"Rescue my son, and you can have your freedom," the Moghul's great general had said to me.
And now I clung to the top of the ruined wall that surrounded the rough cobbled yard in which the wiry Mongolian horsemen were holding him. The general's son was one of many the general had, but Kasim had been made a prince as he was the most handsome and most intelligent. And all knew he was a favourite of the Great Moghul himself, as well as of his father, the Moghul's great general.
Before I left the palace I had been shown a picture of Kasim. One painted by a great artist, to enable me to identify the prince when I found him. Because I had been a prisoner in the Moghul's dungeons, and had never seen the young prince who I was supposed to rescue. In the painting his golden skin and glossy black hair were perfect, and short glossy curls also cascaded across his chest, circling his dark nipples and descending in an arousing trail down his belly. To disappear below the waist of his baggy pants. I had felt my cock engorging at the image of him, and the general had pulled aside my tented loincloth to see my famous tool. I was well known in certain parts of the Moghul's palace for my manhood being as thick as that of a fine stallion, if not as long.
My brief imprisonment had not been very onerous, as I'd had a number of grateful visitors come to my cell, and leave satisfied. But the great general had not been one. Now he grasped my weapon in his short fingered hands and his eyes widened as the feel of his hands about me made me fill out further, and harden to almost my full potential.
His head fell to my pole and I gripped his jewelled turban as he moved his mouth over my big bulbous cock head. I grunted as his two hands strained to encircle me and his tongue played all about the small part of my length that he had inside his mouth. He pulled away before I shot my juice, and called over a fine tall warrior who had visited me privately and who now came over, trembling and smiling at me.
"I am curious to see if a man can truly take such a massive weapon," the great general said, "And as I know this young pasha claims to have visited you to have you bury your sword inside him, I wish to see if he can take it now."
The young nobleman stripped of his rich uniform as ordered, and lay forward over the back of a fine carved chair, inlaid with ivory, and many coloured woods. He gripped the arms with his hands, and turned his head to look over his shoulder at me with fear and longing, as I moved between this spread thighs. I used spit and my thick fingers to prepare him as the watching general pulled out his own stiff organ, and began to stroke it.
The young pasha opened quickly to me, as I knew he would from our previous meetings. And I rapidly had him moaning and arching his back and opening his legs wider, begging me to plunge my huge sword into him. I stroked his own tool briefly and he spouted across the floor in big spurts. And I heard the general moan as he became more excited at seeing this.
In spite of my fingering of his entrance and his passage I had to hold my weapon steady to drive it's domed head into the pasha's loosened hole. He cried out loudly, and writhed and opened himself wider, as my cap passed the barrier at his entrance. Then he gulped and whimpered as I forced my rod in deeper, relishing the tightness with which his channel embraced me.
The general came, watching intently as I bottomed inside the young man to the combined sound of the nobleman's loud cries of pain and desire, and the general's crying out his amazement that anyone could take me fully, as the young man was doing. My fucking of the yelping young pasha was brief, as I had not had a visitor for two days, and I filled him happily with a goodly load of my seed. I was roaring as I came, accompanied by his high pitched cries of ecstasy as he felt his insides being truly flooded.
I shortly after departed the palace on a fast horse, relaxed and able to concentrate on my task. I reached the small summer palace from which the young prince had been taken, and I gained hourly on his kidnappers. When I reached the hills though I abandoned my horse, and continued on foot, running easily across the rough ground for many miles until I caught up with the raiders at an old abandoned fort atop a rugged hill at the edge of the desert. The entrance was sealed with old rotting gates that offered little protection, but hid what was inside from me. So in the dark of early morning I climbed up the still strong but weathered stone wall of the fort to get a view of what lay inside.
What greeted my sharp eyes was a small courtyard roughly cobbled and now home to a small Mongol raiding party. And I saw through a fallen archway another roofless space in which they had their small hardy desert horses stabled. And on the other side of the courtyard I saw their captive.
I moved in silence around the top of the wall until I was no more than 15 feet above the captive, but unfortunately some feet to one side, as the wall had an old section of roof jutting from it that would have hidden the captive from my sight had I moved closer. And there was little doubt that the travel stained and dusty young man tied up below me was the one I sought.
His wrists were tied by a leather cord, his arms pulled up above his head and the cord secured to a beam in the section of roof that remained above him. His rich clothes were dirty and torn in places, his jewelled belt gone, his turban gone, and his dark hair dusty and hanging to his shoulders. His many silk shirts hung about him in layers as did his fine silken baggy pants. His feet were bare, stripped of their jewelled slippers, and just touching the ground.
But as yet there was nothing I could safely do to rescue him. I was alone and the 6 Mongol horsemen were standing about with their short swords in their belts and their bows, with thier quivered arrows, on their backs. And their knives handy in the narrow belts that ran across their chests. I would have to wait for nightfall for a chance to rescue the general's son.
I lay hidden and patient in a hollow in the top of the yard thick wall. Watching and waiting through the heat of the day. After a time the one I took to be the leader of the Mongols by his fine furred boots and richly embroidered vest, stepped up to the young prince and spoke to him, and I listened intently to catch his words.
"I Tiro will have your aching arms lowered so that you can write that letter to your father, and they will stay lowered from then on and you will be free to walk about the camp," the Mongol leader Tiro said.
