Bey’s Tales

The Wanderer – Part Twelve

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)

There’s no getting around the security cameras, so I don’t have much element of surprise to work with, but I’ve got a blaster shoved down the back of my pants that I’m hoping Turk can’t see on the old body-scanner pointed at me.

“Open up!” I pound on the thick metal door. Turk’s place is an ugly, squat building right next to the shuttle terminal. Windowless, it’s nearly a fortress—there’s a king’s ransom in real steel covering the walls, pitted in a few places but mostly scrubbed shiny from the sand and dust storms.

“Turk, you fucker… Open the goddamn door!” I shout, staring into the lens of one of the cameras. I’m probably going to die today, but I can’t let him get away with what he did—the image of Apple’s poor, torn up face is burned into my retinas.

There’s a loud clang on the other side of the door and I step back as it ratchets slowly open, my hand on the blaster’s grip. It’s Turk himself and he’s wearing a faded pink bathrobe.

Jesus, he’s hard to look at. He’s had work done on his eyes—built-in night vision and extra range… he loves to brag about it—but he went to a cut-rate surgeon and wound up with scarring that makes it look like he stared into the flames of Hell. His cheeks are cut open and fitted with flexible, transparent inserts, exposing his teeth on both sides, but the weirdest part of his face, by far, is his perfectly pert nose, upturned and dainty like it belongs on some doll, not sitting in the middle of his self-inflicted wreckage. I can’t believe Apple could stomach fucking him.

“Where’s my property?”

His words jolt me out of my daze. My reflexes are stupid-slow. I should have pulled the gun the second I laid eyes on him, but the whiskey is still going strong in my bloodstream and I’m sluggish from exhaustion.

“He’s mine,” I growl, leveling the blaster at him. He is—Apple’s mine in every way that there is, and if there is even the slightest possibility that I survive this suicide mission, I’m going to dedicate my life to keeping him safe and happy. No one will ever hurt him again.

I see movement in my peripheral and my instincts and training kick in—I swing the gun to my six, popping off two shots at Turk’s goon. The guy falls back hard, a smoking hole in the middle of his chest, and I turn around just in time to blast another hole straight through the head of the guy about to attack me. Even though he’s now missing most of his face—I can see the wall straight through his head—he doesn’t fall right away, just wobbles on his feet as he feels the edges of the wound. There’s no blood, the wound is cauterized, and the air is redolent of burnt flesh, piss, and shit… My heart starts to race and I’m getting tunnel vision. Helluva fucking time to have a panic attack.

Before I can react, a third guy tackles me to the ground. I feel my nose break as I hit the floor with my face, and the wind is knocked out of me. I blink through the pain, trying to draw breath, and focus on the slippered feet that stop in my line of vision. Finally, I cough, wheezing and struggling in the goon’s grasp as Turk squats down to stare at me. His robe’s wide open and his big, hideous dick is just dangling there in front of my face. It’s deformed and covered in broken veins and old surgery scars, the head of it bulbous and flared, a real nightmare.

What a last sight.

I laugh, spitting out a chip of tooth.

“Go on. Kill me,” I rasp. The boys would be safe at the hostel—Drenner assured me he’d hide them when he sold me the blaster—and tomorrow they’ll be long gone. Pytre will take care of Apple and in turn Apple will take care of Pytre… teach him how to survive with his wits.

“Kill you? No. You’re not going to die for a long while, my friend,” Turk says, patting my shoulder. He stands up, murmuring to someone I can’t see. I feel the pinch of a needle in my neck and everything fades to grey.

+++

I’m only half awake when I realize that someone is balls-deep inside me while I’m tied down to something. Wait, not tied… I’m paralyzed. I can’t even open my eyes, but I can feel everything. I’m on my stomach on something soft, a bed probably, with something shoved under my hips to elevate my ass—my legs are hanging off the side of the bed and the toes of my boots are scraping the floor in time to the pounding I’m getting. Boots? I’m still wearing my pants it seems. I’m guessing they ripped a hole in the seat to get access.

Damn, I liked these pants.

The guy slams into me hard with a grunt, finishing off, then pulls out. Almost immediately, someone else takes his place, and I let out a muffled moan. My ass is sore—how long has this been going on? I try to lift my eyelids again but nothing happens. I think of the relief girl at the bar—at least she gets to sleep through the rough stuff. This guy’s going way too deep, but there’s fuck all I can do about it except ride out the pain and hope he cums soon.

The asshole finally does and I breathe out a sigh of relief, but my respite is short-lived—a third guy sticks his dick in me, thankfully smaller than the last two, and starts speed-fucking me. With all the squelching and splattering I hear—god knows how many fuckers pumped and dumped—it’s gotta be like churning butter back there.

So, this is what Turk has planned for me? Fuck my ass raw? Rape me to death?

Finally, I get my eyes a bit open and I see that Turk’s sitting on the bed, just watching his fellas run a train on me and jerking off slowly. His dick looks only half hard but it’s still bigger than anything that's ever stretched my hole… I’m sure he’s going to take his turn eventually and I will admit that the idea scares the living shit out of me. What if I can piss him off enough that he’ll just put me out of my misery instead?

“Listen, you fucking freak—” I try, but it comes out as a mess of hissing and garbled vowels. However, it gets his attention.

“Ah, you’re awake. Good. Enjoying yourself?” He smiles and the inserts in his cheeks sort of buckle, making him even more grotesque.

“Fuck you,” I reply. Of course, it sounds nothing like that, but Turk can probably figure out what I said by my tone.

He laughs and shakes his head. My dance partner changes again and this time I let out a strangled yell. Either the guy’s dick is covered in studs or he’s wearing some kind of sheath—either way, my ass is getting scooped out so hard I’ve got tears in my eyes.

“Fuck you,” I mumble again, my tongue only half obeying me. My nose is throbbing in time to my heartbeat and I can’t breathe through it—I’d almost forgotten it was broken—but the pain is nothing compared to what’s happening to my poor backside.

Turk smiles wide, then licks his finger and thumb before pinching one of his nipples. I just close my eyes.

What a way to go...

Suddenly, I hear something that makes my heart beat faster: a Petrov Ten shuttle taking off. The whole place is shaking with the force of it. Shit, how long was I unconscious? It's morning already? But, it really doesn’t matter. I’m just happy that Pytre and Apple are safe. I might not look like I’m smiling but I am.

Safe travels.

Turk speaks up after the roar of the shuttle fades. “See, if you hadn’t killed Stern and Bruce, we mighta reached some sort of agreement, like,” Turk says. “I was willing to let you buy the boy back, you know. Give you a good price for him.”

I let out a shuddering breath when the guy with the studded dick pulls out, but then I feel fingers enter my wrecked ass, pushing in, and I whimper.

“But no... you come into my house and kill my guys? That don’t sit well with me.”

I’m barely listening because the fucker behind me is twisting his hand, back and forth, trying to get it to fit and it feels like something’s going to tear.

“Messing up the kid’s face... now, I didn’t like doing it, pretty boy like that deserves better. But it’s your fault, you know.”

My fault?

The thought barely registers because a few things happen almost simultaneously, taking up all my attention.

The first, is my ass finally accepts the guy’s fist and instead of pain, I spontaneously start cumming so hard—I mean, full-body, toe-curling hard—that the wail coming from between my clenched teeth sounds like a steam whistle. That’s never happened before... I mean, my dick’s not even hard.

The guy fisting me is so surprised he yanks his hand out of me—or so I thought that’s what happened... but then I hear yelling and a loud bang, and the unmistakable whirring sound of a minigun powering up.

I still can’t turn or lift my head, so I can only guess at what’s happening around me, but I hear Turk begging for his life and damn does that make me happy.

When a tinny lifeless voice demands that Turk’s men put down their guns, I recognize it. An Enforcer? Back when ‘Boh-7 was a slightly more lawful place, the Enforcer droids made up the bulk of the police force. Days before the coup that turned the moon into its current anarchic state, someone managed to hack their systems, turning them into guns for hire for anyone who could afford them... which isn’t many, these days.

I hear the clattering of dropped weapons and a second later, a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Pytre asks. Why isn’t he on the shuttle? Not that I’m not happy to see him...

“Can’t move,” I mutter through sluggish lips. I feel like I just shat out a bowling ball—I’m afraid to ask for the damage report. Also, I’m still tingling from head to toe from climaxing, and I don’t know how to process what happened. I’m just glad it’s over.

I grunt with surprise as I’m turned over, then lifted off the bed by two thick metal arms that hold me against the droid’s cold grey body. Pytre quickly pulls a blanket off the bed and drapes it over me. It’s not like I really care that my bare ass is hanging down for all the world to ogle but I appreciate the gesture.

“Wait,” I say as we start off. Turk and his goons are just standing around us. Why are they still breathing?

Pytre looks up. “What is it?”

“Tuhk...” I gurgle. “No... kill?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because, according to Drenner, he owes a lot of credits to a lot of scary people... and who do you think will come after us when they find out Turk’s no longer capable of paying them back?”

He’s right. That’s why I didn’t tell Drenner who the blaster was intended for—I knew he’d try to stop me. Damn it. I should have told Pytre to keep his mouth shut. While I don’t really care about my own hide, the thought of putting Pytre, and by extension Apple, in harm’s way makes me nauseous.

We can’t kill them. Even if we have the Enforcer shoot Turk's head off his shoulders and kill every last one of his henchmen, chances are the droid belongs to one of those scary people Pytre mentioned, and between its body cam and Turk’s security system, there would be no hiding who did it.

Something dawns on me.

“Sold... tick’ts?” It's the only explanation for how he can afford to hire out an Enforcer droid.

Pytre nods, leading us out of what I’m guessing is Turk’s bedroom. “For the Enforcer and for the doctor. I also gave Drenner most of the credits left over from the chartreuse for a month’s worth of rent.”

Shit. So we’re broke again. And neither Apple nor I will be making money the usual way any time soon.

“I want that boy back!” Turk shouts, following us.

Pytre surprises me by turning around, his expression one of sheer fury. “Enforcer, shoot him in the knee.”

“What? Fuck!” Turk sounds like he’s running away. The droid swivels 180 degrees, me still cradled in its arms like a baby, and blasts off a shot from one of its shoulder guns. It goes right over my head, so close I smell burning ozone, and Turk goes down like a sack of wet garbage with a neat hole through the back of his knee. Pytre stands above the wailing merc, his face serene. His measured words are icy cold: “If you ever go near Apple again, I’m going to cut your cock off and feed it to you a piece at a time.”

Jesus.

+++

Pytre winds through the streets, the Enforcer following behind at a steady pace. I’m half asleep by the time we get to the hostel, lulled into dozing by the vibrations coming up from the droid’s treads... and possibly, probably shock. My brain just wants to shut down.

At the hostel, we go all the way to the top floor to a room I’ve never seen before. It’s much bigger than where we’ve been staying and it has two large beds—a bit wider than doubles. This must be what Drenner calls the “Honeymoon Suite”. Like all the other rooms in the discount hostel there are no wall decorations and just the bare minimum of furnishings, but I notice with some hazy amusement that there’s a little blue vase with a fake yellow flower in it on the table. Classy.

A slender blonde woman with thick-framed glasses is leaning over Apple on the bed, nodding at whatever he’s saying. I’m assuming the woman is the doctor Pytre mentioned.

“Enforcer, put him down here,” Pytre says, pointing to the other bed. Gently, the droid settles me down on the bed. “Enforcer, you can go.” The droid beeps twice and swivels around, leaving us to go back to its master, whoever that is.

I look over at Apple. Most of his face is swathed in clean white bandages, so he can’t see me, but I say, “I’m here.” My voice still sounds weird and for a sec I wonder if he even knows it’s me, but then he nods.

“He was given some kind paralytic. Or tranquilizers. Maybe both,” Pytre explains to the woman as she stands to come take a look at me. Without a word, she grabs my nose and—crack—jerks it straight. I yell, my eyes streaming, and almost hyperventilate as I lay there twisting in agony. I’ve broken my nose half a dozen times and it hurts the same every goddamn time. On the plus side, the adrenaline seems to have given me some of my mobility back.

When I’ve gotten a hold of myself the woman leans over me again. I wonder what her story is. Doctors here generally fall into two categories. The first are doctors who never actually got a license or even studied medicine. Most of them are pure butchers and the only doctors most people can afford.

The second class of doctors are the ones who had licenses but lost them. I’m pegging this lady for the latter—maybe she lost her license because she made a bad call, but from the way her grey eyes stare at me without a shred of life or compassion in them, I’m going to assume she lost it because she likes cutting up orphans in her spare time.

“Where else?” she says, her accent marking her as a newcomer to this moon.

