“Hey! Hey you! Wake up, you lazy, good for nothing dew-beater. I need to take a piss!” the emperor roared from His massive four-poster bed.
Scrambling quickly to his feet, Kalsmish gasped out a reply. “Y-yes, Your Magnificence. My apologies, I-I need to prepare.” He chided himself for drinking that glass of small ale before bed—it wasn’t prudent to make Emperor Terssifus wait while he emptied his bladder.
“I don’t give a rat’s arse about your preparations, you cunt, get over here. I’m near bursting.”
Kalsmish gulped and scurried to the emperor’s bed, unbuttoning his trousers as he ran up the stairs. “I’m coming, Your Magnificence. I’m sorry, Your Magnificence. I am ready to Receive.”
Emperor Terssifus grunted and shifted His gargantuan bulk to the side, shaking the mattress like an earthquake, and strained to grab the funnel for the Imperial Exductor, His sausage fingers waggling a few inches short.
“Let me, Your Magnificence!” Kalsmish handed the funnel to the emperor and quickly fed the tube from the other side of the device into his own penis as Terssifus began urinating into the funnel. Terrified that the funnel would fill before he was ready to Receive, Kalsmish began turning the crank even before the tube poked through the second sphincter into his bladder. He winced as it finally sank in the whole way. This was only his second week as the Imperial Waters Holder—it would be a while before his piss-hole was well-seasoned to the task. He watched with some trepidation as pale yellow urine from his own bladder crawled up the slightly transparent fish-skin tube, so he turned the crank faster. Finally, the suction took hold with a quiet popping noise and the urine reversed its course, chased by the emperor’s deep-yellow waters. Kalsmish glanced over at the emperor—the Imperial Stream was still going strong and Kalsmish hoped his bladder wouldn’t fail him as his predecessor’s had.
Closing his eyes, Kalsmish said a silent prayer and tried to relax, willing bladder to expand as the Imperial Waters filled him. He gasped from the pressure building but kept cranking and cranking until finally the emperor tossed the funnel away, wrestling Himself back into the only sleeping position His huge mass would allow.
When the last of the emperor’s urine was pumped inside him, Kalsmish drew out the tube, squeezing his shaft hard at the base so he wouldn’t lose a drop of the Imperial Waters. He panted quietly, shivering as the need to urinate seemed to take over his every thought. This was the most he’d taken yet and on a full bladder too—it seemed impossible to move. He knew there was only one way he would make it through the palace and down to the Imperial Receiving Well without pissing himself… and he didn’t like it one bit. He’d managed to avoid it thus far by limiting his liquid intake, but he’d been stupid with that glass of ale. Hand trembling, he placed the tip of the glansplug into his piss-hole and began to screw it in slowly, grimacing as it grew wider the deeper it went, stretching him out. He paused when it felt like it was going to tear him and waited until his hole became accustomed to the width, the pain receding. Then, he closed his eyes and, with a whimper, turned it once more all the way around until the huge pink pearl decorating the glansplug sat flush to his cockhead. Kalsmish’s knees felt like gelatin and he broke out in a cold sweat. Leaving his trousers behind, he carefully locked his hands below the bulge in his lower belly and began the arduous journey to the well to dispose of his precious cargo.
Each step was agonizing—the heavy pearl swung his penis back and forth like a pendulum as he walked, adding to his discomfort. Even breathing seemed to make the pressure in his bladder unbearable… but he had to bear it—there were at least a hundred other servants who would kill their own children for the honour of Receiving and Carrying the Imperial Waters for the emperor.
“Look at you,” said a low, purring voice. “You have quite the burden, I take it?”
Oh no. “Yes, your Grace. A glorious burden,” he said. The emperor’s son Prince Makhiel slipped from the shadows like a predatory feline, a huge grin on his face. “I must make haste,” Kalsmish said nervously.
“Do you, now?” Makhiel said, his eyes narrowed with mischief as he matched Kalsmish’s slow, waddling pace.
