The Moor is after him.
The Moor is after him, and he wants his blood.
The Moor is after him, and would eat up his good Christian soul.
"Tybalt, the wine has gone into your head," his fellows tell him; "You are mad!" they all say, "Your mind is growing feeble," they all think.
Yet it is but afternoon, and there is not a drop of wine in Tybalt's veins; still, the shadows of this corridor grow longer as if they were chasing him. Longer and taller, on and on the shadows grow, stretching vast underneath the vaulted courts of the Capulets; strangely robed, beturbanned are these shadows, Tybalt fancies, even if there is no man here to be seen.
"Show yourself, coward!" he cries, his hand quick on dagger and rapier; "fight me like a man at least!"
There is but a chuckle dark, soft like a cat's; and like a cat, the longest of the shadows glides up from behind Tybalt, swallowing his shape within itself.
And Tybalt they had jeered at, called the Prince of Cats, he laughs inside; yet this cat--surely, his subject!--would usurp him in his own palace?
"Oh, no, no, no;" the shadow croons with a condescension that chills his bones, the pitying tone one only uses with strumpets and whores; "Not usurp, son of Capulet," invisible lips smack wet, "but to eat you up, my sweet."
The dagger drawn falls from Tybalt's hand; he is spun around and thrown face against the coarse, whitewashed wall. He cannot move, his hands and his feet now held against the wall by invisible chains; a terrible weight presses into his back and he is swallowed by a darkness of black velvet and musk. His heart kicks into a gallop; he is not above screaming, now, just like any pitiful wretch who's a braggart on the street but wails a babe when experiencing the horrors of the battlefield for the first time.
"Help! For the love of God, someone, help!"
Yet the velvet darkness about him chuckles still; rich and strange Oriental perfumes surge into his flaring nostrils that now puff like those of a panicking horse; and just like a horse, he tries to kick, whinnies for his freedom, his eyes rolling wide. Even white spittle, near foam bursts out of his terrified mouth as a shining black glove closes upon it, the gentleness and calm with which it does so another insult to his dignity; he sobs into it in his horror as the man's weight crushes him into the wall with a swift and easy rut, as if this were but a customer taking his whore in an alleyway.
An incubus, this must be; the moment the gloved hand slips from Tybalt's mouth, he begins to shout out prayers. "In the name of God, let go of me, hell-fiend!"
But it is only the echo of his own voice he now hears, as if glancing off new walls all about them. It's as if they were no longer in a corridor leading out to the courtyard, but a vault invisible instead: a spell, he realises, to keep anyone from hearing them, seeing them, enclosing them as if within an invisible bell. Despair, terror flood his veins like ice, great ice upon sea creaking, snapping, great ice floes crashing, pushing him underneath the freezing waves, trapping him, and he is drowning--
Again, that chuckle, a pitying croon, a soft wet touch not unlike a kiss where Tybalt's hair curls against the nape of his neck. "I am flattered, my child," his assailant says, his long and warm body purring against him, even the vibrations of his voice now pressing Tybalt into the wall, like waves burying an object deeper and deeper underneath the shifting sands of the sea-bed. "Yet I am but a man," the stranger murmurs in his strange lilt, his cat's meaow. "Aye, a man such as yourself, very much of flesh and blood," wet lips churr against his ear, and the proof of his manhood now slides between the cleft of Tybalt's buttocks; hard and thick and hot, he makes himself known through the thin weave of Tybalt's hose. "A 'lusty kind of fellow,' as you would call it," he mocks.
Tybalt screams in rage into the wall; this is not happening to him, cannot possibly be happening to him. He is the one who ravishes, debauches boys and girls alike; he is the one who takes them in the alleyways; he is the one who fucks. And now, his sheer anger, that hatred in him that is his very lifeblood, that fury at his core that he can always rely on erupts and melts the ice of his terror, his very own prick twitching in this remembrance of his own power.
He is Tybalt of the Capulets and he has the power, the skill, the right--and if all else fails, the money.
"Are you in the service of the Montagues?" he now cries. "Let me go and I will double what they are paying you!"
And now, the Moor falls back with his laughter so that Tybalt can, for the first time, catch a glimpse of him over his shoulder: his hips are still pressed against him, but now he can at least see the man's face.