“He was... uh...” Pytre goes bright pink as he gestures to my pelvis. Gone is the tough guy who threatened a dangerous man with castration just ten minutes ago. He looks like he’s going to cry and it hurts me because I know why that is. Well, I guess we have something new in common now, don’t we? “He-he was—”

“Raped,” I say, sparing him the words. "A whole bunch." The doctor nods, looking almost bored.

Pytre swallows and looks away. “I’m going to get some food for us. I’ll be back.” He almost runs for the door.

Once he’s gone, the woman asks me if I can turn over on my stomach so she can take a look, and I manage to with a little help.

After some not-so-gentle prodding, she stands up. “You’ll be fine. There are some abrasions but nothing that won’t heal in a few days. You’ll probably want to stick a freeze pack on there.” I hear her pull her gloves off with a snap and I slowly roll to my side. “The little one said you’re a sex worker?” She lifts an eyebrow at me.

I nod. I guess I have to come out of retirement as soon as my ass is healed up, don’t I? Fucking hell. Maybe Pytre can get more liquor to sell?

“A little old for that kind of work, aren’t you?”

I just frown at her.

“I assume you’re up to date on your immunizations?”

“Yes.” Both Apple and I get regular shots of black market Termezine and Declorazam to keep our dicks from falling off and our assholes free of disease.

“Good. Bring this one to me in ten days to get the stitches out,” the doctor says, pointing to Apple. “And keep the dressings clean.”

“Ok.”

The doctor picks up her bag and leaves without another word or a backwards glance. I’m guessing Pytre already squared up with her.

“Asher?” Apple’s voice is muffled by the bandages.

“Hang on,” I say and struggle to a sitting position. My legs are like wet noodles so I hang onto the mattress as I lower myself to the floor to crawl the space between the beds. It takes a few minutes, but I manage to pull myself up so I’m lying next to Apple. I take his unbandaged hand.

“I’m here.”

“You ok, old man?”

I think about it for a minute. “I will be,” I answer. “You?”

“I will be.” I see the corner of his mouth curl up a tiny bit, but then I’m startled when he lets out a shuddering whimper. “I’m going to lose my eye.”

“That’s fine,” I say, squeezing his hand. “You’ve got a spare.”

This time he laughs, then groans in pain. The doctor’s taped up his chest, so I’m guessing he’s got some broken ribs, not to mention the tear in his cheek. I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

“S’ok.” He squeezes my hand back. “How’s it look?”

I can’t see anything because of the bandages, but I reach over and lift up the corner of the gauze covering his cheek. The stitches are very neat and tidy—there’s probably about twenty of them repairing Apple’s torn face—but his flesh is so bruised it hurts to look at. I place the bandage back, my stomach in knots.

“It looks fine,” I lie.

“Bullturds.” The side of his lip turns up again in a small smile.

I lay there quietly, just watching him breathe. “My nose got broken too.”

“Oh yeah? Hurts like a bastard.”

“Yeah.”

I can’t tell if it’s because I’m exhausted, in pain, or actively trying not to think about what I just went through, but I feel just plain wrong. Mostly in my head. I feel like crying for a bit but I don’t want to worry Apple.

“Did he tell you why he did this to me?” Apple whispers.

I frown. “No. He didn’t say.” I’m sure I’d remember it if he did.

“It’s because I told him I was going to go back to you.”

It’s your fault. So that’s what he meant.

“Oh.”

“You were right about him. All of it. I was just... I thought... Maybe you didn’t need me anymore. With the priest around. You know?”

Ok, so I am crying now, but doing it as quietly as I can.

“Oh yeah?” I say, my voice hoarse. “That’s bullturds.”

Apple lets out a shaky sigh and I realize that behind the bandages he’s also crying. What a pair we are.

I clear my throat trying to think of something cheerful to say.

“You should have seen Pytre. He threatened to cut Turk’s cock off and make him eat it.”

Apple lets out a raspy chuckle, then a moan of pain, but his ribs and face don’t stop him from laughing again. “That’s fitting, coming from him.”

My forehead wrinkles up. “Is it?” I’d found it weirdly out of character, though I'd chalked it up to the shit he's been through.

“Yeah. He’s a Rimer.”

“So?”

“So, he’s a eunuch.”

I’m silent for a few seconds, digesting this information.

“Asher?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“Oh...” Apple says softly. “You didn’t know, did you?”

I just grunt in reply. Then I sigh. Well, it explains a few things, I suppose.

I look at Apple's hand in mine.

"Can you make a fist?"

He closes his hand in a tight fist. "Yeah, why?"

"Just wanted to see how big it is."

I can tell Apple's confused, but I just bring his hand to my lips and give it a little kiss.

Taden and I – Part 3

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that may eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Historical Fantasy
Tags: general abuse, sex acts, age gap, bisexual, master/servant, angst, archaic terminology/style

It had been over a week since my return and still I had not called Taden to my side. I had seen little of the man, busy as I was finding ways to shirk my newfound duties, and that suited me just fine.

You’re still a child. His words were like beetles under my skin. The brass of it.

“Milord?”

I broke from my reverie and looked down at the young court musician kneeling before me in the empty minstrel’s gallery. “Yes? What is it?” I snapped.

“Do my methods not… please you, milord?”

I realized that my manhood had entirely lost its spine in my distraction and now drooped like a lifeless brown serpent in the harpist’s hand. To hide my embarrassment, I curled my lip and cuffed the young man on the ear.

“Your methods are boring me,” I told him as he ducked his head, his cheeks pink with chagrin. He looked like he was going to cry at any moment, and I felt bad for mistreating him so; I’m not normally prone to violence and the fact that I’d employed it to cover my own failings shamed me. “Use your mouth instead,” I suggested gently.

“Yes, milord,” he replied and eagerly took me into his warm, wet mouth. Almost instantly, I was revived, and I sighed, kindly stroking back his bright blond curls.

“Much better.”

The harpist mumbled something that sounded like, “thank you, milord,” around the growing burden in his mouth, and I leaned an elbow against the balustrade overlooking the Great Hall.

Despite the young man’s somewhat clumsy work—a flute player would have been more suitable—I felt myself swiftly rising towards the pinnacle.

“You will swallow,” I told him, my breathing uneven. He nodded, eyes beginning to brim in his efforts to accommodate me.

At that moment I heard voices below and looked down to see Taden briskly enter the Great Hall with a messenger at his side. The two of them stopped at the empty dais and from Taden’s terse gestures, I gathered he was annoyed at my absence, bidding the messenger to remain while he hunted for his errant lord.

The harpist was clearly tiring and growing careless with his teeth which, coupled with my preoccupation, had delayed the moment such that it timed nearly perfectly with Taden’s sudden about-face. Eyes on Taden’s stormy visage, I gasped, holding onto the young musician’s head as I prepared to empty myself into his mouth; the sound either carried or Taden became aware of my gaze because he chose then to raise his eyes to the gallery.

I let out a rasping cry as I peaked, helplessly staring into Taden’s shocked eyes as my seed burst the dam, choking the unfortunate harpist servicing me. It was over in seconds, Taden still as a statue for the length of my performance, and when I was done… I fled.

+++

I was sitting in my chambers, mere minutes later, when the knock came. Still winded from my exertions, my voice failed me on the first attempt to call out, so I cleared my throat and tried again.

“Come.”

Pen held in one hand, I made as if to pore over the document open on my écritoire, but my mind was not yet done revisiting those final, quivering moments, the intensity of which I’d never felt the like... though I could not credit the harpist’s meagre skills. I thought of Taden’s burning gaze and felt my cheeks warm.

The subject of my thoughts came to a stop in the middle of my room, his eyes on the toes of his boots.

“A messenger has arrived with news from the Autumn Lands, my lord,” Taden said as if he hadn’t just witnessed me making thorough use of the young court musician.

“And what is the message?” I asked, needlessly darkening the dots above a letter on the parchment. Ink dripped from my hastily dipped pen, obscuring something that I hoped was unimportant.

“I do not know, my lord. The message is for your ears.”

Annoyed, I looked over at Taden and saw that he had lifted his eyes to me. I read disapproval in his expression and that rankled me further. “Can’t you see I’m otherwise occupied?” I said, my tone high and peevish.

“Your father was customarily in the Great Hall at this time of day,” Taden said, lowering his eyes. His jaw muscles rippled; he was restraining himself.

“I am not my father,” I replied curtly, setting my pen down and marring more of the trade document.

“No, you are most definitely not your father.”

The chair fell back as I shoved myself to my feet, face hot with equal parts anger and humiliation over the obvious censure in his reply. I faced Taden, fists at my side.

“You speak to your lord this way?” I asked, measuring out each word so that it carried the full weight of my contempt. “I ought to have you whipped for your insolence.”

To this, Taden raised his head and fixed me with his fathomless black eyes. I steeled myself for anger… but all I saw was disappointment in his steady gaze. I stood pat, trying not to wither under his scrutiny, but I had to turn away, lest he see the results of his displeasure; I was on the verge of tears.

After a moment, Taden spoke again. “You could be like him, easily, if you made the least effort,” he said, his voice softly intimate. “Wulfie, you’re better than this.”

By “this” I assumed he meant both my truancy and penchant for indiscreet acts of lust.

I could have relented, just then. I could have drummed up enough humility to acknowledge my defects, but his condescension just fed the demon on my shoulder.

"Tell the messenger I shall be there presently to receive this... mysterious message."

"Yes, my lord."

“And then you will order the hangman to administer ten lashes for your impertinence,” I said, making my words cold as I faced the window, seeing nothing beyond. “It will take place in the courtyard at a quarter hour before the even’bell.” At that time, there would be plenty to see him take his punishment. Ten lashes would do little to harm the man; my desire was for the humiliation to sting harder than the whip.

“Yes, my lord,” Taden replied, all vitality stripped from his voice. “As you wish.”

It was only when he had left to order his own flogging that I dared turn back to the room. My eyes burned and my stomach felt like it held hot vinegar.

Who is he to say I am less than my father?

I knew the answer, of course: a man who gave the best years of his life to serving at my father’s side. My own mother couldn’t hope to have known my father better than Taden.

I took a deep breath, closing my eyes. Am I such a disappointment? Unfortunately, I knew the answer to this one as well.

The Wanderer – Part Eleven

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)

In the center of the room, a man is hanging upside-down, suspended from his ankles from a metal frame, his legs held apart. A woman in high heels is helping another man feed a big chain into the first guy’s ass. I wince, watching the thick greased links slip into his body one at a time. The thing’s gotta weigh twenty pounds at least. I can’t imagine what that does to your intestines. The man’s face is covered in a black mask and his body is shiny from sweat. No way to tell if he’s enjoying this or not. The last foot of chain disappears into him, his belly visibly distending, and I think I hear a moan. His thighs start twitching, from pain or pleasure or both, and I shake my head, cracking open another bottle of beer. The shit people get off on, I swear.

I take another look at the woman in heels. She’s young and pretty with big antigravity tits, but her most interesting trait is the long tail, like a cat’s, grafted to her backside. It sways as she walks, the end swishing from side to side as she smiles and gestures to the chain-filled-man like he’s some sort of prize we’ve all won. There's a metallic glint near the tip of her tail where the fake fur has worn away from brushing against the ground.

The performers get a smattering of applause as she bows, and I snort, shaking my head again. At that moment, the woman makes eye contact—I sigh, thinking about her shabby tail, so give her an apologetic smile and dutifully press my thumb to the closest of the small screens mounted on the bar, transferring her a few credits. After all, I’m loaded now, aren’t I? Might as well spend it while I got it… it’s not like we have three mouths to feed anymore.

Fucking hell. I down the bottle of beer and push the cracked button for another. A second later, a hole opens up in the bar and another aluminum bottle emerges. I grimace as I twist off the cap. Drinking beer from the bottle is always going to feel a little perverse after seeing what Apple gets up to. Oh goddamnit. How do I keep my idiot brain from revisiting him every chance it gets?

The trio on the stage are cleaning up. I missed the part where they pulled the chain out of the fella, but I can’t help but notice there’s a little pink in the spatter of lube on the shiny chrome platform. Maybe it’s better I didn’t see.

The bar has a few so-called “relief stations” to keep the patrons from getting overexcited from the non-stop porn show—in a place like this, a fist fight could easily turn into a bloody massacre—and I’m sorely tempted to use one. I’m tense and irritable and I think the beer’s actually making it worse. Maybe a little “relief” is just what the doctor ordered—since I’m not working anymore, it’s been days since I’ve had any.

The closest relief station to me is a naked young woman strapped facedown to a padded bench, ass hanging off the end, free for the taking. After a few seconds of my dick hemming and hawing about using the girl, I decide against it... she’s fast asleep.

I’m still staring when a tall skinny guy in lemon-yellow coveralls walks right up to her, squirts a bit of lube into his palm from the convenient dispenser, and sticks his dick in her ass like he hasn’t a care in the world. I can’t help but watch for a bit, surprised that she doesn’t wake up as he really starts ploughing away at her, then it occurs to me that they probably pay her more to take it unconscious.