Kalsmish forced himself to smile, a trickle of sweat running down his cheek. “When I have finished, I can come back and provide my usual service… if the Prince so desires.”
“Oh, the prince desires all right,” Makhiel replied, stepping in front of Kalsmish. “But he desires his needs met now.”
Normally, he actually enjoyed servicing the Imperial Prince, but all he could think of was getting to the well before he burst—he gave an apologetic head bob and tried to dodge around the prince but Makhiel stopped him with a hand to his chest.
“I really do insist.”
Though Makhiel was the kindest of the emperor’s nine sons, refusal of any sort was a death sentence and Kalsmish wasn’t certain he’d make an exception for him.
Sagging in defeat, Kalsmish could only nod.
“There’s a good boy,” Makhiel murmured, stroking Kalsmish’s cheek with one hand while the other cupped the quail-egg-sized pearl with the other, weighing it. “Delightful. You should be made to wear a bauble such as this in your cock at all times. It’s pleasing to the eye and lovely to touch. Does it feel as good as it looks?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Kalsmish lied, trying not to wince when Makhiel began to toy with the glansplug, tugging it softly.
“All right. Turn around,” said the prince, twirling his finger in the air. “Come now.”
Kalsmish did as he was told, eyes averted as a group of cup bearers passed them in the gallery. He heard Makhiel spit into his palm and braced himself, leaning forward. The prince hadn’t even entered him and he was panting from the increased pressure of the position. Tears rose in his eyes making the grey and white tiles shimmer in his vision.
The initial push wasn’t so terrible and for a moment he thought it would be fine, then Makhiel hilted himself and Kalsmish couldn’t hold back his wail. He’d never felt so full.
Makhiel just chuckled and began thrusting, not caring that Kalsmish began blubbering and whimpering as the prince’s cock seemed to press his distended bladder harder with every plunge.
However, something began to break through his discomfort—Kalsmish was legitimately worried his bladder would pop like a balloon, but he was starting to feel a razor-sharp pleasure from his desperate urge to piss, something truly unfathomable. His cock grew hard, the screw threads from the glansplug digging into the walls of his piss-hole, creating another level of pain-laced ecstasy.
“Mm… you seem to be enjoying yourself more than usual,” Makhiel said softly in his ear. “You naughty thing.” He wrapped his long fingers around Kalsmish’s shaft and started stroking him. “Do you like this?”
“Y-yes, Your Grace,” Kalsmish managed, his voice a strangled croak. He was hurtling towards completion and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He moaned, pushing back into the prince’s thrusts, oblivious to anything but his need… until Makhiel stopped jerking him and began quickly unscrewing the glansplug.
“No… no,” begged Kalsmish, bucking against the prince as his pleasure began to peak. “Please, no, I’m going to—” Then he screamed as the plug popped free, his orgasm cresting like a tidal wave, sending piss and cum flying in a single far-flung stream, and screamed again when the second pulse hit, pleasure and pain as one, his body quaking and writhing out of his control. Kalsmish barely registered when the prince let out a deep grunt, signalling his own culmination—his climax was monstrous, unending, all-consuming. At last he collapsed on his knees, his howl ending on a rattling sigh, and he buried his face in his hands, weeping.
“That was superb,” said the prince with a satisfied chuckle. When Kalsmish didn’t respond, Makhiel touched his shoulder gently. “Kal?”
Kalsmish looked up, his eyes streaming. “What have I done?” His bladder ached like a knife had speared it, but that was nothing compared to the terror he felt.
“What do you mean?”
Sobbing, Kalsmish gestured to the copious yellow streaks covering the tiles. “I-I have failed Him. Oh what am I to do?” They would disembowel him slowly for this.
Squeezing his shoulder kindly, Makhiel tutted. “Never fear, my darling Kal. All will be well.”
“How? It’s impossible!” Kalsmish wailed, tearing at his hair in grief and horror.
