Wolverine: Balls-Out in Birnan Zana [pt. II]

The street beneath the flame trees carried Birnin Zana’s afternoon heat without surrendering to it. White stone paving reflected sunlight into the shaded arcades and narrow channels of running water kept the air cooler than the open plazas beyond. Vendors had drawn bright awnings over their stalls. Copper, glass, carved blackwood, woven cloth, fruit, and jewelry crowded the tables while the towers of the capital rose behind them in smooth black curves.

B’Gira preferred this hour. The morning rush had passed, but the street was still full enough to give her something to look at while she worked.

A dark-skinned woman in an orange shoulder mantle examined bracelets across the lane, both breasts bare beneath the cloth. Her nipples had been painted gold to match the wide disk hanging from her lower lip. Two friends waited beside her in translucent skirts, the sunlight showing the round shapes of their asses and the narrow cords of their g-strings beneath. Farther down, a courier strode between shops wearing sandals, a bead collar, and nothing else. Her shaved pussy flashed naturally between powerful brown thighs whenever she stepped over one of the water channels.

The men displayed themselves differently. Bare chests were common, particularly among men who had worked hard enough to deserve being looked at. Muscles were oiled, shoulders left uncovered, and ornaments arranged to pull the eye upward. A broad-backed mason passed with silver lines painted across his pectorals and a heavy apron hanging low on his hips. Another man wore a sheer black g-string over an ordinary human cock that drew no more attention than his sandals.

The ornamental cages received more notice, although usually for the metalwork rather than what they covered.

Her own stall occupied the best patch of shade beneath the largest flame tree. She sat behind it with one breast covered by a strip of indigo cloth and the other left bare, her dark nipple occasionally dusted with pale stone powder when she leaned over her work. A transparent g-string disappeared between her full buttocks. Beaded cords wound around her waist, marking her artisan’s guild, district, and family line.

The shelves surrounding her held small gods, panthers, ancestors, warriors, and kings.

Her most popular pieces stood about six inches tall.

The figurines had recognizable faces and heroic little bodies, but the cocks and balls attached to them were sized for actual use. King Mark’s figures carried eight thick inches of yielding pale cock, with proportionately heavy balls beneath. Nightcrawler and Wolverine each had seven. Most of the others had six. Veins, foreskins, ridges, and individual testicles were reproduced in intimate detail.

The tiny mutant bodies looked almost like ornate handles behind the organs projecting from them.

Some customers displayed the figures on their supplied cradles. Others gripped the little mutant body like a handle and fucked the attached cock into their pussies or asses. B’Gira sold them as art, devotional objects, and dildos, often all three at once.

King Mark occupied nearly half the upper shelf. She offered him standing, seated, smiling, stern, naked, crowned, wearing a panther mantle, and holding both hands out in blessing. In every version, his cock extended farther than his legs and torso combined.

Behind the figurines stood her full-scale anatomical collection: perfect reproductions of the mutants’ cocks and balls mounted on blackwood bases. Small engraved plates arranged them in descending order.

MARK WILLIAMS. NIGHTCRAWLER.WOLVERINE. COLOSSUS. CYCLOPS. ICEMAN. BEAST. GAMBIT.SABRETOOTH.

The pale organs drew the eye first. Nightcrawler and Beast were blue. Colossus gleamed in polished metal.

Mark’s replica remained the centerpiece. Its towering shaft and enormous low-hanging balls dwarfing the merely large proportions of the surrounding statues. Women often paused before it without intending to buy anything. Their eyes settled on the pale cock, then the testicles beneath, and their expressions acquired the same distant speculation B’Gira had seen in worshippers before an altar.

The couple currently examining the display wore no clothing. Gold rings pierced the woman’s nipples, navel and shaved pussy. Her husband was similarly decorated, with silver rings through his nipples and along both ears. His torso drew Nia’s attention immediately. He was wonderfully built, broad through the shoulders and chest, with a cut stomach that looked carved from dark wood.

The cage beneath it produced an almost comic contrast.

