The Fixed Point
A Free Taster Story From The Naked Viking
The North Star never moved. Leif had staked his life on that stillness while the tides turned and the wood under his feet rotted.
He stood at the prow of the Vargr, his skin bare to the biting air, his breath blooming in slow, white plumes. The ship moved through the black water like a predator, her crew sleeping in their hides aft. They had been becalmed for three days, but now a light wind had found them. Leif didn’t need the wheel; he only needed to read the sky and trust the heading he knew by instinct, the way a man knows the weight of his own hand.
He heard Björn before he saw him. The creak of the deck under a heavy man’s foot.
“You said you would teach me,” Björn said, stopping behind him. Not quite touching, but close enough that a sudden, radiating furnace of skin and salt-crust reached Leif’s back.
“I said I might,” Leif replied. Björn’s shoulders blocked out the stars behind him, his dark hair loose, a single wool cloak pulled over his naked chest. The cold had brought a flush to his jaw. “Take off the boots. A man reads the sea through the soles of his feet before he reads the sky with his eyes. In fact, take everything off. We sail naked tonight.”
Björn stripped them off without argument or hesitation; he was already leaking at the thought of standing there in the midnight air without a stitch of clothing next to Leif. The cold wood under his bare feet made him exhale sharply. “Now,” Leif said. “Come here.”
Björn stepped up beside him. This close, he carried the sharp, animal tang of old sweat and dried brine. Leif pointed North. “Polaris. You know the name, but not the use.”
Leif stepped behind him. He raised his own arm alongside Björn’s, his bare chest pressing flush against Björn’s back. He guided the younger man’s hand upward, his fingers locking over Björn’s knuckles. He felt the exact moment Björn’s breathing hitched.
“Two and a half fingers from the horizon,” Leif murmured, his mouth brushing Björn’s ear. “Sixty-three degrees north. We are one day from the Orkneys.”
Björn didn’t look at the star. He turned in the circle of Leif’s arms, his jaw tight with the sudden release of a months-old ache. Their hands remained joined as they faced each other, close enough that their exhaled breath met between them.
There had been tension building between them for weeks. They had secretly watched each other bathe at camp, observing each other’s strong, sinewy bodies. The way the water ran down their bodies, all the way down to their feet.
Lief wasn’t going to wait any longer. He had had enough of waiting and was so driven by his passion for Björn that he was going to take advantage of this quiet night at sea while the others slept.
Leif kissed him first. Björn’s mouth was a blunt, wet heat, tasting of stale ale and salt, his beard scratching Leif’s skin as he forced his tongue deep. The wool cloak hit the deck with a heavy thud. Björn stood fully naked, his cock a thick, dark-veined weight that stood proud of his dense pubic hair. Leif was paler, his own shaft heavy and straight, the slit already weeping a clear, sticky bead that caught the moonlight.
Leif pushed him back against the carved prow post. He shoved his own breeches down, stepping free of them. They stood unashamed, two large men with cocks hard and glistening in the moonlight. Leif reached down, his fingers curling around Björn’s balls, feeling them tight and heavy from the cold. Björn let out a low, guttural growl, his own hand finding Leif’s shaft, his thumb dragging through the pre-come.
“I have wanted this,” Björn managed, “since the first week.”
“I know,” Leif said. “I’ve felt you watching.”
Björn dropped to his knees on the wet deck.
Björn’s mouth engulfed him, the heat of his throat tight and demanding. Leif felt the rough scrape of teeth and the wet slide of a tongue that claimed the entire length of his Viking cock, while the cold spray of the sea hit Leif’s lower back in a jarring contrast to the fire in his groin. He worked with a grim, steady rhythm, his hands bruising Leif’s thighs.
Leif’s body went rigid as his cum buckled out of him in hot, pulsing jets. He watched Björn swallow the first of it, the rest smearing white against his dark beard and chin as he refused to let go even as Leif’s knees began to give.
Leif didn’t let him rise for long. He hauled him up and pushed Björn back against the prow, his hand wrapping around the thick base of Björn’s cock while his mouth dropped to the salt-heavy skin of his inner thigh. He took Björn’s cock in, pumping his hand in a hard, slick rhythm until Björn let out a strangled roar, his cum splattering hot across Leif’s chest and the carved wooden dragon above them. Leif had never seen so much come out of one man, but equally, he revelled in being drenched in something he had wanted for so long.
By this time, the sun was starting to rise. The others would be waking soon, and so there wasn’t much time to enjoy the quiet solitude for much longer. Leif kissed Björn and took him by the hand to sit in the rising sunlight.
Afterwards, they retrieved the cloak. They sat together at the prow, Björn between Leif’s legs, the wool draped over them both. Leif just held him, the heat of their bodies keeping each other warm, the only sound the slap of the North Sea against the hull and the frantic, slowing thud of two hearts.
“The sky is better at night, but I’m happy to be sharing this new day with you”, Björn said finally.
“Yes,” Leif said, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. “It is, and I agree.”
The End.
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