Lip curled, I turn away, my finger tapping the worn whiskey button twice. Fuck beer. It’s too slow for what I need right now.

The next act is already up on stage by the time I’ve tossed back the first glass, the whiskey cheap and stinging in my throat, and I sit back in my seat to watch, only mildly interested in the proceedings.

“There you are.”

I turn to Pytre, frowning. “What are you doing here?” The words come out a touch slurred and I realize I might actually be a little drunk already.

“Looking for you.” He rubs the bright copper fuzz on his head, his attention turning to the stage. A crease appears between his brows.

“Hey, you uh, shouldn’t be in a place like this,” I say, but fuck me if I'm not happy to see him.

“What are they… doing?” he asks in a strangled voice, his eyes wide.

I turn back to the stage. “Well… right now she’s… uh”—there’s a clear bag hanging on a hook over the performers, filled with a milky liquid—“getting an enema. Then, I’m guessing those two guys are going to stick everything on that table up her ass.”

“Who in the loving Rime would enjoy this?” Pytre says, looking away from the display, his cheeks visibly flushed even in the dark of the bar.

I laugh. “Klismaphiles and sadomasochists? I don’t know.”

“Are you enjoying this?”

When I first met the ex-Rimer, I’d tried to shock him over and over to no avail, but now that I see him so obviously flustered, I sort of feel bad for laughing. I take a sip of whiskey, and shrug before answering.

“Honestly, I can take it or leave it.” I think back to the necro blood fuckers I saw, months ago it feels like—now, that bar makes this one look like church. “But no. Not really. Just came for a drink.”

Pytre just stares at me for a few moments before saying, “Don’t worry, Asher. He’ll come.”

“We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“He’ll come,” he repeats. “I know it.”

“Why? Have you been praying?”

Pytre’s expression hardens. “I don’t pray anymore.”

“Right. Sorry,” I mumble, breaking away from the bitterness in his eyes to stare into my empty glass. I think faith is bullshit, but I can’t help but feel sorry for him. “I hope you’re right.”

The woman on stage lets out a squeal and I look up to see Pytre watching the show, his mouth slack. Is that me, or do I see a hint of… interest in his expression? I grin. Maybe there’s hope for us yet. Not that fucking him is really a priority anymore. I think—and I might be wrong—but, I think I just want him around.

Fucking him would be nice too…

I frown, adjusting my semi with my free hand. My libido’s working overtime, what with my newfound freedom from whoring and no Apple around to help me out with my needs—dammit. I close my eyes, holding my dick through my pants, my brain playing a crisp projection of Apple riding my cock that last night. If he does come back… was that just a goodbye-fuck? A one-time offer? I grit my teeth and take a deep breath through my nose, turning away from Pytre and the stage.

There are two young attendants at the relief station now, untying the sleeping woman. One of the boys presses a device to her shoulder and her lids slowly lift. She yawns, rubbing her face sleepily as she sits up and stretches languidly. The taller boy drapes a pale-blue silken robe over her shoulders and she ties it at the waist with a loose bow. Smiling at the boy, she says a few words, some friendly banter, and he laughs. The other boy places a wine glass in her hand and she pats his cheek, a loving little gesture that is so completely at odds with the surroundings that it hits me with a weird pang. I clear my throat, blinking fast because my vision is swimming. I haven’t slept well in days and it’s starting to affect me.

As the young woman walks away, a tall boy with curly blond hair is led to the padded bench by more attendants and, because my eyes are still blurry, for one or two long seconds I think it’s Apple. But no. This boy’s not half as pretty as my Apple.

My Apple. Shit.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I growl and grab Pytre by the collar of his jacket. The ex-Rimer lets out a surprised squawk as I start dragging him out of the bar—he grabs my wrist with both hands as he skips clumsily sideways to keep up with me.

“Hey, let go,” he says, tripping over his feet, but I just pull him through the doorway and then shove him into the narrow alley next to the bar.

I’ve got him up against the yellow bricks in a heartbeat, my mouth crushed against his so hard that his teeth press painfully into my lips, but when I try to thrust my tongue into his mouth, he surprises me with a solid knee to the groin.

I fall like a stone, my hands cupping my screaming testicles, and I feel like the beer and whiskey might make a comeback… but the nausea passes after a few shaky breaths and I lay there, blinking up at Pytre.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

“I get it. You’re angry. You’re hurt—”

“My balls hurt, yeah.” I wince, but the pain is good. It’s cleared my head, for one… stamped out the ugly thing that had risen up in me just now, the thing that only knows how to break and destroy. The thing that sabotages anything good in my life because it knows I don't deserve it.

“That’s not what I meant,” Pytre says, reaching out a hand. I let him help me up and, ashamed, I watch him try to straighten the collar of his jacket.

“Sorry,” I say again.

Pytre stares at me in silence for a moment, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. His are the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen and right now they’re full of judgment and… something else. He takes an audible breath and steps towards me. My back hits the wall and I grunt in surprise as he reaches up to touch my face. Confused, I let him pull my head down towards his.

“What are you—”

Pytre shakes his head, shushing me before touching his lips to mine. It’s a gentle kiss, nothing at all like the crap I’d just attempted, but so much more. I’m afraid to move lest the kiss ends, and it feels like my heart wants to burst out of my ribcage. I let out a groan, my hands circling Pytre’s waist on their own—it’s odd, his body is so familiar to me even though we’ve barely touched before. It takes me a sec to realize that the noise I hear is coming from me, a pathetic sounding whimper—I swear to god, if this turns out to be another goodbye, I won’t survive.

Drawing back, Pytre looks up at me, his eyes wide and cheeks mottled pink. “Let’s go back to the room.”

“Are you sure?” I don’t think my feet are touching the ground anymore.

Brow furrowed, Pytre cocks his head at me—maybe I’ve misunderstood his intention—then his eyes get real big again. “Oh.” Pytre’s whole face goes dark red. “Oh, I didn’t mean we’d… uh, I just meant… we should get back. It’s late.”

“Yeah, me too. That’s what I meant too. Let’s go back to the room,” I say, my voice a bit hoarse. “That’s a good idea.”

Pytre turns and leads the way out of the alleyway, and I follow along silently like a dog on a leash. What the hell just happened?

We climb the mesh-metal steps to our floor, and as he’s keying in the code to our room, I cough into my fist, side-eyeing Pytre. I want to ask… but what the hell do I say?

Obviously sensing my confusion, Pytre lets out a little sigh before he pushes the door open. It’s dark in the room and the air is stale and hot. “I don’t know what I want, all right?” He looks over at me. “But it’s not you forcing yourself on me.”

“Ok,” I reply, chastened. “I got it."

There’s a rustle from somewhere in the room and I’m immediately on the defensive, pushing Pytre behind me to keep him safe. I hear a snuffling noise and for one weird second, I think an animal’s broken into our room, but then the lights come on overhead. It’s Apple.

I’m on my knees in front of him, hands clutching his shoulders so I can hold him still while I stare in shock at the ruin of his face.

Pytre gasps as he falls to his knees beside me. “Rime help me.”

Both of Apple’s eyes are swollen shut, blood leaking from the corner of his left one, and there’s an egg-sized lump over that temple. His nose is broken, that much is obvious, and he’s stuffed some tissues into his nostrils to staunch the bleeding. The hardest to look at is Apple’s mouth. His bottom lip is swollen and purple, and the right side of his mouth has been ripped open, creating a ghastly, jagged grin.

Apple shudders, reaching for me blind, and lets out a wail that tears at my heart. Some of his fingers are clearly broken but that doesn’t stop him from clutching at me in desperation. I wrap him in my arms, trying to be careful, but the fury in my guts makes it hard not to crush him against me. After only a few moments, I relinquish my hold on him, pushing him roughly into Pytre embrace before getting to my feet.

“Where are you going?” Pytre says, stroking Apple’s back. He doesn’t even really know Apple but tears run freely down his cheeks for the wounded boy. Pytre’s a good man.

“I think you know.” I clench my jaw, wishing I hadn’t had that second whiskey. “If I don’t come back, you take Apple and you leave. Understand?”

Hazel eyes wide, Pytre hesitates for a moment. Then he nods.

Without another word, I leave them—I’m going to need a gun if I’m going to kill that fucker Turk.

The Wanderer – Part Ten

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)

Apple won’t meet my eye as he moves around the room packing his few belongings.

“You can’t be serious,” I say, laughing. “Turk’s just looking to make a few bucks off your ass.”

He stops and glares at me before resuming. “He says he loves me,” he replies, his tone high and annoyed. I look over at Pytre. The ex-Rimer just looks confused.

I snort, shaking my head. “I call bullshit.”

“He’s going to marry me,” Apple says, jamming a pair of pants into his rucksack. “And he’s getting me breasts for my birthday.”

Brow deeply furrowed, I stare at Apple—I’m not passing judgment, I’m just surprised. “I… didn’t know you wanted any.” I’m not the best at figuring these things out, but from the look on Apple’s face, I get the feeling that he hadn’t known he wanted them either.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. It’s not like you ask me anything.”

He’s right, but I say, “I know your birthday’s next month.” I can’t remember the exact date.

“You only know that because it’s on the deed of ownership,” Apple shoots back, and I glance over at Pytre who raises his brows at me. Apple laughs. “Oh? You didn’t know I’m his sex-slave?”

Pytre looks at Apple then back at me and I wave him off. “No, he’s not a sex-slave.”

It’s Apple’s turn to snort and he turns his back to me, stuffing a shirt I recognize as mine into his bag. He can have it.

“I think you’re making a mistake,” I say.

“What do you care?” Apple flashes me a look over his shoulder.

Why do I care? With Apple gone, it’s a hell of a lot easier to get Pytre and me off this rock… But, what is this I’m feeling? I’m angry… wait, is that… jealousy? Resentment? I clear my throat and shake my head. “I don’t.”

I can’t put my finger on the expression that flits across Apple’s handsome face, but it’s not a happy one. I feel like an asshole—but, what about the way he “thanked” me last night? He knew he was going to ditch us and waited until the last minute to say anything. There it is again… that uncomfortable, hot feeling in my guts. The truth is staring at me in the face: I don’t want him to go. Fuck me if I can actually say it though.

“Take care of yourself,” I offer instead, holding out my hand.

Apple’s expression goes wary for a second, then he gives me a smile that doesn’t go near those pretty, mixed-up eyes of his. He takes my hand and we shake… then he’s gone.

“Why didn’t you tell him you wanted him to stay?” asks Pytre.

I ignore him and grab the hose attachment from the storage unit, heading to the showers so I can blast out my insides. With Apple gone, looks like I’m back to being the sole breadwinner.

Fucking great.

+++

It’s almost morning by the time I get back to the hostel. I open the door as quietly as I can, but I see the light’s still on. Looking around the newly tidied room, I figure Pytre never went to bed. Sure enough, when he looks up as I come in, I see he’s got dark circles under his eyes.

“You should be sleeping.”

“So should you,” he replies quietly.

I shrug, undoing the metal clips on my vest, my right hand weak with fatigue. It was a slow night—one blow job and three hand jobs. Another night like this and we’ll be homeless. As soon as I get a little shuteye, I’ll go see Drenner about changing rooms again to something smaller.

I settle down on the empty cot, slapping the light off before I get comfortable. Pytre’s eyes are on me in the dark, I can feel it. Rubbing my face, I shake my head slowly, annoyed and exhausted and embarrassed.

“What?”

“I just want to know why?” Pytre’s voice is so quiet, the end of the question is just a sigh.

“Why what?”

“Why don’t you do something else for money?”

“Like what?” I turn to face him—all I can see is his silhouette against the pale metal wall.

“Anything else.”

“Like what?” My tone’s harsh but I can’t help it. Apple’s desertion’s left me on edge and I’m touchy and tired and would love to pickle my brain in whiskey tonight, but I can’t, so sleep will have to do for now. If I’m lucky, I won’t even dream.

It takes a few seconds for Pytre to answer. “You were a soldier. Why not be a bodyguard? They’re as much in need as… uh… what you’re doing.”

“Whoring? Fucking for funds? Cocksucking for credits?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll let you sleep,” Pytre says, finally figuring out I’m in no mood for a little chat. However, a minute or two after I’ve turned over to the other side, I open my mouth again.

“I won’t touch a gun…  can’t kill anyone else.” I frown, eyes closed.

He doesn’t answer so I assume he didn’t hear my confession… but then he says, “Okay.”

+++

The room is empty when I wake up a few hours later. There’s a note on my comm pad:

I can’t watch you do this to yourself.

I sit back down on my cot and stare at the words, numb. Well, fuck. Alone again. I’m better at being alone… aren’t I? I erase Pytre’s note and swallow hard, blinking a few times to clear the dust from my eyes, then I lie back down. It’s still early and I don’t like working in daylight. Maybe it’s because the dark makes everything easier to stomach. I don’t know.