"Oh, no, no, no," a thin-lipped, gleaming red mouth--rouged?--laughs at him, grins at him widely with crooked teeth that give him the distinct appearance of a wild beast. "I serve no man," he follows, and his darkly kohled eyes glitter with a cruel mirth, their pale blue so terrible, so unnatural in its brightness that their ice crushes and sinks Tybalt's courage once more. It is a beautiful face, if aged, exactly the face of one who had in his youthful vanity disobeyed his Maker and now had the marks to prove it, the lines graven onto his face by the flames of Hell.
Yet despite his thin moustache, it is a face as feminine as it is masculine, just like the rest of him; and it is with a woman's grace that he now pulls off his gloves and the strength of a man with which he clasps Tybalt's jaw, moving so that he can inspect him face to face. "I serve none but Desire alone, my precious little Tybalt sweet. If you but obey me, I might let you walk away..." and he tilts his head a cat watching birds; "unscathed."
Tybalt swallows and licks his lips. "Are you a witch?"
The Moor nods slowly, as if pleased at a child who has understood what was being talked about. "A philosopher, I prefer. With great knowledge, come great many powers," he says lightly.
"What quarrel has a philosopher with me?" Tybalt spits. He has never been one for books, unless they were fencing manuals; his knowledge and his learning are those of the body and its uses in the duellist's art. The practical things to know amidst the continuous warfare that ebbs and flows in the streets of Verona like the tide; why, verily, what use is Plato in combat?
"Plato was a wrestler," the Moor grins and shakes his head. "And here I thought I had made the reason for my visit perfectly clear," he says and now snaps his fingers, elegant, long; "Desire."
Tybalt falls to his knees like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
"That," the Moor leers and brings his prick level with Tybalt's face, "and you need to be taught a lesson, Prince of Cats."
"And what if I--" Tybalt licks his lips once more, unable to look the sorcerer in the eye; magic or no, he is enspelled by the beauty of the man's member. He has not given mouth since he was a lad, had sworn off it long ago, preferring to irrumate the mouths of others instead: but this, this magnificent prick now makes saliva swirl into his mouth, makes blood pulse into his own prick now thickening within the confines of his codpiece.
For this prick now offered to him is not only thick and long, but its very hues fascinate him, Tybalt never having examined the sex of a blackamoor from this close: oh, he has had the odd dark Jewess, but has never cared to peek into their bushes, preferring to fuck them instead.
But this man has no bush whatsoever, his pudendum completely shaven, his prick rising from it a proud curve of flesh golden brown: the flush of its flared head a shocking bright pink as it emerges from the gold of the rest of his skin. Oh, but it is beautiful, more beautiful than a pagan herm, a phallus truly worthy of worship--
Tybalt, listen to yourself! Oh, but he hates himself for thinking this, and again he wonders if this is not but another spell rather than a desire of his own, a desire planted into his head by the will of another.
But no, no; God forgive him, but this sin is his and his alone, genuine as it now springs forth from his mind and sets his body alight. For even if he were not ensorcelled, surely he would find this prick enticing not only because of how it looks, but the way it smells most wonderful, too: now he realises why he is not immediately repulsed by the thought of taking it into his mouth. For the circumcision and the frequent ablutions decreed by the Mohammedan faith have kept it clean, so unlike the foul-smelling, wax-smeared cocks of Christian men; the very memory of the yeasten taste of those pricks he'd been forced to suck as a boy now makes him shiver in disgust. But this cock, this...
Now, the Moor's fingertips come to caress the underside of his cock lightly, pleased from this heathen worship; his voice is softer and deeper, almost friendly, nearly kind. "What if what, my child?" he asks, his eyes twin blue fires dim in the distance, most of his shape still hidden by the shadows; those blue flames, the golden prick and the white and red gleaming mouth are all Tybalt can see.
Tybalt clenches his fists by his sides. "What if I refuse?" and even as he says it, he knows himself for a fool, a buffoon, a farce in the shape of a man.
"But you wouldn't, would you, now?" the Moor purrs, now squeezing his cock in his hand; a little sparkling drop of sap beads at its tip, its sweet scent making Tybalt's prick twitch, his heart race so that his ears are ringing, whistling, and he is about to faint--
And the golden prick is in Tybalt's mouth, tasting like salt and honey.
A great and hoarse pleasure-groan rings off the walls of the vault invisible; claws, the Moor's fingers sink into Tybalt's hair; salt and flesh and sap as sweet as a maiden's cunny fill Tybalt's mouth until he chokes with it. A glutton, a glutton he devours this magnificent prick a feast; pitifully, he whimpers around it a whore, the whore he is, and was that thought his own also?
