Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

"What is it you want?" A'zam asked wearily through cracked lips as the Schlange entered the room where the young Arabic prince hung naked and spread-eagled by leather bounds. He'd been given nothing except the monster's tongue cocks for over a day now—and not even that since late into the previous night. All was quiet across the caliph's Alexandria palace, as the gray light of dawn filtered into the narrow arrow-slit windows cut deep through the stone walls and overlooking the inland sea at one corner of the fortified harbor entrance into the inner harbor.

"I would have come for your virile nectar in any event," the Schlange murmured in a soft, malevolent, hissing voice. "But you are correct. There is something else I want from you." The young prince had slept during the latter part of the night, hanging from the leather strips in the center of the inner sanctum. The Schlange left him unattended through much of the night, although the temptation to milk the virile sailor prince continuously was there—it was as addicted to what the beautiful youth could give it as A'zam now was to the overpowering, albeit horror-filled, sexual satisfaction the Schlange could provide. But what the Schlange wanted from him was important—vital—and the young man needed to be alive and alert to provide it.

"Name it," the prince said in a low, hoarse voice. "And name what you will give in exchange."

"Give in exchange?" the Schlange retorted with a hissing little laugh. "Have you not found that what I give you is worth all of the riches of your world?—far more arousing and satisfying to you than anything a human can given you. Do you think you can return to your young dancers and be satisfied now that I've had you?"

A'zam did not answer, but he lifted his head and stared into the fascinatingly ugly-handsome face of the monster, and the Schlange knew that the young prince could not answer—that what the Schlange had said was a basic truth that A'zam was only now acknowledging to himself. And all of the misery of the world showed in the young man's face—all of the hopelessness and despair that stretched out before him in a life that had once had so much promise. He had been marked—and his depths had been touched. He was lost to this monster now.

"Ah, but I do have something to offer you in return. I shall give you eternal life; eternal lovemaking to the very depths of you."

"Eternal life," A'zam said. But his tone was flat, and he lowered his head again, not wanting to give the monster the satisfaction of seeing the pain and sorrow in his eyes.

"I came for you because you are the navigator," the Schlange continued in his breathy, whispery tones. "You have bypassed the maelstrom and shot the Kalpe and Abyla repeatedly in both entry into and escape from the inland sea. I want you to navigate my ship through the labyrinths—and then, then you will know eternal ecstasy."

If A'zam had been looking into the Schlange's face, he would have known how desperately the monster wanted this, needed this, and would understand that even now, when he was bound and being cruelly used, not all of the leverage was in the monster's control. But he did not turn his gaze upward, and there was no evidence that anything had happened or been said to boost his flagging spirits.

As the sun was rising to the west across the placid waters of the inland sea, the black ship was gliding out into the waters and away from the palace pier at Alexandria, rowed by unfortunates of the streets and back alleys of the ancient city, who had been seized in the night and who were fair of face and body but unlucky in lineage and circumstance. There would be no one in the teeming city who would note their absence, no one to care that they never returned. Standing above them, shuffling up and down the strip of decking between the oar benches, wandered the cloaked, hooded figures—the five minions of the Schlange, voicing cruel commands and snapping whips.

Spread-eagled, naked, by his own direction, at the ship's bow, a perfectly sculpted alabaster-white figurehead bowed out over the prow of the jet black craft, facing the sea he loved, his legs spread and ankles bound to deck joints and his arms flung wide and wrists tied off to ropes rising to the overhead sails, jutted the navigator, the Ottoman prince A'zam. The magnificent young prince was keening toward where the horizon met the sea. This was his secret of success, he had told the Schlange. He offered himself fully to sea and the winds at each voyage, making homage and begging for their sufferance and protection. And the sea and wind had always responded to him.

A'zam did not name the winds that responded to his call, though. In the hours of captivity since the monster had told him what he wanted, the Arabic prince's memory had stirred, and he began to remember bits and pieces of an old legend of good defeating evil, of a monster such as the one besetting him and how he had been defeated and entombed by the White Furies that watched over A'zam. And A'zam, in his desperation, had begun to plan. If only he could withstanding long and deeply enough the allure of the Schlange's Siren Song Symphony and the total pleasure of ultimate taking the monster had initiated him to.