I must have fallen asleep because when the door creaks open, I sit up with a gasp, only half aware that I’m reaching for the sidearm I haven’t carried in decades. The figure sharpens in my vision once it steps over the threshold and I breathe out a sigh. It’s Pytre.

“Changed your mind?” I say, embarrassed by how relieved I sound. He stops in his tracks, fixing me with a look of confusion and I realize I might have misunderstood his note. I rake my hand through my hair, clear my throat, and gesture to the box he’s carrying. “What’s that?”

“A solution to our money problems,” Pytre answers, setting the box down on the floor between the cots. He lifts the lid.

“Holy shit, padre. Where do you find them?” I say, lifting out a bottle of Rimer’s chartreuse.

“There’s a chapter here in town. I paid them a visit.” Pytre smiles—it’s not quite genuine, but neither is it fragile like it was before.

“But… you renounced your vows.”

“They don’t know that.” The grin stretches wider and Pytre seems proud of himself. “I would have taken more bottles, too, except… I was afraid to drop them.”

I’m up off the cot and have my arms around the young man before he can react, pulling him into a rough hug. He’s saved our asses, mine literally, and I feel like luck is finally on our side. I’m so distracted by my own gladness that it takes a few seconds to realize Pytre’s gone still and stiff in my arms. I release him immediately and step back.

“Sorry.”

“That’s all right.” His cheeks are very pink, and his eyes are glassy as he looks away. I can’t help but wonder, after the shit he's been through, if I’ll ever be able to touch him—platonically or otherwise—without causing him pain. “The next launch is in five days,” he says softly. “You know, we’ll have more than enough for three tickets.”

I don’t answer right away. Then I nod.

+++

The setting sun is the same bright, sickly yellow it always is, but it feels hotter than usual. A huge dust devil whirls down the center of Launch Drive and Pytre and I duck into an alley to wait for it to pass. I’m trying not to hold onto any real hope that Apple will join us, but if my hunch is right about Turk… well, I can’t imagine the lad would want to stay here.

Sure enough, three streets down, I spot a familiar figure in a doorway. Apple’s slouching against the railing, his head down. He’s wearing a pair of bright orange pants with a clear panel over his groin and nothing else. As we approach, he looks up, then quickly turns his head, his posture tense.

“Come home,” I say, surprising myself. I don’t know what I’d meant to lead with, but that wasn’t it. However, it does get Apple to face me again, his jaw set and expression defensive. His eyes are brightly decorated with garish blue makeup and his lips are smeared in sparkling fuchsia. I’m not normally into that sort of thing, but it looks great on the kid. I open my mouth again to say something, but I’m stumped on the approach I should take. I don’t want to say “I told you so” but everything that comes to mind is along those lines.

Thankfully, Pytre rescues me.

“We’re leaving in four days. There’s a ticket for you if you’d like it,” Pytre says, his voice gentle and expression serene. Almost like his old self, though I know he’s forcing it.

“Turk and I got married this morning,” Apple says, his eyes flicking to me. “So I am home.”

“Isn’t it him you’re supposed to fuck on your wedding night?” I say, unable to stop myself from being cruel.

Shame flashes across Apple’s face, but he lifts his chin. “He’s going to take good care of me.”

I tamp down on my anger, shaking my head. “You stupid boy…”

“You’re the stupid one, old man. You and your stupid guilt and stupid sob story and stupid tiny cock.”

I laugh, a hollow, harsh sound. There's no sting in the gibe about my dick-size but I gesture to his outfit where his own obviously drug-hardened cock sits framed behind clear vinyl like an offering.

“Just look at you. He’s going to sell your ass every chance he gets… and you’re never going to see a fucking credit—” Pytre surprises me by putting a hand on my forearm. The touch calms me.

“This isn’t the way to do it,” Pytre says softly to me, dropping his hand. He looks up at Apple and raises his voice so the boy can hear him. “Four days. We’ll buy a ticket for you, regardless.” Then he pulls me away from the steps. “Come on.”

Apple crosses his arms over his chest and looks the other way as we leave.

“He’s embarrassed,” says Pytre. “And angry about his situation. I think he’ll come around.”

“He's a stubborn little shit.”

“Well, if he doesn’t, you can always force him to come with us without him losing face,” Pytre adds with a shrug.

“How’s that?”

“Technically, you still own him, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Then his marriage isn’t legally binding.”

"I hadn't thought of that." I say. I know Pytre's only doing this because he thinks he knows how I feel. And maybe he's right. "Thank you."

This time, Pytre's smile is sincere... if a little sad.

The Wanderer – Part Seven

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)

Despite Pytre not weighing more than my right leg, I’m gasping for breath by the time I reach the hostel. I have to shift him in my arms to reach the keypad, and he nearly slips out of my hold when I push the door open with my shoulder.

Apple is lying on the bed with his back to me, naked from the waist down, with the neck of an aluminium water bottle sticking out of his ass.

“So… how many credits did you just piss away?” he says peevishly as he turns. Apple’s eyes widen. “Who’s that?”

“Move,” I growl, my arms trembling from the strain of holding Pytre. Apple quickly does as he’s told and I set my burden down on the bed with a grunt. I grab the bottle of lube as it rolls towards Pytre and toss it off the bed.

“Oh, wait, I know him,” Apple says, leaning over the bed. The bright silver bottleneck catches my eye again and I frown. “That’s the Rimer who hired me, ain’t it?” He straightens and my imagination paints such a vivid picture of the bottle lodged up his ass, it’s like I’ve got x-ray vision. I swallow. Outside of some cock-sucking and a few rounds of mutual wanking when we’re not fucked-out from work, Apple and I don’t have a physical relationship. In fact, the only time I fucked him was the day we met. However, right now all I can think is how I’d like to pull that bottle out of him and plug his hole with my dick instead. What about the promise I made to him? No sucking, no fucking. Well, sure, he sucks my cock from time to time but that’s on him.

“What’s with the… um…” I say, gesturing vaguely at his nakedness.

Yeah, when I pull the bottle out, I’ll keep his cheeks spread and spit a few times into his gaping hole before giving it a good drilling. I’m giving myself a raging hard-on but I can’t help it. Pytre’s got me wound up tight.

“I got a date with Herc later,” he says. “I figured I’d go prepared.”

“Ah.” Turk the Merc is well known for his excessive love of implants and his massive cock is the stuff of nightmares. Well, unless you’re like Apple—he seems to like the challenge.

Apple’s brows slowly move towards each other and he narrows his eyes at me. His skin is mostly cleared up and his stubble is less patchy, and he looks like a different person. His face has changed for the better in other ways too, like his jaw is wider and cheeks sharper—what with the mop of blond curls and exotic eyes, he’s turning into a real stunner. I clench my teeth, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.

“What?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Apple says, taking a step towards me. He tilts his head to the side, pauses, then unzips his shirt, dropping it on the ground. I look down, breaking his gaze. He’s got a great body, muscular, but not in that fake way, and his dick is pretty too. Jesus. I can feel the sweat trickling down my back.

Nonchalantly cupping the bulge in the front of my pants, he grins. “Wha’s this, eh mis’tuh? Whatchoo wanna?” he says playfully as he squeezes my meat. “Hm?”

I let out a shaky breath, not trusting myself to speak. What would I say anyway?

“You like that?” he breathes, massaging my dick through my pants.

“Yeah,” I reply, closing my eyes. His breath feathers my face as he moves in closer and I feel the barest tickling touch of his lips on mine. Not a kiss, just a tease. As he’s unclipping my belt, I look down into his mismatched eyes, breathing hard. “You don’t have to.”

Apple licks his lips, his gaze intense. “I know.” He slips one hand into my pants and grabs my dick. The sound that comes out of me is a strangled groan and he chuckles.

“Your hand’s cold,” I say, my voice hoarse.

Grinning wider, Apple tugs my pants down to my thighs and takes my cock in both hands, stroking it slowly. “It’s too bad I’ve already got a date tonight… I’d let you stick it in me…”

“Oh yeah?” I swallow, trying to play it cool, but the way my dick is jerking and twitching in Apple’s skilled hands probably paints a crystal-clear picture of exactly how much I’m dying to “stick it in him”.

There’s something mischievous about Apple’s expression—I know he’s enjoying torturing me. “Buuuut… I don’t think Turk’ll like the sloppy seconds and I have to leave soon,” he says with a little pout. Disappointed, I just close my eyes again, reminding myself to be thankful for whatever he’ll offer—he’s still jerking me off, after all.

Just as I’m starting to get close, Apple lets go of my dick, and I open my eyes to find him bent over, bracing himself on the foot of the bed. He shakes his pert backside at me, wagging the bottle like some sort of perverse tail.

“Ok… go on. But don’t you dare cum inside me.”

“Right.” I fumble with the greasy neck of the bottle, hands clumsy with excitement, and pull it out of him slowly. His pucker stays open, a deep pink cavern, then it winks shut as he looks over his shoulder at me, his grin crooked. I’m literally dripping by the time I push the head of my cock into him, and when my whole shaft just slides into him, easy as a pie, the sound I make can only be called a whimper. Jesus.

I can’t see his face because he’s turned away from me again, but the moan that comes out of him sounds genuine. I think.

Hell, why do I care?

Grabbing hold of his hips, I pound my cock deep into him a dozen times, doing mental gymnastics to prolong the moment as much as I can, but it’s no good, and for a sec I nearly forget about pulling out. Gritting my teeth, I yank my dick out of Apple and spray his back with a long groan.

“Boy, that was quick,” Apple says, looking back at me with a laugh.

“Fuck,” I say, panting. Then I freeze, because I see Pytre’s awake and staring right at me. I can’t tell what his expression is, I’m all fog-brained, but I think it’s either shock or disgust. Damn it. Apple gives me a curious look and turns to see what I’m staring at.

“Oh, hi there, preacher man,” Apple says cheerfully, still bent over the bed, his hands to either side of Pytre’s feet.

Pytre just blinks slowly at Apple then lifts his eyes to mine again.

“I uh,” I say, backing away from Apple to pull my pants up. “You’re awake.”

“Hey, wait! You’re not done here,” Apple reminded me.

“Sorry.” I’m so jittery, I nearly trip over myself getting to the toilet unit on the other wall. I grab the towel above the basin then clean up Apple’s back as best as I can, all the while avoiding Pytre’s gaze. When I’m done, Apple straightens and turns towards me, surprising me by pecking a kiss on my cheek just as I make eye contact with Pytre again. The ex-Rimer’s expression doesn’t change but the rims of his ears are suddenly very pink.

Pytre followed me into the desert, suffered god only knows, and this is his reward. Yeah, he should have known better.

“I’ll be home in a few hours,” Apple says, pausing at the door. The smile he gives me is strange—I’ve never seen it on his face before. “Have fun.”

I watch him go, wondering why it feels like I’ve done something doubly wrong, then I turn back to the bed. “That doesn’t usually happen,” I say, my voice gruff because I’m embarrassed and annoyed at myself.

Pytre’s eyebrows rise and his forehead wrinkles up like ripples in the sand. “I see.” He looks away and starts to sit up, so I drop to a squat next to the low bed and give him a hand, shoving the one lumpy pillow between his head and the wall as he scoots back. “Where am I?”

“Drenner’s Discount Hostel.” I wince, my knees aching from the strain, and use the bed frame to get up high enough so I can sit on the edge of the mattress. “Off Launch Drive. Not far from where you found me. You passed out.”

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the top of his head. He won’t look at me. “I don’t remember.”

“You want something to eat now?”

“Yes… Please.” This time he does meet my eye and the smile that curves his lips is earnest. “I’m famished. I could eat for days.”

I nearly jog down the stairs to the row of vend-o-tron machines and then pick one of everything that’s edible, trying not to think about my diminishing credits. Worse comes to worse, I’ll sell some blood to make it up. Or… I’ll let Turk have a go at me. I know he’s interested—he’s said as much. Walking back up the staircase with my arms full, I try not to think of Apple prepping himself for Turk’s monster. I can do it if it means getting Apple and me off this rock.

I stop at the door. Shit, what about Pytre? He’ll want to come too, won’t he? Or maybe not after what he just witnessed.

But if he does want to come… that’s going to complicate things when it comes to division of labour. I can’t imagine Pytre slinging ass alongside the two of us, but I doubt he’s got much in the way of real skills to do anything else. Shit.

Pushing open the door, I start to say something about the vacu-packaged bounty I secured, but I see that Pytre’s fallen unconscious again. I step into the room, dumping the food on the storage unit and lean over the bed to check his pulse. Just as I touch him, he smacks his lips, wrinkles his nose, and lets out a soft snore.

