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La Petit Mort - poem
The Clint Folsom erotic gay murder mystery series.
Habu reports that he enjoyed writing this series. His premise was a no-holds-barred treatment of an unabashedly promiscuous, laid-back, “good-guy” homicide cop with movie-star looks .
(Clint's) love of being ‘topped’ is so ingrained within his being that
each sex act is with an abandon and longing that makes men ‘feel like
kings’. If you weren’t a ‘sub’ before, you would wish to be one by the
end of the book. Once I finished reading it, I rushed to buy the rest of the
Clint Folsom series. Hot Stuff!
From a review by Kpasa
From the ebook Barbarian Tales
Barbarian Surprise by Sabb
Illustrations by Ynal
I lay on the
ground where I had been thrown, panting for air, and looking up at a
giant of a man who stood over me. He was muscular and solid with large legs and
thighs like tree trunks, narrow hips covered by nothing but a hide loincloth,
and above that a belly that consisted of waves of muscle and then a chest—a
huge chest with big nipples rimmed by golden hair—that was joined to arms that
bulged. The golden hair ran down his belly to the leather of his loincloth and
spread over his legs.
He laughed down at me and poked his sharply pointed
sword at my manhood. I reached to protect myself but, the flat of the sword
slapped my hand free, and with a twist of his wrist, he had sliced open the fine
fabric of my pants, and my manhood was exposed.
He smiled down at me and tapped at my stiffening cock
with his sword, and I moaned. Then he sliced and flicked away the rest of my
pants, then began to work on my fine linen shirt, and in mere moments I lay
there naked beneath him.
I wondered wildly, “How, how have I come to this?”
I had been minding my own business, resting in my tent,
reclining on a pile of rugs and pillows as my men repacked the wagons. We had
passed through a heavy storm the day before, and water had penetrated through
some of the skins and waxed linen wrappings that covered the more valuable items
in my load of merchandise.
This was my first trading trip alone, and we had
crossed the plains in very good time and were about to make our way into the
foothills, and I wanted nothing spoiled. The dangerous part of our journey was
over, and we had not been troubled by bandits. I was feeling pleased and
relaxed, and as I listened to the low sound of the men talking and working
outside, I was stroking myself, thinking of the fleshpots of Tamarind that we
would reach in another two days.
“Ahh,” I sighed, as thoughts of nubile young men
and women filled my head.
On previous visits to the city, my time in the brothels
had been limited by the presence of my father and his need to always hurry. He
was a very serious man who thought of nothing but business and spent all his
time trading or cultivating useful contacts. We barely stopped in Tamarind for
one night when he was in charge.
I knew that I would never be like that. “No,” I
sighed, “there is more to life than business,” and I planned on spending at
least two days in that wonderful city of pleasure, perhaps more, and I
remembered a particularly beautiful . . .
There was a thud against the wall of my tent, and I
frowned, distracted from my happy fantasy. Then there was a yelp, and I was
suddenly alert and annoyed. My men were well disciplined, and if there was a
fight I would deal harshly with the men involved. And now my mood was spoiled; I
called my foreman in.
“Marco,” I called.
I expected an instant response from him, but nothing
happened. I waited and, “Marco,” I shouted again, angrily and loudly.
Still nothing. Suddenly my tent felt like a trap that
blinded me to what was happening outside it, and I was worried. I lay there
undecided. No one had bothered me yet, so perhaps if I just stayed quiet. But
no, that was a truly unworthy thought. So I stood up and crept quietly to the
tent’s entrance and turned the fabric aside just enough to look out.
Everything outside seemed normal, except that there was
no one about. Wagons stood half loaded, horses grazed on their tethers. All was
quiet. It was most odd.
I tiptoed back to where my sword hung from the central
pole of the tent and drew it quietly, then returned to the entrance.
“I must do this,” I said silently and opened the
But there was no longer nothing outside. A huge hand
grabbed the wrist of my sword arm and twisted it painfully till my sword had
fallen to the ground, to be swept up and away by someone I could not see, as the
body of some huge giant filled my sight.
He held my wrist and jerked me out of the tent and
tossed me to the ground where I landed on my back.
And now I lay there naked and wondering fearfully what
he intended to do with me. My breathing quickly growing more rapid as his eyes
traveled over my body and his sword stayed hovering over my jewels.
Then he reached down and pulled me up and propelled me
back into the tent.
“Who are you? What do you want of me?” I cried out
to him, suddenly finding my voice at last, as I staggered across the tent before
falling to my knees among the rugs by the thick central pole of the tent. “My
father . . .” I began, but he cut me off.
“It is not often that a fine healthy young man, such
as you, comes my way,” he told me in the rough accents of a barbarian, as he
tied my hands together with some leather thong, making me even more helpless.
Then he pulled me up by the arms to a standing position, and turning me, he tied
the cord at my wrists to the top of the pole, so I was stretched out and naked
I was panting fearfully and hating my cock for bouncing
against my belly at full attention.
