Sweat Trickles Down the Blacksmith's Chest E-Book

Gaylord Fancypants

• Herausgeber: Eroticatorium
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Nothing rages hotter than the simmering forge that melts his steely heart... His name is Aethelred, but everyone calls him Plomp... except the frightened peasants who call him "Ogre" because of his heft, his awe-striking muscles and his scarred neck. Can Oliver the sprightly barman from next-door tame this wild beast of a man? Will their neighbors and countrymen allow their love to flourish? Oliver will stop at nothing to save his man from bandits, rock-throwing bigots, murderous troglodytic dwarves and the ravages of a lifetime of loneliness! 12k words, HEA, no cheating, steamy MM erom

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page copy

Chapter One - Neighborly Concerns

Chapter Two - Fruit Salad

Chapter Three - The Power of Dimples

Chapter Four - An Ideal Location

Chapter Five - The Galoot

Gaylord Fancypants Endmatter copy

Sweat Trickles Down the Blacksmith's Chest: An MM Erom Novelette

Gaylord Fancypants

Copyright 2018

All characters depicted in sexual situations in this publication are eighteen years of age or older.

These stories are about fictional consenting adults engaging in taboo and controversial sexual acts. Nobody involved in the creation of this ebook, including authors, editors and models, support immoral or illegal acts in real life. Cover models are not intended to illustrate specific people and the content does not refer to models' actual acts, identity, history, beliefs or behavior. No characters depicted in this ebook are intended to represent real people.

CHAPTER ONE

Neighborly Concerns

At first the game was fun, and Oliver was fine with it. The men in his bar made a game of chugging an entire glass of lager before the steam dissipated. There seemed to be nothing wrong with that. It turned something inconvenient -- steam billowing in from the smithy next door -- into something fun.

But it soon became a problem for Oliver. They held onto their lagers until there was steam, and they didn't even all do it -- only one person usually drank during the steam at once. Oliver tried to make it a race in which all of them drank, but it wasn't as much fun for them because it meant nobody could chant or stomp their feet until the steam was gone.

So it was unfortunate. It meant they didn't drink as much. Oliver's bar was full of people, and yet virtually none of them bought more than one drink. These rough-and-tumble men normally got so drunk they passed out here every night, but now they just sipped one drink for hours awaiting the "steam game".

That made Oliver very unhappy indeed. He resolved to do something about it in the morning, no matter how intimidating the blacksmith was. He didn't often speak to the man whose home and smithy was next door.

They called the blacksmith Ogre -- children did -- and they said he ate a woman once. Oliver knew that was just silly rumormongering, but knowing that didn't make the words ring in his ear any less.

It was because the blacksmith -- who had introduced himself as Plomp -- was big and a bit hairy and had a nasty splotchy scar on his neck, which extended up to his face.

Around here, a lot of people saw scars and disabilities like that as a sign that the afflicted individual had been cursed by the gods for some wrongdoing. Oliver didn't much believe that either.

But he had to admit Plomp was scary. He was pale-skinned but swarthy-eyed, with an ever-glowering face like a rusty battle-axe above arms that could choke a tree. He spoke like a rumbling thundercloud in the distance, his voice loud and booming, ever-present in the ear, and yet indeterminate and inarticulate, hard to understand because of his echoic, cavernous chest.

It was a marvelous chest indeed, Oliver had thought last time he saw Plomp without his tunic on. He was as broad as a bear, and hairy like one too. He had thighs like tree trunks. That scar on his neck was definitely intimidating -- it looked like something molten, perhaps iron, had dripped onto him.

If you looked just at that spot, sure, he looked like an ogre -- figuratively, of course, since Oliver had seen actual ogres and they didn't have neck-scars. But Plomp was so big and hairy and bereft of common courtesies that he certainly had an ogresque mien that Oliver couldn't deny.

Oliver had to force himself to take a breath when he went next-door to see him. The longer he'd lived next to Plomp, the more he thought he was sexy. Plomp used to not come outside as often, so Oliver didn't see him as much, but lately, he seemed to be out there every time Oliver looked out the door.

And he was often shirtless, not that Oliver would go just to sneak a peek at him.

One morning Oliver happened to spy Plomp beating the dust off a rug with all the clumsiness of a man who had never cleaned a rug in his life. Plomp wore a fine tunic and trousers then. He was not busy, and he appeared to be content, in good mood.

