Kentaurida
A trans man searching the old forests for magical aid finds a centaur who is willing to help him. For a price.
Trans M/M(onster). 3.8k
This story was previously featured on the Nobilis Erotica Podcast.
In the grey predawn the dense, ancient forest pressing right up to the edge of the road looms over George, as he picks his way along, careful not to turn an ankle in the deep ruts left by farmers carts and post wagons. He’s heard that this forest is untouched since ancient times, the last virgin wild lands this side of the continent, powerfully haunted, according to the common folk, and a stronghold of the old gods.
It is cold, and the stars glitter in the sky, the husk of the setting moon is all the light George has to find the marker he was told of. It is an old thing, standing as tall as a man, the carved stone weathered by the centuries. The head on top is still well formed, and Hermes’ sly, gleeful smile beams from atop its square pillar. As George approaches he can make out, at the appropriate height, a carved penis standing at a jaunty angle from a stylised bush of pubic hair. He stops in front of it, and reaches out to touch the stone penis for good luck.
Turning from the herm, he tightens the straps of his pack and fords his way into the forest. It is black under the cover of the trees, even the moon’s feeble light lost, he strains to see the obstacles in his path, and more than once loses his footing on the slick leaf litter and uneven coils of roots. Soon, George is breathless with exertion, and sweating; his shirt clings to his skin. Clammy and chilled, he must pause for a moment to tug his collar away from his throat and adjust his pack.
It is so quiet, even the birds are silent; there’s not a sound aside from his laboured breathing and the crunch of dried leaves under his boots. George fits his fist against his side to ease the ache in his ribs, and a prickle crawls up the nape of his neck. What is that sense of hushed watchfulness that surrounds him? Why does it feel as though his every move is being scrutinised? George shakes himself off like a dog — isn’t it silly to believe all those folk superstitions — he squares his shoulders and carries on, labouring up the slope.
But then, he is here because he believes in the folk tales. Because they say that beyond the curses and malevolent spirits, there was the chance to gain a miraculous cure, or the power of divination, or a dozen other such boons. The cure is all he wants, some kind of treatment. If he has come all this way to find nothing, he thinks he may as well die.
In the unnatural stillness of the forest, George hurries upward, his blood pounds in his ears, and his breath saws out of him, and in the dark he scurries, as though chased — by he knows not what — and he flounders onward through the branches that whip his face, and the debris that bites his ankles, blind with haste, with panic, further into the crowded trees, up, up as stone breaks through the ground like jagged teeth, and —
With a wordless cry, George flings his arms up as he wheels to a halt, his belly bare fractions of an inch from the spear-tip leveled at him. “Peace!” He yelps, staggering, “Peace!”
Behind him the sun’s golden fingers creep above the distant mountain range, and in the first faint wash of light he sees the man at the other end of the spear — no, not a man, a centaur — seven feet tall, broad and rippling with muscle, and all of that bulk behind the point, ready to thrust through George, who stumbles back a step, and calls again, “Peace!”
There is no overt change in the creature’s posture, but his eyes, narrow, and lock with George’s, and he makes no move to strike. “I’ve travelled a long way,” George says, his voice high and fluting, “Sir, a very long way, in the hopes of finding you, Sir, or, another one of your kind, i-if you’re not the one who can help me.” Under that fierce gaze, George is pared down to the bone, fear and hope mingle in his gut, and he forces himself to keep as still as possible.
At last, the spear is withdrawn, and the centaur shifts his weight, and now George’s eyes slip down of their own accord, taking in a fair dusting of hair, leading down a lean, muscular torso to where the manlike figure joined with the horse, a neat, teasing V of coat and skin.
The click of a hoof on stone catches George’s attention back and his cheeks turn pink. “That is, Sir, I’ve heard that there is a centaur here who knows medicine, and I need … I need … well, if that is you, I would ask your assistance, or if it isn’t, then I’d ask directions. If you please, Sir.” Sweat beads and runs down the small of George’s back, and his mouth is dry, it seems so strange to see the creature, stiller than any horse he’d ever seen, with all the intensity of some great warrior of legend.
“I know medicines,” the centaur says, at last, “but there is a price.”
George’s cheeks burn, and he wipes his sweaty palms on his shirt. “I know it.”
Laughter, deep and hearty, erupts from the centaur, birds startle from the trees and dart away through the foliage, and he shakes his head. “You seem very sure, for one so young.”
George lifts his chin, though his cheeks are still hot, and he looks the creature in the eye. “I know the price.”