'Tis but the truth, the sorcerer chuckles into his mind; his purrs, rumbles now pour into Tybalt's innards just as his prick slips into his throat. I am here because I heard the call of your desire, saw writ upon your face your desire, knew intimately the nature of your desire, my dear Tybalt; it roils off you, the need, the despair to be opened, taken.
Mortified, Tybalt makes to pull back but he cannot; his hands--which had been clutching his prick through his codpiece--are taken up and twisted behind his back, so that now he is thrown ever deeper onto the Moor's cock. He gags upon it, his eyes and nose overflowing from tears and phlegm; faint from a lack of air, he is deliriously glad that at least this way, no one can know he is in fact weeping from a secret joy, from a deep happiness: that the need in him is fulfilled without him having to put it into words. That he need not humiliate himself by asking for something so unmanly, unmanly, unmanly, the word rings in his ears as he willfully uses his lips and his tongue to pleasure this beautiful cock in his mouth; this gift, this gift, this gift.
"That's right," the sorcerer rasps, his own voice thick from want as he rolls his hips in the most perfect of arcs, throws them with a skill Tybalt would admire in a swordsman; all of him a shadowed swirl of rapacious promise. A promise, a promise of what's to come; "Get it slick, get it wet; oh, my boy, I see you know how;" he croons in delight because it is exactly what Tybalt needs to hear, this strange master of magics a master manipulator of his own hidden desires.
The fingers in Tybalt's hair tighten; the Moor pulls Tybalt's head back so violently strings of saliva and mucus lash onto the embroideries of Tybalt's jerkin. The Moor's kohled eyes are heavy-lidded over their blue flames, his mouth open, his tongue peeking out past his jagged teeth. "Get up," he but says and lets go. "Against the wall, just as you were."
When he begins to arrange Tybalt against the wall for his ravishment, for his ravishment, for his ravishment, he seems to be three times heavier; yet Tybalt welcomes this, now moaning in all the terror and all the panic and all the need in him, now that he knows none can hear them. He sobs out his own sodomite's heart against the white roughness of the wall, his tongue raw against it as he pants there in his despair; and yet they are still fully clothed, the Moor but rutting against him once more, letting him feel the weight of his body, the size of his prick between his buttocks.
"Come, why this play?" Tybalt spits. "Have you not humiliated me enough?"
"Oh, but my dear, sweet Tybalt, I want you to ask for it," the Moor now purrs, his jaw tucked over Tybalt's shoulder. "Did you think I was going to let you have it all without your admitting it to yourself?" he asks, and it's as if a cat's claw tugs at Tybalt's hose, and now there is the tiniest of rips in the back of them, a long and thin finger seeking its way between his buttocks.
"Please," Tybalt cries, his own fear making him tremble against the wall as that finger's tip meets the ring of his anus, where no man has gone since he was but a lad. "Mercy."
Again, that cat-tilt of the stranger's head, and now a playful roll of the finger, as if the sweat, the dirt, the must were some perverse dessert he was about to sample. "'Please, mercy?' Is it that you want me to stop?"
"Well, then," that infuriating chuckle slithers down his ear, the jagged teeth grazing his earlobe; indeed, the filthy beast is now licking Tybalt's taste off his fingertip before he slips it to his arse once more. "Ask me, Tybalt of the Capulets," he lisps, pressing at Tybalt's anus with with intent; "ask me, you Christian dog."
Christian dog! At that, Tybalt shudders. Why does he enjoy his humiliation so, crave it so, a rape in the hands of a filthy heathen? What is he, a woman? A woman, a woman, possessed of a spiritual womb of some kind, for having such a hollow, burning ache inside of his hips, feeling he will die lest he be cloven unto, filled? Such vile, effeminate submission--yet again, he sobs out this deep hunger in his being, shouts it into this abyss, this refuse-pit of all his sin the Moor has made of this room, an oubliette of all that is wrong and twisted in him, all that in him which burns and aches and curls and again needs, needs, needs.
"Please. Please, take me."
Now, the finger pushes past the muscles of Tybalt's anus, deeper than it had ventured before--yet immediately, it is followed by a smack of disgust: the Moor takes out his finger and wipes it on Tybalt's hose. "I cannot very well take someone this dirty," he says and sends to him visions of his people's women, the way they shave themselves entirely, their cunnies gleaming with that same combination of red and gold Tybalt had so loved upon his prick. Glistening pink cunnies, tasting like sugar to the tongue, sweet little things ready to be fucked, maidens moaning, maidens this man impales day after day in his palace, so much cleaner than some street rat of Verona, so much lovelier.