A small silver plate shaped like a panther’s face covered his compact human genitals completely. Its pointed ears rose toward his pelvis. Fine whiskers had been etched across the cheeks, and two black stones formed the eyes. No genitals or even a bulge showed beneath the snarling mask. From the waist up he looked capable of wrestling a rhino. Below it, the panther plate made him appear smoothly desexed.

B’Gira leaned around the table to appreciate it.

“That is fine work.”

The man smiled. “My wife’s.”

B’Gira warmed in the presence of another true artisan and they chatted a bit about their craft before a tram stopped nearby,and the crowd coming off it arrived loud. Mostly women, one or two men mixed in, and they came off the step fast and tight together like people who'd been standing the whole way and had somewhere urgent to be. One of them was still laughing at something. Another had her Kimoyo beads already up and was talking into it with her hand cupped around the sound.

B'Gira called out to them "You're all in a hurry!"

“The Wolverine’s coming!” one grinned and flicked two fingers from her beads toward her.

B’Gira felt a cool pulse behind her left eye as her implant accepted the direct cast. An image bloomed across her mind’s vision.

Wolverine walked naked through a market, a cigar between his teeth and his thick white mutant cock swinging between his legs. A golden line traced his route through the city, clips blooming of various scenes of the mutant stud fucking women, close-ups of the thick white cum burping forth from chocolate lips before hands hastily cupped them closed.

B’Gira gasped, a thrill shooting through her as she realized what this was, “The King has released the Wolverine?!”

The pierced couple turned toward her together.

“You truly didn’t know?” the woman asked.

B’Gira blinked the image aside. “I close the civic stream while I work. If I wanted strangers talking inside my skull all day, I would have become a minister.”

She preferred the actual street. Real voices, sunlight on skin, the weight of a carving in her hand. Her implant accepted payments, family messages and deliberate casts, but the endless flow of public clips and commentary remained shut away.

The husband gestured toward the shared images that they all could see with their implants, “The first clip has him coming off the palace balcony naked and hard as vibranium, with his cock pointed at Birnin Zana like a spear. By the time someone caught him from street level, he was already buried in a pussy. Since then every stop has turned into an orgy, and there’s enough of his cum leaking down women’s legs to follow him without the route marker.”

“That is why you are here?”

“We were already in the district,” the husband said. His voice still carried the wonder of someone discovering that fortune had stepped off a tram beside him. “Then his route turned toward us.”

His wife picked up the Wolverine figurine again. Her thumb rested against the thick white shaft while her other hand settled low across her own stomach.

“Imagine if he chose me.”

The words emerged softly, almost cautiously. For all the explicit images filling the city stream, the possibility itself seemed too large for her to speak loudly.

Her husband moved behind her and wrapped both arms around her waist. The silver panther covering his own compact genitals pressed harmlessly against her bare ass. One broad hand covered hers upon her belly.

“Imagine,” she whispered. “A little mutant growing here.”

He lowered his chin onto her shoulder.

“Our little mutant.”

She turned her face toward him. Their noses touched before he kissed her, slow and tender, his hand remaining protectively over the womb they hoped another man would fill.

Beyond their stall the news had clearly spread with the group who had taken likely places nearby to catch his attention.

A tea seller carried her tray from behind the counter and began serving customers outside. She kept her apron but removed the white wrap beneath it, leaving her heavy breasts and shaved pussy exposed while she poured.

Two women from a tailoring shop brought their work to the doorway. One sat cross-legged with cloth across her lap. The other stood beside a dress form, pins held between her lips, presenting the appearance of someone far too occupied to notice Wolverine unless he stopped directly in front of her.

Only a few chose more brazen displays

One woman folded her dress neatly beside a planter, lowered herself onto all fours, and spread her knees. Her brown ass rose toward the avenue, shaved pussy exposed between its cheeks. Another leaned against the tram shelter with both hands braced above her head and one leg lifted onto the bench, presenting herself so plainly as to look like an advertising prostitute.

B’Gira looked down at herself.

She adjusted the indigo cloth across her shoulder, then changed her mind and unfastened it. The fabric slid into her lap, leaving both breasts bare. She moved her stool from behind the stall to its front, where anyone approaching would see her among her work, and picked up the crowned figure of Mark again.