“Very well.” Serious once more, the centaur moves closer, his great hooves sinking into the leaf litter, and George is suddenly aware of the immense power of his arms, and torso, of the sheer size of him, but also, somehow, of an air of power. This is a creature of magic, and it rolls off him in waves, almost palpable. It is almost as though George could stick out his tongue and taste it. “Let me look at you, boy.”
George stands, and turns as he is bid, and looks the centaur in the eye. He is breathless and almost dizzy, electrified at being so close to him, and he feels a restless heat between his thighs, and curling in his belly. It seems he walks in a dream now; finally, he has found this place, and this creature, after so many disappointments, abandoned temples, and faithless charlatans.
“You’ve not even begun to sprout a beard.” The centaur shifts, a hoof clacks on stone. “So young … you humans are fickle, don’t you worry what they will say about you, coming here to seek me out?”
“I am two and twenty, Sir, and I’m here because … because I have not begun to sprout a beard. I don’t care what anyone says of me, Sir, or I’d have never left my father’s house.” George sets his pack down and unbuttons his shirt; he shrugs it off with his jacket and stands there in his ragged bandages, and hides his trembling hands behind his back. For the first time he looks away, afraid the centaur might admit he has no medicine for this.
“Ah, you’re one of those boys. I see.” One broad, warm hand reaches out to touch the bandages wrapped around George’s chest; he plucks at the edge of them, and tries sliding a finger under the wrappings at the sternum. After a moment’s effort it is clear that they are wound too tightly. “Take those off. Strip to your skin, let me look at you.”
It is difficult to bare himself, George’s hands shake, and he fumbles with his buttons and fastenings as though he’s palsied, and in the end he needs assistance to unwind the bandages. He stands, naked and awkward and all prickled into gooseflesh, and clenches his hands into fists at his sides.
There is no visible reaction. The centaur eyes him over, with the mien of one who has seen every possible permutation of the flesh and is beyond surprise. In a way it is comforting, and at that George is horrified to find himself blinking back hot tears, overwhelmed at the mere thought that he could be so near to some kind of treatment.
“No more of this,” the centaur says, and presses a thumb to the red marks left by the bandages. “Boys like you will crack their ribs and stunt their lungs, and you have no need of that here.”
“Yes, Sir.” It isn’t so much to ask, out in the wilderness, even so, George curls in on himself, as though poor posture could disguise how ill his body suits him.
“You ought to call me Chryses. What is your name, boy?”
“George is … is what I answer to.” More than that is beyond his ability to share.
“Very well, George. We’ll have an agreement. I shall guide you in this … transformation, and in exchange,” Chryses voice is filled with dark amusement, “I shall fuck you however it pleases me to do so.”
Hearing it so plainly sends a thrill through George; desire, hope, fear, all mingled up and pooling hot in his belly. He nods silently, and licks his lips. “We have an agreement.”
“We have wasted enough time here, later this agreement must be sealed, but,” Chryses says, “for the moment, a kiss will do.”
George stands, face upturned and waiting, and watches Chryses tilt his head, and the subtle shift of his hindquarters.
“Oh!” It is no chaste peck that will seal this. Without hesitation, he reaches out, and rests a hand on Chryses’ golden flank for balance, feels his smooth coat and smells the familiar horse-scents of dust and sweet hay and sweat. Under Chryses’ belly, George looks closely, wary of his hooves. The main attraction is tucked away in its sheath, and he wastes only a moment wondering how big it will be before he leans in and presses his lips to the wrinkled opening.
Using his tongue to delve into the sensitive sheath, George feels the great body over him twitch and he is gratified by the high-spirited flick of Chryses’ tail. In front of him, his balls hang heavy and round, and swaying with each slight movement he makes. Emboldened, George reaches for them, cups his hands around them and slides his wet lips along the underside of the shaft which is already beginning to swell and peek from its home, and presses his face to the velvety scrotum.
A second later there is a barehanded slap across his arse, and he jumps and yelps, and breaks into a peal of laughter.
In the heart of the forest, veiled by a willow tree, at the mouth of a cave with its opening covered by a pelt awning, George sits by the open fire, legs splayed on the springy grass in front of him. Chryses is busy preparing roots and herbs and a small hunk of meat, and George takes the opportunity to watch him closely. In the firelight his features are softened, his eyes reflect the red of the flames and his brow furrows as he works.