Chuckling to myself, I sit down on the bed next to him. Not unconscious—only asleep. I watch him for a few moments, then I reach out and take his hand in mine, careful so he won’t wake. I shake my head and sigh, squeezing his hand gently. You shouldn’t have followed me, I think at him. Shaking my head again, I touch the light on the wall, dimming it. But I’m glad you did.

We’ll figure something out.

Taden and I – Part 2

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that may eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Historical Fantasy
Tags: general abuse, sex acts, age gap, bisexual, master/servant, angst, archaic terminology/style

We stared at each other for long enough that I found myself becoming uneasy, but I took a step towards him. It frustrated me that I could not read any intent in his eyes. Was he even truly glad I was returned? I took another small step that brought our noses nearly to touching. I felt my eyes would cross from the effort of holding his gaze.

“You will do anything I command?” I asked quietly.

“Of course, my lord.”

The ten-year-old boy inside me was aghast at my challenging nature—he wanted only to be taken up and comforted by the warrior who had loved him so simply and steadfastly. But the man I had become stood in the boy’s stead, trying vainly not to gulp in greedy breaths of Taden’s scent. We stood so close I could feel the warmth of his body in the air between us, and he smelled of smoke and leather, a scent so familiar that it made my heart ache and my resolve weaken. I had intended to order him to do something humbling to prove his obeisance to me—to prostrate himself or kiss my unshod foot—but my heart begged a different path.

“I command you to tell me the truth, no matter what I ask,” I said, allowing myself to turn away and break the steel grip of his gaze.

“Of course, my lord,” he repeated.

I hated the sound of those words. That he should make himself into a meek drudge, bowing and scraping to me as he had my father… I was embarrassed for him and I wanted an end to the charade, but the questions of the past needed to be answered as only a servant can answer his master. Or so it seemed to me. I turned to look at him again, to shrewdly judge the truth of his answer.

“Did you have any desire for me, last we saw each other? Tell me true, Taden.”

Taden’s eyes widened and his pale brow wrinkled at my question. I could see I had provoked shock, but… had I witnessed a moment of hesitation before the expression took hold of his features?

“Answer me.”

“You were a boy.”

“I was. And a boy with his pert backside wiggling over your lap… did that please you? My hands upon your face, my fingers on your lips, your mouth open to my touch—you say I was a boy, but these liberties you allowed me, were they truly for the sake of innocent, childish play?”

“Yes!” Taden replied immediately, his tone harsh and eyes like dagger points. Obviously, my words had disturbed him and I cannot say whether this brought me relief or disappointment. Perhaps both. I made my smile a little mocking and retreated from him another step, crossing my arms.

“You did not do it for the sake of your own pleasure?”

“No! Of course not,” Taden said. “I would never… my lord.” The title was hastily tacked on when he evidently remembered who he was speaking with. “It was only teasing play.” He looked down at the curled toes of his high black boots. Though his hair was worn in the same style it always had been, straight and sheared off at his jaw, it was no longer the dark slate it had once been—bright silver threaded through it now. In the dying sunlight it hung like shields of polished iron to either side of his face.

I lowered my voice, discarding the authority in it so he might speak plainly with me.

“Do I please you now?” My heart began pounding the instant I said the words. I’d pictured myself saying something similar, so many times, but the reality of the moment was even more frightening and exciting than I’d imagined.

Taden glanced up. “My lord?”

“If you dandled me on your lap now… would it be innocent still?” My breath was coming out in short puffs and my face felt warm.

Expression wary, Taden stared at me in silence.

“Come, sit, and we’ll see what happens.” I tried to summon the charming grin that seemed always to draw the fish to my hook like magic, but it felt diminished as he continued to glare at me.

“I can make it an order,” I warned, my impatience making me churlish. It was going all wrong, the moment fleeing from my control. For possibly the first time in my life, I had no idea how to take back the reins. I needed mending words, not this clumsy attempt to force him into the plot of my fantasies. “You loved me as a little boy… could you not let that love grow for the man I am today?”

“You’re a child still,” he said, his eyes on mine.

It was a slap in the face. “I am not a child!” I exclaimed, angered by the condescension I thought I could hear in his voice. “Do you know how many I’ve bedded? Does a child get his cocked sucked dry, morning and night?”

“I’m well aware of what you’ve been up to.” While his subservience had finally vanished as I’d wanted it to, I now wished it hadn’t. “You’re a spoiled little boy, Wulfsere. Your aunt and uncle were far too lenient with you, letting you run around like a barkhorse in rut, embarrassing yourself—”

“Embarrassing myself? It’s you who should be embarrassed. A man past his prime, a broken-down old warrior reduced to a lowly servant. Have you no pride?”

Taden’s spine stiffened at my outburst and I saw his nostrils widen as he took a few deep breaths. I couldn’t help but remember how I used to place my finger on the tip of his nose to rest on that small divot. I felt like everything was broken and wrong… and it was his fault. Or was it mine?

With gaze and voice softened, Taden said, “Wulfie, my life is yours. I will gladly protect and serve you, as I did your father. I’m proud to do so.”

“Then keep your eyes down and don’t presume to speak to me so.”

“Yes, my lord.” Taden stared down once more at his boots, hands clasped in front of him.

His calling me by my childhood nickname only stoked my indignation… yet… I turned my back to him, not wanting him to see the bitter tears that were threatening.

“Leave me. And don’t come back until I’ve summoned you.”

There was a moment of silence before he replied, and I could feel his bewilderment. He had slept on the small cot in my father’s room for twenty years, if not more, and now I was banishing him.

“Yes, my lord,” he said quietly. I heard the door close and I fell forward onto the bed, covering my head with a pillow. I felt honestly ashamed of how I’d acted and dreaded our next encounter. I wanted to run to him, beg him for forgiveness, but that would mean admitting that he was right about me. And he wasn’t.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid…” I muttered into the blankets. How am I to undo what I did? Maybe I shouldn’t try. Maybe it’s for the best. Why should I care? Gods, he looked fit and handsome… I thought. Just as I’d remembered him, with his battle scars crisscrossing his alluringly unbearded face, his broad shoulders and long-fingered hands. I groaned and turned onto my back, staring at the painted ceiling. It was a scene from history. Something about an improbable harvest or maybe a drought—I couldn’t remember the details. I probably hadn’t been paying attention in my lessons that day, though when had I ever? Sighing, I sat up and eyed the cot next to the great bed, with its unadorned grey blanket and small pillow, my thoughts returning to Taden. I knew I couldn’t very well avoid the man forever, he was my body servant after all.

I decided to let a few days slip by before calling him to my side again. No need to say anything about what had transpired—perhaps he’d attribute my behaviour to travel weariness.

Satisfied with my decision, I stood and straightened my clothes, turning my mind to a more pressing matter. I opened the door to my chambers and peeked out into the hallway, hoping that Taden hadn’t defied me by staying close by. When I saw it was empty, I began wandering the corridors.

On my second circuit of the upper east wing, I found what I was looking for. Two tapermaids were starting to light the long line of candles in the darkening gloom. When they saw me, they stopped and bowed very low.

“No need for that,” I said in a gentle voice. “Rise. Let me see you.”

Nervously, the two young ladies straightened. One was a lowland girl with blond hair and pink cheeks, the other black-haired with skin even darker than my own.

“Oh my. What a pair of beauties you are.”

The tapermaids shared a glance, giggling timidly before dropping into brief curtsies.

“Thank you, milord.”

My gaze settled on the blonde first, then her raven-haired friend.

“Now, I have a little request: could one of you accompany me to my rooms? Your lord has a… uh… very large candle that he can’t handle on his own… it needs the attention of someone who has experience handling such things.” I grinned. “Which one of you would like to help me, hm?” I reached out and gently pinched the blonde’s chin. “Will it be you, my dear?” She blushed and giggled again, music to my ears. “Or, shall it be you, my darling?” I said, taking the other young woman’s hand to bestow a kiss upon her dimpled knuckles. “Or… perhaps the both of you would like to come with me?” I raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to help your lord? Hm?”

“Yes, milord,” they both said with an eagerness that excited me. What a perfect distraction they were.

“Oh good,” I replied. “Come with me, my beloveds… let us go see to this problem…”

“What about thar candles inny hallway, milord?” the dark-haired woman asked timidly.

“They can wait. I am your lord, and your lord’s needs cannot wait.”

“Yes, milord.”

The Wanderer – Part Six

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)

I’m still in shock as he slumps towards me—I easily catch him and hold him against me. He’s just skin and bones, light as a feather in my arms, and he smells like he hasn’t bathed in weeks. Weakly, his arms come around my waist, fingers scrabbling up under my jacket to clutch my shirt as he presses his face to my chest. I realize he’s crying and I’m just frozen in place, wondering what to do. After his shaking subsides a bit, I pat him awkwardly on the back.

“Hey, padre.” I try to make my voice all gentle-like, but it comes out raspy. “Pytre?” I say when he still hasn’t come up for air. The knobs of his spine fit between the knuckles of my splayed fingers, and I can feel his heartbeat in my fingertips. I move my hand and encounter a swelling over his ribs—Pytre lets out a low groan like it hurts. Frowning, I carefully dislodge him from my front. In the dim light of the bar, I see he’s got a few smudges of sickly greenish-yellow on his face—healed bruises—and a shiny pink scar on his cheek.

“Padre, you look like shit.”

“Thanks.” Pytre gives me a crooked grin, then wipes his teary face with his palms, leaving streaks of dirt behind.

I beckon to the bartender and the android slides towards me. “Water.” Turning back to Pytre, I notice his once-bald head is flocked by a short ginger growth. “So, you’re a redhead.” I hand him the glass of water. “I like redheads.”

He smirks and quickly drinks down the water, holding the glass with both hands like a child. His fingernails are dirty and ragged, and if I’m not mistaken, his left hand looks like it’s landed a punch recently.

I’ve still got one hand at his waist, not really holding him… just there in case he falls. He finishes the first glass of water and I order him a second. It’s more expensive than the whiskey I’m drinking, but I don’t care. “Sit.”

Pytre obediently sits down on the stool next to me and sags against the bar with a sigh. “I’m so glad I found you.”

“I didn’t know you were looking for me.” Now that my surprise is wearing off, I find myself scrutinizing him for more signs of harm. I’ve got a few things going on inside me—bleak fury for whatever happened to Pytre along with knee-jerk self-rebuke and mockery over the pure joy I'm feeling at seeing the Rimer again. “You come to take back the bottles I stole? Too late—they’re all gone.” Because why in the ever-loving fuck would he be looking for me for any other reason? Right?

Pytre’s brows jerk up in obvious surprise and I feel a little tendril of hope break free. Before I can stomp on it the way I always do when optimism tries to take root, Pytre reaches up and cups the side of my face, his big hazel eyes on mine. There’s suddenly not enough room to breathe around the planet-sized lump in my throat and it’s like every tiny muscle in my skin contracts at once. The touch confuses my system and for a second my body doesn’t know whether it’s a fight-or-flight reflex that’s been triggered or if what I’m feeling is just acute happiness… all I know is that my dick is at half-mast, and I’m dizzy and hot like I’m about to pass out.

I jerk away from his hand just so I can breathe.

“Don’t touch me.” But maybe that’s not what I said at all because he nods and wraps his hand around the back of my neck to bring our heads together. Maybe I actually said, “I missed you.” I honestly don’t know—I can’t hear myself over the blood pounding in my ears.

“You're a hard man to find,” he whispers into the tiny private space he’s created for us. His breath is foul—I recognize the stink of hunger.

Backing away again, I take a long look at him. I'm jittery like I've just touched a live wire so I down my whiskey, hoping it help. I clear my throat. “When was the last time you ate?”

He grimaces. “Day before yesterday.” His eyes are bloodshot. “Maybe the day before that?”

“Oh.” I look towards the door. “Uh, there's a place on the corner...” I doubt Pytre has a credit to his name. I've already eaten into our ticket money—what's a few credits more? I figure I can make it back in two days. Wait, why do I suddenly feel weird about that? Is it Pytre?

“It’s all right," he says. "I just want to sit here for a bit. I can eat later.” He knuckles his eye and chuckles low. “You know, at first I thought you were a hallucination when I saw you.”

I want to ask him a dozen questions all at once, the foremost being who hurt him, but I start with, “How long have you been out there?”

“I renounced my vows the day you left. I set off the next morning.” He shakes his head again. “I am so glad I found you,” he says again, and there’s a tremor in his voice I didn't notice before, the kind that sounds like frayed nerves and exhaustion.

Unease has completely overshadowed any joy I felt a few minutes ago. His words put me on edge. It’s too much. Who the hell throws away their lives for a shitbag like me?

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

His smile fades and he stares at me. “What?”

“What makes you think I’d want you here?”

The corner of his lip twitches just once as he fixes me with those big doe eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what? I don’t know what you were expecting here but…” I shrug. My heart’s doing double time and my palms are clammy.