That seemed like a perfect opportunity for Oliver to go over there. He had been increasingly nervous about this steam issue for a few days.

But when he arranged for his barmaid to watch the tavern and stepped out, Oliver was just in time to watch Plomp drop his trousers. His head was down, his bare shoulders and shaggy-haired head aimed at Oliver. Those shoulders were so broad, stacked with muscles and a few stray hairs from his chest, that Oliver was agape with desire. He wanted to massage those shoulders all night long. He wanted to kiss him on the back and feel that broad body flex beneath his grasp.

And now he was trouserless as well. He wore a plain white loincloth. That was what he usually did his smithing in. The smithy was wide open to the alley too, so anyone in the bar could see him here in his loincloth and little else save for the apron.

That was what the drunkard Alfen was doing at the window. He snickered as he sipped from his whiskey -- he was always in here first thing to drink-- and he looked around for someone to make snide jokes about "the ogre" with. But no one was there except the barmaid Sharilyn who just scowled at him.

Oliver was going to have to do something about this. My bar has rights, Oliver thought, I could go to court. He's got to fix this.

"Hello, uh... excuse me?"

"Howdy," said Plomp, whose big-boy voice made Oliver's ears shake. He had one arm up, baring a furry armpit, reaching behind himself to rub some sort of liniment on his back. "You lookin' for one of 'em sconces? I can get ya done this week, but I got a big order-"

Oliver's chest bloomed red and hot. He wanted to suck on that massive chest and feel those strong arms wrapped around him. Sweat trickled down his chest, tantalizing Oliver, who could already taste the salty cleanliness of the valley between his pectorals. Oliver cleared his throat. "No, nothing like that -- wait, do you mean those new sconces? Like they have at the Duke's estate? Those are beautiful-"

"Aye, those are the very ones. I have a mold and I can make them right quick, suh," he said. "You're the one who owns that bar next-door, right? I'll give you neighbor-rates. Eight pounds and five shillings."

"That's..." Oliver's mind raced -- he would have loved those sconces, which were ornate and lacy and delicate and perfect. But they wouldn't look right in his bar. Plus the price was good, but that was for one sconce -- Oliver would need about a dozen, which was a lot to spend on sconces that didn't even fit in well at his bar. "No. No thank you. That's not why I'm here."

"Oh. Then what?" His big face looked dumbfounded, which was no doubt why Alfen laughed loud enough to be heard from inside the bar. Plomp frowned in that direction.

"I, uh... I just had some concerns," Oliver said. His voice had never sounded so weak and frail. "Like, uh... steam."

"Steam? You're... concerned about steam?"

"Yes, it's, uh, loud. And-"

"Steam is loud?"

"No, sorry, not loud, like literally, sorry, I mean it's like... it's like a loud noise, in that it's distracting," Oliver said. He blushed.

"I see." He resumed rubbing liniment on his sore muscles, which gleamed as oil dripped over them.

"Sorry, I'm not explaining myself very well," Oscar said. It felt like his tongue was too big for his mouth. He kept tripping over his own teeth. He smiled as politely as he could muster. "I'm saying, uh... You're disrupting my bar."

"Are you even open yet?" He looked out the window into the alley between their buildings. The alley was only a foot or two wide, so the building was right there. He could see Alfen standing there drinking his whiskey -- was he drinking from the bottle?

That bastard, Oliver thought to himself. "Hey! Alfen! Put that bottle back! Where's Sharilyn? You have to pay for that-"

"Sharilyn is in the back! I'm leaving money on the bar!" Alfen shouted with a gleeful grin on his face.

"Yeah, right..." Oliver muttered. "Look, Plomp, you're being a pain in the ass. Every time your steam fills my bar up, it makes everyone stop buying drinks until it goes away. You bellow curse words as you smith, which keeps women out of my bar, and when women don't drink, men don't come." He didn't mean that as a pun, but Plomp chuckled to himself anyway. "Shut up, you big galoot!"

"Hey! I-"

"I may be smaller than you, but I'm not putting up with this! You need to fix yourself!" Oliver shouted, his face red. He hadn't been this angry in a long time. Plomp's eyes opened wide and he stammered as Oliver backed out. "You're not going to bully me, you fatbrain!"

He stormed out onto the street, already feeling bad for having insulted him like that. He was at least as angry at Alfen for stealing whiskey, not to mention a hundred other reasons his life wasn't going so well at the moment, so Oliver knew he hadn't meant to direct all that ire at Plomp.