A gay story: Cynewulf’s Stone
Editor’s note: this fictional work contains scenes of fictional incest or fictional incest content.
*****
All characters 18+
Cynewulf’s Stone.
You are not Men! You call yourselves Men, but a real Man would beat you down with one swing of his lumber! Today there are no Men. Heroes carried Cynewulf’s Stone almost every summer when I was young. You would not have the courage to put yourselves forward. And only Ædwulf, the greatest Warrior of them all, was brave enough to see it through.
I was barely a Man myself, only a year older than Ædwulf’s son Aldric. As boys he and I went together in all things, and shared the dream of becoming a great Warrior like his Father. Ædwulf was a God to us, with his beard in plaits, and great spiral tattoos on his hairy chest. His oxters stank the place out, and he was always smelled before he was seen.
Aldric and I would stay up late into the night, listening enthralled as Ædwulf recounted war stories with his comrades, and poked at his scars to prove every boast. But as much as we loved to know of all that passed on the battlefield, nothing excited our imaginations better than hearing Ædwulf brag of how he dishonoured his captives. In my day Warriors of Wessex were feared the World over for the way we shamed our prisoners, and Ædwulf made fallen champions of every nation submit to his will. Defeated they knelt under his big balls and took his monumental cock at both ends. How I wished he was my Dad!
Aldric and I would hide to catch a glimpse of the Hero naked as he bathed in the lakes. Ædwulf knew we were there, but did not deprive us of the sight. Of course the new Christians have called our ancient passions sinful, and put an end to them. But in those noble times we practiced the rite of Cynewulf’s Stone.
Long ago, the great Warrior King Cynewulf founded the very Nation of Wessex. And when his first son Ceolwulf was grown to be a virile young man, they fought side by side and killed the monstrous Giants in this country. Sharing these triumphs with his son aroused great lusts in Cynewulf’s bosom, and soon he was in love. Such a union of Father and son was forbidden, then as now, so Cynewulf cut his fabled stone from the heart of Bal Tor. And he spoke to the Nation, saying,
“Bind me, my wrists and neck in stocks. Sit the lad on my shoulders. Hang the stone from my balls! If I can carry it past every Warrior among you, to the summit of Bal Tor, then will you let me take my son?”
And the people said “Yes!”
But should he fail, and fall before he reached the top, he must forfeit the boy, and turn him over a slave to our enemies in Mercia. Of course Cynewulf prevailed!
Since that time the most courageous of every generation came forward to take the trial upon themselves. For it is written that the Man who should successfully carry Cynewulf’s Stone will be Master of his eldest son, just as any Man is Master of his wives. Hundreds coveted this prize, almost none earned it. No more punishing test of a Man’s true worth could be devised. Success demanded all a Man’s physical strength and all his emotional fortitude.
We were well aware of this growing up, and now that Aldric was a young man, the looming promise of becoming his Father’s lover excited many wet dreams. Ædwulf already had three wives – his newest, Twyla, was younger than me. The second, Gwen, was busy raising little ones. And the first, Aldric’s Mother, was hardly seen anymore. She had long since become a powerful Sorceress and vanished into the woods.
Aldric held no shred of doubt that he could make Ædwulf happiest of all. He had not a hair on his chest; he was lithe and pale; he had a cheeky smile which promised a dirty mind; and he was Ædwulf’s own begotten son – a forbidden lust – and what can compete with that? I was jealous of his fortune, ardent for his destiny, and terrified by his fate, all at once.
Because, the Warrior who failed to reach the summit – he who was toppled by his compatriots, or who gave in to exhaustion – always lost his son. I had seen this happen too. Our boyhood friend Beorhtric was dropped by his Father – thrown back down the mountain by Ædwulf not fifty yards from the top. Everyone was sorry to see Beorhtric go. He was a good lad, beloved of all unmarried girls, and of many also who were betrothed. Now he belonged to the Mercian brutes.
Brash in all things, Ædwulf made no secret of training for the challenge. He boasted unashamed that he would reach the Tor and make quick work of his boy when he got there. Aldric and I listened with a nervous mixture of hope and terror, especially after Beorhtric was gone. Ædwulf’s triumph was my own heart’s desire. I feared nothing more deeply than seeing him loose.
The Champion got serious about his drills just as soon as the Elders declared Aldric was at the age of manhood. We watched him dangling heavy gourds and random weights off his big Daddy balls in total awe.
“Just you wait, son,” he’d wink if he caught us staring. Aldric would fall over backwards.
Ædwulf’s confidence seemed unshakable, and it stoked our own belief in his success. But it did not stop us praying each night to every God we could I think of. I even made a secret sacrifice, slicing my thumb at the Temple and rubbing blood on the totems. Anything that might incline divine assistance. Aldric told me he admitted his fears to his Pa one night, and Ædwulf became suddenly furious, dragging the lad to the lake. After throttling him under the surface, close to the point of choking, Ædwulf snatched the boy back, telling him leave his cowardice drowned in the water. It half worked.
Next day he carried the boy on his back to run circuits in the field. Aldric held him tight, the warmth and manly stink of his Father’s bull-body making him swoon. In such moments, the promise of all they stood to win was a dangerous temptation to them both, and yet somehow they kept themselves chaste.
The summer wore on in this way. Father and son training ever harder under the watchful eyes of our neighbours. Soon the big day arrived. This was fixed each year by the Druids who followed the motions of heaven, seeking returning stars. The planets aligned.
I could not sleep the night before, my thoughts turning over and over. Aldric slept neither. Ædwulf snored. And rising typically late in the morning, he arrived at the foot of Bal Tor last of everyone in the tribe. True to his style, Ædwulf made a show of himself, tensing his biceps and cracking jokes. Of a sudden, he tore Aldric’s tunic and the boy stood naked before the crowd.
“My boy’s prettier than your daughters!” he hollered, slapping Aldric’s ass for dramatic effect.
Ædwulf was well-liked, and we all laughed with him. Solemnity was restored by the Druids however as they disrobed the Warrior and bound him in stocks. After testing their knots, they lifted Aldric on his shoulders. The Nation gawped below. Finally the Druids hung Cynewulf’s Stone. It was uncovered with great ceremony, and this was the closest I ever got to the relic.