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” replied the prince, putting a finger to his lips and winking. “Oh come on, lad. Stop it.” He said when Kalsmish continued to bawl. Makhiel leaned down to pull Kalsmish to his feet and then delicately dabbed at his tears with the edge of his silken neck scarf. “Hush, you poor soul. Hush now. Your prince is ordering you to stop.”
Kalsmish’s breath wouldn’t stop hitching in his throat, but he did his best to stop the tears from flowing, wiping his face with both hands. “Truly? You won’t tell of my dishonour?”
“Dishonour? It’s just piss for god’s sake. It’s an awfully silly tradition. Why do you have to act as my father’s chamber pot just because he’s unable to leave his bed?”
Hiccupping, Kalsmish stared at his feet, relieved but still ashamed. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he whispered.
“Think nothing of it.” Then Makhiel’s voice got sly. “I’ve only got one condition.”
Kalsmish glanced up. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“You come directly to me the next time my father overfills you. I quite enjoyed your enthusiasm and desperation today… it made for a delightful enhancement to our usual.”
Blinking up at Makhiel, Kalsmish nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ll come to you.” He gave the prince a shy smile. “And it certainly did.”
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 is no longer straddling my lap—we’re sitting side by side on the bed watching Pytre as he slowly undresses in front of us. He’s keeping his eyes averted and his cheeks are so red they’re almost burgundy. After painstakingly folding his shirt, he places it on the other bed and starts on his pants. Apple lets out an impatient sigh as Pytre fumbles with his belt buckle, but I shoot the naked young man at my side a warning glare.
“Really… you don’t have to do this,” I say to Pytre when I see how hard his hands are shaking. Pytre just lifts a pale, freckled shoulder, the corner of his lips twitching up in a nervous smile. “I’ve been naked in front of other Rimers thousands of times,” he says, pulling his pants off one leg at a time. “This isn’t so different.”
But it is.
His pants get the same careful treatment as his shirt, and then Pytre is standing before us in only a pair of short grey boxers. He folds his arms over his chest for a moment, looking up at the ceiling like he’s looking for guidance from Rime himself, then he takes a deep breath and pulls down his underwear.
“Finally,” Apple says and I elbow him in the side, but he ignores me and crawls forward on the mattress to get a better look.
I’m not sure what I was expecting—Pytre’s the only eunuch I’ve ever seen naked—but it’s not… this. What Pytre has looks like a second belly button, the kind that protrudes a little, surrounded by a short orange growth of pubic hair. I suppose I assumed there would be ugly scarring, something befitting this sort of mutilation, but Pytre’s genitalia—or lack thereof—is as neat and tidy as he is. I lift my eyes and see that he’s staring at me, his chin slightly lifted, like a challenge.
Meanwhile, Apple is peering closely at Pytre’s groin and tapping his lips with his forefinger, his brow furrowed.
“That is a very professional job,” he announces. “I’ve been with a few Disciples of Rime,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me with a grin. “Maybe more than a few.” Apple turns back to Pytre and smiles up at him. “But this is the nicest work I’ve seen.”
Pytre frowns, obviously uncomfortable with the close scrutiny and uncertain about the compliment.
“How young were you?” asks Apple.
“I don’t honestly know. I don’t remember what was there before so I must have been very young,” Pytre replies, glancing at me again. I think he’s looking for reassurance, so I give him a sympathetic smile. But honestly, I feel all sorts of conflicted as I sit there with Pytre naked in front of me. I find his emasculation shocking… but then again… weirdly arousing. Also, I have so many questions, but unlike Apple, I don’t want to pry.
“So?” Pytre says. I know he’s talking to me—the challenge in his tone is unmistakable.
“So… come here.”
I think this surprises him a little because his brows quirk up. Had he expected me to reject him? I’m almost offended he would think me so shallow. He doesn’t move.
“How am I going to put my cock in you if you’re way over there?”