Once I was helpless, he fisted my tool several times,
till I groaned and moved my hips for him, then he laughed and came to in front
of me and dropped his loincloth. I gasped and felt faint; while he smiled and
wrapped his hand about the largest erect phallus I had ever seen and worked it
to an even greater hardness.
“This I have in my hand is for you, my young
merchant,” he told me before he disappeared behind me, and I scrabbled my legs
about, and writhed, trying to escape, but also trying to widen myself for the
“Oh. No,” I gasped, “You can’t. I’ve never .
. . it’s impossible. You will kill me,” I wailed as huge hands parted my
cheeks and pulled at my rim. “No, no.”
But then it was a wet warm tongue of good size that was
there, softly working my rim and pushing in and out of me, and I went weak and
moaned and lifted a leg high, giving him better access. His huge tongue worked
in me as few but the best in the brothels had. Ahhh, it was inside moving; ahhh,
it was better tongue work than in any brothel.
“Yessss,” I moaned, “Oh, no. Oh, yes.”
His tongue played inside my channel as his hands
squeezed my cheeks and traveled briefly to my balls to play there a moment, then
to stroke my hard, dripping cock. I was confused enough to beg him for more.
Though visions of that huge phallus, which I doubted both my hands could cover,
and his large hairy balls that I doubted I could take more than one of in my
mouth at any time, filled my head, and I whimpered.
“Ohhh. No,” I moaned as the tongue left me. But
something thick and hard replaced it in my channel, going deeper and rotating
and . . . “Oh gods,” I cried lifting my legs and wrapping them about the
pole to open myself as another thick long finger joined the first inside me.
They were stretching and teasing my channel so my hips fucked instinctively and
my manhood rubbed against the tent pole, and in a moment I spouted my load of
seed up my chest and over the pole.
I was spent then and sagged back onto the fingers
digging inside me, and a firm hand grasped one cheek and held me up, so that my
shoulders were not strained by carrying my full weight. My head dropped back,
and full lips found mine, and a tongue explored my mouth.
He ended the kiss and grunted, “Now you will feel the
manhood of Konan,” to me, and I whimpered even before the bulbous head of his
weapon pressed against my entrance.
I cried out loudly as he forced it past the first
resistance, and I strained to open myself for him. He gained another inch, and
he had a mighty palm under each of my cheeks and lifted me and opened me wider,
and I moaned as he gained another inch. Then he was lowering me onto his
tool, and I whimpered, “I can’t. Oh, I . . .
Ohhhhh.” He had reached that spot. “Ohhhhh,” I moaned, and I felt
myself open for him so that he moved in deeper.
some pain, but my channel was not a virgin one and opened for him slowly but
steadily, and finally he was buried to the hilt in me, and I could feel that
thick golden hair of his bush brushing against my hairless butt. And a fullness
filled me inside such as I had never felt before.
Then he plowed me deep, the strength of his thrusting
lifting me up the pole and then powering up into me as I was let down, and
turning me about it and moving himself in circles in me so that I moaned and
cried out, “Yes. Oh, great Gods, again. Ride me. Oh, never have I, oh . . .”
and similar cries of ecstasy at being so well ridden.
But all too soon he began to pump me rapidly and swell,
and I cried out at the even bigger size of him splitting me as he let loose,
pumping his first shot of seed deep inside me. And as he did, he let out a great
roar, like a lion, that sent a shiver through my body, and I shot another load
of my own up the pole, which my legs still embraced, as he deposited even more
of his man-juice deep inside me with another great roar of power and strength.
When he finally withdrew from me, I collapsed and felt his cream run out of me as I wondered if I might tear my shoulders from hanging there, too weak to stand on my shaking legs. The cream ran down my inner thighs, and the cord at my wrists was sliced free and I collapsed to the ground, whimpering.
“You have given me a fine ride, young merchant,” He
said in his deep rough voice. “But be warned that if you return here within
the five days that remain before I return to my winter home, I shall ride you
again, and ride you even harder.”
With that he was gone.
As I lay there recovering myself enough so I could
stand again, I heard soft murmurings coming from outside and the normal sounds
of the day returned. Eventually, I left my tent to find the wagons almost ready
and Marco helping to secure the horses in their traces, and I had barely left my
tent when men hurried to dismantle it and I was still in a daze when it was
packed up on top of the last wagon, which held our own food and possessions.
Marco came up to me, “We are ready to leave
master,” he said looking at me normally.
Good,” I said, pulling my wits together and walking
carefully to the last wagon. “I will ride up here for now,” I told him,
gingerly climbing up and setting myself down onto a thick cushion that was
unexpectedly placed on the seat up there. “I will ride Hercules (my horse)
later. And, Marco, I wish us to make good speed to Tamarind and tell the men
there will be no delays there. I wish us to leave for our return journey within
Marco looked up at me, now smiling very broadly, and
replied, “Just as your great father would wish, master. He is indeed the
smartest merchant in all of Thrace,” he added, and I wondered why he seemed so
cheerful and pleased.
Then I wondered where he had been when the barbarian
had knocked me down and dragged me into my tent.
Hum. Perhaps I should not wonder too much on such things.
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