"I'm sorry," Tybalt says, shivering in shame; but what can he do about his sorry state, now? "What would you have me do?"
But before he has even finished asking, there is a terrible smell of burning hair, a hot and cold flash inside of his guts, washing all over his buttocks, between his legs, around his prick: in but seconds, through some spell or another, all of his pubic hair has been burned off him, his arse and his cock forcefully rinsed. He feels as if he has just come from the hands of a heavy bath-attendant, so thoroughly has he been scrubbed inside and out: but this is preposterous! Is this truly what a Moorish nobleman needs from his lay, he thinks?
"I am a man of refined tastes," the sorcerer now responds, again having heard his thoughts, it seems.
And he is a man of strange perversions, too, for he has not used his magic to undress Tybalt: it is still through but this small opening in his hose that he feels for his now-clean, smooth and hairless arse. "That's better," he says as he begins to push his finger inside once more, now slick from an oil of some kind: "Yet, I need to hear it once more, my child."
This is ridiculous, Tybalt mutters inside, even if he shivers in sickening delight at his new bareness, being more exposed than he ever thought possible with a lover, in both body and mind. "Please. Please take me," he rasps, "Fuck me," he hastens to add, in case it is vulgarity this barbarian desires.
The Moor's answer does not come in words, but a push, a terrible push of his prick straight into Tybalt's arse: at first, Tybalt screams, howls, howls from the bottom of his lungs as the man drives past the muscles of his opening, but then he hurts too much to even breathe. The pain blinds him, and he regrets his desire bitterly, yet he hurts too much to even panic; he but hangs there upon the wall, speared upon the excruciating pain of the Moor's prick. Crucified, he is crucified by this barbarian man, this pagan prick now forcing its way into his body; the sickening smell of cold sweat fills his nostrils as his skin mists with it, beads with it, his moustache tickling with its wetness.
Tybalt squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to be sick as with a brutal, engineer's precision, his ravisher begins to move in and out of him, cleaving his flesh, making room for himself, making way for his own flesh inside of his body with every thrust. There is a sharp little pain at the very opening of Tybalt's arse, and he wonders if he is bleeding; so huge, so enormous is the prick now penetrating him, feeling even bigger now that it is taking his arse, not merely his mouth.
And as soon as Tybalt has felt that, thought that, the Moor pulls back a little and flashes him a glimpse of what he now himself sees: in the shadows, Tybalt can see the golden prick has pushed into him halfway, with only a little smear of blood upon it. But more than being able to see himself this way--the sight is stomach-turning--it shocks Tybalt that this man would even pause for something like this, to show concern for something like this, completely unlike a true rapist.
The Moor spreads Tybalt's buttocks, and oh, the muscles of his own arse are but a beautiful, thick, red ring encircling the cock now penetrating him; both of them can see the blood has come from but a pinprick-small wound on the outer rim of his anus, already quenching. Exactly what Tybalt has himself seen upon those boys he is so fond of taking from time to time, and now he shudders: how many times has he not cared for the pain of those lads, having dismissed bleeding more serious than this as nothing, too eager to but sate his prick?
But now, the vision is gone and the Moor is spreading more oil onto his arse, and with it, the pain is slowly fading; he presses in closer, deeper, and turns Tybalt enough so that he may kiss his mouth. "'Tis all good, all taken care of," he murmurs against Tybalt's lips as he begins to take him once more; "I did, indeed, want to ascertain I was giving you more pleasure than pain."
"Thank you," Tybalt whispers into his mouth, himself a boy, now, vulnerable, frightened, but also relieved, glad; "Thank you," he says again and now it comes out louder, a sob, a sob of pleasure as the Moor begins to move inside of him once more, now in a sweet rhythm entirely pleasurable. "Thank you, thank you, thank you--" but now his voice breaks into a wordless cry as the Moor's thrusts become harder, lifting him onto his toes, making Tybalt's buttocks clench around his invading cock, now so deep inside of him he can feel the touch of his balls against his arse.
"No more talk," the Moor rasps and drives into him with a new vigour; again the magical shackles come to lock Tybalt's wrists against the wall.
And thus, responsibility is again taken from him, removed from him his sin of enjoying passive sodomy--oh, but he loves this, loves this, loves this so much he could weep, and now he does, shameless. And behind him, a laughter sweet and dark; he fancies that this man is, in fact, some kind of incubus after all, for is he not drinking in Tybalt's pleasure this very minute? Yes, he must be, lapping it up from the very air, the way he groans as Tybalt's flesh ripples around the magnificence of his prick, its ecstasy-bearing thrusts; Tybalt wonders if the Moor can feel the way Tybalt's prick drips each time the head of the Moor's cock slides past that special place within his guts that sets his entire body afire.