George has spent the day watching Chryses, in between running after him through the woodland. He has had ample time to admire the hard muscle of his back and the golden downy hair on his belly, and often his eyes wandered lower, watching the heavy balls hanging softly between his hind legs, and contemplating the terms of their agreement. The scent of his cock lingered on George’s lips for much of the day and George felt a constant burr of arousal, heat rolling in his belly, and dampness on his thighs. Even running through the cool, shady forest in only his skin couldn’t tamp it down.
A spit is propped across the fire, fat sizzling and dripping, and the roots are buried with coals. Chryses looks to George across the fire and his gaze caresses George’s body again. George keeps as still as he’s able, it is so alien to be the focus of attention, he has grown used to disrobing only enough to bare his arse, of covering himself not only for modesty’s sake, but for his own safety. As Chryses’ eyes move lower, George draws his knees up and spreads them.
“The transformation, you will grow body hair, a beard, your figure will become more masculine. This is what you seek, yes?”
George swallowed and nodded. “And …” He tapped his chest. “These?”
“You won’t bind them, while you’re here. They are small, you are lucky — perhaps they will become less of a nuisance. If not, I will direct you to another.”
“Thank you.” George sucks in a shaky breath. “Any small thing will be an improvement. I simply cannot go on as I am.”
“I know. And my terms are … agreeable to you?” Chryses smiles and his eyes dart down to the thatch of hair between George’s thighs, and George follows his glance. In the firelight he can see the drops of moisture clinging to him, he feels the hot roll of arousal in his belly again and stands.
“Many post coaches and publicans accept similar forms of payment.” He steps around the fire and stands before Chryses. With Chryses in repose his head still is still almost level with George’s.
“You’ve travelled a long way.”
“Mm-hm.” George sidles forward until his bare toes touch Chryses’ foreleg, and he reaches out to touch a lock of his long, golden hair where it tumbles about his shoulders. “Boys like me can get just about anyplace if they know what they’re doing.”
“Did you have a good teacher?”
“The best. I escaped the workhouse and was taken in at the salon of Miss Leigh. She takes in stray boys and gives us honest work.”
“Miss Leigh is a publican?”
“She runs a Molly house. She says that a boy with a clever mouth will always find a night’s lodging and a hot meal.” George closes the space between them, his belly brushes Chryses’ chest, and he shivers, he rests a hand on the centaur’s shoulder and ducks down to kiss him, and it feels like all the air is dashed from his lungs.
Chryses’ hands alight on George’s thighs, and skim along his skin so faintly that it tickles and burns and George has to break the kiss with a gasp. When he turns his head, he can see in the shadow of Chryses’ haunch, the long line of his growing erection.
Another breathless kiss, and George crawls onto hands and knees, and finds the hot velvety length of Chryses cock. The yellow light cast from the fire shows it is as long and thick as his forearm, and ridged with veins, the head is thicker than the rest and he strokes it with his hands, and feels it pulse and grow, he kisses it and licks the length of it, and tastes Chryses’ wild scent. George fits the head into his mouth and presses the point of his tongue into the urethra notch, and he feels Chryses shudder at his side, like a racehorse ready at the gate.
Chryses never lets go of George’s hips, and as George starts sucking him off in earnest, Chryses explores the territory between his legs, his fingers trace down the crease of his backside and fondle his furled arsehole, and then further down sink into the slick heat of his cunt. George isn’t expecting reciprocation, and the hot slide of a tongue along his arse crack makes him moan and tremble.
Bitter fluid dribbles into George’s mouth and he can feel Chryses flank at his side, twitching and trembling. Chryses sinks another finger into him, and then another, and twists them just so and George bucks and cries out, on the verge of climax already.
Unsteady, George stands when Chryses tugs him up, he leans against a tumble of stone by the cave mouth and hears Chryses get up behind him, the tok-tok of his hooves on rock, he feels a hand press the small of his back and arches his spine, exposing his dripping, eager cunt.
More fingers, George is impatient, all he can think of is that giant cock filling him up, and he pushes his hips back and babbles something incoherent and pleading.
First he feels the shivery wet swipe of Chryses’ cock brushing the back of his thigh, and then the ridged head slots against his cunt and he grunts, pushes back onto it, he throbs all over, his heart thuds so loudly he can hear it, he mashes his face against the mossy stone under him and pushes, feels that stretching ache, and then the sharp pop of it sliding home.
It is bigger than any cock George has taken before, though one single occasion he’d had a fist in him. This feels very much like that had; overwhelming, intoxicating, he’s overcome by the competing urges to stay very still, and to impale himself more deeply. Chryses hand on his hip settles him, and he feels his first cautious thrust. It rolls through him, big enough to touch every nerve within him at once, the ridges and veins rippling through him like liquid fire.
