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Sacrificed: Heart Beyond the Spires – Baal’s Heart II

Buy it today for .99! (US/UK only)

Novel (127,090 words)
Genre(s): Historical Fantasy, Erotic Action/Adventure, Polyamory, LGBT+/GSM

Reunited once more, the crew of Baal’s Heart must make the long and treacherous journey south to the towering spires of the Devil’s Isles. The path through the mountain range is fraught with peril; mayhem and tragedy plague the pirate ship, but what the men find beyond the spires is the most shocking of all.

In this sequel to the acclaimed Caged, the pirates are dragged into a dangerous new world by Captain Baltsaros’s all-consuming obsession. In the midst of terror and chaos, Jon learns that the captain and first mate have been keeping secrets from him. But will the truth tear them apart?

Wednesday

As he ran, Don surveyed the city sprawl. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the rooftop gym he could see clear to the river, a thin ribbon sparkling in the early morning sun. It was beautiful out, not a cloud in the sky. Far below, tiny people scurried in the long shadow of the chrome and glass building like so many cockroaches. Small people going about with their small lives.

“Did I tell you I climbed the CN Tower four times on this baby yesterday?” Steve said, his breathing labored.

Don looked over at Steve on the stair climber and gave him a smile. “Tell me when you’ve done the Niesenlauf even once… then I’ll care.”

Steve laughed, a bead of sweat following the line of his jaw like a tear. He shook his head in reply. “Always so fucking hard to impress.”

Chuckling, Don nodded, glancing down at the display on the treadmill. He was already at six kilometres and hadn’t broken a sweat yet. His body was a well-oiled machine—hard, lean, and clean.

“Oh, hey,” Steve said. “That reminds me…. Ever skull-fuck a live person?”

Don quirked an eyebrow at his junior partner. There had to have been at least one who’d been alive, albeit briefly, but he couldn’t remember. Things got sort of murky when he was really immersed. He shrugged. “I don’t recall. Maybe?”

“I mean, without killing them.” Steve’s smile stretched wider in his tanned face. He was handsome, almost perfect, but the nose needed a little work, in Don’s opinion.

“Explain.” His interest was definitely piqued.

“Well, I found this lady with one eye who’ll let you stick your dick in her empty socket for a grand,” Steve said, huffing as he climbed stairs. “I mean… there are some size constraints and you can’t go in more than an inch or so,” He reached for his towel and wiped his face, “but, real orbital fucking, baby. Far out, right?”

Don frowned, skeptical.

Steve circled his own eye with a finger, explaining, “the bone was eaten away by something—cancer maybe—so the hole is big enough, you know?”

Intrigued, Don nodded. “All right, but can you cum in her socket or do you have to pull out?”

“I don’t know. I forgot to ask.”

“Hm.” Don checked his pulse and found it was still cruising along at a steady 96 bpm. “And where did you find this woman?”

“Through that guy we met at the club on Friday.”

Don nodded. “The one who only fucks amputees?”

“Yeah… him. The woman lives out in Mile-End.”

The treadmill beeped as Don racked up another kilometre. There was at least five grand in the office safe.

“Does she make house calls?” he asked.

“Yep.” Steve stopped climbing and stood panting, sweat pouring down his face. “You in?”

Pensive, Don turned off the treadmill and stepped down, pulling off his shorts as he walked. He dropped them at the pool’s edge and dived into the water naked, swimming to the far end before surfacing. As the small waterfall misted him with its spray, Don wiped water from his eyes and stared at Steve. A new experience would break up the monotony of the week. Wednesdays were so dull.

“Sure,” he finally replied. “We’ll go over the Fendix Merger first, but if she’s available this afternoon, let’s say… three?”

“I have the Dobson meeting at three,” Steve said, walking towards the pool.

“Can you move it?”

Steve paused, thinking. “I think so.”

“Good.” Don stared at Steve’s chest. It was broader than his own but less furry and it glistened with sweat. Steve’s ribs still heaved with his breathing. Pathetic.

