Prisoner of the Mountain Watch is my fantasy m/m short story, which you can download for FREE now from All Romance, Amazon, Kobo, and W.H.Smith (for UK Kobo downloaders). It is also available at Amazon.co.uk where we are working to get the price reduced to free. Design is by the very talented Ria Chantler.
WARNING: This story is suitable for over 18s only (includes male/male sexual practices and light BDSM – bondage.)
“Stop playing the fool and be quiet. Now you have to take your tunic off.”
The elf paled beneath his golden tan. Ivenhal’s heart sank to his boots. He’d always dreaded the possibility of having to forcibly remove a prisoner’s clothes for the binding, though he’d expected any victim of the Helon barrier to be unconscious. His attraction to this creature only made matters worse.
“Take your clothes off, elf, or I’ll have to do it for you.”
“I promise I won’t use magic on you. If you’d just tell me what’s going on, I won’t even try to escape, but–“
The elf broke off as Ivenhal stepped into the cage, stooping to fit under the low gridded roof, and slammed the door behind. Ivenhal turned a heavy key in the lock. “When we’re done with this, you can ask me whatever you like, though I can’t promise you any good answers. Do we have a deal?”
The elf nodded. He was trembling, and Ivenhal stifled the words I’m sorry once more. This was war, and he did what he had to.
“Good. Now come on. It won’t be so bad. If it gets cold in here tonight, I’ll light a fire.”
The elf arched a dark brow, and Ivenhal sharpened his glower. He wasn’t in the mood for sarcasm, though it was preferable to physical resistance. The elf tugged apart the laces that fastened his rustic tunic, and dragged it off over his head.
Morning sunlight streamed through the tower’s narrow windows, highlighting the angles of the prisoner’s broad shoulders, each ridge and contour of his stomach and hairless chest. His clothing cast aside, he hooked his arms above his slim waist and peeped up at Ivenhal from beneath a wisp of his honey-and-chestnut-streaked hair. Only a ragged green cloth attached to a thong concealed his loins.
“So bind me,” whispered the elf.
Ivenhal gritted his teeth lest his contact-starved body quake. The elf licked those plush lips, exacerbating a hot ache in Ivenhal’s throat–and the erection he could no longer suppress. The idea of touching an enemy while so bestirred made him feel wrong and dirty. He strove to think of anything that would quell his lusts.