Another outtake of Vell and the Ranger, featuring an early morning encournter. This takes place immediately after Vatnsandur – One Year Later so you might want to read that one first.
Vell awoke while it was still dark. The air was chill and he was nude, but he lay on cozy furs, the ranger’s arms wrapped around him from behind, his warm body pressed against Vell’s back. Vell had a high tolerance for cold, he always had, and even though his breath made puffs of mist in the dark air, he was comfortable. Vell lay in his lover’s arms and watched the stars turn overhead. The pitch black of the forest allowed the nebulae and galaxies above them to shine, bright and clear, a riot of color and light. It took Vell’s breath away, and with such a view, and the slow, hypnotic rhythm of warm breath on his neck, Vell was content to lie and wait. He knew what would happen at sunrise. Color would creep back into the world, the sky lightening and the birds and creatures of the forest awakening. As his forest awoke, the ranger would awake. And he would be hungry.
Sure enough, with a growl in his ear and a firm tug on his hair, Vell was rolled onto his belly, warm fur tickling his face.
“Do spirits not need sleep, Vatnsandur?” the ranger asked from his perch on top of Vell, stretched out, his broad body pressing Vell flat to the ground. Vell smiled to himself, his morning going exactly as he had hoped. Firm hands positioned him as his lover desired, one knee bent up next to his chest, the ranger’s grip on his hips, tipping them up just as he liked.
“Ready yourself,” the ranger breathed in his ear. Vell did as he was told, casting his useful spell, and a mere moment later he was breached, the thick cock of the ranger pushing inside him, slow and steady, taking what he claimed for himself. Vell moaned into the fur, the ranger’s hands hooked under his shoulders, keeping him exactly where he was wanted. He had no leverage with one leg bent up, he just had to lie there helpless on his belly and take what he was given. He was happy to do so, to have nothing to think of, no performance required other than his submission, and his acceptance of the ranger’s use of his body for his own personal pleasure.
As willing as he was to be used thus, his body had other ideas, wanting more stimulation than he was getting.
“Please,” Vell said, unable to hold back, needing some friction on his desperate length, the tickle of fur under him nothing more than a tease. The sound of his voice was unusual in the calm of the clearing, and the ranger twisted his fingers in his hair, holding his head down to the fur. His hips did not stop pumping, working his cock in Vell’s body, attending to his own needs, holding Vell in place so that he might serve for that purpose.
“Please!” Vell said again, his voice almost a sob. He had cum yesterday, but already he needed to climax again, to lose his thoughts for just a moment in that heady rush.
“Hush, Vatnsandur,” the ranger said, his voice dark, and Vell hushed. He put his face in the fur and ground his hips and tried to sneak a hand down to stroke himself. He was not permitted, of course. His arm was pulled back and clamped down by his head, a strong hand around his wrist. The ranger kissed his neck as he pushed hard and fast and groaned in his ear with his climax.
Vell got nothing.
“It is early,” the ranger said, standing and rearranging his clothes, Vell naked and well used on the ground before him. “There is much to do if you want to earn your pleasure today.”
And Vell did. he wanted to earn it more than he wanted to be given it. He wanted to do as he was told, to do well and earn his reward. And so he did not complain when the ranger hobbled him like a spirited horse, a coarse rope looped around each ankle. The short length between Vell’s feet prevented his usual long stride and kept him to an anxious trot. The ranger handed him a bucket and told him to fetch water. Vell nodded, obedient, hopeful that he could do well at this task.
The stream was only ten minutes away, but Vell was off balance, naked in the forest, unable to move with his usual ease or speed. He jerked against the rope dozens of times on the way to the water. Each time, the coarse rope chafed at his ankles, reminding him that he was trying to take a longer step than he was allowed.
He arrived, breathing hard, his brow damp with frustrated sweat, and managed to fill the bucket without incident. The stream was running high, and he huffed out a relieved breath when he saw he would not have to climb down the bank. That most likely would have ended with him falling in the water. As cold tolerant as he was, the water would be icy, and he did not want to test out the limits of his resistance.
The way back was worse. Carrying the heavy bucket, he spilled water with every step, stumbling and yanking on the hobble over and over again. By the time he returned to the clearing his ankles were raw and his bucket was less than half full. He knew he would not be getting any rewards for such a poor effort.
The ranger smiled when he saw him, peering into his bucket and then into his miserable face. He kissed his eyelids and wiped his thumbs under his teary eyes.
“Harder than you thought, to slow down?” he said, and sat Vell down on the fur. He untied the rope and rubbed soothing salve into the raw skin, filling the air with the smell of nettle and mint. His strong fingers worked the salve, warming it up before he applied it carefully to Vell’s ankles. When he was satisfied, he bound up the injuries, first in linen, then with soft fur strips over the top. He kissed the top of Vell’s head and gave him a cup of cool water from the bucket. There was almost no water left after that, and Vell hung his head. He had not done well. When he had drunk, the ranger took his cup and tied the rope back around his ankles, over the fur. He handed him the empty bucket and said, “Try again.”
This time, Vell slowed down. The fur around his ankles stopped the rope from hurting him, but it still would trip him if he did not measure his every move carefully. He took small steps, not allowing the rope to pull, watching the path and his feet. There was no rush. He had all day. Vell was not expected back at the palace until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. He had time. He breathed, and took one small step after another, focused and intent.
When he returned, he would be back in the fast flowing current of court life, of lessons and training and obligation, trying to fit in his own studies and practice his magic where he could, trying to complete with Lonn in the arena and perhaps win a scrap of approval from his father, trying to find a place with Lonn’s friends (Lonn’s friends, not his own) and trying to find time to spend with his mother in her wild garden, to drink tea and talk with her, even for a few minutes without one of her ladies calling her attention. He pushed that all away. All he had to do now was fetch water. Nothing more.
He arrived back at the clearing with the bucket nearly full, his steps slow and controlled. Not racing to finish, but accepting the restriction and working with it. The ranger had kindled a fire and sat by it, legs crossed, relaxed. Vell took the bucket to him and filled the iron kettle that waited in the embers. The ranger watched him work, his face fond, tolerant, as though Vell were a child learning to perform the tasks of an adult.
Vell made tea and handed the ranger his cup. He did not make one for himself, only sat by the ranger’s side and waited for him to hold the cup to his lips and give him a few sips. It tasted of flowers and honey, like summer, like sunlight on his skin. He smiled up at the ranger and waited patiently for his next task.
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Caroline Gibson Books 