“Don’t,” Don said sharply when Steve began lowering his own shorts to join him in the pool. “Go take a shower first. You’re disgusting.”

Steve looked down at himself. “Sorry. Fuck… yeah, sorry Don,” he said, his voice meek. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“And clean your ass while you’re at it,” Don added after a thought. “I’m feeling tense.” He liked the way Steve flinched at his words, turning pale beneath his flawless tan. The lines of Steve’s jaw tightened, and he gave Don a forced smile. Christ, he was such a pussy when it came to pain.

“Sure thing, Don,” Steve replied in an overly cheerful voice, turning towards the showers. “I’m on it.”

Don watched Steve leave, his eyes on that perfectly pert, muscular behind. He was impressed with Steve’s novel suggestion. He smiled, deciding that if it all went well today, he’d give Steve a small bonus—a token, really—but if that brought more of these novel suggestions… well, it was money well spent. Don chuckled to himself and dove beneath the surface, seeing how many laps he could swim before Steve’s return.

The Wanderer – Part Three

<< Read Part Two


I can feel the sweat pouring down my back as I start thrusting a little faster into the boy. He’s young. Younger than I’d like, to be honest, but he’s what I was given to work with. He’s got his eyes screwed shut, his hands up near his head in tight fists, and he’s grimacing and whimpering every time I go deep—and not in a good way. Then he lets out this pathetic little cry of pain and I just can’t anymore… I stop.

Immediately, the boy opens his eyes and looks up at me with concern. “Uh… you done ‘ready?”

I’m breathing hard and as I shake my head, a few drops of sweat go flying. It’s hot as hell in my tent, but leaving the flap closed only seemed the polite thing to do, considering who my neighbours are.

“So… what fo’ then you wait?” asks the boy, his local pidgin easy enough to decipher.

His asshole squeezes down hard on my cock, and it feels good, but I ask, “Am I actually hurting you?”

“You wanna hurt me, yeah?” This is said with a crooked grin and I feel him waggle his pelvis back and forth a few times, teasingly. “Tha’s my special-ly. Done good fo’ earnin’, don’ you know.” His smile is replaced by a terrified expression and I realize the kid’s a real good actor. “Oh ow ow mis’uh… oh please noooo…” The boy nods, a canny look in his eye. “For extra, I do real big screamin’ and cryin’… you like?”

I’m filled with loathing for my fellow man. Good for business indeed. “No, thank you.”

“Oh.” The boy pushes a blond curl away from his eye, looking thoughtful for a moment. “Well… what you wanna I do?” He seems honestly confused.

My cock’s only getting limper as this goes on, and right then it slips out of him.

“Oh no, long-tooth, don’ worry none! I get it hard up, quick yeah?” he says, reaching for my dick, but I take a step back. I’m sure if I turned off my conscience I could get it up again enough to fuck him, and I’d probably get off in just a few minutes, but truth is I just don’t want to. There’s just something hellishly off-putting about folks paying to rape a kid, act or no. I don’t know, maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I think there should be laws against that sort of thing.

“No, we’re done,” I say, and when I see his eyes widen in real fear, I smile. “Don’t worry. You get paid just the same.”

Relief brings a shy grin to his face and he pops up from my cot, grabbing the shorts I’d yanked off him only a few minutes earlier. From one of the pockets, he pulls out a battered old comms pad, the likes of which I haven’t seen in probably a decade, and I dutifully press my thumb to the scratched sensor.

I might be unfulfilled, but I can’t very well send him off empty-handed, can I? Who knows what his pimp would do to him.

You know, I’m getting downright soft, living alongside the Rimers.

“Thanks,” he says as he’s hopping on one foot to get dressed. “You a handsome fella. Nice big dick. Anytime you want, fo’ sure, ok?”

“I’m not, and it’s not, but thank you,” I say, pulling my own pants back up again.

