Barbarian Song

She lay across her stone bed with just a small blanket and a meager little dish of food. Mez thought to himself how it would be for her if she weren’t in the elven royal family, and he hated to imagine it. He couldn’t help but look at her beautiful legs, still graceful and elegant even beneath the rags they had given her.

Mez had his duty and protocols, and one of them was to avoid looking at the elven creature because of their innate abilities of persuasion. He was not the fiercest barbarian nor the largest, and he had never gained any respect from his father, a famous warrior and the general in charge of half the clan’s fighters.

Keena woke again in her gray little cell, once more with dreams of being free, only to have them crushed by her desperate reality. She hated the barbarians for what they had done to her, and with every passing day she grew more and more desperate.

Still, she found a glimpse of hope because of a younger, smaller barbarian who, though muscular and broad, carried a delicacy in his features. He was not the ugly brute the others were. She learned to look forward to lunchtime, when he would serve her food. She would graze her hands across his strong, tight biceps as his arm entered her prison cell.

One morning, after being teased and bullied by the others in his platoon while his father sat laughing with Mez’s brothers, he made a decision. He would make a statement, and he would be done with the life he was forced into.

He had the key, and he knew all the secret tunnels from when he was a boy, playing and adventuring around the prison and fortress. Mez was going to free the beautiful elf with her dark, wavy hair and almond-brown skin. He didn’t know what would happen once they escaped. He only knew he was drawn to it by something deep in his gut.

Keena woke with a start as strong muscles and the smell of the wild lifted her up, wrapping her in her dingy little blanket. She could not see, but she could feel she was thrown across someone’s shoulders.

A somewhat familiar voice whispered, “Be quiet, my elf friend. I mean you no harm and wish to take you away.” Her heart almost burst out of her chest at these words, for they brought back a feeling she had longed for: hope and care.

She was disoriented as they made many turns and descended flights of stairs. The brute of a man had one large hand on her rear, and when he turned corners, he gripped tightly to keep her from falling. She had not been touched in longer than she could remember. Though she was offended by the violation, she also felt strangely exhilarated.

The outcast barbarian was on his way with his prize, and soon his father would be furious with him. He could not help but notice how the young elf smelled; he had never realized it was possible to enjoy the scent of anything other than a roast or a sip of ale.

Her fragrance and her energy gave him strength—enough to take on the entire clan if need be. He pressed on, found the horse, and off they went. His father’s horse was the grandest in all the stables—fast and strong—and even with two riders, it would be hard to catch them.

Mez pulled the blanket away and sat her in front of him. Her soft skin pressed against his flexed legs as they rode, her dark hair brushing his face in the wind while the powerful beast beneath them thundered past arrow and spear.

His powerful arms braced her, and she felt safe despite the menacing warriors chasing them. Keena was not sure why, but she felt there was no scenario in which they would fail to escape.

She did not know why he was doing this, except for the warmth she had begun to feel in her heart a fortnight earlier, whenever she saw him outside her cell. They did not speak much, for they barely knew each other’s language. But when they broke free and slowed to a trot, she could not ignore the size of his body pressed against hers.

Most elven men were lean and tall, strong and virile, but this barbarian was full and bulbous with muscle. She felt engulfed by his girth. His deep voice rumbled words she could barely understand, and it didn’t help that she kept wondering how something so dense could press so firmly against her back. She thought perhaps it was part of the saddle caught between them.

They had traveled about half a day before they were caught by the barbarian clan. Keena, weary from captivity, could not move quickly enough to escape pursuit.

They were bound together on the horse, then brought to the Well of Fate, about half a day’s ride from the clan’s fortress. Mez would not be killed for his betrayal, but punished and shamed for life.

The fierce and angry clansman named Roark declared that the elf should be thrown down into the well. It was a natural pit, twenty meters across, with sheer stone walls forty meters high that dropped into a pool at the base of an underground waterfall.

The two exchanged one last look as Roark dragged Keena by the wrists. He cut the ropes from her hands with his massive blade, groping her with his leathery grip.

They whispered that they loved each other into the wind, and their words were carried away. Mez could hardly believe he was loved. Electricity surged through him, rage filling his veins. He shoved aside the guards holding him, and as Roark threw her into the well, Mez leapt like a gazelle, diving beneath the helpless elf as they fell into the pool below.

His side and back struck the water hard, tearing him open. Keena was unscathed, and she dragged him onto the slick stone at the cave beneath the waterfall.

She noticed he had a bad concussion and could not stay awake for more than a moment at a time. He would murmur words, but they made no sense. His clothes had been ripped off completely from the fall; all that remained was his loincloth, draping over his manhood and barely covering part of his ass.

She found a few supplies left behind by others who must have survived the fall—some cloth for bandages and a few candles she managed to light. Keena was a skilled healer and resourceful with what she had; the barbarians had underestimated her. From above, they yelled down that she and Mez would soon die, and a few of the lazier ones set off on the five-day trek to the bottom to confirm it. That night, she gathered herbs, made a salve to heal his wounds, and dripped fresh water into his mouth with a cloth.

She felt fortunate to find plants strong enough to create an ointment filled with virility. She rubbed it along his wounds and muscles, trying not to linger on his body. Yet her eyes betrayed her; she could not help but marvel at the way his massive muscles bulged from beneath his skin. His flesh was firm yet soft to the touch, radiating raw masculinity.

The loincloth barely concealed him, the fabric stretched into a line toward his thigh. If she bent just slightly, she could see the girth pressing against the cloth, leaving a space between it and his skin.

The next morning, as she tended him, Mez moaned in his sleep—delirious, lost in pain, unable to stay conscious. His member had grown to its fullest size, pushing half the cloth aside. She could see the tip, shaped like the fat mushrooms she had gathered as a young girl in the forest.

What she saw was already large, and she could hardly imagine what more hid beneath the cloth. When she reached to cover him again, curiosity overcame her restraint. Perhaps, she thought, it was something she should know—as if it were a way to measure his health.

Keena’s oval, mystical elven eyes sparkled as she drew the cloth aside, sliding it gently all the way to his other thigh. With each movement she wondered how it could keep going, but it did. Finally, his full length was revealed, veins swollen with blood, pulsing along the thick shaft.

His legs shifted, startling her, and she quickly replaced the cloth. Still, the image remained. Compared to the slender elven men she had known, Mez was beyond comprehension. They had all been thin, barely a third of his size. It should not have mattered—but the sight of his great member, like a thick ear of corn nearly twenty centimeters long, fascinated her.

She whispered something to herself in her native tongue, then forced her attention back to tending the wounds of her brave, wounded barbarian.