The Gut-Gift
(Previously: “Huruk Holds His Seed”)
Huruk fasts upon the eve of battle, per the custom; when men’s guts are like to spill, it’s best they come out clean, lest filth seep from the wound and mar the beauty of the scene. Likewise, the man takes care to void his bowels, then vigorously wash his backside—when a swordsman loses, he is sometimes ass-fucked by the victor (made his "battle-lover," as it’s often put), a solemn act best kept unsullied by such foulness. It is not that he expects to lose today—he doesn’t—but he’d like to be prepared, in case he does. His end shall be a beauteous event, the disembowelment carried out as slowly and as carefully as possible. Young Huruk wants to wrestle with the agony; he wants the gathered crowd to watch him struggle with it—beat it, ultimately, win by virtue of his very manliness, though having lost the bout itself. Today he may die, or tomorrow, or the next day. Maybe next year, maybe many years from now—but, when he does, he’ll be prepared.
His foe this bout is Breccan—he’s an outlander, an interloper. Desert men know just how to conduct themselves within the pit, but men like this—if men they may be called—know little of the tribe’s ways, merely aping what for Huruk and his folk are ancient, sacred rituals. It’s said this Breccan wanders near and far throughout the known world, playing gladiator for a coin, a bit of bread, a place to sleep; he’s reckless, crude and very, very dangerous—or so the rumors go, at least.
The sun beats hard upon their backs. They look each other over: Breccan’s copper-headed, curly-haired, his face, arms, chest and shoulders freckled underneath his dark tan. He is nearly fifty years of age, quite lean of build, the hard, flat muscles plainly visible beneath his gleaming skin. A thin, deep scar spreads wide between his hips, above the ruddy fur which disappears beneath his loincloth: he, too, has been gutted once, or very nearly, just as Huruk has. The desert fighter prods his own scar with his fingertips—it aches still, where the sword was thrust into his waist, as if it yearns for steel’s kiss once more...
Now Breccan draws his blade, and points for Huruk’s breast. “I hear you desert men die eagerly—perhaps today’s your day?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
Clang!—their weapons meet—clack-clang!—and sweat flies, running down their handsome and athletic frames. Young Huruk, slick with perspiration, bearing belly scars at last, has never been more striking; Breccan, for his part, is smaller, older, uglier, but so too wiser for it—twenty-seven years he’s fought, and felled some several thousand men of any size, survived against all odds. This fight is no more dangerous than any he has had, this Huruk no more trouble than another of his burly, savage ilk. He swipes wide, catching his opponent’s black-furred breast; the meat beneath is torn, the brown and fleshy nipple split in twain, and Huruk’s bright blood splashes Breccan’s hairy chest. But Huruk’s quick—no sooner is he caught then does he counter, jabbing quickly into Breccan’s fuzzy navel!
As they separate, the crowd cheers. Breccan looks down: Huruk’s blade has sliced his belly button’s knobby knot, and pierced the muscle underneath, but hardly penetrated deeper—he will keep his guts, for now. As for the other man, though crimson splashes him from throat to groin, he stands tall, unperturbed...
“Your loincloth’s drenched,” says Breccan, pointing out young Huruk’s bloodied garment. “What say we remove these silly things, as fight as men ought?”
“How amusing,” Huruk says. “I wore this thinking to appease your foreign sensibilities... but now it’s clear to me that warriors are warriors, no matter whence they hail.” He strips himself; his rigid, bloodied penis bobs in front of him, as if to guard his vulnerable gut, while Breccan’s prick sticks straight out, only half-engorged, flushed pink and slick with sweat.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” says Breccan. “Now, let’s get back to it, eh?”
Their battle lasts for several minutes longer; all the while, they appear well matched, each dealing decent wounds—a slash across old Breccan’s freckled back, a jab to Huruk’s meaty thigh—until, somehow, the two men find themselves splayed in the sand, engaging in a tense and brutal spot of grappling. Breccan manages to mount young Huruk from behind; the tribehead grunts as his opponent’s rock-hard manhood slips inside him, stabbing like a dagger.