This isn’t the jackrabbit fucking of a postman on a schedule, nor the hamfisted rogering of an intoxicated barman. Chryses hindquarters bunch and roll, driving his cock in with a slow, inexorable force. It is impossible to resist, like the tide coming in, pounding at George’s shore.
George comes once, within minutes, and every movement pulls him deeper into the undertow of his pleasure, his own juices drip down his legs and the noise he makes carries, the forest around the clearing is silent, not a bird, nor bat, nor unquiet spirit or any other creature making a sound. George comes again, his body contracts around that monstrous cock, and he is blind and deaf to everything but Chryses moving in him.
At last, when Chryses comes it gushes inside George, he feels the hot rush of it, pumping endlessly into him, flooding him, and Chryses stills, shuddering, thrusts in, hard, one last time, and then pulls out with a wet noise.
Collapsed, breathless, over the mossy stones, George feels his cunt twitching, he feels semen drenching his legs, and he knows that if he tries to stand he will fall right into the dirt. The sweat on his skin begins to cool and the night air turns him all to gooseflesh, he shuffles upright, still leaning on the stone, and puts a hand between his legs to feel his swollen cunt. He licks the bitter fluid from his fingers and wobbles over to sit beside Chryses at the fire.
“I feel like I owe you for that,” George says at last.
Chryses smiles and hands him a skewer of meat. “You will have plenty of time to repay me.”
They eat in companionable silence, George flags, his head droops and he has trouble keeping his eyes open as Chryses directs him to look at the stars to point out constellations, and explains their meanings.
George is hot when he wakes. He’s nude save for a blanket, and pressed up against something that smells strongly of horse. Is it a horse? Has he spent another night in a stable at an over-full country inn? If so, why is he nude? Was he robbed?
He clutches the blanket to him and blinks up at the cave roof, and everything fits into place, the trek into the forest, his quest, and the centaur. Chryses is awake already, looking down at George where he’s curled against his side, head tilted thoughtfully, eyes liquid dark.
A rush of something comes over George, an unfamiliar feeling, and it takes several moments to place it. Just the quiet watchfulness that Chryses gives him stirs it up, and George feels more vulnerable now than he had when they were fucking, he can’t recall the last time — if ever — someone looked at him that way.
Something moves outside, and Chryses looks away. Like that, the spell is broken, George yawns and throws the blanket off. Together they head out into the dewy morning, down to the stream beneath the willow boughs to bathe.
Crouched on a flat stone in the shallows, with the bulrushes swaying around his shoulders, George watches Chryses bend down to wet his hair and wash his face. George rubs the sticky dried semen from his thighs and fondles himself, feels a surge of hot desire in his guts again, and presses his knees together under the water.
The hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end, and George turns, wary, and among the rushes he spots a slim, green-brown figure, a mane of ragged gold-brown hair and fathomless dark eyes. For a second the two of them regard one another, George sees spines and strangely-angled limbs and sharp teeth and then in a flash it is gone, just a ripple in the water, heading upstream.
Naiad is the word that springs to mind, though when he’d heard it, listening to the villagers talking in the alehouse, he’d dismissed it as superstition. Spirits in the forest, magical creatures, miracles. He looks back to Chryses’ broad shoulders and the heavy fall of his golden hair, and he understands that it is real.
“Will you begin today?” George asks, wading through the stream to Chryses’ side.
Chryses cranes his head and shades his eyes, looking up to the tree tops, or to the sky. “Yes.”
“What … how are you … will you make a potion for me?” That seems likely, isn’t that what happens in the old stories?
“Oh no, you’ll make the potion.” Another of those smiles, and Chryses reaches for George, draws him close. “You’ll need to find the ingredients. Kentaurida is the first.” He describes a herb, the shape of its leaves, how to extract the root system undamaged, where to search for it, then pats George’s backside to usher him out of the water. “Bring three of those back to the cave before noon. After that you will practice your archery.”
“Archery? I don’t know how to — I’ve never used a bow.”
“Then you’ll need a lot of practice. Noon.” Chryses emerges from the stream by the opposite bank and takes up the spear that he’d left leaning on a willow branch. With only a twinkling backward glance at George, he disappears between the trees.
“Right, kentaurida.” George puts his back to the stream and recites in his head the properties of the herb, and sets off into the forest to begin his transformation.
