Imagine, if you will, a Leopard boy: young, too young by any northern standard, but at eighteen man enough to any southern eye and fully fledged, almost... except, now, for that final, ruddy feather in his cap, the taking of a Wolf’s life. Days, weeks has he honed his black stone blade, made sharp the knife-edge for his enemy; at last, that enemy is sighted. Down an arrow-shaft, he stares, unblinking, watching two young Wolf cubs sunning lazily upon a nearby rock, its broad, white surface shimmering with heat. They’re masturbating; one of them—the elder brother doubtless, judging from his thick beard—has his back stretched out across the stone, eyes closed and savoring the feeling (so the Leopard guesses) of the noon sun as it kisses him across his tawny chest and bright red, fur-ringed nipples, whilst the other, near the stalker’s own age, kneels, soles bared, tanned and bony shoulders golden, glittering. The motion of the young one’s arm, his vigorous exertions, show that he is soon to make his offering—and just then, at that highest moment, does our hidden hunter let his barb loose, and the arrow flies and strikes the victim’s lower back. A cry rings out—high, whimpering—and as the boy twists, Leopard spies the fruits of his attack: full half the shaft’s length, red-slicked, jutting head-first from beneath his belly button. Reaching down, mouth gaped, the gored youth grips the missile sticking out of him, his other hand meanwhile unable to stop from milking the erection rising from its curly black nest, whilst the misspent semen, nurtured so intently, spurts and trickles down the rockface.
Sitting up, the older lad has only moments to observe the strangely beautiful tableau of his defeated brother, gut-struck and erupting white and red in unison, before the Leopard leaps upon him, too. Both braves are naked, naught but pale paint-spots on the killer’s bare skin marking him a desert cat, and as their lithe, lean bodies tussle, pressing tight and grinding one another down, their genitals become a joined pair: Wolf cub’s penis, fat already from his diligent enjoyment, mirroring the swollen, club-like pleasure of his would-be slayer, Leopard having taken more excitement from his arrow-kill than he’d expected. Pinning fast the Wolf’s wrists far behind his head, he forces spine to arch and flat, brown gut to stretch taut; looms with pride above his caught prey, sniffing eagerly at the exposed, wet, hairy armpits—cannot help but linger there, in fact, that heady musk inducing animal arousal; then, with all the slow, cruel curiosity of one who’s certain of his dominance, puts bladepoint to the victim’s belly-knot. A strange sound quavers from behind the poor cub’s clenched teeth: he is slain, and in the worst way. Soon the stone tip sinks into his navel—gods, how easily that first, tight, vital knot unravels, scar of birth and death both; how impressive all that pretty muscle seems until, at last and all at once, a good push sees it pierced through! Leopard twists the knife—and, feeling rigid meat give way to soft and all-too-vital viscera, he feels too the moist warmth of the brave young Wolf’s ejaculation splattering his waist, so copious it shocks him. Sitting up now, straddling the body, Leopard smears his own flat stomach with the stuff, and there it mixes with the sweat, blood, grit and grease to make a paint more beautiful and sacred than he’s ever known; indeed, his belly seems the stronger for it, stout enough to drive off any death-thrust, any whistling arrow!
One cub was enough; two is a boon, and more than plenty for the Leopard boys back home to sing him drunken praise for moons on end. But three... aye, now he’s had a taste, he’s hungry, vows this first, best hunt of his must not yet end. From some ways off, he waits for his impressive handiwork to be discovered; soon enough, a third Wolf comes—the father of the pair, it seems, from how his hairy, strong hands trace, so carefully, so gently, each defeated cub’s fine, bloodied form, his life’s work. What a handsome warrior: hide dusky brown, the shoulders, chest and midriff bristling with pelt of midnight black and pale, moon-bright silver. For his age—despite it, or mayhap because of it—he’s frightful slender, leaner still than any Wolf our Leopard’s set his eyes upon, and yet more muscular as well: thighs, buttocks, pectorals atwitch and primed for vengeance. He could flee now, and indeed he ought... but young braves ever yearn to die or kill again, with naught but one man’s total, brute strength pitted ’gainst the other’s to decide his path!
Beneath that thick pelt, Leopard eyes the bright jewel of the old Wolf’s belly button; taking aim, he flings an arrow at it, misses by an inch but strikes instead a no-less-vital point. The victim flinches, grunts; a glance down, and he sees the second missile snag his hard waist, red blood rushing out to mingle with his sweat. With gritted teeth, lips snarled, he grips each barb and rips it from his belly, heedless of his own torn flesh and anything beneath—then, raising high his chin, back arched, wounds stretched to show the guts within, he utters loudly in their shared tongue such a challenge as the Leopard brave cannot turn down, that is should he intend (as all braves do) to make his honor last, if not his life... and so, the young man goes—quite eagerly, it must be said—to meet his enemy in single combat.
For a long while, both men stare at one another, as if seeking, silently, the bravery to die or might to win. When finally their weapons swing and blood spills, this too they conduct with stoic mien, no cries but only low grunts signaling that stone’s struck flesh. The Leopard, blood-wet, weary from his wounds, fights fearlessly... but, ultimately, he has lost, and knows it; lays his knife down, kneels at the packlord’s bare feet; doesn’t beg, but does what any strength-whelmed warrior can’t help do, staring down the manhood what has bested him. Hips thrust, the old Wolf takes deserved pleasure from the boy’s mouth, paints his face with the results—a taunt, an insult, for one’s prey is worthless and the Wolf must teach him this. He binds his ankles, wrists with rough rope, drags him to a whithered, ancient tree (the very place, ’tis said, where Leopard first felled Wolf) and with the Leopard’s own blade pierces fast the boy’s palms, pinning them to wood, spine pressed against the storm-smoothed trunk. He doesn’t protest; Leopard understands, instinctively, what fate is making of him, making of his body, and he faces it with curiosity, not fear. His eyes descend upon the quick tool as the Wolf works, hooks the flesh beneath his furry crotch; as it jerks upward, slitting toward the breast, a pain more powerful than he has faced before, nor scarce dreamt, takes him in its rigid death-grasp. Leopard pierced the bellies of those boys with ease, yet probed no further; he had wondered, naturally, how their intestines looked, how it would feel spilling them and emptying their waists, but hadn’t nerve enough to gut them in that moment—if the innards of his enemy, you see, could be so easily produced, what meant that for his own?
Indeed, beneath the killer’s rising knife, those very viscera unfurl and generously drape his ripe cock, full still from his earlier exertions—
Hot seed springs from him and wets the dry dirt, nourishing the earth. There’s nobody for miles to hear him scream, and so he doesn’t, faces slaughter fine as any swordslave. Never shall he meet his own sons, having stooped instead to spend that precious spunk on death alone, as is the wont of youth... and, when the Leopard’s brothers come upon his butchered corpse, seek justice, will that red feud carry on yet one more generation.