine. Perhaps, he thought bitterly, they were
right. Once over the border, he had no particular reason to
pretend loyalty to T'Pala. Like this borderland, he belonged to
no one.
The snowed-over wilderness was the domain of Lord Melanion,
hunter of animals and men, master of the spaces between cities
and ruler of the land of the dead. Men could die there alone at
night, but Hilasko had no choice. Still, he wondered, wouldn't
he rather have clung shivering to the inhospitable town of River-
bend than travel on such a night?
At least the snow had ceased before sunset. The sky was
almost clear, with shreds of clouds drifting like feathers across
the full moon. Hilasko could see almost as well as in full
daylight. But not as well as the horse.
Hilasko's bay gelding halted, staring apprehensively ahead,
suddenly immune to the prick of the spurs. Unsettled, Hilasko
called a challenge. There was no answer, not the slightest
movement in the trees. He jerked the reins, then reached forward
to club the intransigent horse between the ears.
The animal snorted angrily, then leapt sideways, dumping
Hilasko off into the snow. The crunch of hoofbeats retreated
behind Hilasko as his horse returned to Riverbend without him.
Hilasko pulled his face out of the snow and stared straight
into the eyes of a wolf.
The animal was huge, easily outweighing Hilasko. Its pelt
was thick and black. The eyes that watched him were luminous,
unearthly silver, and so were the fangs and the tongue that
lolled steaming from the beast's muzzle. And then the wolf
vanished.
Hilasko shivered with reaction. He had expected to die in
the in the instant he saw the wolf, though death would come soon
enough without the horse or the fire-tools in the saddlebag.
Maybe he had been lying in the snow all night, and only then
started to hallucinate. He climbed to his feet, feeling the
melting snow work its way into his clothes.
Up ahead Hilasko saw a building. It was a small stronghold
set up on a slope, built of stone, and proof positive that Hilas-
ko was indeed out of his mind. It had not existed but a moment
before. Yet he could smell the smoke tumbling from the chimneys,
so he decided to freeze to death in this comforting hallucina-
tion.
The outer gate stood open. The courtyard was empty and
unlit. The formidable wooden door swung open when he knocked
upon it. Inside Hilasko came to a hall with a roaring fireplace.
There was a door at the far end, and a long tapestry on one wall,
depicting a hunt. The door swung shut behind him.
"I am Hilasko," he called into the emptiness, "Once Hilasko
vel Tregenis, the last son of duke Harlisto vel Tregenis, once a
patrol leader in the garrison of the Verdan army, once an officer
of the Pelaran free mercenaries, now a nobody freezing on your
doorstep. In the names of all the gods of hospitality, I beg the
shelter of your hearth!"
"Welcome."
The man had appeared in the disturbing manner of all things
in this hallucination: out of nowhere.
His face was black, not the hue of human skin, but the color
of darkness under the trees. Or the color of a wolf-pelt. His
hair like rain at night spilled down to the middle of his back.
He stood somewhat taller than Hilasko and wore a plain, brown
leather hunting costume with worn boots and a knife-belt fash-
ioned to look like a snake. His eyes were blank, luminescent
silver, as were the long nails of the hand he offered Hilasko.
"You know my name."
In the sagas, the gods could not say their own names. For
this reason they invented men.
Hilasko took the silver-nailed hand in his own and knew he
was not dreaming.
"My Lord Melanion Hunter."
The god smiled. His teeth were silver, and pointed. "The
gods of hospitality would reproach me. You are cold, wet and
most likely hungry."
Hilasko found himself propelled towards the inner door.
"A bath for you, and dry clothes. Then you will be served
dinner."
The chamber seemed ordinary enough. There were rushes on
the floor, a smaller fireplace, and more tapestries on the stone
walls. Behind a second door Hilasko found the promised tub of
steaming water, together with a jar of sweet oil and several
large towels. He soaked just long enough to warm his aching
bones, then dried himself and anointed his chapped skin hastily.
Hilasko saw himself in the mirror. He was about twenty-five
and well muscled, even though he had scarcely eaten in days.
T'Pala had thought him pretty enough, and she'd had her pick.
His thick, tawny mane of hair was rubbed dry before the fire
and combed with fingers. It would not do to keep a god waiting
for dinner. But then, Hilasko thought, most likely dinner, if
not the entire building, were for Hilasko's benefit only. Melan-
ion was no creature fond of roofs.
There were clothes laid out on a chest when Hilasko returned
to the chamber. They were plain but well-made and fit exactly.
The tunic was of thick, soft silk and felt delicious against his
skin. His old clothes, together with his weapons, had vanished.
