“Thaedyn,” spake his enemy that day, his battle-brother.
Thrunn, too, glistened with bright perspiration from their combat. He could sense the strong man’s heartbeat thudding in him as they stood there, chest to hairy, naked chest, and Thaedyn’s heart too joined with it, their rhythm building, quickening... “You’ve—”
“Yes,” said Thrunn, preventing him from saying it aloud. “It’s what we wanted, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed,” he answered, pressing ever tighter to his old friend. Handsome still despite his countless war-scars, Thrunn looked little different now, emboiled in their last bout, than he ever had: a mop of golden-blond hair, pale fur speckling his arms, legs, shoulders. Blood, hot, sticky, trickled now between them, spattering both slender fighters’ taut thighs... only something else spilt, also: “battle-fruit,” the pair had called it once, the spilt tripes of their slaughtered enemies. That gut-stink, unmistakable, made Thaedyn stiffer even than he had been, Thrunn too; they were cross-pinned, iron-hard erections pressing at each other like a pair of eager swords. Tanned legs entangled, hugging one another for support, the men knew there was little time to say goodbye—and yet they must.
“My brother!” Thrunn cried.
“Hrnghf—”
As Thaedyn heard these words, his thick spume, white as sea spray, poured at once and coated Thrunn’s red belly, as if sanctifying with his seed the deadly gut-wound. Wrenching downward—groaning as he did so, sure as it was his waist cut—the victor finished him, ensuring at a stroke that Thrunn’s intestines, slick and beautiful indeed beneath the noon sun, spilt completely. Chin-to-chest, the gore-stained swordslaves set their eyes upon the fat, pink fruits of their encounter; “Ngarrrghhh, my guts,” Thrunn spat through gritted teeth into the inch-wide gap between their gaped lips... and the slain man’s words, like breath to Thaedyn, he inhaled.
“I love you,” whispered Thaedyn into the abyss that separated them, as narrow as it was—where, just a little lower, the defeated gladiator’s entrails, sliced free, slithered dutifully out and down around their stiff cocks, down between their quaking, naked knees. That handsome bounty, bigger than expected (as it oft was; how men carried such stupendous lengths inside of them, the gods knew), caught the crowd’s eyes, and they beat their breasts and made their throats hoarse, happy for the gruesome sight. Some masturbated—in the south, and Thorg especially, men worshipped daily at the altar of the twinned gods Blood and Seed, who wrestled in divine sands wheresoever swords met. Thaedyn reached down, cupping with his hands Thrunn’s soft, slick guts, his hairy balls and firm shaft; warm ejaculate erupted in his palm. But it was reflex only, sadly—Thaedyn’s blow, the gutting stroke by which he splayed his battle-brother’s bowel, had been a deep one, bleeding him to death before he’d heard those parting words. Ghost gone, eyes rolling backward, the defeated fighter slid from Thaedyn’s moist grasp, crumpling into the dust...
* * *
For some days following Thrunn’s death, the gladiator got no rest, or rather more of it than he’d have liked—a veritable horde of women soon descended on him, eager for his mighty seed and swollen, blood-streaked muscles. Swordslaves’ cocks were much sought after by the viewing populace; indeed, not only women wanted him, but men too. That week, Thaedyn’s sword was never too far from a warm, wet sheath... but these he tired of, and eagerly did he return to battle-sands, mind near to bursting with imaginings of what—who—he would face next...
What he wanted most, though, was to know what Thrunn felt.
Ngarrrghhh, my guts—the phrase his butchered friend so heartily had uttered, painful though it must’ve been, weighed heavily on Thaedyn. Wonder what my own fruits look like, Thrunn confided in him once, by firelight, their midnight camp unquiet with the thumping of their young hearts. It’d been their first time, slicing men’s waists; all too easy, they had learnt, to urge a foe’s bowel to escape, which meant their own might slip their tender bellies just as easily.
We’ll find out, one day, Thaedyn told him, watching as Thrunn traced with fingertips the taut, bare stretch of flesh between his bony hips—at which point Thaedyn realized his own hand, rubbing absentmindedly between his cock and navel, had betrayed a similar desire.
Bet it hurts bad, Thrunn said.
Course it does, said Thaedyn—all the same, no better way to die.
You think so?
Thaedyn nodded. In the south—in Thorg—a gladiator fight’s not done till one man’s innards or another’s grace the sands... or so I’ve heard. No better ending for a real warrior.
Thrunn chuckled. You intend to be a swordslave, then? Once we have won here?
Yes, I do. You ought to join me.
Hearing it, Thrunn sucked his gut tight, prodding at his belly muscle with one finger. Everybody’d see ’em... see my guts, I mean. Imagine that—A thousand people, witnessing my disembowelment...
They had sat in silence then, content to hear the cracking of the burnt wood and to feel their erections, barely hidden in their trousers. It was Thaedyn’s turn, now; like Thrunn, he had come to Thorg for death, not coin or glory, though the truth was most men who had traded freedom for the gladius bore similar intent. It wasn’t odd, not in the least—to northmen maybe, seeking disembowelment in the hot sands of foreign country was a fool’s goal, but a tested fighting man of any faction, born in any corner of the world, could understand that wish!