The kid’s scrawny and he’s got pink scars on his shoulders and cheeks like he’s had too many sunburns—when he turns, I see he’s got two small deed tattoos visible over the waist of his low-slung shorts, right above his left ass cheek, and one of the tattoos is crossed out. So young to have already changed hands once. Poor kid.

“Do you have stash of your own?” I ask, my voice low and gruff. His account’s controlled by the man who owns him but there are a few ways to hide credits, if you know the right people.

The boy looks up at me, curious. “No. Why fo’?”

I stare at him, wishing I had some little token to give him, something he could trade for a vidgame maybe. A kid his age shouldn’t have to spend his days fucking old perverts like me—the longer I think about it, the more I’m disgusted by myself.

I don’t have anything to give the boy, so I send him on his way, silently watching him duck through the tent flap. I sit on the edge of my cot and close my eyes. I’ve lost count of the things I should be ashamed of.

A moment later, the flap lifts again.

“Feeling better?” Pytre’s got a smile on his face, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He holds out the green bottle I’ve been expecting.

“I think I feel worse.” I grab the bottle from him and pull the cork out. I take a swig of the chartreuse, my eyes already watering before I swallow. It’s awful stuff but it gets the job done. These cultists might frown on fucking, but there’s some wiggle room regarding liquor. The chartreuse is something they manufacture themselves, part of their trade deal with the Argonaus Station in orbit around a neighbouring planet, and they’ve got a whole cellar full of the crap.

Pytre limits me to one bottle every two days and I’m sort of glad—I can’t imagine what state I’d be in after drinking more than that allowance.

“He wasn’t to your tastes?” Pytre asks, sinking down cross-legged in his usual spot on the rug. “I was assured the boy was talented.”

I chuckle to myself before taking another swig. Grimacing, I mutter, “Boy is right.”

“Here I was thinking he might be too old for you,” Pytre replied, folding his hands in his lap. Again, a smile bends Pytre’s lips without touching his eyes. He disapproves, I know, but I can’t help but wonder if some of it is… more personal. “I thought you liked them young.”

I frown. “And why the fuck would you assume that?”

“I’m sorry, I figured the sordid acts you’re always propositioning me with spoke to your preferences, seeing as I am so much your junior, as you like to point out, and that obviously makes me appealing.” He laughs, but I can’t help but notice the pink rising in his cheeks. “Actually, you haven’t yet said anything about what unholy thing you’d like to do to me today. Are you feeling quite well?”

Normally, I would respond with something crude, but I don’t really have it in me right now.

“How old are you anyway?” I ask, shifting the subject. “You know I’ll figure it out one day.” All I know is he’s over twenty, judging by the date he became leader of this particular covey of Rimers.

“How old do I look?” He says in reply, serene smile firmly in place.

“Ten.” It’s a lie, of course. He looked about sixteen the day we met, but the more I get to know him, the older he appears to me. There’s just something in the way he carries himself… or maybe it’s the tone of his voice. “Maaaybe twelve.” I can’t help teasing him, though.

“Hence my earlier confusion over what age you prefer.” There’s a twinkle in Pytre’s eye and I can’t help it—I laugh, and he joins in with his soft chuckle. I have to give it to him, he’s got a quick wit that I appreciate.

Pytre shrugs. “Truthfully, though, about the boy… that’s what’s available around here. And I assure you, like myself, he’s older than he looks.”

“Really.”

Pytre nods. “Really. The whores of Gulchtown ingest something similar to what we Disciples of Rime take for our sacrament.” He narrows his eyes at me, scrutinizing me in a way that starts to make me feel sort of uncomfortable.

“What?”

“So, you’re a man of scruples after all.”

I snort. “Don’t exaggerate now.” I stop, mid-swig and fix him with a stare. “Was that a test?”

Pytre shrugs again but says nothing. I wonder whether I should point out that the boy’s perceived age wasn’t exactly what stopped me from finishing, initially, but I decide against it.