Standing close behind him, its nether cock wound around the young prince's belly, the forked tongue of its piss slit fondling the young man's cock and balls, teasing him into hardness and the awakening of his juices, the Schlange matched the keening of the navigator with the soft humming of its own, the low murmur of the mesmerizing Siren Song Symphony. The cock tongue of its mouth was flicking around the young man's thick, muscled neck and down and up into his exposed arm pits and around to his chest. The young prince's nipples were hardening, and the Schlange made languid love to him with its wandering hands as well as the flicking tongue. It was time to abstain from taking him again now, though, so that he could concentrate his strength on summoning his protective spirits, spirits that would protect the black ship as well on his dangerous journey, but its caressing promising a renewal of the lovemaking that only the Schlange could give the virile, lustful youth.

A'zam's keening increased in volume and intensity as the ship was rowed out into the trade channel and turned west, and then, as if on the young navigator's command, a breeze rose, caressing A'zam's cheeks, fluttering the Schlange's green scales, billowing the satyr's cloaks so that some of the oarsmen gasped at the glimpse of what was underneath, and chilling the sweat-soaked bodies of the young Egyptians manning the oars.

A'zam lifted his eyes up to the heavens, and then he smiled. They were there, his friends, the White Furies. He—and only he—could see them answering his call, floating in from the north and east and south and west, summoned to that which they had long sought, moving behind the black ship, filling the black ship's sails, and sending the majestically ominous vessel thundering toward the west.

The Schlange sighed a sigh of satisfaction. The lad had done it. He had delivered his sailing magic. He need no longer be fully strengthened and fully aware—at least not until they approached the maelstrom—and then he could be permitted to recover, totally rejuvenate—at least until they were safely into the greater ocean. And then the young prince could receive his eternal peace.

But for now, it was the Schlange that needed to be rejuvenated, satisfied. The monster knelt behind A'zam and then turned, without dislodging the coiled cock rope around the man's belly. It laid down between A'zam's legs an the jutting prow and looking up the line of A'zam's torso, and let its mouth cock slither up the young man's calves and thighs and wrap itself around his erect cock. The forked tongue slithered into A'zam's piss slit and opened that channel. A'zam moaned an initial objection that turned into a cry of invasion when the nether cock head stole into his ass canal. He writhed briefly and groaned and grunted and begged for sufferance as the tongue of the mouth tongue snaked through the urethra and down into the refilled ball sac and started pulsating there, teasing the virile A'zam into flow. Simultaneously the cock tongue made love to A'zam's prostate and then slithered up into his intestines, pulling along the thickened cock, stretching and filling A'zam's canal and undulating its scaly skin across the young man's yielding channel walls.

Pulsating, pulsating, in both entrances. The Schlange singing its Siren Song Symphony melody. A'zam setting his hips in motion with the rhythm of pulsating cock tongues, moaning and sighing now for the symbiosis of the Schlange giving extreme arousal and sexual pleasure and the Schlange, in turn, receiving the commodious flow of rejuvenating nectar. At length A'zam cried out his ultimate pleasure and surrender of his noble semen, as the Schlange ejaculated deep inside him, bathing his insides with the opiate of its calming venom.

The two continued like this, one unified pleasure machine, as the black ship scuttled toward the outlet into the greater waters between the guardian jaws the seafarers called Kalpe and Abyla. The Schlange would milk A'zam until there was no more nectar to give, then it would anesthetize the captive with its own ejaculate. And then the Schlange would wait. Sometimes for a couple of hours, sometimes a bit longer, as it sensed A'zam recovering his virility. The young man truly was a prime-of-health semen production machine, and the Schlange was pleased with itself at its uncanny ability to pick the best of the best. Then, as A'zam regained his strength and consciousness, the Schlange would invade him once again with its cock tongues and subdue him and milk him. The Schlange was gaining in strength and power with each milking just as A'zam was slowly, but relentlessly shriveling toward nothingness.

Meanwhile, behind them, on the ship's deck, the mighty favorable wind had made the rowers redundant—which was the plan. The five satyrs had thrown off their hooded cloaks and were roaming the decks, picking and choosing, from most arousing to least. Unchaining this and that terrified young man, easily overpowering each feeble attempt at resistance—and enjoying this struggle as part of the game, even—throwing backs or bellies to the deck or up against the mast or over a rail, as it pleased them, forcing thighs apart with beefy fists, and thrusting up inside their prey with cruel, mammoth cocks. Thrusting and fucking endlessly to the lusty cries turning to moans turning to gurgles of complete surrendering—of all who fell before them. What inevitably followed was the splash of water of yet another jettisoned husk. And then rising and grinning and shopping the trembling, chained line once more. The satyrs pacing themselves so that they could sport until their attention was needed to provide help in navigating the labyrinths to come.