* * *
Young Thaedyn, yearning more than anything to take a sword’s blade guts-deep, strode at last toward his doom. A hot day, hotter still than most; Lord Sun, at noon-height, beat with rage upon his freckled brown back, summoning his sweat. His armpits dripped. This perspiration, copious and fragrant in its own way, mingled with the slick of rose oil he had dutifully rubbed across his body, which would be a corpse soon; still more odors, representing his destruction, were about to join these: blood-stench like the taste of iron, viscera, and semen naturally. His arsehole tightened, and his balls ached—he would come more copiously than he ever had before, he knew, once he attained his goal!
His enemy, a lad called Hradon, thudded into the arena. Somewhat heavy-set, his youth was obvious despite his big frame: pink cheeks, thin beard, and a belt of smooth, plump baby fat which hung about his waist, concealing—but not entirely—his mighty abdomen, whose strength and stoutness was apparent. Wavy brown hair hung into his eyes; his chest-fur, nascent still, was similarly colored, sprouting at the center of his breast and round the nipples too, but nowhere else. A fine cock, Thaedyn thought, admiring the fighter’s organ—it was half-hard, stiffening already in anticipation of their death-bout, and it thrilled him to imagine how much spunk the boy might loose upon his belly, once it came time.
“You give belly me,” cried Hradon, slapping at his bare chest—“belly guts!”
I see—the fellow’s farsworn, Thaedyn realized, amused. Their kind were summoned from another world, ’twas said, and though such gladiators started raw, their bloodlust oft surpassed that of more common slaves of local origin. It took them time to learn Thorg’s tongue, as Hradon demonstrated, but his aim was clear: He’ll gut me well, no doubt, if given half a chance.. but he shall have to fight for it!
The audience’s eagerness was palpable: two strong young men—one very young, and big to boot, the other battle-scarred and beautifully slender—were about to throw themselves at one another! And they shortly did—young Hradon, all of twenty, burst forth with the confidence of men full twice his age, and when his sword thrust it was but a bare inch from its target: Thaedyn spun, evaded, missing his evisceration for the moment. In return, he slashed big Hradon’s bare back—slickt—and splattered red across the clean sand, drawing first blood. Turning, Hradon took a gut stab—spluckt—but took it quite well, bared breast bulging as the sword’s blade sank though fat to pierce the muscle of his stomach. Ah, how good it felt! To kill the boy, to bring him to his knees, would be a pleasure... yet a greater pleasure—aye, the very best one—still awaited Thaedyn. For a few more drawn-out moments, he and Hradon carried on thus, plunging, swiping; crimson dotted the arena, and a pretty canvas now awaited eagerly the painter’s final, deathly stroke, which would complete the scene.
“You,” Hradon ordered, bloody sword-tip pointed—“guts!”
“You want these guts, eh?” Thaedyn asked him, chuckling. He spread his feet wide, arched his spine and forced his trim, hard belly outward, each abdominal drawn plain across the bared flesh. “Come and get ’em!”
It happened instantly. A deep grunt leapt his lips; his ears rang, much like days before when he had slain Thrunn, only louder. Hradon glared at him, face pressed so close their noses touched, and looking down he caught the glint of steel ’gainst his waist, the boy-brute’s blade embedded. Never had the gladiator known such pain... and yet, despite it all, the dread thrill filled him head to curled toe, fattening his cock. As steel sank, Thaedyn, letting go his sword, embraced instead the killer even closer: one arm reaching round to clasp his sweaty, broad back, and the other gripping at his meaty buttocks. Cockshafts pinned now, a delightful pulse ran through them at the same time, like their genitals were linked—indeed, a very mighty climax soon awaited!
Hradon (not a bit confused, for he too understood well why a man would wish such), put his hand around the victim’s neck, caressed his nape—and, holding him like this, pushed deeper...
“Hrnghf—”
Stabbed, Thaedyn shivered; he could feel his insides popping, punctured by the thrust. How weak, this simple flesh, he thought—and yet, how beautifully he strained and suffered, as all gladiators suffer, belly muscles tightening instinctively around the blade’s edge. Hradon looked at him: a child’s gaze, almost, one full of wonderment and pity.
“Do it,” Thaedyn hissed through clenched teeth.
Hradon gutted him with ease—a deft stroke, down and to the left. The crowd erupted. Steel hit his hip-bone; shortly after, a tremendous swelling shuddered from the fresh slit, steaming, stinking. “Errrnghhh,” he began to groan, strange words escaping from his spread lips; they belonged to no tongue, save that of the countless brave men who’d experienced like savagery. He felt his viscera escaping, sliding out and down around their penises; it made his thighs wet, hung at knee-height, dangling above the sands with awful, tangible anticipation. Hradon’s cheeks clenched under Thaedyn’s hand; their legs shook suddenly, in total unison, and each man’s semen, pent up, pumped against the other’s gore-splashed stomach. Clutching tightly, Hradon cradled him as though a lover, easing him through every final, painful moment; when the death throes came, and Thaedyn babbled like a baby entering the world anew, the crowd fell silent, so awed were they by the touching end of Thaedyn at the lad’s big, tender hands. ’Twas everything he’d ever wanted, why he’d sought Thorg in the first place... and, this goal attained, his soul fled, free as any bird.