“Drink with me,” I say, holding out the bottle. I’ve asked him a few times now and he never takes me up on it, but this time he doesn’t decline right away. He looks over his shoulder at the tent flap, a wrinkle creasing his brow. “C’mon, drink with me, padre. You brew the damn stuff, surely you’re allowed to partake.”

“Allowed, yes…” Pytre says slowly and finally relents, taking the bottle from me. He stares at the label for a moment, then takes a big gulp of chartreuse before shaking his head. “Rime, that’s foul.”

I let out a bark of laughter and decide to join Pytre on the rug. I slide off the cot and attempt to sit like the cultist but discover I’m not quite that flexible. I settle on leaning back against the cot with my legs in front of me at a slight angle, ankles crossed and my calf a few inches from Pytre knee. Meanwhile, Pytre’s watching me with an expression I’ve never seen him wear before. He looks a little… nervous?

After taking another deep pull from the bottle, Pytre leans forward to hand it back to me. His grey robes, belted at the waist, hang open, exposing his chest to me for a second. I can’t help but notice that he’s got a set of real perky nipples, the kind you can get a good suck on, and I smile to myself at that thought. I wonder if he knows how pretty he is.

He takes another look at the tent flap as if he’s worried about being caught drinking with me.

“So, tell me the truth, Pytre… if I’m such a holy sinner, lost cause, and all-around bad influence, why do you let me stay here?”

The question seems to take him by surprise. He’s distracted enough that when I hand the bottle back to him, he doesn’t even pretend to waver. Drinking deep, he pulls a face, then he swallows. The way he licks his lips gives my boner another little shove in the right direction, and I decide right then that I really do want him, all jokes and crude overtures aside.

“I see a man who is hiding from his past—a man who needs time to heal, and I’m willing to give that man the place to do it,” he says quietly. “I don’t think you’re a lost cause, Asher.”

It’s the first time in years I’ve heard my name on anyone’s lips. Normally, it would make me angry, but because it’s Pytre, it somehow feels all right. If anything, it tugs at something inside me.

“No? I’ve got you swilling hooch in the middle of the day. How am I not a lost cause?” The combination of my pent-up frustration over what happened earlier, the strong liquor, and the close quarters is getting to me. I can’t stop thinking about sliding my hands inside his robes.

“Ha! Hooch?” Pytre’s brows jump up and he makes as if to examine the label again. “Do you have any idea how much a bottle of this goes for?”

He sounds a bit tipsy, so I decide to seize my chance.

“Here, let me see.” I rise quickly to my knees, reaching for the chartreuse, and cover Pytre’s hand holding the bottle with my own, pulling him roughly towards me until he’s kneeling. We’re face to face, close enough that his breath reaches my lips. His hazel eyes are wide and startled, the pupils huge enough to fall into. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything like this… my dick is so hard I’m in actual pain and it’s like my body’s on fire.

“Let go of me,” he says in a very small voice.

I can feel him trembling and that only stokes whatever the hell has me in its grasp. I curl my other arm around Pytre’s waist, tugging him a bit closer. He doesn’t resist.

“Please,” Pytre whispers. “Please, don’t do this.”

“Why not? It seems to me like you want it.”

He closes his eyes—his breathing is quick and light. A trickle of sweat makes its way down his cheek… or is that a tear? Suddenly, I’m uncertain, but I can’t stop staring at his lips. The bottom one is so plump and pink that my mouth is watering for a taste. My head is swimming with lust yet I feel more awake than I have in decades.

“Asher, don’t do this to me.”

Once again, my name sounds at home on his tongue and this time that… scares me. I lift my eyes and see that his are open and filled with tears. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful and so tragic in my life.

Disconcerted, I drop my arm from his waist and yank the bottle from his hand, sitting back on my heels as he gets to his feet. My heart is beating so hard I can barely draw breath and I turn away from him, confused by the violence of my desire.

