Burdt wouldn’t fall, fought better than the rest. No common fool, the young buck, nineteen barely, kept a trophy scar for every man he’d killed—his bare thigh, notched thus knee to bony hip, bore testament to his tremendous prowess. He was cocky, naturally (and what a cock he had: long, hard and red, a second bloody sword!) but his was confidence well earned; some hundred sturdy fighters’ small bowels slithered in his blade’s wake. What made Horoc any different? Nothing, so he told himself—“I’ll see that bastard’s insides, same as all the rest,” Burdt promised publicly, back arched, breast swelling, gut sucked tight. Good looking, this one: tanned, slim, meaty where it counted; live or die, he’d make a fine feast for a hungry audience indeed!
The day came. First a great brute strode into the sun-drenched venue like it were his daily warm-up: back hunched, bare feet plodding, gaze turned earthward and away, disdainfully almost, from all the countless souls who’d come for him especially, to witness “Hellsbull” Horoc gut the next man, whosoever he might be. He’d greased himself, as gladiators do; the finely scented, consecrated oil mingled with his pungent sweat, and soon that strange yet all-too-pleasant smell of men about to perish—iron, roses—wafted. Stranger, undeniably unpleasant stenches were to follow shortly... only Horoc, in anticipation of them maybe, stood erect, his positively bovine penis sticking straight out. With a few good strokes he stiffened it still further, till the promise of a messy climax gleamed upon its bulbous, ruddy tip. The crowd applauded—they enjoyed his victory eruptions no less than the man himself did, some ejaculating with him!
Burdt appeared, his trim, lean body flashing like a polished blade. Sweat glittered in his curly blond hair; blue eyes, calm and pale as the sea, took in the vast arena laid before him, and his enemy—A fat old man, that’s all, he chuckled to himself, whilst knowing full well that to underestimate a foe, old, fat or otherwise, would see him slain. His insides twitched; he flexed his stomach, understood this wall of muscle was the one thing holding back his bowel—that if he faltered, even for a moment, Horoc would defeat it, snatch those innards outright. Never, Burdt thought—I would sooner fall upon my sword! He glanced up: in the audience, no few admirers were visible, young males mostly, dreaming of their own eventual encounters. Burdt beamed; in return, they gave him only grim nods. Combat fans, they saw that death’s threat loomed above all spectacle and skill—no matter how superior one swordsman may have been to any other, he’d be strewn atop the slaughter-pile one day, butchered or beheaded, name forgotten.
As they neared each other, words were spat like hatred from the brute’s mouth: “You’re the next, eh?”
“Next what?”
“Next to give his guts up.” Horoc’s sword was drawn back, eager for a swing.
Burdt smirked. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Hmph! What I’d like don’t matter—what the crowd demands, now that’s another thing.” He rubbed his fat, slick abdomen, a slight smile spreading on his lips.
“That’s true,” the younger man conceded. “Let us give them what they came for, then...”
“C’mere, boy!”
Cheers erupted as the bull charged sword-first, tip upturned as though a goring horn; Burdt dodged it, barely, startled by how swift the bull was on his feet. As Horoc passed he took his own swing, struck the bastard’s flank and sliced him true, or so he thought—for when the foe turned round, his torso, bloodied though it was, seemed all but whole. How stout he is, the lad thought—I was certain I had opened him!
“Hargh! I’m a big ’un,” Horoc laughed—“you’ll have to cut far deeper, if it’s butchery you seek!” The very mention of such carnage made the bull swell; seed dripped, running down the shaft and dotting sand between his huge feet. Burdt, familiar with the Hellsbull’s reputation, felt his arsehole tighten as a surge of panic overtook him—death was one thing, disembowelment quite another still, but getting buggered by his killer in the sight of hundreds, thousands even, was a gross indigity he musn’t dare fall victim to... yet, all the same, his body had its own desires, savage and mysterious. His cock rose; as his heart beat in his breast, the rhythm shook him, something animal inside him begging for the steel’s release. He’d known this feeling—it was common, for a fighting man—but never had he known it so completely, yearned to give himself to it entirely! He’d throw his corpse upon the fire, snuff his life out—
No, Burdt told himself—no, I’m the victor, and the Bull my victim!
Burdt roared, plunged; swords sang and glinted, legs grew tangled as they wrestled for position... and, in moments, blood-stink filled the air and men’s grunts, sounds and smells bespeaking brute force and the gruesome fruits thereof. The fighters, sweaty, dripping, separated; each looked down, beheld the grim results that they had wrought. Burdt, seeping badly from a hole above his hip, had never felt such pain nor suffered such a wound—but, unlike Horoc, he was whole still.
“Good boy,” huffed the gored bull, “very—hrnghk—g-good, indeed!” Chin pressed to furry chest, he watched sleek, purple loops of organ slither loose into his cupped palm. It was not the first time Horoc bared his viscera—the audience, in fact, expected it each fight!—but that the younger swordsman bested his defenses was a sore affront, and it demanded answer.
“I’ve eviscerated you!” the youth cried, waist clutched.
“Not by half you haven’t!” said the bull—and then, as if to underline this point in blood, he turned his own blade inward, poked it in his wound and dragged it wholly open, spilling still more of his vitals. Burdt’s young head swam; he had battled much, but never witnessed such a sight, and knew then he could never topple Horoc—even halfway disemboweled, the man would best him, for he lacked himself the recklessness to conquer such depraved depths. If he’d only had the courage—were a real man, that is—Burdt would’ve followed suit and fallen on his sword, as he had pledged in jest... except the weapon tumbled from his grasp and thudded in the red sand. This was it, then: he would perish by the Hellsbull’s blade, impaled on steel and cock alike!
The wooly beast embraced his fine prey; threw his own sword down and then, with no compunction whatsoever, reached his hairy bare hand into Burdt’s slim, punctured belly. As the old man worked, the lad retreated inward; at his side, to comfort him or drag him to his doom, stood every gladiator he had gutted, and he saw again the stuff he’d scooped from them, piled high in victory and shining bright, despite that it had meant their very lives. As Horoc bent him over, sought with boyish greediness that final, vile pleasure which had made him infamous, Burdt loudly moaned—a kind of ecstasy flowed now in quick, hard spurts against the overwhelming agony and fear of his impending death. Disgorged guts hanging ’twixt his knees, he took the great brute’s manhood in his broken body, deep as if it were a weapon. No words were exchanged; an older, better language was in use now, one which all men, in their heart of hearts, can claim some fluency. The gave their seed up: Burdt first, copiously, and appropriately so, considering he’d never come again; and then the Hellsbull, lowing loudly, emptying himself into the loser’s arse until it overflowed.
He pulled out; he was belly-slit, but that was just another noonday bout for Horoc, who now heaped the entrails in his elbow’s crook and cradled them as though a suckling babe. The healer’d stuff ’em back in, aye, and stitch him proper; there’d be bed rest, salves and bitter drafts aplenty... but before long, other fools of Burdt’s ilk would approach, the gamblers once again would bet against him, and by day’s end one more pretty gladiator guts would grace arena sands!