Apple snorts and Pytre’s hazel eyes widen. I like the way his ribcage expands a few times quickly, his breath coming fast between parted lips. I think about the way he was when we met—not so calm and serene are you now, padre? I grin and hold out my hand and Pytre steps forward to take it.
+++
I feel like I’m participating in some sort of weird ceremony, the way Apple is hovering over us. Pytre’s on his back and I’m kneeling between his legs, one hand priming my cock, the other gently stroking the inside of his thigh. He looks as anxious as I feel. I mean, this is downright fucking ridiculous if you think too much about it and I’m trying not to do just that.
“Here,” Apple says, drooling some lube from the bottle onto my dick. My little helper. I roll my eyes.
“Thanks. I think I can take it from here.”
Pytre’s staring up at me, his expression unreadable. I should be kissing him or something but we somehow skipped ahead to the final act. I blame nerves and Apple’s meddling.
“Ready?” I rise up a bit on my knees and point my cock at his pucker, positioning myself over him.
Nodding, Pytre closes his eyes. He’s holding his breath.
“Breathe.”
“Ok.” He smiles faintly.
I push the head of my cock against his hole and for a few anxious seconds I think I’m just going to blow my load right then and there. He’s wincing so I guess he’s in pain—he’s so tense I’m amazed I can get my dick into him at all. I give another little push, and I know this is right around the spot it usually hurts the most if you’re not used to it or aren’t prepared. He gasps and lets out a tiny squeal before grabbing my arms, his nails digging in.
“Breathe,” I repeat.
“Stop!” His eyes are clenched shut and his teeth are bared. I’m painfully aware how difficult this must be for him… and I can’t stop thinking about those fucking cannibals… and I want throw in the towel, but then his brow smooths out and the muscles in his jaw relax, “Ok. I’m ok. Go slow.”
I dutifully ease in as gradually as I can, but it’s driving me mad. He feels so good and the way his breath keeps hitching in his throat is making it hard to pace myself.
“Doing ok?” I ask to distract myself.
Pytre nods, opening his eyes briefly to search mine before snapping shut again as I give into my lust a bit and slide in the last few inches in one motion. I pause again, taking the time to bend my elbows and press my lips to his. It’s like kissing a live wire—my insides go all gooey and I gasp as Pytre slips his tongue into my mouth. All right, this is going better than I expected. Then I feel something something hot and hard against my asshole.
“No,” I try to say but my mouth is slow to release Pytre’s and now it’s too late—Apple’s cock is inside me and I let out a timid little moan, anticipating the panic to hit me like a brick.
But it doesn’t. Huh.
Pytre’s looking up at me, concerned.
“Did you just…”
“No,” I say, my voice a bit unsteady. “Not yet.”
“How’s this?” Apple asks, his hands at my hips as he begins to thrust.
“It’s, uh, good,” I admit. Apple’s motions are driving me deeper into Pytre, and I’m definitely going to cum too soon, but I let Apple pick the pace anyway—I’ve never been on the receiving end for fun, only pay, and somehow that makes it feel different. Not necessarily great, but like I said… good. Helps that I’m balls deep in Pytre while it’s happening.
Pytre’s brows are knitted again and I can tell he’s in some discomfort—he reaches up to take hold of my waist and encounters Apple’s hands. His hazel eyes go wide with understanding.
“Oh, I see,” he says, his face flushed. I can almost see the gears going in his head—is it just me or does he looked turned on by what’s happening?
Apple starts going a bit faster and I grimace. “Ah crap.”
“What’s wrong?” Pytre asks.
“I’m close.” I shut my eyes tight, breathing hard. If only I can think of something to distract me, but my mind is blank except for what my dick and ass are experiencing. “Really close.”
“Ok.”
Is that just acknowledgement or permission to cream his insides? A thought crosses my mind an instant before I let loose and I pull out, spraying Pytre’s smooth belly and chest with my cum. He’s not taking prophylactics like Apple and me—I have no idea whether that means I can spread some disease without having it myself. Better safe than sorry… but if this is going to happen again, and I hope to fuck it does become a regular thing, Pytre’s going to need protection.