“Well? What are you waiting for?” I growl. “Get the fuck out of here.”

When I don’t hear him move, I glance over my shoulder. Pytre’s smile is once again serene and his cheeks are dry. However, there’s no mistaking the red tinge to his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice calm.

I sneer. “For what? Not raping you? You’re welcome.” I make it ugly because I’m ugly, inside and out.

A hint of uncertainty colours the cultist’s expression and it seems for a moment he’s going to say something else… but instead he turns and ducks through the tent flap, leaving me to my misery and drink. I swallow down a huge gulp of the vile chartreuse and wonder where the cellar full of liquor is—there’s only a hellish hangover down that path but it’s exactly what I deserve.

Get Max for 99¢ – June 22-25

Get it today!


A little about Max

I honestly think this was my favourite book to write. It started off as a little serial on my blog, inspired by something my old therapist said: “I love psychopaths.” Thus Max was given life. I then turned it into a book and I’m glad I did. It’s a twisted little story with an unreliable narrator, set in my hometown of Montréal… a sort of lively psycho-romp through themes of addiction, betrayal, and general mayhem. There aren’t many “nice” things that happen in the story, and it probably appeals best to folks like me who consider Natural Born Killers or True Romance to be “romantic”, but whenever someone asks me “what book of yours do you wish more people would read?”, I always reply “Max“.

Get Caged Free at Amazon – June 14/15

Guess what’s free today? Caged: Love and Treachery on the High Seas is! For the first time ever, I’m offering the first novel in the Baal’s Heart Series for free – get your copy today: http://geni.us/CagedFree

Get Exposed for only .99

(Amazon US/UK only) – Buy it here

“This is erotic fiction of the highest calibre. Bey Deckard is a brilliant writer in my opinion. His imagination is incredible and his stories original and intelligently told. I absolutely loved every single one of his previous books, but Exposed has taken Bey Deckard to another level and this is, in my opinion, his best work to date. Fantastic and enthralling and captivating and arousing from the first word to the last.” —Books Laid Bare Boys

“I absolutely loved every moment of this story. It grabbed me from the get-go and I didn’t want to put it down. Sweet and kinky (with an age gap to boot!) is a win-win for me and Bey Deckard balanced it perfectly here.” —Sinfully Gay Romance Book Reviews

“The chemistry between Greg and Emyr is instant and amazing. I was so into them as individuals and as a couple and all that comes with that. The sweet and sexy kink, the hurt/comfort, the Daddy/good boy and just everything. I truly have no idea what I am saying or how to properly review this because it was so much and I gorged hard core on this book.”
“Overall, a great read that I’m happy to add to my favorites of 2017 list.” —Boy Meets Boy Reviews

“Exposed is a wonderful May/December story with a side of Daddy kink that will make your heart melt.” —The Blogger Girls

“I knew this would be an amazing book because I love all of this authors work, what I didn’t expect was to fall in love with these characters so completely! Bey really knows how to draw you into a story like you are living it with the characters!” —Bike Book Reviews

Exposed is actually quite a gentle love story with a lot of hidden extras thrown in – as you would expect from Bey […] I would highly recommend Exposed.” —Love Bytes Reviews

The Wanderer – Part Two

<< Read Part One


The only thing in front of me is a huge field of red and it takes five groggy seconds to realize I’m looking at the insides of my eyelids. It hurts like hell to scrape away the caked dust, and when I finally manage to pry my eyes open, the lids part like I’m tearing open a wound. I can’t hold back, but my throat’s so parched my cry sounds like a death rattle.

Blinking, I try to figure out what I’m seeing beyond my bloodied fingertips, but it doesn’t make a lick of sense. My vision’s murky—like I’m peering through a jar of cloudy piss—but it looks like there’s a whole lot of distance between me and the ground… which doesn’t seem likely since I can feel the dirt under my cheek.