Logan walked naked under the afternoon sun with a cigar clamped in his teeth and his cock out in front of him.

No sense pretending otherwise. The damn thing swung thick and flushed between his thighs and got into every street half a step before he did, and every interested look put more blood in it, and every breeze coming down the lane carried perfume and sweat and the warmer musk of women already wet. The head had lifted clear of his leg and showed no sign of coming back down.

A woman came the other way in a silver collar and detached blue sleeves, g-string drawn snug between shaved lips, and her eyes dropped straight to it. She watched it swing, then turned her head to follow the heavy bounce of his sack underneath.

Nice legs. Fine round ass on her, too.

Logan held her eye until she smiled, then walked on. He might circle back. He had all afternoon and only the one cock, and the city was not short of options.

The balls did not care about options. They hung low and swollen and knocked against his inner thighs every stride, veins standing up under the loose hairy skin, and the healing factor had already replaced everything he'd spent since the palace. The pressure was back and warm and it came up through his groin with every swing, saying the same thing over and over.

Find another one. Get in her. Stay till it's out.

Which made Wolverine the legs, apparently, and his sac the one giving directions.

"Bossy bastards," he muttered, and a tea seller heard him from her storefront and leaned over the counter, apron falling away from two heavy bare tits, and looked pointedly under his cock.

"Come bend me over the counter, Wolverine!"

He took the cigar out. Warm brown skin, strong arms, a wide mouth that would have looked good stretched around him.

"Keep the kettle hot, darlin'."

Her laugh followed him half the block. The city went on around him the way cities do, air cars humming overhead, merchants hollering prices under bright awnings, music spilling out of a courtyard where oiled bodies turned under sheets of colored mist. Two human men went past in long shoulder mantles and clear cages. One stared openly at Logan's cock. The other gave his sack a respectful nod, and Logan nodded back.

Hard to miss what he was carrying today. It hung lower than usual under a cock that hadn't gone properly soft in hours, and every bounce of it dragged up the memory of Mark's hand closing round the lot. The punk had weighed them in his fingers while he talked. Logan could remember every word that came out of his mouth. What he couldn't separate out was the conversation from whatever else went in through the skin.

Now his nuts kept filling themselves and knocking orders into his skull. Not that they'd ever been shy about having an opinion before.

"Real fuckin' subtle, kid."

He blew smoke at the trees. He'd given Mark no end of grief for spending every waking hour with his cock in somebody, called him a spoiled punk, asked whether he meant to govern Markanda or drown it in cum. Maybe that had been unfair. With those cumtanks swinging under him, the kid probably couldn't hear much else.

Ahead, three women had collected at a fountain. One sat on the rim with her knees apart and a short white mantle framing bare tits and a shaved pussy, and her friend whispered something and she laughed and dipped two fingers in the water and drew them slowly through her lips while she watched him come.

Tempting. The third one was prettier though, tall, head shaved, gold paint circling her nipples, and she didn't display a thing. Just met his eye and drew a thumb under one breast.

He smelled all three going past. Arousal, sweat, perfume, and the sharp nervous fizz of women who couldn't quite believe he was near enough to touch.

"Wolverine?"

He looked back round the cigar. "Still deciding."

That set all three of them off at once.

He'd always had big ones. More weight between his legs than nearly every man he'd ever met, and a healing factor that kept the works running harder than nature meant, so that when he came the veins stood up high in the sack and the whole pendulous mass of it pulsed against whatever woman he was in and kept pumping.

Only one man at the mansion ever had him beat, and remembering the Elf's fuzzy blue horse-nuts made his cock twitch. Kurt with that acrobat's body, narrow waist and hard thighs, and a thick furred sack carrying two stones bigger than Logan's, hung under an oversized pink-and-blue cock like it belonged on something three times his size. Logan had always liked the look of it. Probably half the reason they got on.

Not the whole reason. Kurt could laugh at his temper without making a mockery of him, could pray for a man without getting lofty about it, and when the claws came out and it all went bad the Elf would teleport into hell rather than leave a friend behind. But there was something satisfying in knowing the two worst sets of nuts in the mansion had landed on the same side.