Pytre seems a bit shocked that I just came all over him, and I just shrug as I loom over him on my knuckles, trying to catch my breath. Meanwhile, Apple pulls out and gives my ass a stinging slap. I don’t know if he came or not, doesn’t seem likely, but I know that Pytre hasn’t. In fact, he looks sort of… deflated now that it’s over.
“Was that ok?”
Pytre glances away, and when he meets my eyes again, his smile isn’t genuine. “It was fine.”
Fine is not a word you ever want to hear after sex. I start to apologize for the hasty, graceless act I just subjected him to, but Apple surprises me by pushing me out of the way. He gives me a brief, sly look, sits back on his heels, and quickly cracks the knuckles of both hands like a showman. “I’ve got this.”
Apple goes quickly down on his belly on the bed and touches his tongue to the little mound of flesh that used to be Pytre’s cock. Gasping, Pytre tries to sit, but Apple shakes his head, smiling, “Hey, I said I’ve got this. Don’t worry… you just lay back and enjoy. Ok?”
“Uh. Ok.” Pytre sounds uncertain and looks over at me for guidance. Shit. I realize I haven’t thought this through. When Apple had said he wanted Pytre to join in, I’d assumed it meant I’d have the both of them… not that I’d have to share Pytre with Apple. I don’t know how I feel about what’s going on. The smile I offer him is weak, I know, but he seems dazed with what Apple is doing to his anatomy so I guess he doesn’t notice I’m not really on board with this.
Stupid and childish—that’s how I feel jealously watching Apple lap and suck at Pytre.
Teeth clenched, I move up the bed to be beside Pytre and I slide my arm under his neck so at least I can be part of the “fun”.
So far, Apple’s ministrations seem not to have any effect on the ex–Rimer. Pytre’s forehead is creased with confusion and he’s just lying there motionless with his hands clasped an inch above the cooling cum puddle in the centre of his chest.
“Are you ok?” I ask, real quiet.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” There’s that fine again. It occurs to me then that I don’t know anything about the workings of total castration. Can he even climax? Or, will sex only ever be something he’ll tolerate because it makes me happy? That’s depressing as hell.
“Oh.” Pytre’s eyes squeeze shut.
“Oh?” I ask. I noticed the flush is back in his cheeks. I look down at Apple. His mouth is completely covering Pytre’s scar and from the way his cheeks are moving, I’m guessing his tongue is hard at work. His eye opens and he sees me watching. Pulling away, he smiles, showing me that the small, belly-button-like nub is now protruding stiffly from Pytre’s groin, slick and swollen from Apple’s attentions. Apple grins wider and licks his tongue up the bottom side of the hard protuberance and Pytre lets out a soft moan.
Holy shit. My dick’s getting hard again.
I quickly kiss Pytre and my tongue’s accepted without the slightest hesitation. I breathe in his groans and sighs, clutching at him as he writhes against me. Then he goes stiff in my arms, but the noise he makes isn’t one you’d associate with pleasure. I back away, staring down at him with concern. He looks alarmed, his gaze distant, but the way he’s breathing makes me think he’s actually still enjoying himself. I glance at Apple and see he’s still slurping away at Pytre’s tiny boner.
“What’s wrong?” I stroke the side of Pytre’s face, bringing his eyes to mine.
“Apple just put a finger in my uh…”—his eyebrows meet above his eyes—“Oh. Oh.”
“Two,” Apple mumbles indistinctly and I’m impressed with how hard he’s working at Pytre. Is he doing it to make Pytre happy or to make me happy? Maybe both.
“Oh Rime,” Pytre mutters breathlessly, his eyes shut tight again, head shaking slowly from side to side, obviously losing himself to Apple’s touch. I grin, pressing my hard dick against his hip and he shifts to grab it. He holds it, just squeezing in what I guess is the same rhythm Apple is using, and I let out a pleased growl. I run my fingers up Pytre’s hairless chest and find one of his perfect pink nipples. Lips resting against his temple, I grab his nipple and begin tweaking the hardening bud.