“You wanted me to come with you.”

The certainty in his voice just spooks me further. “Why the fuck would you assume that?”

“I’m not assuming anything.” He’s gone cold and serene—I can’t look him in the eye so I turn back to the bar. “You were just too much of a coward to ask me.”

“Coward?” I laugh, and it sounds forced, even to my ears.

“You wanted me to run away with you.”

“How do you know that? You’re a mind reader now? Is that some sort of secret power your fucked up Rimer drugs give you?” I’m babbling and I know it, but he’s got me backed into a corner. A few of the other patrons have turned to watch the spectacle. I lower my voice. “You think you know my mind? Well, you don’t.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever this is. You don’t need to do it.”

“You should have stayed with your fucking cult.” I’m angry now. Angry that he would put this on my shoulders.

“You felt it.”

I laugh again and look over at him with a sneer. “What? My dick getting hard for your virgin ass?”

It’s like a shadow passes over his expression and is gone again, and for some reason it chills my blood. What does it mean? I grab my glass of whiskey only to find it empty, but I can’t really afford another.

“You felt it,” Pytre repeats himself. “And you feel it now.” He lays a gentle hand on my forearm.

I could push him away. I could even hit him—he’s no match for me. Pummel him into the ground. Or send him off running to starve and die in the desert. I could do it. I could.

He’s right. I’m a coward. Only a coward would do those things. I hunch forward, leaning on the bar and close my eyes, breathing deep. His hand squeezes my arm softly, and then he rests his forehead on my shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he says.

“The fuck it’s all right,” I mumble. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I want to be here. You want me to be here. It’s that simple. Now”—he coughs and I feel him wobble against me—“I think… I might—”

I catch him before he falls. This time, he’s properly out cold. I get off my stool and scoop him up in my arms. I make eye contact with a woman at the end of the bar and she smirks at me.

“Go to hell,” I growl at her as I push my way past and out onto the street. Pytre moans. “You go to hell too,” I tell him, but I clutch his skinny body tighter to my chest. Why the fuck, after years of being on my own, have I suddenly started collecting strays? I frown. Shit… what’s Apple going to say about this?

Taden and I – Part 1

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that may eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Historical Fantasy
Tags: general abuse, sex acts, age gap, bisexual, master/servant, angst, archaic terminology/style

Taden was my father’s body servant and guard, and my favourite person in the entire world. He was fascinating—a foreigner from a faraway land of volcanos and long nights. A warrior among his people. A battle-hardened man… and as fond of me as I was of him. As a young child, Taden dandled me on his knee and would let me run my hands softly over the planes of his face. Oh, his face intrigued me—it was all hard angles and scars, skin so much paler than mine and eyes as black as river stones. I could see myself reflected in them as I traced the line of his stubbled cheek, fascinated by the mix of sharp black and white hairs that prickled my fingertips. When I stroked his jaw with the palm of my hand, the rasping sound delighted me. Taden was the only man I had ever seen with a bare face—my father and all other men I knew wore thick, long beards.

I thought the best part of his face was his nose. It was large but much longer than it was wide, with a bump halfway down it like a knuckle. At the tip of Taden’s nose where it was bracketed by thin, flared nostrils, there was a very shallow divot, right in the centre. I liked to place my finger gently on the divot because it was exactly the right size, as though it were my fingertip that had left the impression. Taden always smiled when I did it and it filled me with happiness that we shared this quiet bond of love.

I was ten, the last time I sat upon his knees. Still a boy, but on the cusp of manhood, that brief time that exists when innocence of imagination first comes into conflict with the reality of the world. Across the room, my father spoke in a hushed yet decisive voice to his ministers while I sat in Taden’s lap as I always had, waiting for the endless meeting to adjourn so I could be free to run and play for the afternoon. Taden and I never spoke as we sat. It was my father’s wish that I listen in silence so that I may learn to rule in his stead one day… but I rarely heard a word that was said.

That particular day, I was drawn to Taden’s lips, the way they curved, the way the top one nearly blended with the skin above it while the bottom one had such a sharply defined line. I touched the middle of his bottom lip and let my finger fall from its jutting cliff to land on the prickled brushland of his broad chin. He laughed silently at my childish antics, the corners of his eyes deeply creased, so I did it again.

The third time my finger took the plunge, I started from his top lip, stroking slowly down, but before I reached the outcrop of his bottom lip, his tongue came out to touch my fingertip. The secret little taste thrilled me to my very core, and like a blind man who suddenly sees, things were forever changed from that moment. I sat up, my heart pounding, staring up at him.

I don’t recall now whether I wanted him to reach beneath my robes to cup my small manhood in his rough hand—I think those thoughts were still far away in time—but I suddenly ached for something. I was so young my blade had not yet been tempered by the heat of a woman, and though I knew what the act was, it had never taken hold in my imagination. But right then, with Taden, I began to understand desire.

I don’t know what my father witnessed or if he would even have understood the significance of what had just taken place. Perhaps he saw something in my face—my cheeks felt hot, as if they’d been slapped—or maybe the meeting with his ministers had reached a topic unsuitable to my young ears, but Father chose that exact moment to abruptly dismiss me from his presence. Only me, not Taden.

Banished from the room, I stood with my back against the red doors, my stomach fluttering and my knees strangely weak, newly-acquainted with desire’s most common cousin, shame, though nothing had transpired between Taden and I to cause it.

The next day, I entered my father's chambers brimming with uncommon eagerness only to find the chair Taden and I had always shared to be empty. My father pointed to it and I sat, my heart in my throat. Taden stood next to one of the big windows, a straight-backed sentinel, his eyes looking at nothing. I stared and stared, willing him to acknowledge me with a glance, a smile, anything to show that he still loved me, but my mind could not budge him from his vigilance. Had my father said something to him? Had Taden deemed his own actions of the previous day inappropriate? Was I simply too old to be dandled on the knee of my father’s man? I could barely sleep that night, wracked with equal parts guilt, desire, and deep sadness for the loss of my dearest friend.

Four days later I was sent away to my mother’s family in the lowlands to learn the ways of diplomacy, trade, lawmaking, and the art of war. It was customary for young lords and ladies to become wards of an allied house until they came of age, but I couldn’t help but feel that in my case it was rather abrupt.

+++

I was bare-chested and half-lidded, reclining on a prickling mound of hay with my most recent conquest when I received news of my father’s death. I was always desperate for whatever privacy I could claim as my own, and the hayloft in the southernmost barn was the best I could find. I gave the grooms and cottars plenty of coins to keep my hiding space secret from my aunt and uncle, so I was astonished when a messenger came clambering up the wooden ladder to my makeshift bower.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. Robbe began to straighten, but I held the back of his head, keeping him in place. The messenger, a plain young woman with beautiful blue eyes, stared at the scribe with his face buried in my lap for a second before clearing her throat.

“My lord, you’re requested in the council room,” she said, her expression carefully neutral.

“Can it wait? As you can see, I’m not quite done yet.” I was being flippant out of annoyance. In truth it was doubtful I’d be able to finish what I’d started. The messenger’s intrusion and my natural curiosity were proving too much of a distraction—there was barely any hardness left for Robbe’s mouth to suckle, though he was still valiantly trying to resurrect my interest.

“I’m afraid it’s urgent, my lord,” she said, her voice faint.

I sighed, gently moving Robbe aside. “Duty calls, my dear.” Smiling, I cupped his cheek and winked. “But don’t roam far.”

To her credit, the messenger’s eyes never strayed from the empty air beside my head as I stood in front of her, purposefully repacking my goods into my trousers. Bowing, I gestured to the ladder.

“After you, m’lady,” I said in jest. This time I was rewarded with a tiny bloom in her cheeks. When she turned, I noticed she did have rather shapely legs. I grinned, thinking that perhaps I would try enticing her to visit my hayloft again under different circumstances. Robbe would be jealous, but that only meant he would try to please me even harder.

My aunt and uncle sat at the head of the long table in the council chamber. As I sauntered closer, I casually plucked a pear from the bowl in the centre, taking a bite as I came to a stop in front of them.

“You summoned me?” I asked, chewing loudly as I rested my elbow on the high back of an empty chair.

They shared a rather tense and somber glance, which put my show of impudence to an abrupt end. I straightened, my pulse quick. My aunt was blanched pale.

“What happened?” I stepped closer, clasping my aunt’s outstretched hand. “Tell me. What was the message? Is it my mother?”

“Your mother is well, my dear boy,” she replied, placing her other hand on top of mine. She looked to her husband to convey the message.

My uncle cleared his throat, his great shaggy beard quivering at its pointed tip as he stared hard at me. “Your father has passed.”

For a moment I could do nothing, as if I were a little statuette of wood, then I swallowed hard, my heart beating fast. “My father… when?” I had not seen my father in years, but we regularly corresponded—letters often filled with admonishments over my growing… reputation. “I only just received a note from him three days ago. He never mentioned he was in ill-health.”

“It was sudden,” my aunt explained, squeezing my hand. “I’m so very sorry.”

I was still wide-eyed, gaping like an imbecile over the shocking news, but she mistook my reaction for one of grief. I felt no grief over the death of my father. I barely knew the man, and though I respected him, I did not love him. My stupor was grounded in my realization that I would become lord of my father’s estate far sooner than I’d imagined.

“Am I… to go home, then? For good, I mean?” I asked quietly. “Or shall Mother rule in my stead until I come of age?”

Another glance was shared by my guardians.

“Your aunt and I, ah, believe that your education here is complete,” said my uncle, his dark brows meeting over the bridge of his nose. “And that perhaps it would be best for you to return home, regardless of… questions of rulership. It would think it a welcome change of, ah, scenery, for you.”

I could see the insinuation of his words in the way he stared at me. It was a long moment in silence. Obviously, they were tired of my antics and found it fortuitous that I had reason to leave their guardianship early. I’d evidently littered their estate with too many broken hearts and swollen bellies for their liking.

I smirked, feeling the sting of insult, but bowed politely. “As you wish, Uncle.” I kissed my aunt’s soft cheek and took a step back. “I thank you both for taking such good care of me and for being so kind. I’ll leave as soon as I’ve packed.”

Sitting up straight in her chair, my aunt gave her husband a startled look before smiling at me in a kindly fashion. “You don’t have to leave so precipitously—we would be happy to keep you until you’re entirely prepared to go.”

“I thank you, Auntie, but I should get back to Mother as soon as I can,” I said, my thanks genuine even though I could see she was pleased with my response. It hurt a bit, knowing they were so glad to see me go—the gleeful demon on my shoulder suggested that perhaps another bastard in their midst would be the perfect parting gift for their happy ousting of me. With that in mind, I bowed again, making my leave, then caught the sleeve of the messenger girl waiting outside the council room door.

“Ah… I’m pleased you’re still here,” I said, smiling down at her. “I was hoping to catch you… you see, you’ve positively enchanted me with those beautiful blue eyes of yours. Let me see…” I drew her into a beam of sunlight slanting down from the windowed clerestory. “Just lovely.”

“Th-thank you, my lord,” the young woman responded, her pale eyelashes trembling in the bright light.

“Please… you can call me by my name,” I replied, crooking my finger under her chin to tilt her head back further. “You know my name, don’t you?” I grinned wide. “Have you gone mute?”

“No… my lor—” she said, her cheeks going very pink as she stared up at me. “No, um, Wulfsere.”

“That’s better,” I said, placing my hand in the small of her back to guide her down the arcade. “Now, I have something to show you…”

+++

The castle hadn’t truly changed in the seven years of my absence—the same tapestries hung on the same old smoke-stained walls, the same dark wood furniture sat exactly where they had in the past—but now everything seemed somehow… smaller.

I nodded politely to the servants I recognized while surreptitiously assessing the ones that I didn’t. There were a few pretty faces that pleased me, but not as many as I would have liked. Everyone, from the lowest scullions to the physicians were clothed in red. I felt out of place in my gold and green, but I hadn’t had the foresight nor the time to acquire a proper suit of mourning. The old seneschal clasped my arm as I passed him, whispering his condolences, but I didn’t hear his words. My vision was firmly affixed to the man standing next to my mother, a man I’d never forgotten yet never dared hope to see again.

Taden had been a man in his prime the last time I’d perched in his lap, but my imagination had aged him over the years—after all, I’d been away nearly as long as I had known him. I now realized that the near-half of my life was a mere morsel of his. Scrutinizing Taden standing tall and lean in his dark-red gambeson and riding trousers, he looked as sound and stalwart as the day I had left. I was surprised to see I was of height with him.

Suddenly, I felt shy, shifting my gaze to my mother’s sorrowful green eyes instead. I took her cold hand in mine.

“Mother, I’m so sorry about Father,” I said, trying to make my voice sombre in a show of maturity. I could not stop my face from flushing, thinking about Taden standing so close… Was he looking at me? I didn’t dare turn my eyes to check.

