The Walking Mountain - Original Version

The Walking Mountain

Originally intended to be part of a series of very short "snufflets," this one became long enough to post on its own. It was written in one sitting, and includes blood and vicious wounding that may not be to everyone's tastes.

It began with an idle boast, roared to the tavern after too many ales. By the end of the night, Calvagh was on his way to the northern forest, on a drunken quest to hunt and kill the bear known as the Walking Mountain. At some point, Calvagh agreed to the added stipulation that he would do it naked like a true warrior; he assumed he did, anyway, for he now found himself standing on a bed of needles in the ancient forest, surrounded by tall pines and bird songs, the morning breeze against his fist-sized balls. He couldn’t remember much of the night before, but he regretted every minute of it all the same. Thankfully, his companions had departed at some point, or sent him ahead alone. Though he was solid and muscular, his uncovered body shamed him, and he blushed when he realized he had stripped for some drunk farmers. He groaned at the thought that the blue war paint that now adorned his arms, pecs, and the right half of his shaft was applied by someone other than himself. Haunted by the implications of his nudity, he kept one hand cupped lightly over his manhood as he walked.

Town was nowhere to be found, and the forest was unfamiliar. Calvagh could find no roads or beaten trails, and the pine floor was too chaotic for his untrained and groggy mind to discern any tracks. Calvagh soon realized that he was hopelessly lost. He ran his free hand over his bald, half-blue head and stared in bewilderment at the foreboding shadows around him. 

“Hello?” The brute bellowed. A flock of birds started into the air, frightened by his powerful voice. He listened for a response, though a part of him dreaded explaining his situation to a stranger. 

Bushes rustled, and Calvagh soon forgot his embarrassment. A dark mound the color of wood emerged from the shrubbery, and Calvagh’s heart pounded. The bear, fittingly named, looked like a boulder, unusually wide with muscle and bristled fur. It glared at him with eyes that were no stranger to the human form, eyes that had seen the deaths of many hunters. The Mountain grumbled, sizing up the naked thug.

He knew he couldn’t run from it, but Calvagh stumbled back anyway. His mind raced, sorting out escape plans, but unless he learned the arcane arts of conjuration and transposition in the next few moments, he would have no choice but to face his idle boast. He was a towering colossus of a man, seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds of tone meat, and had never known an opponent larger than himself. Now, he stared down a monster easily three times his weight without even the comfort of pants to aid him. The fact that all of his confidence relied on ale and the advantage of size soon became apparent.

“Please, I-” He stuttered, pleading to its feral form. It growled and rumbled like heavy stones, and his tongue stilled.

With a roar, the Walking Mountain surged forward, pounding the earth with its massive paws. Needles and twigs pierced the human’s soles as he ran, and soon the bear was upon him. He lunged to the side, narrowly dodging its swipe. The heavy animal slid to a stop and turned, charging again. Calvagh staggered to his feet, but the Mountain’s paw forced him to the dirt with a bone-crushing thud. The man groaned and pushed himself up, only to be thrown to his back by a second impact. His ribs ached as if he had been struck with a warrior’s hammer. He stared up at the blurry sky and coughed. Curling forward, and fearful of the next blow, the muscular drunkard found his rippling torso rent by streaks of red. The animal part of him realized with horror that he was wounded.

He felt the hot breath of the bear upon his shoulder, and turned in time to see its massive teeth and the dark hole of its throat beyond. “No!” He screamed, and threw his hands up. He wrapped his own powerful paws around its head, taking hold of its jaws and forcing them away. It took every ounce of his considerable strength just to keep the deadly teeth at bay.

Needles jabbed his skin as Calvagh wrestled for his life. He tried not to think of the stings and pricks he felt, for he knew the pain of a pinprick on his testicles paled in comparison to the pain he would experience should his grip fail. “Help!” He cried between grunts. “Anybody, please!” He heard nothing but the aggravated huffs of the bear and the quiet drip of its drool against his rounded pecs.

The Mountain grumbled and shook its head, pushing forward at different angles as if it meant to literally find its way around his defenses. It grew frustrated with its musclebound food. Its claws slid beneath his flexed body and lifted him upright against its chest. The bear stood on its hind legs, a monstrous twelve feet of fur and power, and wrapped its arms around its prey. Calvagh had no chance to escape; to release his hold, even for a moment, would be death. He strained and whimpered, wincing with each slop of hot saliva against his beard, as the bear began to squeeze him.