Each time A'zam recovered consciousness, the sounds of ultimate taking on the deck behind him and the twitching of the Schlange's tongues inside his ball sac and his gut shot home the hopelessness of the situation once more. It was only when he lifted his face to the heavens and spied the steady presence and blowing of the White Furies that he was able to manage a fleeting smile and gain once again some purpose to his waning life. But then, each time, he felt the stirring of the flicking tongues inside him, the gripping and pulsating of the tongue around his testicles, and the awakening and thickening of the cock deep inside his intestines, and he began to writhe again in a maddenly short resistance that, in spite of his every desire, morphed into waves and waves of heightened arousal and passion and crying out for what only the Schlange was able to give him—what no human could ever give him if he somehow survived this trial—and the draining of his vitality and life fluid, drawing him closer in each fucking to the end of his existence.

The sky was darkening, the atmosphere was heavy with moisture, and thunder was rolling in the near distance, the sound of rolling thunder that only A'zam knew was not really thunder, as A'zam was coming into season again. He knew now what he must do, what only he could do—in aid of is favoring winds, the White Furies. As the Schlange began the rhythm of another invasion, A'zam bent his mouth down to that green, ugly-handsome face of the Schlange's body laced between his legs and lying on the jutting prow and looking up along the line of A'zam's body, and he kissed the monster on the cheek. Surprised and aroused in a new way, the Schlange moved its mouth tongue away from A'zam's cock and lifted its chest up to A'zam's, rubbing bare, hard-muscled chest to bare, hard-muscled chest. A'zam murmured that he wanted to embrace his lover, that he loved the Schlange deeply and wanted to be able to reciprocate that love.

Intrigued and aroused in a new way, the Schlange slit A'zam's arm bonds, and the two embraced closely. A'zam kissed the Schlange full on the mouth and allowed the Schlange's mouth cock to enter his mouth cavity and caress his inner cheeks. All of the time the Schlange's nether cock was pulsating inside A'zam's ass channel. But now, the sexual congruous was changing. Now the Schlange's cock was beginning to slow pump A'zam's channel and A'zam's hips were answering in a rhythm that was more of a normal fuck than the Schlange had ever experienced with one of its victims before. The sensation was exhilarating and arousing for the monster in a completely new way. A'zam's mouth was in the hollow of the Schlange's neck and moved to its chest, and the Schlange had the first sensation ever of lips and teeth coaxing its nipples to erection. The beautiful young man was making love to the Schlange—and at the same time A'zam was totally distracting the monster's attention from anything else happening around it. In another first in its ages-long life, a tear appeared at the corner of the Schlange's eye and rolled down its flat cheek, and for the first time it contemplated the handsome young human as a lover rather than sustenance.

The Schlange was lost to the lovemaking now, no longer fully in control—which was unfortunate beyond its wildest imagining—just as the brave but lost A'zam had planned as a panicked "must be" when he realized that all else was lost—that he never could go back now even if given the opportunity.

The satyrs were the first to notice, but it was upon them before they could warn the Schlange. The roaring A'zam had heard was not near-distant thunder. It was the much more present signal of the edge of the maelstrom—the vortex, the whirlpool—protecting the entrance between the Kalpe and the Abyla, opening the inland sea out into the greater world. And the navigator had set the black ship to sail directly into the center of it rather than in the secret channel around it, powered by the breath of the White Furies.

Thanks to the White Furies, which the Schlange, in the effort to satisfy its own needs, had not noticed, the black ship had found the maelstrom much earlier than anticipated.

A'zam, the navigator, raised his weary face, and in the last gasp of his strengthen, he pushed the Schlange way from him, the monster releasing its grip on A'zam's belly in its surprise and consternation, out beyond the prow of the ship into the center of the vortex, as A'zam lifted his face to the White Furies and keened his appreciation for deliverance. And then the boiling waters engulfed him, cleansing his wounded, badly used body, as the black ship, and all of the lost souls aboard spun down into the center of the abyss, following the Schlange down, down, down to the center of the reentombing earth.