At the next intersection a shrine stood in polished black stone with Bast at the centre and smaller figures around her, one of them a blue mutant in priest's vestments with a three-fingered hand raised.

NIGHTCRAWLER, HIGH PRIEST OF MUTANT FERTILITY.

Two women stopped in front of him. One stroked the carved line of the tail. The other pressed her fingers to the bulge under the robes, kissed them, and went on her way.

Logan grinned round the cigar.

It must have been hell for the Elf before all this. Kurt had enough trouble with sin and temptation and what God wanted from him without the fur and the fangs and the tail on top, and plenty of women took one look and saw a demon before they saw a man. He could charm most of them given five minutes. Too many never gave him the five. And all the while he was packing that horse cock and those great blue nuts under a uniform, trying to be a good Catholic with enough seed in him to start a village.

He was making up for it now. Mark's high priest of fucking, a title Logan should have invented to torment him and didn't, and which Kurt had taken to with the same dead earnestness he used to bring to Mass. Mutant flesh was holy. Fertility was service. Fucking was communion. Women who'd have crossed the street to avoid the blue demon knelt for him now and kissed his freaky feet and begged to be filled.

A woman came out of the shrine as Logan passed, green robe open throat to ankle, nothing under it but a broad brown body and low tits and wide hips. She looked at his cock. He looked at her pussy. She opened the robe wider.

He nearly stopped. But a scent had started up from further down the lane, two of them, one bright and openly excited and the other slower but climbing, and he followed it instead.

Markanda had taken every part of Kurt that used to frighten people and called it sacred. Logan could argue with a lot of what Mark had done. Not that.

The first sermon, though, he hadn't felt charitable about at all. The Elf had stood up there dressed like a priest and poured it into the room while Emma drove it home behind everyone's eyes. Mark was God. Mutant bodies were holy. Make More Mutants. The whole room heated from the inside, belief turning into appetite, doubt going under the smell of wet cunt and hard cock. Kurt had used mind control to run a religious orgy.

Jubes went early. One second she was watching with her eyes wide, trying to work out whether to laugh or argue or bolt, and the next she was out of her clothes and reaching for the nearest mutant cock in reach, and every load put in her after that was a contribution to the good fight. Logan had wanted to gut somebody at the time.

Then he'd watched her afterward. No tears, no hollow look. The cheeky little turbo-slut was delighted with herself. She'd found out she liked being used, liked the weight of cum in her, and liked having a holy excuse to stop pretending she was too clever to want dick. She was still Jubes. Loud and bright and in trouble. Still his protégé. She just had a cock in her more often.

Hard to rescue a woman who keeps shoving her ass back onto the thing she's being rescued from.

A woman hurried out of a jewelry shop ahead and made herself slow down when she saw him watching, nothing on her but gold chains at the waist and thighs, tits bouncing with each deliberately casual step. He let his eyes go over her and watched the nipples stiffen, then picked the scent back up past her. Not far now.

Kurt had joined his own good fight before that first sermon ended. Rogue called him over, put her tits round that blue cock and worked him stiff between them, then asked him to fuck her with Remy still inside her. Gambit complained, naturally. Kurt told him to pull out. Remy obeyed.

Logan had enjoyed that more than he'd expected. He'd had Rogue himself, back before, and he'd always got a kick out of Remy knowing it. This was better. This had Remy stood at her shoulder working himself while another man went into her, and not a big showy bastard either, not somebody Remy could write off as a foregone conclusion. Kurt. The Elf. Modest as a church mouse and about as likely to lord anything over anybody, and there he was buried in Remy's woman with his fuzzy blue nuts swinging, and Remy jerking himself raw over the sight and finishing across her ass without Kurt ever breaking rhythm.

Years back the Elf would have flogged himself with guilt after. Now he'd have called it a successful conversion and gone looking for the next woman who needed ministering to.

He looked good in it, too. Happier. Sure of himself. Done apologizing for his own body. And Logan had liked the company. One thing to be the big-dicked bastard in the room with every caged man and husband watching what you were hauling around. Better with somebody else along, especially somebody who never seemed to notice he was doing it.