“Oh,” Pytre gasps again.
“Like that?”
“Ye—Oh.”
“Harder?” I wish he would stroke my dick instead of just squeezing it, but I don’t want to distract him from what I know is building up inside him.
Pytre nods quickly, so I start twisting and pinching his nipples, going from one to the other. He’s going to be sore later but right now the noises he’s making are driving me wild and I can tell he’s close.
It’s like an earthquake when he finally cums. I feel it in his chest first: a trembling that ripples through him, followed by a long, quiet moan and a shudder in his belly… then bam—he cries out, his hips bucking so hard that Apple has to hold on tight or be thrown off with a broken nose. Pytre’s hand crushes my cock and I gasp in pain, but it’s worth it to be on the frontline watching the ex-Rimer’s first orgasm.
When the last shockwave dies, I wince and pull my dick out of his grasp, rubbing my poor strangled shaft as I watch his eyelids flutter open. He looks drunk and the smile he gives me only adds to the image.
“You good?” I ask, chuckling.
“Mm.” He laughs. He’s slowly swirling my cum around on his belly with a finger and seeing that puts some more vim into my erection.
Apple’s sitting on the foot of the bed, his legs tucked under him and slender cock poking up from his lap. The smile he gives me is a bit smug.
Quickly untangling myself from Pytre, I grab Apple and force him face down on the other bed. I shove my cock hard into his hole, and begin to ram into him, really mashing him into the mattress. I laugh a few minutes later when I look over at Pytre and see that he’s rubbing his scar, his eyes on me and Apple. Apple’s asshole clamps down on my dick, and I hardly hear his moans with his face pressed against the blankets, and I send my second load of the day into his guts with a growl.
Ok… I might be on board with this arrangement after all.
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)
The second his dick pushes into me, I realize this is a serious fucking mistake. Panic hits me like a punch in the gut and I scrabble forwards on my hands and knees, desperate to escape. My vision’s blurry and not just from the sweat pouring into my eyes—I feel like I’m having a stroke. My client, probably wondering what the fuck is going on, doesn’t move for a few seconds. The guy then comes over and puts his arms around me, patting my back gently as he goes tut tut in my ear. I lean right into his embrace and sob on his shoulder for a while, just bawling like a fucking baby.
When the tears have run their course, I pull back, face warm with embarrassment but he’s just staring at me with sympathy in his brown eyes. He’s average looking, maybe even on the ugly side, but there’s something about those eyes that makes me wonder why he has to pay for sex—surely someone else can see he’s a decent guy. That’s scarcer than water around here.
I think about trying again—I mean, he only just got the tip in… maybe after a few thrusts I’d be fine. I need the money. We need the money.
But just the thought of giving it another go has me trembling again.
“Give me your pad,” he says.
I frown. “Why?”
“So, I can pay you.”
“But—”
“Buddy, you look like you need it.”
After some arguing back and forth, he agrees on a blowjob in exchange for the credits. Down on my knees, I go all in and give him some of the best head I’ve ever given… but all the while, I’m wondering what it’ll take to open my hole for business again. What if my whoring days are through? I certainly won’t miss it, but what else is there? I think about Pytre’s suggestion: bodyguard. I did all right with that blaster at Turk’s, didn’t I?
I try not to gag as my throat is suddenly flooded with cum, swallowing down the guy’s load like I enjoy it, then give his cock a quick tongue bath to clean him up.
Satisfied, he thumbs my pad and pays me the original price we’d agreed on for a full fuck not just a blowjob, but he won’t back down.
I watch him walk away as I rub my mouth. Nice guy. Again I wonder what’s he doing on a shithole like Chornoboh-7.
+++
I can’t work the door code with my arms full, so I lean my forehead on the glowing button, waiting for Apple to let me in. After a moment, the door opens a crack.