"I can," the Moor murmurs in his ear, sighing against his shoulder, groaning in a voice that is a little sad; perhaps he is near release himself, Tybalt realises.
He must be, for now he cups Tybalt's cock through his codpiece--yet in his cruelty, he never takes it out, hearing from Tybalt's moan, sensing from his thoughts that this is how he prefers it, the press of cloth and leather against the skin of his prick a sweet torture, pleasurable even in its discomfort. Another confinement, another secret that only this man and this room and this day can keep; and between this skilled magical hand and this skilled magical prick he is trapped in a magic circle of light, of pleasure, all of him turing molten, sweet. He bellows into the wall, his fingernails clawing whitewash off it, his hair falling into his eyes--
"Show me, show me," the Moor mewls at him; "take me with your hips, show me how much you like it," and he frees him a little to see, again bestowing unto Tybalt the glorious sight of his cock sinking into him, the shock of gold plunging in and out between his two black-clad buttocks. Gold, gold, now festooned with the foam churned from oil and mucus and spit, foam in ribbons around the length of his shaft, forming a white glory about the root of his prick: so wonderfully it sickens Tybalt that his balls rise in the Moor's cupping hand and he cannot bear it any longer, he cannot.
He wants it all. In his greed, he throws himself down onto the wonder of the Moor's prick, takes each one of his blows and swallows them with his arse whole, devours them with his guts, every single stroke now making sap spurt out of his prick; and now all of his flesh is turning white, his balls are rising and leaping and he is there: he has reached the peak. With a great and hoarse cry, he fucks himself onto this divine cock with his entire weight, fucks himself into the Moor's squeezing hand, filling his codpiece with thick sperm; he ululates in delight as his genitals are completely bathed this way, still rhythmically squeezed by the Moor's perfect hand. Sperm, sperm, come, come; now, his guts are bathed by it, too, as the Moor lets out a high cry through his nose and he, too, finds his end in Tybalt's flesh. Tybalt can see but a brief flash of the Moor's golden prick, now wetted by his own whiteness, before the Moor's pleasure rises so that the psychic connection between them snaps: as but heavy flesh, as but an ordinary man, the Moor now throws his body against Tybalt's, ramming him into the wall in the last throes of his release.
Tybalt presses his forehead against the wall, wiping hair from his eyes against its surface. As the Moor slips out of him, Tybalt is filled with a strange melancholy: again, he is empty, completely empty. In vain, he tries to squeeze his arse shut, but the stretch has made it impossible for him to do so: sperm bursts out of him onto his thighs, staining his hose.
As the weight is taken off his back, he turns around to embrace his ravisher, so that he might kiss the prick that had given him so much pleasure, to devour his taste from him in thanks--
But just as he had feared, his ravisher is gone.
Tybalt, son of Capulet is left there alone, panting against the wall with sperm dripping down his legs, and now he knows what a whore feels like; never will he look at one the same way again, not with this knowledge still burning inside of his body, the rich lye-scent of sperm now marking him as one of her kind. Although, no, no: for is it not he who had paid for this encounter, he who had sought it out? Indeed, so perfect had all of this been that if it weren't for the soreness in his arse, he would now be doubting himself, wondering if he had but created this phantasm from his own forbidden, sodomitic desires: would presume this had been but a fever-dream in which he had received fulfillment for his most secret erotic dreams. A ravishment from a Moorish sorcerer, the sort he had heard legends of as a child, combined with the lust awakened in him by those beautiful young Arab merchants he had seen in the marketplace: yes, indeed this has been a dream come true, and how often can a man boast of that having happened to him?
And once he walks out into the tavern tomorrow and tells his friends he had spied a shadow of his Moor again, they will think him a madman, still; that he has some obsession with Moors, thinks up the most vivid of dreams of them.
But exactly what kinds of dreams, he will never be able to tell them: no man or woman would be able to understand them. This, he knows as he wipes himself clean with a handkerchief and drapes his short cape so low that it will cover the signs of his debauchement.
But now, as he begins to walk back to his quarters, he is no longer afraid, no longer in terror of this Moor of his. Rather--and a shudder of pleasure makes him stagger as he thinks of this--he looks forward to the day his incubus will visit him again.