A small table had been set up in the main hall. There were
two chairs. A hawk sat perched on the back of one. It glided up
to the mantelpiece as Hilasko approached and stared down at him
with unwinking eyes. Hilasko took a seat. Glancing up, he saw
Melanion sitting across the table.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," Hilasko said.
Melanion laughed. Food appeared on the table.
There were thick slices of some meat, bread, cheese, and a
clay jug of wine.
Hilasko speared a piece of meat on the small dinner knife
and eyed it suspiciously.
"That is roast pork. I know, for I killed the pig myself.
You needn't fear feeding you unsavory flesh."
Hilasko asked "Why are you doing this?"
Melanion gestured towards the hearth. "You called on my
hospitality."
"No, you chose to appear to me."
"I am present in all the woods, and everywhere men die. You
were once dedicated to me."
"The Hunter of men," Hilasko mused, feeling the memory of
the whip burn his skin. "Do you hunt women as well?"
The god's smile faded. "On occasion. Men are more inter-
esting to me. They fancy themselves rulers in this world. The
stronger they are, the more they are deluded, and the more fasci-
nating the struggle. Still every one is surprised that he can
die. The women usually know better."
Power is submission to the inevitable. That was T'Pala's
lesson. Hilasko finished his meal in silence.
Melanion rested his chin in his hands and watched, still
wearing that disturbing, serene smile. When Hilasko finally put
his knife down, Lord Melanion Hunter stood and gestured to a door
that had just appeared in the wall.
"I fear there is but one bed in my home. Will you share it
with me?" The sagas were filled with tales of mortals who had
shared the beds of gods and then perished. And this was Melan-
ion, eater of the corpses of the slain. Hilasko remembered the
brutal beating, received in the name of the god as he hung over
the sacrificial pit.
To refuse would leave Hilasko out in the snow, at the mercy
of wolves. His choice was between being a willing sacrifice and
a hunted beast. Hilasko had lain face-down on the beds of sol-
diers while they made use of his body, and played the victim of
T'Pala's cruel and meticulously executed rapes. Surely the god
would prove no worse a lover.
"I will share your bed," Hilasko answered, his voice trem-
bling against his will.
Melanion fed the remaining pork to a large lynx that crawled
out from under the table, saving a scrap for the hawk, which
snapped the thrown meat out of mid air.
The god's hand on Hilasko's elbow guided him to the bedcham-
ber door. Out of the corner of his eye, Hilasko saw the table
vanish.
The bedchamber was lit by several candles. Like the rest of
the rooms there were no windows. The bed was a thick pile of
animal pelts of all descriptions. Then Hilasko could see nothing
but the Hunter's eyes, set like jewelry in his inhuman face,
empty of iris or pupil. His scent, a musky aroma of animals,
greased and snow-dampened leather, dead leaves and growing pines,
filled Hilasko's nostrils. A silver-nailed hand tipped Hilasko's
chin up. Almost he turned his face away, nearly he fled from the
immortal kiss. Then Hilasko was past choice.
The lips covered his own. The silver teeth nipped at him,
then Melanion's tongue snaked playfully into Hilasko's mouth.
The taste was incomparably sweeter than the most honeyed wine. A
slow burning intoxication spread from Hilasko's mouth down
through his stomach and out to the trembling tips of his limbs.
He cried softly and wrapped his arms around Melanion's leather-
clad waist. The tongue probed deeper. The god's black hair
tickled Hilasko's neck. One knee parted his own, and a thigh
pressed against his heated crotch.
Hilasko let himself sag into the arms that held him, rubbing
himself against the leg, trembling to the marrow of his melting
bones. There was fear in him still, but it had become merely
another interesting sensation, slightly bitter, pulsing somewhere
under his ribs.
"So eager," Melanion said, and let Hilasko fall back onto
the bed. "Almost too eager. I like the taste of sweat on my
prey." He drew his knife. "I forged this blade from a tooth of
the oldest dragon. To touch the hilt would annihilate your soul.
I have killed animals with it, and men, and gods." The blade
flashed, parting Hilasko's tunic. The point stroked his neck,
traced the old scars left by T'Pala, and played with his nipples.
Hilasko moaned and bit his lips. Gladly he would die at the
hands of this divine lover. The knife point pressed against
Hilasko's nipple, drawing blood. Hilasko moaned again, arching
his back. He never thought to resist, for in that moment he
existed for the pleasure of the god alone.
"Clean it," Melanion said, touching Hilasko's lips with the
knife.