“Oh, it’s you,” Apple says with a relieved sigh, letting me in. He’s wrapped a towel around his head, half covering his face. As soon as the door closes, he pulls the towel off and tosses it on the bed.
“You don’t look half as bad as you think you do,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t be so vain.”
Apple’s single blue eye glares at me—the green one was lost to Turk’s violence and the wreckage hides beneath a silver eye patch that he never takes off, even to sleep. Despite the doctor’s nimble fingers and fine stitch work, the right side of his mouth is permanently twisted up, puckering in the corner where it meets the shiny pink scar zigzagging up his cheek.
I could mourn the loss of Apple’s prettiness, but there’s something weirdly appealing about his new battle-hardened face.
“I’m not vain. I’m ugly,” he says, staring down at the packages I dumped on the bed.
“If you were so ugly, would I do this?” I cup the back of his head and plant a kiss on his soft lips while giving his backside a good firm squeeze. I frown, measuring his ass cheek with my hand. He was still losing weight. “Apple, you have to eat.”
“What’s the point?” he says, heaving another sigh, but I can see the way he’s eyeing the package of cookies.
“Go on. I got them for you.”
He grins, pecks another kiss on my lips, and sits down to tear into the cookies. I touch my mouth, shaking my head. Funny how kissing is so… normal now.
“Where’d you get the credits?” Apple asks, his mouth full. He brushes a few crumbs from his bare chest and goes in for another cookie. “You worked?”
“Yeah.” I sit down on the corner of the bed and take a cookie for myself. It’s not very good—it tastes old and slightly rancid, but that’s all I can afford.
“And?”
“And it didn’t go well.”
“Oh.” He stops stuffing his face to take my hand.
Yesterday, when I was starting to mentally prepare myself to go back out on the streets, he shared a few stories about being brutalized by clients at the brothel—an attempt to commiserate over our unfortunate experiences. All it did was make me feel weak. If he’s able to function with all the shit he’s been through, why am unable to? It was one time.
“I panicked,” I say, looking down at his hand holding mine.
“It’s ok,” he says gently.
“It’s not ok,” I growl, taking my hand back and standing. “We’re going to starve to death because I can’t get my head out of my ass.” I pick up the other packages of food, all of them cheap and recently expired, and stack them on the storage unit near the foot of the bed.
“I can—” Apple starts, but I shoot him a warning look. He lets his shoulders fall and stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t know why you don’t want me whoring no more. I been doing it so long I can’t remember not doing it.”
“Because I don’t want you to.” I run both hands over my shorn grey hair, closing my eyes with a sigh. “I’m going to try again tomorrow.”
“Ok.”
“I just… don’t understand why it’s happening. It’s not like they hurt me that much…” I feel Apple’s arms come around me from behind and I hang my head, forcing myself to think about Turk’s men. I feel sweat prickling my armpits.
“It’s ok.” Apple rests his chin on my shoulder. “Tell me what happened today?”
I think about the sheer ball-squeezing, gut churning panic. “I just couldn’t go through with it.”
“Fucking or getting fucked?”
“Getting.”
“What about fucking? You ok with that?”
I honestly don’t know so I shrug.
“Do you want to give it a try?” Apple’s hand slides down my chest and he slips it into my pants, cupping my soft cock and balls. I shrug again, but I know I’m not going to be limp for long.
“C’mon.” Apple leads me back to the bed and has my lie down on my back while he undoes my zipper. “Up.”
I obediently lift my hips so he can strip my bottom half bare and then he straddles me. I’m getting flashbacks to the last time we made lo—
I close my eyes and shake my head. The last time we fucked.
It takes a few minutes before Apple can get me hard enough to penetrate him, but when he settles down on my dick, he tilts his head back with a moan, feeling me swell and get harder inside him. “Oh that’s nice.”
“Mm,” I grunt in reply, holding onto his skinny hips.
“Feel good?”
“Mm.”