That was the part he hadn't seen coming, in the Elf or in himself. Half the mansion had spent years acting like the size of a man's cock and the weight of his sack didn't settle anything. Now it settled everything, and Logan had turned out to like the ranking. Liked being near the top of it. Liked Remy down at the bottom of it, standing at his own woman's shoulder with his hand on himself while a bigger man did the work.

Kurt was loved, Jubes was happy, Rogue had all the cock she could handle, and Remy had learned that watching another mutant breed her got him off harder than being jealous ever did.

Logan had lived in worse places.

Him and the Elf could have had some fun back in the day if Kurt had loosened up sooner. Find a woman who wanted the both of them, wedge her in the middle, one cock in her cunt and the other up her ass, and work her from both ends until she forgot which of them was in which hole. He could picture his own hairy sack swinging under her while Kurt drove in from the other side, the two of them meeting beneath her and slapping together every time both cocks went to the root. He'd have laughed and pushed harder just to make it happen twice.

He did not want Kurt. Knew where his tastes ran. He just liked a heavy pair, always had. The weight, the pressure, the thick loads backed up behind them. The sight of a big swinging sack beneath a hard cock did something to the back of his brain whether the cock was buried in a pussy or not.

And with Mark, Logan knew firsthand that none of it was just for show. He had worn the kid’s body once, felt those huge smooth balls swinging between his thighs and the pressure gathered at their base while Mark’s monstrous cock throbbed in his hand. He had jerked the thing right to the edge before the bastard switched their bodies back, leaving Logan with the memory of those loaded cumtanks and no chance to feel them fire.

And before that he and Mark had even put Jubes between them, one cock in her cunt and the other up her ass. Logan’s sack cracked against the kid’s underneath her every time they drove together. Hairy skin struck smooth, Jubes screaming with nowhere to go except where they pushed her.

Mark’s balls had been hot and obscenely heavy. Each testicle inside that smooth sack was nearly twice the size of one of Logan’s, and when they collided, the whole weight of them flattened against him.

His cock jumped at the memory.

Christ, the kid had some balls on him.

Didn't mean Logan wanted to kiss him or crawl into bed with him. It meant the punk carried a pair of cumtanks worth looking at, swinging with enough weight to promise a flood, and Logan had never been coy about liking that.

The scent brought him to a stall under a broad tree with red leaves.

Two women were waiting there.

One stood beside a big man, naked except for gold piercings, already staring at Logan’s cock. The other sat behind the stall with her tits out and her thick thighs spread beneath the table. Both were attractive. Both were wet enough for Logan to smell.

No fear from either of them.

Good.

He barely looked at what the carver was selling. Little bodies, oversized mutant cocks, a lot of polished junk that would still be there after he finished.

The pierced woman took a breath as he approached. “Wolverine, I was hoping you might…”

Logan removed the cigar from his mouth and held it toward her husband.

“Hold this.”

The man accepted it as his wife dropped to her knees before Logan had to tell her what came next. Her hands closed around his shaft, and she stared up at its broad head for one awed moment.

“Oh, Bast.”

Then she opened her mouth.

Logan planted one hand on the back of her head and pushed forward. Her lips stretched around him. She took several thick inches before gagging, then wrapped both hands around the rest and began working them over the shaft she could not swallow.

Logan left her to it.

He reached across the stall, caught the carver by the wrist, and hauled her out from behind the table. Her bare breasts struck his chest as she stumbled against him.

“You choose me too?” she breathed.

Logan answered by taking hold of the back of her neck and kissing her.

She opened beneath his mouth immediately. His free hand slid down her belly, hooked her g-string aside, and found her shaved pussy soaking wet. He pushed two thick fingers inside without ceremony.

The carver moaned into his mouth and rolled her hips against his hand.

Logan curled his fingers inside her and began fucking her pussy with them, hard enough to make her thighs shake. Beneath him, the other woman’s head bobbed steadily as she sucked more of his cock into her mouth.

The carver’s cunt clenched around his fingers.

Logan grunted into her mouth and drove them faster.