“How’s about a bit of fun, boy?”
Huruk bucks against him. Being penetrated thus, he’s all but lost; it’s unimaginable, and the only way out now is to commit thok-chol at long last, give his gut-gift up, and thereby prove his honor. Both hands on the hilt, he turns his weapon inward, angling its tip so that it pricks the muscled groove along his left hip. Next he thrusts his belly outward, takes a deep breath in—
“You gonna gut yourself now,” Breccan asks him, “just like that?”
“I’ve planned for it my whole life,” Huruk tells him. “Fuck me if you will, but nothing matters more right now than that I be allowed to perish in the proper fashion—belly slit, bowels spilt.”
“I’ve heard of this,” he says—“your thok-chol, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
“Perhaps I’ll join you, eh?”
At this, young Huruk turns his head, surprised. “You’d do that? Spill your guts with me?”
“Why not?” says Breccan. “I have slain and slain again for many years... perhaps it’s time I took my rest. You’ve seen the scar across my stomach? I don’t fear it—I have glimpsed my bowels before, I’ve held them in my hands, in fact. You’re quite the fighter, Huruk, and to die beside you, guts out, pricks about to burst... well, that sounds just as good to me as any other end I might meet. How’s about it?”
Huruk laughs—but, finally, he shakes his head. “Thok-chol is our way, not yours... you would never understand. So fuck me, outlander, until you’ve had your fill—I’ll carry out the ritual alone.”
“Ha—very well.”
Old Breccan takes him by the hips, then humps him eagerly—in, out, in, out, in—plunging hilt-deep with each thrust; meanwhile, Huruk takes the blade into his waist—the barest tip at first, enjoying how the cool steel stings his warm flesh—then he pushes deeper, forcing it to penetrate the meaty wall behind which hide his vulnerable bowels. He grunts, though from the stab in front or the assault behind, who knows. The boy is less than half the other fighter’s age, and Breccan savors him, this hulking swordsman in his prime; he smells of steel and sweat and seed, just like a fighting man ought. Every person in the silent audience can hear the hard, wet slaps of Breccan’s thighs against the beaten boy’s ass, as he takes his just reward. Then, all at once, young Huruk throws his head back, letting loose a low and manly growl—He’s done it, Breccan thinks, the blade is buried in his guts, and now he need but spill them out...
“That’s it, boy,” Breccan whispers in his ear, “now show it to me—show me what you’re made of!”
Huruk pants hard, chin pressed to his chest, and watches wide-eyed as, with trembling hands, he draws the steel slow across. The sound of thick meat being split find Breccan’s ear; observing over Huruk’s shoulder, he can see the red slit spreading broader, crawling just below his navel, and the bright pink innards bulging outward in the blade’s wake. Huruk’s asshole clenches, tightening around the old man’s cock, but Breccan doesn’t stop—instead he plunges harder, faster, eager to explore how far this frightful, futile coupling will carry them!
The boy groans. “My—m-my innards!”
Now the elder fighter watches, fascinated, as his foe’s intestines slide free, no doubt urged out by their fucking, falling down his thighs and draping his erection. “Ahhh, I see ’em,” Breccan tells him. “Beautiful... You’ve done it, lad—you’ve disemboweled yourself!”
And hearing this, the boy erupts: a sudden, endless load of creamy seed the likes of which no common gladiator ever let loose. White pearls splatter on his red chest; Breccan touches some of it, and takes it to his lips—he’s never tasted semen, not even his own, but somehow he must understand this fighter’s soul from head to foot, inside and out, and sure enough the dying swordsman’s spunk tastes perfect: bittersweet, ephemeral. He comes too, deep inside his quarry, unable to hold it in and humps until, at last, they both lie still.
Their bout is talked about in tribal lands for many years to come, but no one mentions Breccan in their telling of it; rather, it’s the tale of Huruk’s long-awaited thok-chol. Breccan doesn’t mind—he’s just another foreign gladiator, one whose name, upon his death, will surely fade to dust.
(Next: “That Joyous Game,” or “The Meager Prize”)