“Bless his soul, he is at rest,” said my mother in a voice far fainter than I remembered. I had to push my curiosity about the man at her side to the back of my mind—the woman was bleached from exhaustion and sadness and it was my foremost duty to see her well.

I took her arm and faced those assembled, lifting my chin in a way I hoped conveyed authority. “Stoke the fires… it’s glacial in here. Bring a meal of hot broth, cheese, and bread to my mother’s chambers… and you”—I pointed to the man I recognized as the ewerer—“fetch hot water for a bath.” I shook my head. “No, make that two baths.” I needed one as well to rid myself of the itchy sweat and road dust coating my skin.

The servants scrambled to obey and I began to lead my mother towards her chambers… then paused, bracing myself because I could put it off no longer—my eyes thirsted for another look. I turned to my deceased father’s body servant and guard and nodded to him in greeting.

“Taden,” I said quietly.

He gazed at me for a moment before returning the nod. “Welcome home, my lord.”

I quickly averted my eyes lest I give away the joy erupting within me. The quiet, steadfast love in the man’s black eyes was like water filling a pail that had gone long empty; a balm for a wound that hadn’t been cured by the ministrations of few dozen eager bodies. I was crying and leaping on the inside, struggling to make sense of my mother’s murmurs as we navigated the dark passageways, only remembering to nod when she paused and hoping my show of grief hid the chorus singing in my mind: Home. I am home. And Taden loves me still.

+++

I lay on my father’s bed in my father’s chambers, both now mine in inheritance, trying to dredge up the memories of my youth… what was fiction and what was true memory? I kept going back to the image of my fingers on Taden’s mouth. Had that really happened? And, if it had, had Taden simply been playing along with a child’s game? Had he licked me to surprise or tease me or disgust me? Had my imagination created something out of nothing? I pressed my hands hard against my closed eyelids, willing my memory to paint clearer pictures for me…

“My lord.”

I sat up, startled. I hadn’t heard even a whisper of footfalls on the stone floor. Taden stood a few feet from the bed, his hands clasped in front of him and his head bowed. I’d seen him take the same posture with my father a thousand times, and it bothered me that he should be so formal with me.

“Taden. Hello,” I said, awkwardly shifting myself from the bed to stand up. “I didn’t hear you. Why have you come?”

I didn’t like the way he wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t like how forlorn it made me feel, to see him treat me like I was my father… but then his purpose became clear with his next words.

“As your father’s rooms and his duties have been passed down to you, so have my services, my lord,” Taden said in a quiet voice. “I am yours to command. My life is yours.”

“Taden, look at me,” I said, my throat tight.

Obediently, Taden lifted his eyes. There was great love in their depths still—but was it the love of a servant for his master? For a dear friendship rekindled? Or was there more?

The Wanderer – Part Five

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)

Tonight we’re staying outside some shithole town with the unfortunate name of Dankle Pits. While Apple’s busy setting up camp, I’m in town working on getting us something to eat. The fella with me has a dick tip like a big mushroom, and right now that mushroom’s buried deep in my guts, popping into my sigmoid like a head through a too-tight turtleneck. I grit my teeth, eyes on the faded graffiti all over the dumpster I’m clinging to, and sigh, wishing the guy would just hurry it up. He’s taking his sweet time, moaning softly when he’s not asking me how I like it. Up to now, I’ve been giving him noncommittal grunts, but the next time he asks my opinion on his fucking, I go for an enthusiastic “Oh yeah, feels fucking great.” Turns out all the fella needed was a little encouragement. He groans and bucks into me hard and I wince, waiting for him to finish.

When we first set off weeks ago, Apple and I were taking turns earning our supper, it’s only fair, but the kid’s not really in any shape to work now. It’s been my ass paying for grub for the past few days. The guy finally takes his dick out of me and I pull up my pants. You’d think I’d have a hard time finding anyone to pay me, but I guess I’m appealing enough because I always seem to score. The price is right too.

I hold out my pad and my new friend presses his thumb to it, transferring enough credits to buy dinner for a few days… and a little extra. He gives me a big smile.

“You be aroun’ tomorrow, big guy?” he asks. He’s about half my age, judging by the state of his teeth, and seems awfully keen.

“Not if I can help it.” Apple and I are making a beeline for the port. With any luck, we’ll be able to make enough to get off this rock. I’m done here. I didn’t find my oblivion… but I’m not really sure what I did find.

I walk back through town and find a few food stalls. There’s actual meat in the patties I buy, but I know better than to ask what kind. I also buy a new solar cell for my thermos and some cookies for Apple. Poor kid.

+++

Apple looks up as I duck into the tent. He looks worse than when I left him—he’s pale and shaking, and the whites of his eyes are webbed red with broken blood vessels.

“How was work?” he says with a wan smile.

I snort and toss him one of the patties. “Eat.”

He stares at the wrapped package for a moment before he opens it. He takes a little nibble and sighs before setting it aside.

“I know you’ve got no appetite, but you have to keep your strength up. I’m not carrying you.”

Apple shrugs and wraps his arms around himself, shivering even though it’s hot in here. He’s so skinny I can clearly make out the shape of his skull and his shoulder bones look almost sharp enough to cut through his shirt. “I bought cookies,” I say, hoping to tempt him.

He smiles again but he just looks so fucking tired. Without the brothel drug that kept him young, his body is maturing at breakneck speed and it’s tearing him apart. Apple is no longer the cheeky cherub he was just a few short weeks ago—now he’s nearly my height, and his acne-ravaged face is sprouting coarse blond hairs. He sighs again, trembling in pain, and I settle down next to him.

“All right,” I say, relenting. Right away, he slumps over, head in my lap, and I unzip my fly. I feed my limp cock into his open mouth and he begins sucking on it. It’s the only thing that seems to comfort him, like the elixir in my balls is what’s keeping him alive. Already he’s perking up as his hand takes over from mine, jerking my hardening dick as he slurps and nibbles it gently.

The boy sure knows how to suck cock, that’s for sure.

I pet his ragged curls softly as he works on me and then close my eyes as he brings me quickly past the edge, my cum erupting in a few thick bursts that he swallows down eagerly. I let out a long, contented sigh… I’m glad I can help him, but to be fair, I’m getting a lot out of it myself. He keeps my cock in his mouth, tonguing the slit as my erection fades, mining for the last few drops. He’ll stay like this all night if I let him. Shaking my head, I grab my meat patty and unwrap it. Have to keep my strength up too—I need fuel for the next time Apple drains my balls which, judging by how my dick is reacting to his sleepy nuzzling, won’t be long from now.

+++

In Holer’s Port, Apple and I get lucky. He’s starting to regain his strength, so we’re both earning, and tonight we’re servicing a group of stevedores. Apple’s mouth is getting quite a workout and I’m getting to be the fucker rather than the fuckee for once, and I’m actually having a great time. The man I’m ploughing is built like a bull. He’s on his back, calves on my shoulders, and every few thrusts, he grunts out “again.” That’s my cue to punch him in the dick, which I cheerfully oblige. I hear Apple laugh, something I didn’t realize I missed hearing, and turn to see what’s so funny. He’s sitting on one guy’s lap, impaled to the hilt on his dick, while another guy is trying to insert himself into the mix.

“Y’ha’ to push much fo’ harder,” Apple says with another laugh. Unless we’re alone, he reverts to the local pidgin. “C’mon, mi’suh big dick. Push!” The head of the guy’s cock finally squeezes past the tight ring of muscle and Apple closes his eyes with a deep groan.

Fuck. Watching Apple get his hole stretched by two dicks is a bad idea. I’m already close as it is and I’m assuming my guy doesn’t want me to stop just yet.

“Again.” I turn away from my young companion and hammer a fist into the bull’s cock, trying my best to pull myself back from the brink.

“Again.” Punch.

“Again.” Punch. I can hear Apple whimpering and it’s driving me crazy. Is the bull waiting for me to cum? Am I waiting for him to cum? Shit. I slow a bit, wiping the sweat from my face with my forearm.

“Again.” This time I hit the guy extra hard, and to my surprise, his eyes roll back in his head and his asshole clamps down on my cock like it’s going to bite it off. I blow my load with a yell just as his cum spurts up his furry belly. Panting, I pull out and grin, thinking I’m done, but one of the other fellas goes down on his knees in front of me to suck in my cum covered dick. I wince, too sensitive, and then start in surprise as hands clasp my hips, the hot head of a cock poking around my back door. I guess I get to be both fucker and fuckee tonight. I sigh and bend forward to give him better access. Looking up, I see Apple watching me. He gives me a wink.

+++

The hostel is the only place in town with a room, but it only has one narrow bed so we’ll have to sleep in shifts. Shit, at least it's private. I’m sore as hell and not in the best of moods, so when Apple insists on sleeping first, I just turn around, slamming the door as I leave. I need a drink. It’s been weeks since I’ve had more than a beer and right now I’ve got credits burning a hole in my account. Sure, it’ll take away from our boarding passes, but since Apple’s going to be so well rested, he won’t mind going back out to earn a few credits while I get some shut eye, will he?

I pick a stool at the place down the street and hold up a finger to the android tending bar. It’s shiny and new looking, not a model I recognize. “Whiskey.”

It lists out a few brands I recognize and a whole bunch I don’t. It’s nice to be in a big city again… well, if you can call Holer’s Port big. It’s a fraction of the size of the small town I grew up in, but after months wandering the desert, it feels like a teeming metropolis. I pick the cheapest one on the list—yeah, I won’t send Apple back out again tonight. The kid does need his rest. He’s still suffering from withdrawal… and I guess I’ll apologize later for storming out like a big baby just now.

The bartender pours my drink and takes my credits with a cheerful bleep. The glass is halfway to my lips when I see something reflected in the bar mirror that has me stopped dead for a second. I carefully set down the glass, my heart clenching like a fist in my chest as I stare back at the hazel eyes looking over my shoulder at me. I turn around slowly to face the apparition.

Pytre smiles.

The Wanderer – Part Four

by

Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.

Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)

It takes me a few minutes to free the pipe from the side of the Argonaus tanker and when I pull it out, it’s a hell of a lot heavier than I thought it would be. I grind my teeth, keenly reminded of my years, and tug hard on the pipe, dragging it slowly between the rows of young corn stalks, careful not to disturb the plants. By the time I’m done, I’m out of breath and dripping with sweat. The worst part is I’ve got a shitload of dust in my eyes and I can barely see—I still feel like a fucking idiot for losing my new goggles to that little bastard Chirri in last night’s card game. I wonder what Pytre would think of one of his novices sneaking out to gamble and drink with the likes of me.

Pytre. My mood’s been shit since I woke up and it’s not getting any better.

I shake my head and lift the nozzle to the side of the reservoir, pushing it into the port and locking it into place. After I turn the spigot, I lean against the side of the big tank to wait, the metal nice and cool through my damp shirt. I see there’s a leak, a tiny nick in the seal or something, and the water comes out as vapour. A small rainbow shimmers in front of the cloud of mist—a rare sight on this shitty desert moon—but there’s no red in it. I know it’s because of something in Chornoboh-7's atmosphere, but it bothers me. It’s not a real rainbow… Not like the ones back on Earth.

I take in a deep breath to sigh my nostalgia and regret it instantly when I get a good snoutful of something awful. Fuck, the water stinks. Grey water, my ass… more like dark-grey water.

“That’s not good,” says a shrill voice to my right and I look over at Ghest who presses a finger against the escaping spray. All that does is split it in two, making the ghostly rainbow double itself. He shakes his head. “We can’t afford to lose water like this.”

“Relax, padre. It’s not that much.”

“Any amount is a waste,” Ghest says with a deep frown. He’s a sickly-looking thing with crusted chalky spots on his otherwise shiny bald head and greenish-blue bruises beneath his bulging eyes and it might be my imagination but he always smells faintly of piss. He’s the oldest Rimer I’ve ever seen, and I doubt he’s long for this life.

He keeps standing there with his finger on the leak, a sour look on his face, until the reservoir is full, then he steps back and wipes his hand on his robe as I shut off the water. His finger leaves a brown smear on his threadbare robes and I make a mental note not to shake his hand.

The old cultist follows me to the tanker as I drag the pipe back and refit it to the ship’s side. For a moment I think the tanker pilot is just going to tell poor Ghest to go fuck himself when he complains about the pipe leak… but then Ghest says something in a low voice as he takes a small green bottle out of his seed bag. I smile to myself as the bottle changes hands, the man enthusiastically agreeing to get the pipe fixed. Seems pious ol’ Ghest isn’t above bribery.

The Rimer steps back and I bang on the side of the tanker. Moving back, I close my eyes to wait until the tanker is airborne—the dust is hellishly thick, even this close to the fields. The desert, always encroaching, always there waiting to smother the greenery with its dirty yellow dust. The Disciples of Rime have to work around the clock to keep the desert from taking over. I wonder why the hell they stay here when there are dozens of inhabitable planets and moons that aren’t half as crappy as this one.

