Firelight by J.M. Snyder
Captured by the Sioux, American soldier John finds himself in front of a camp fire, the sound of the drums and the movements of a warrior’s dance hypnotizing him into a state of sexual arousal. When the dance ends, another, more personal, one begins.

They may not speak the same language, but John and the warrior have no problem communicating their needs and desires.



Another button on John’s shirt slipped free, and his hand trailed down his chest to fall into his lap, where a sweet ache pulsed in time with the drums. As he watched the dancer, his hand worked between the ties in his breeches to cup the erection that throbbed at the center of his being. His fingers massaged his thick length, squeezing in time with the drums, the chants, the fire and its wild patron whose movements matched the dancing flames.

John raised his knees before him, leaned back a little, and let his fingers slide under his balls. The moan that escaped him disappeared in the warriors’ chants. The tip of his dick protruded from his breeches now, and his hand fisted along his shaft, kneading it, working it hard.

As the dancer’s rhythm increased, John’s ministrations quickened with an almost frantic air. His blood raced through him, his skin crawled, every nerve seemed to sizzle with lust. Now, he thought, squeezing his cockhead in his palm. He felt a bit of come in his hand, but nothing much. Nothing that released the energies in him. He squeezed again. Now. And again -- now.

There was one final beat of the drum, and then silence pressed in around him, so complete he thought he’d been struck deaf. He glanced up to find the dancer swaying above him, so close that John could smell the animalistic scent of sweat and power radiating from the man. In a guttural voice, the warrior said something to John, but the white man did not understand the Indian’s language. He was so damn close. His head felt foggy, his body incomplete. “What?”

Stepping around him, the warrior grabbed John’s arm in passing and dragged him a few feet, away from the bonfire and the crowd. John scrambled to stand, one hand tucking his dick into his breeches while the other tried in vain to find release. “I don’t,” he started -- his tongue felt thick in his mouth, unused. “I don’t know what you want.”

Taking him by the elbow, the warrior led John to a teepee on the edge of the Sioux camp. John’s feet were clumsy in the darkness and he stumbled several times, landing heavily against the native’s side. His heart throbbed in his cock, and the second time he tripped, he found himself thrusting his hips against his companion. “Please,” he sobbed, weary and worn out and so goddamn close to orgasm that he just wanted to cry. “I need to stop ... please --”

He found himself shoved into the teepee. He fell to the ground and, on hands and knees, crawled onto a luscious carpet of fur. Pressing his face to the musty pelt, he breathed in the rich scent of cured leather and sleepiness stole over him -- here was where he wanted to stay.