Hilasko licked at the blade, savoring the strange, metallic
taste. It twisted suddenly, slicing his mouth. The Hunter
kissed him again, this time lapping the blood from his mouth.
Melanion removed the rest of Hilasko's clothing with deft
cuts of the knife. Warm hands found sought out the ticklish
places of his body, stroking Hilasko's penis, which was so hard
that it pained him.
Melanion unfastened his belt, which proved to be a living
snake. After bestowing one lingering kiss on Hilasko, Melanion
turned him over on his face.
Hilasko lay on the furs and felt the snake prison his wrist.
It was a cool-blooded creature, supple as a bullwhip. It stared
at him with detached, unblinking eyes. Its tongue flicked
against his wrist. Snakes twined around his other wrist and
likewise his ankles, pulling tight until he could no longer move,
only breathe and feel. There was fear in him but no doubt.
Desire made him pant as Melanion stroked his back and spread
buttocks.
Melanion licked Hilasko's shoulder, and then bit just hard
enough to draw blood. The pain was an almost sweet sensation,
submerged in the sexual heat. He scarcely heard Melanion remov-
ing his hunting costume.
The Hunter's unclothed body straddled Hilasko.
"I have taken many a mortal to bed, but none so delicious as
you. You have a body a young stallion could be proud of."
Hilasko had all but ceased to breathe. The Hunter's hard,
hot phallus nudged between his bound legs.
"You submit to my will as a proud horse does to the bridle."
The shock of penetration, like a spear though his heart,
made Hilasko cry out. He pulled uselessly at the snake-bonds,
which tightened, stretching his limbs even farther. Melanion's
full weight pressed down on his back. A tongue licked Hilasko's
ears, neck, and shoulders in time with the long, slow thrusts.
It was too much to bear, to be thrust into and unable to move,
not even to rub his own neglected penis against the bed. The
thrusts were coming faster, then Melanion slowed teasingly. He
pulled his phallus all the way out, then plunged it back into the
tight muscle of Hilasko's anus. The sweet, burning heat at the
base of Hilasko's spine spread through his body. One last, deep
thrust seemed nearly to shatter his bones.
Melanion stopped, his body trembling. The teeth on
Hilasko's neck became the inch-long canines of a beast. Razor-
like claws ripped into his back. Bound and spread and terrified,
Hilasko was mounted by a beast, a wolf that cried out like a man.
Hilasko writhed and shook as his mortal body absorbed the force
of Melanion's released passion.
And then it was over. Melanion, in a man's form again, lay
beside him, licking at his wounded back. Aching and very much
afraid of his demonic lover, Hilasko wept into the furs. His
penis had gone soft from the fear and the pain. The bonds loos-
ened just enough for Melanion to flip Hilasko over on his back,
then tightened again.
"Other men have lost their minds when I took them so," The
Hunter said. "You only weep." His hands deftly awakened
Hilasko's penis. "You are strong, yes, and now you will have the
reward for your submission."
Melanion's black tongue licked at Hilasko's nipples. Fin-
gers probed his balls and gave his penis the softest touches.
Hilasko surrendered to the teasing, feeling Melanion stroke him
close to the edge of orgasm, then leave his twitching penis and
stroke his chest, face, and bound limbs, over and over again.
Soon Hilasko was crying and begging uncontrollably.
"Please," he said.
Melanion smiled down at him. His hair brushed Hilasko's
face as the god kissed him once more. A hand closed around
Hilasko's penis, while another stroked his balls. Hilasko tried
to scream as he came, but the sound was lost into the mouth of
the god.
Fingers tapped Hilasko's lips.
"Clean my hands."
Still shaking, Hilasko sucked his cum off Melanion's fin-
gers.
He was not allowed to rest, for soon the Hunter was bringing
Hilasko's emptied, aching penis to attention again.
"The night has just begun, my pet," said the god.
Something pushed at Hilasko's shoulder. He was cold, he
realized, but not dangerously so. He blinked. It was daylight.
Hilasko was lying on a pile of pine needles under a big old
tree. He had been awakened by the nudge of his horse. He proved
to be wearing his own clothes again. His weapons were there as
well.
But it had not been a dream or hallucination. The marks of
the claws of Lord Melanion Hunter still burned on Hilasko's back,
and the sweet taste lingered on his lips.
Hilasko stretched, sighed. No matter what happened to him
next, he had been the lover of a god, and that was no small
thing.
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Cheers,
Thomas Baetzler, bath0011@fh-karlsruhe.de, thb@spectre.ka.sub.org
--
If you resolve to give up smoking, drinking and loving, you don't
actually live longer, it just seems that way.
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