I squint and freeze when I finally recognize what I’m staring at: the cliff wall opposite. I’m lying on the very edge of a yawning chasm, my face an inch from the void. Lifting my head slowly, I can barely make out the blurry, jagged rocks below.

I’d been plodding along for hours, trying to out-walk the dust storm, blind in the stinging yellow cloud, and I must have collapsed. I’m damn lucky I didn’t go over the cliff.

Or am I? It could have meant an end to my purgatory.

Groaning, I turn with some difficulty onto my back. I can never decide whether I’m still alive because I’m too much of a coward to end it, or because I don’t think I deserve such an easy escape.

I’ve got my eyes closed again. I can’t help it. I’m fucking exhausted and my eyeballs feel sticky. Blinking is becoming impossible. Maybe it’s the end after all.

+++

I’m rocking slowly. Voices… overlapping.

“Careful with his head—”

“Watch it—”

“Take it slow, Jessup. Watch your step—”

“Doesn’t he look like—”

No, it can’t be—”

“I think it is, I think it’s the—”

I struggle to sit up, but I can’t open my eyes. They’re glued shut again. A cool hand touches my arm.

“It’s all right, friend. Peace.” The voice is male. Young. Another hand presses my shoulder. I hear a whimper and recognize it as my own. My skin feels like it’s been tenderized. I’m too tired to do anything except lay back down again and let them carry me away.

+++

The sun wakes me up and for a few moments I have no idea where I am. Then, I remember the voices and I frown. Peace. I’m not sure I know what that means anymore.

I’m in some sort of small round tent. The walls are brown canvas and the ground is bare beneath an orange and yellow braided rug, the same kind they sell to tourists on every shitty planet I’ve been to.

I’m lying on a rickety, narrow cot, but it’s the softest thing I’ve slept on in weeks. My eyes still sting, the lids raw and gummy, and my mouth is as dry as a desert, but it looks like I’m going to live.

The tent flap opens, and I’m blinded by the light—the figure beyond is nothing but a dark blob until it enters and the canvas falls close behind it. When my vision clears, and I see who my visitor is, I sigh and rub my sore, sandblasted face, squeezing my eyes shut despite the pain. Just my luck… seems I’ve been rescued by a damned cult—the man’s a Disciple of Rime. But, truthfully, as far as cults go, Rimers are probably the best I could have hoped for. For one, I know they didn’t drag my sorry corpse out of the wastelands just so they could eat me—cannibals, they are not.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice gentle.

I crack my lids open again and peer at him. “Water,” I rasp.

“Of course,” he says and calls over his shoulder to someone standing outside. He looks no more than sixteen, but it’s impossible to tell how old Rimers are. The drugs they take to give them visions make them appear younger. They tend to be on the short side and their skin looks youthful, cheeks rosy and faces unlined. Though I figure the cultist seated in the tent is probably not as young as he looks, he can’t be very old either. Rimers don’t live past thirty—the drugs that show them God and keep them young also kill them over time.

The Rimer takes the small copper cup he’s given and slides his hand under my head to help me drink. I immediately start to cough—ironically, the water is too wet for my mouth and throat. It takes me three tries to swallow one mouthful and then I’m only given the little that’s left in the cup.

“More,” I demand, but the man shakes his head and settles me back on the cot.

“You’ll get more later. I promise,” he says with a serene smile. “It’s best not to rush it. You were out there a long time.”

Eyes closed, I sigh my frustration. I know he’s right—I’ll be sick if I drink too much.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” he asks after a moment. “You’re—

I stop him with a growl. “I’m no one.”

“But—”

“I am no one.”

I imagine by his silence that I’ve either shocked or cowed him, but then he lets out a soft chuckle. “All right, friend. As you say. But, you can call me Pytre.”

“Well, Pytre, either come here and suck my dick or leave me the hell alone.”

I’m being crude on purpose—Rimers take their celibacy vows seriously—but it’s not because I have a problem with their religiosity. I don’t care enough to give a shit one way or another. I just said it because I figure it’s a sure-fire way to get him out of the tent. I’m in pain and pain makes me cranky. I’ve also been feeling sorry for myself for so long that good intentions sometimes feel like a personal attack.