“You’re leaving, then?” Ghest says as we walk back towards the small huddle of tents. I can hear eagerness in his oddly high-pitched voice. He’ll be glad to see the back of me. I know most of them will… one in particular. Damn you.

“Yeah. I just need my bag and I’m out of here,” I say gruffly, but there is something else I want. I already know the answer to my question, but I ask it anyway. I have to.

“I want to see Pytre,” I say, not meeting Ghest’s penetrating glare. “And thank him for saving my ass.” Truth be told, I’m haunted by those brief few moments when he was in my arms, those big eyes full of tears and conflict.

“He’s deep in a prayer cycle,” Ghest says, his words curt.

“Fair enough,” I say quietly, feeling relieved and disappointed. I turn away.

Pytre would never have come with me anyway.

+++

I trade my pilfered liquor for travelling supplies at the general store, depositing the extra credits, then wind my way through Gulchtown, intent on finding a tavern. After a few dead-ends in the crumbling, yellow-brick town, I come across a two-story building made out of scavenged colonial ship plating. Above the door is a hand-painted picture of a pail with a long handle sticking out of it, the details worn away by the constant scrub of dust storms. I hear music, folksy and cheerful, but it’s the clink of a bottle that pulls me through the open door.

The place is near dead. At the back is a man without a shirt dandling a skinny boy on his knee. From the look on the man’s grizzled face, it’s clear the boy’s hands are busy beneath the table’s edge. A woman leans over the staircase banister, her breasts bare and nipples dyed a garish pink. As I cross the floor to the bar, the woman winks at me, lifting her skirt to show me her dick, and I give her a friendly wink back. I can easily afford her and I’m tempted—maybe she can clear my head.

“We’come to the Butter Churn,” says the rangy old man behind the bar. His moustache is shaved in the centre, a style long out of fashion in the rest of the galaxy, and he stares at me unblinking, his blue eyes wary.

“A butter churn? Is that what the sign is out front?” I say, as I take a seat.

“Yeah, what of’t?”

“Nothing.” I saw a churn in a museum when I was a boy—the same can’t be said of whoever painted the sign, but I decide to keep my opinions to myself. “Whiskey.”

The man nods and pulls a dark-brown bottle off the shelf, pouring a generous snit of liquor in a chipped glass. The bartender’s still eyeballing me as I down the drink in one swallow. “Whiskey,” I say again.

His nostrils flare and he pours another, and I see something in his eyes I don’t like: recognition. Before I can lift the whiskey to my lips, he leans over and hawks into it, the spit opaque and lumpy as it swirls slowly to the bottom of the glass. I watch it settle. Yeah, I hate being called a hero, but when someone sees me as I truly am… well, it’s not easy to swallow either, no matter how well-deserved it is.

“You left my sister and her babies to die,” he says, his tone as ugly as he is.

I meet his gaze, steeling myself for more. It’s been forty years, but I can still see them every time I close my eyes, a nightmare on perpetual repeat.

Men and women with mouths open in screams that I can’t hear, babies lifted above the throng… “Look at the children! You can’t leave the children!” A crescendo of pleas all around me, trapped within the thick walls of the ship, fists pounding bulkheads, begging and crying for me to let one more person in, just… one… more.

Outside, babies dropped in the crush of bodies, trampled on. Three soldiers stayed behind to make sure no one tried to pry the hatch open again—they lash out at the crowd with their batons, but the throng is too wild. One looks over his shoulder and stares at me through the viewport for a moment—the expression on his young face is one of sheer terror. He’s pulled into the crowd and I lose sight of him. I turn away. They’re all dead anyway.

“Get everyone stowed away,” I shout above the weeping and pleading.

“Clear the way!” The loadmaster has tears streaming down his cheeks as he follows my orders. He pushes the lucky winners of the lottery down the corridor towards the cramped quarters they’ll share for the next sixteen months as we flee the solar system. Forty thousand souls across twenty-three ships—the entire human race lifted into the sky while five billion are left to burn.

My eyes had been dry, but I remember my hands had trembled for days.

“You a goddamn coward,” the bartender says.

I nod—there’s not a fucking thing I can say that will make any difference. I’m either the man who saved the human race… or the coward who abandoned it. I keep holding his gaze, and I don’t know what he sees, but his expression changes. It softens, just a touch. Just enough. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.

Pushing the glass aside, I place a half-bottle of Rimer’s chartreuse on the bar. It’s my last one but I don’t care. I need a drink and I don’t think I can stomach any more of the cultists’ green rotgut. “Whiskey,” I say, pushing the bottle towards him. A peace offering. “Please.”

The man eyes the bottle—it’s easily worth five times what he’s serving me. After a moment he sighs and grabs a clean glass, pouring me another whiskey.

“Thank you.”

He just snorts and retreats to the other side of the bar to keep watch on me, leaving the brown bottle in front of me.

“Hey, mi’suh nice fella,” says a familiar voice. I turn and see it’s the young whore from the other day. His blond curls hang in wet ringlets around his face and he’s got a smile stretching from ear to ear—he’s looking at me like I’m a long-lost pal, but there’s something off in his expression. Could be the ugly bruise on his cheek colouring my perspective.

The kid slides his hand up my knee and grabs my dick through my pants, easy as can be, and narrows his eyes at me. “Come lookin’ for me, long-tooth?” he says, tilting his head, his grin getting coy. I notice for the first time that he’s got one green eye and one blue.

“No,” I growl at him, and push his hand out of my lap.

“Why fo’, then?” he asks, frowning. His hand finds my thigh again. I sigh and down my whiskey. “You wanna I find you n’other? Maybe girl, yeah? Lou-Lou nice,” he says, thumbing towards the woman on the stairs. “I give better suck.” He squeezes my leg and I look away. There’s something desperate and hungry hiding behind his teasing expression and it just makes me feel tired.

“Get lost, kid.”

The old N2 unit in the corner suddenly starts hitting the same piano key over and over again. Plink plink plink. The kid’s hand slides up my thigh, insistent, his eyes locked on mine. “C’mon, mi’suh.”

“Scram your ass, Apple,” the bartender growls. “Go kick Patch and clean up them fuckin’ spittoons ‘fore I slit yer belly.”

The kid jerks his hand back from my leg, retreating a step. He tries to hide his fear under a toothy grin, but I can see it in his eyes. After he gives the broken-down old android a hard shove—Patch, I’m assuming—it sits up a little straighter and starts playing a new tune. Melancholy compared to what it was playing before.

I watch the kid scurry around, pouring out the dented metal buckets that serve as spittoons in this dump, and drink my whiskey. I notice he’s limping.

I sigh.

“How much?” I say, pointing to the kid. “To buy outright.”

The amount the bartender quotes is more than I can afford. The kid turns to look at me with those mismatched eyes and it tugs at whatever softness is left inside this burned-out old husk of mine. I sigh again. “You wouldn’t put that against the bottle I just gave you, would you?”

The stony look the old man gives me says it all and I drop my eyes, concentrating on my whiskey. The kid would have just gotten in the way.

The way of what? I came to this moon to find oblivion, but it keeps eluding me. Maybe I’m not as done with this life as I thought I was. I finish my drink and stand, nodding to the bartender. The kid’s sweeping the floor, his back to me.

Sorry, kiddo. I tried, I think as I walk out the door. But did I really?

Doesn’t matter… it’s too late now.

I pause in the middle of the street, my head hung low and my hand in my pocket. The brand-new utility knife rolls over and over in my fingers. The expensive new knife.

Fuck.

+++

The dust storm is like a wild animal clawing the desolate landscape. It’ll hit in twenty minutes, maybe less. I drop my binoculars into my bag and look over my shoulder to where the kid is setting up our tent for the night. We should be all right to weather the storm—our shelter’s on the lee side of a big group diorite spires sticking out of the hardened dust—but I have him drive a spike into the stone, just to be sure. By the time he’s done, the air is so thick with yellow dust that I can’t see my hand in front of my face. We duck inside the small tent and he zips it closed.

“Lantern,” I say and point. The kid nods and sits down with it.

I’m rummaging through my pack for some grub when it hits me that what I bought won’t last long with two stomachs to feed. At least the kid doesn’t look like he eats all that much. I watch him turn the crank on the lantern, his skinny arm going round and round and the tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. I clear my throat.

“He called you Apple back there. That your name?”

“Ya, mi’suh,” he replies, grinning.

“What the hell kind of a name is ‘Apple’?” I say, leaning back. He shrugs and keeps turning the crank. “Have you ever even seen an apple?”

Apple lifts his eyes just as the lantern finally turns on. His pale eyelashes catch the light—he looks otherworldly for a moment but it passes when he sucks in his bottom lip, his brows nearly touching above his upturned nose. “No, mi’suh.” He sets the lantern down between us and tilts his head up at me. “You seen one?”

I nod. “When I was a boy there was an orchard next to my father’s farm.” Right away I can see his confusion—maybe he doesn’t know what an orchard is. I start to ask him, but he startles me by crawling forward to straddle my thighs.

“Don’t do that.”

“Why fo’?” he replies, unbuckling my belt. He smiles at me as he unzips my fly. “You no wanna?”

I shake my head.

His grin dimples on cheek. “You sure, mi’suh Big Dick?” He starts digging into my pants for my cock and I take his wrist, pulling his hand out.

“I’m certain.”

Apple’s face falls. “No like me?” he says in a small voice.

“I like you fine.”

“Lemme then, ‘k?” He twists his wrist out of my grasp, holding his hand just above my crotch, waiting for me to agree.

I’m sorely tempted. His was the last hole I’d fucked and I remember it being nice and snug.

“Suck then?” he asks, his expression hopeful.

“No.”

“To thank you,” he says soberly with a small head nod. I know his hand’s still over my half-covered, half-hard dick. I can feel it, just hovering there.

“Thank me by keeping that lantern lit, carrying shit when I tell you to, and keeping your complaints to yourself. That’s it. No fucking required.” Noble words for a guy who hasn’t even tried to move the kid off his lap yet.

Apple stares hard into my eyes, silent and unmoving. “No fucking?”

“No fucking. No sucking. No jerking.”

“Liar.” He lifts his chin, challenging. “Yuh gon’ beat me?”

“I’m not going to fucking beat you,” I say, starting to get annoyed. At least I think I am.

He finally relaxes, nodding. “No beat. No fucking. Yuh keep promise, long-tooth?”

“Yup. Promise.”

“Okay,” he says happily and shrugs, but then goes right back to pawing at my cock, freeing it from the confines of my dusty pants.

“But I said—”

“Shut up, old man,” Apple replies with a crooked grin, suddenly losing the pidgin and most of his hayseed accent. “Trust me—just sit back 'n let me work.”

Surprise robs me of speech and I just watch as he shifts backwards on his knees to pop the crown of my dick into his mouth. Well shit… If I can’t talk him out of it, so be it. And Pytre was obviously right when he said the cunning little actor was older than he looked—this “kid” is no kid.

I groan and let my head fall back. His tongue starts swiping back and forth like a metronome while he slowly forces my cock down his throat. Holy hell, he wasn’t joking earlier when said something about giving good “suck”. The airtight blowjob he’s giving me could only be improved by him unhinging his jaw to swallow down my balls along with my shaft.

Shit... Pytre. Why did I have to think of him just now? I close my eyes to swap Apple out with Pytre. It's a funny thing—I taunted the enigmatic Rimer with every obscene proposition I could think of during my stay, but right at this moment I feel kind of guilty, I guess, for imagining him gagging on my cock like a goddamn pro.

Not guilty enough to keep myself from enjoying this, of course.

It’s not long before I exhale hard then groan, blowing my load down Pytre’s throat… but it’s Apple who sits up, licking his reddened lips as I sit there, panting.

The kid tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at me. “Who was it?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” I try to tug my pants closed but with the way he’s straddling me, the material’s pinned under him.

“You were with someone else,” Apple says. “I can always tell.” I look up at him and he smiles a little wistfully. “So, who was it?” he asks.

“None of your fucking business.”

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Wondering which retailer pays me the most?

#1 is Payhip. Not a retailer, but an online shop that I've set up myself. This is where I make the most return on my books.

Then after that it gets a little complicated, but these are the three best choices:

At Eden Books*, I make 70% royalties for all titles.

At Smashwords, I make 60% royalties for all titles.

At Amazon, for books OVER $2.99 (USD) I make 70% royalties and for books UNDER $2.99 I make 35%

So... if the book is under $2.99, buy from Eden Books or Smashwords.

If the books is over $2.99, buy from Eden Books or Amazon.

But best of all, buy from my Payhip store :)

Questions? Contact Me!

*Not all my titles are available at Eden yet as of 25/09/23 - I'm working on it.

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