🐪 by 🐪

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ISKANDAR KHAYON, 'The Kingbreaker', Lord Vigilator of the Black Legion

AHZEK AHRIMAN, Arch-Sorcerer, Chief Librarian of the XV Legion

🐪, 'The Hunched Beast', Vision of the Dream Caravan

9x99 words and 9x🐪, as Tzeentch would've wanted

In the Hell we call our home, one can easily tell fantasy from reality by how genuinely pleasant a vision can be, as opposed to the horrors we must contend with at every step within the aptly named Eye of Terror. When I was suddenly made to face a quaint oasis, with no memory of how I had gotten there, I knew then that I was dreaming - one could simply not encounter so soothing a sight in the Traitors’ kingdom.

Two questions presented themselves: why was I dreaming, and who made me dream?

I looked to the horizon, hoping for a couple of answers to conveniently loop above the distant dunes. I was given none; the only thing I saw was a procession of strange, hunched beasts crossing the zenith in an unbroken line.

“Iskandar,” called a familiar voice from within the verdant refuge before me. I followed it, and in doing so came to the crux of the mystery. Beneath the palm trees sat a murderer, a savior, a man whom I desired more than the Warmaster’s fabled vindicta: Ahzek Ahriman, mutated and radiant, was beckoning me to him with a sapphire claw. He wore nothing bar a sheer, white robe; the desert heat beaded his muscular chest with sweat.

I swallowed and stepped closer. Beneath the golden sun, the 🐪 added to their pace, speeding up their hypnotizing dance.

Ahriman took me by my hips and tugged me closer. For that one dream, I dared to not remember, I dared to let go of our damning memories; the oasis was its own dimension, a new life for us to live in perfect harmony. He was eager to make peace, my fantasy lover; his tongue dragged up my bare thigh and across my stiffening cock. Following another demanding tug, I thrust into his mouth and surrendered myself to Ahriman’s teasing, sucking, licking care.

Tensing, I shut my mouth and closed my eyes. Against the pitch darkness, a caravan of still marched on, 🐪 by 🐪, accelerating together with my ecstasy. Their hunches blurred into a sandy smudge in the moment of my release; I stifled every moan and every frustrated scream and let Ahriman silently take me through the sticky reverie.

“Iskandar,” came his mellifluous voice again after he swallowed the hot white I’d filled his mouth with. I did not answer, as he gave me no time to speak; in a split second, he jumped to his feet, grabbed me by my waist and took us out of the green oasis.

Just like the mysterious 🐪, unbound by space or gravity, we flew over the golden sea of dunes. Though we were together only in fantasy, I was once again reminded of just how lonely I had gotten in Ahriman’s absence, how I had suffered without his color and scent around me at all times. I confessed the truth of it to him, and I begged him for another taste of our crazy romance; laughing, he took us from the sky and into the golden sea. I was softly tossed onto the warm sand, and before I could even try to push myself up, Ahriman knelt above my hips.

Around us, a caravan moved easily in a hunched dance. 🐪 by 🐪, a closed circle of rising humps watched on as Ahriman crossed his arms, straddled me, mounted me.

This time, I failed to control my voice. Ahriman swung back and forth on my cock, drawing a whiny whimper out of me with every hilting thrust. He himself seemed hardly roused by the sweaty ride; he did not  so much as sigh, and the only telling sign of his own excitement was the throbbing, dripping stiffness between his legs. Each time a lace of precome stained my abdomen, I begged Ahriman to smear it across his fingers and feed it to me; each time he denied me and left me to drool at the sight. I had no right to ask anything of him; under his domineering glare, I was less than a beast, less than a thing, a little fucktoy to entertain a sweltering, sandy fantasy.

After an eternity of wet bouncing, when I arched my back in a coming orgasm, Ahriman leaned forward and pressed a hand against my throat. Coughing gagged moans, I squirmed and sobbed him another climax, but that did not buy me reprieve from his choke; his hand pressed harder, tighter, denying me air. Suffocating, I scratched at his wrist, to no avail.

I was dying. He was smiling.

It was time to do away with a filthy, used thing.

My eyes rolled back. Partly for the choke, partly in bliss.

🐪 by 🐪, our hunched audience marched away.

I died.

After I died, I opened my eyes.

Ahriman was gone, as was his oasis, as were the golden dunes. Quietly, the machinery of the Vengeful Spirit whirred all around me, filling my chamber with machine song. The robe I had worn to my sleep was soaked through with cooling sweat and sticky. The sheet underneath did not fare much better.

I sighed and rubbed my thighs together. For a second longer, I let wetness run down my legs, remembering every stroke, every grain of sand. If only the desert had been my destiny; if only I could have remained at Ahriman’s side; if only I could forever watch the dancing 🐪.