I open my eyes, wondering if Pytre has somehow fled without my hearing him, and see he’s just standing there, watching me, his brow wrinkled.

With his head shaved to the skin, his big ear stick out like cup handles, but he has a nice-enough face—regular, inoffensive features with a pair of large, long-lashed hazel eyes that are just pretty enough to bump him past plain. The kind of earnest face I can never say no to, regardless of whether I have to pay for it or not. When he still hasn’t moved, I squeeze my cock through my pants and sneer.

“It’s not going to suck itself.”

I’m talking out of my ass, of course. Even if he was game and I could manage to get it up in my enfeebled state, I should probably hang onto the precious little liquid I have left in my body.

Indifferent to my taunts, Pytre just ducks his chin and says “I’ll be back in a little while with more water. Try to rest,” in a kind voice before leaving me alone.

Unflappable son of a bitch. I turn over carefully on my side to get more comfortable and notice something: I’m curious about Pytre.

I can’t remember the last time I was actually curious about anything.

+++

The next two days I spend sleeping and drinking as much liquid as my body will allow. Pytre visits me twice as often as the others—the way they defer to him makes me believe he’s either in charge or close to it. One thing’s for certain, he’s definitely not the fresh-faced sixteen-year-old his appearance would have you believe.

By day three, I’m allowed a meal I can chew and fuck if it isn’t glorious. It’s only some stew with chunks of protein in it, but I’m in pure heaven. When I’m nearly done, Pytre pokes his head into the tent to see how I’m getting along.

“Hey, tell you what… I’ll suck your cock, if you give me another bowl of this,” I say, my spirits buoyed by the meal.

Surprising me again, Pytre just chuckles and enters, settling himself down cross-legged on the rug to watch me finish my stew.

I’ve had to reassess my impression of him. He’s better looking than I gave him credit for… but maybe I’m so swayed by his generosity that my dick’s giving me rose-tinted glasses.

Padre, you’ve got a great set of lips on you,” I say, then burp against the back of my hand. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Pytre lets out a laugh. “Not that I recall.”

“Yeah… they’d look great wrapped around my cock.” Shit, I don’t know why I’m talking this way. It’s like it’s become my mission to get a rise out of him.

“Since you’re feeling so ah… lively, you should come outside and take in a little fresh air,” Pytre says with his usual serene smile, but when he turns to push the tent flap open, I notice he’s flushed. Or at least I think so.

Carefully, I get to my feet, feeling a bit wobbly, and ignore the hand he holds out to assist me as I duck through the low opening. Instantly, my eyes begin to water. The sun is stronger and clearer than I’ve ever seen it, though maybe it’s just because I’ve been holed up in a tent for days. Wiping my streaming eyes, I look around in amazement at all the green I’m surrounded by.

“How…” I manage, shaking my head. “But, where are you getting the water?” I’m absolutely stunned. This is supposed to be a barren moon, but the field of vegetation must be three, maybe four acres across. I turn and raise a hand to shade my face. It’s green as far as the eye can see in the other direction.

“We sacrifice a virgin to Rime on the first of every month and he grants us rain.”

Startled, I look over at the cultist but he’s just staring out over the field looking completely at peace with himself. After a moment, Pytre glances over at me, and his youthful face cracks into a mischievous smile.

“We have a trade deal with the Argonaus Station for wastewater,” he says.

“You made a joke.”

“I’m known to do that on occasion.” His expression turns serious. “Come, you should lie down. I don’t want you to tire yourself out.”

Instead of a quip about how I’d like to tire myself out, I accept his arm for support.

Maybe it’s the millions of green leaves waving in the wind around us or maybe Pytre’s unrelenting friendliness is getting to me, I don’t know… but something’s changed.

>> Read Part Three

 

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