The brute screamed. Air rushed from his lungs in a gurgled wheeze despite his efforts. He tried to struggle, and mistakenly removed his hand from the bear’s jaw. The teeth were an inch from his bull neck when he replaced it. “Help!” Calvagh gurgled once more. The Mountain rumbled as if to taunt him, reminding him of his fate and of his ignorant claims. His bare feet kicked in the air and wrapped around the beast’s torso, desperately searching for some foothold to relieve the pressure in his chest. Its warm pelt tickled his exposed body, and he soon found his cock throbbing and full despite the fear he felt. The animal struggle, the battle of naked beast against naked beast, armed with nothing but their savagery and strength, awakened something primal in him. For the first time in his life, he understood the emotions and the thoughts that the blue paint on his chest, face, and cock embodied.

The man had never felt pain and helplessness as he did in the bear’s clutches. He was familiar with the hold, a classic and simple expression of overwhelming strength. Many farmers, a few hunters, and even the occasional guardsman had found themselves trapped by Calvagh’s bulging biceps and vascular pectorals. The big man’s familiarity with the hold did nothing to raise his hopes; every man Calvagh squeezed submitted to his superior strength or turned blue and fell limp in his arms. Now, Calvagh found himself in his victims’ position without even a previous failure to go on.

The muscleman flexed and squirmed. Every bulge of his physique swelled, and his face grew red and feral with strain. Drool foamed from the sides of his mouth. Though every inch of his torso was like a wall of stone, the Mountain had little difficulty wringing more air from his body. His spine began to contort and send shocks of pain through him. Any other man would have already found their fate, whether with a broken spine or a quiet asphyxiation, but Calvagh’s strength ensured that his fate would be slower and more torturous. Soon its hold was so tight that he could feel every muscle of the freakish bear, every rope-like cord in its arms and armor-like plate in its chest. The muscles of its neck were as thick as most men’s arms.

Calvagh’s final breath escaped his lips. His vision blurred, and his eyes welled with tears. Like a true warrior, the thug struggled with the last ounces of his strength, his painted body shimmering with sweat in the shafts of morning light. His thrashing grew less violent until his legs merely dangled, twitching and trembling. As the strength in his muscular frame faded, the agony in his spine transitioned into a cold numbness. His whole body shook as he slid towards unconsciousness. Stimulated by the primal struggle and his final rush, Calvagh’s manhood erupted, emptying his balls into the killer bear’s fur and marking it as the dominant beast. Within seconds of his submission, a jerk from the bear’s overwhelming arms severed his spine with a thunderous snap. His legs fell still.

The man’s green and fearful eyes glazed and dilated. His meaty hands slid down the bear’s muzzle, hooked and hung for a moment from its lips and teeth, then fell to rest on its deadly arms. Instantly its jaws clamped down, piercing the brute’s artery and shooting blood onto the animal’s tongue. It relished the taste of the prey who had resisted it for so long, flying into a frenzy. It squeezed his lifeless body tighter, milking him for every fluid he could offer. A second bite tore his throat from his thick and muscular neck, while a third snapped it.

Raging and hungry, the Mountain threw Calvagh to the ground with a thud. It clambered atop and bit into him, lifting his herculean body and tearing chunks from it with a violent shake. Most men who felt his flexed chest and mountainous bicep described it as stone or metal, but to the massive bear’s teeth and claws, his barrel chest was like butter. He was strong, but the grizzly showed beyond any doubt that it was stronger, and it earned the right to his meat by the laws of nature.

Calvagh’s companions exchanged theories as they searched the woods, calling his name. Some of them imagined that he had wandered to some other village, or that he was picked up by a rich noblewoman smitten with his physique. They laughed about his huge cock and how arrogantly he showed it off on the trail. None of them considered that he had actually encountered the mythical Walking Mountain until they stumbled onto his remains. Shredded, broken, and exposed, he was almost unidentifiable save for his height and the very physique they joked with ensure his victory. Staring at the brute, killed by his own boast, they gained a renewed fear of the legend, and added the most powerful man they knew to the list of the Walking Mountain’s victims.