“No ill-effects?” He starts to slide up and down my cock slowly like a human piston and my dick gives a happy twitch.
This time I smirk and shake my head.
“Want me to go faster?”
“Yes, please,” I reply.
“Like this?”
“Yeah…”
The door clicks and Apple’s head whips around, his body freezing in place with my dick buried deep.
“I’m sorry I, uh, didn’t realize you were…” Pytre stammers. “I’ll go.” He’s been cleaning rooms for Drenner to pay for our room, sometimes ten hours a day. I figure he’s probably exhausted and wants to lie down, so I start to lift Apple off me, but he puts a hand on my chest.
“I think you should stay,” Apple says to the ex-Rimer. “And join in.”
“What?” I think Pytre and I blurt it out at the same time.
Apple’s laugh jiggles my dick and he turns back to look down at me, his blue eye twinkling with mischief.
“Watching you two dance around each other is frankly exhausting,” he says, jouncing up and down a few times, injecting a little life back into my flagging boner. “You both want it but can’t figure out how to actually get around to doing it.” Apple grins, wiggling his hips.
“Apple, I don’t think—”
“I know what happened at Turk’s is what is fucking you up… but you’ve been acting extra weird since you found out Pytre’s a eunuch,” he says then glances over his shoulder to where I’m guessing Pytre is still standing. “And you’re confused because you thought he wanted you but suddenly he’s backed off and been treating you with kitten gloves and you have no fucking idea how to tell him you want him. I’m just saying you could fix that now.”
I don’t think it’s possible for me to feel any more mortified than I’m feeling right at this moment and I just want to sink into the bed. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look Pytre in the eye again.
“Kid gloves,” I mutter, rubbing my face. “Pytre… I don’t know what—”
“Yes.”
My eyes pop open and my lungs stall and I’m not sure if I imagined Pytre’s answer but his next words remove all doubt.
“Yes… I’d like to join in.” He comes into my line of vision and I see his cheeks and ears are bright pink. His hazel eyes lock with mine. “But I don’t know how.”
Apple tosses his head back, the scar on his cheek becoming a deep crevice as his smile goes wide. “Thank fucking holy Rime,” he says.
“I don’t think Rime would approve,” Pytre says. For a second I think he’s being serious, but then a slow grin creeps across his face and I laugh.
Each year, hundreds of writers send in stories for the Queer Sci Fi flash fiction anthology. Here are the opening lines from some of the stories chosen for the 2019 edition – Migration:
“Darkness has substance. It is tangible; different shades within the black, sounds, a taste. It is accompanied by self-awareness of time and thoughts, even when other senses fail.” —Hope for Charity, by Robyn Walker
“The sky has been screaming for five straight days when the shrimps come to take us away. They’ve been boxing up the others and hauling them off. Now they’re here for us, soaking wet, dragging cords and crates behind them.” —Shrimpanzee, Sionnain Bailey
“Allister always had faultless hair. He’d comb and gel it to perfection while gazing in the mirror. One day a pair of eyes stared back.” —Zulu Finds a Home, by Kevin Klehr
“On her sister’s wedding day Ari noticed that one of her ears had migrated to her hand. It was right after her high school crush, Emily, arrived with Cousin Matt.” —Playing It By Ear, Aidee Ladnier
“The wound was fatal. Their vessel wouldn't live much longer. This is what came from leaving loose ends. Frantically they sought out a new vessel to migrate to. “ —The Essence, by L.M. Brown
“That night, we were sitting in the bed of her daddy’s old pickup truck and the radio was playing the best song. We had a pack of cigarettes between us and her hand was almost touching mine. The wheat field was silver in the moonlight. When they came, we weren’t surprised, just disappointed that our time was up already.” —Our Song, by Lauren Ring
“Willow said she was my wife, but I knew it wasn’t her, not the right her, anyway. Sure she looked like her with olive skin and bright pink hair. She even smelled of mango flowers, just like I remembered, but there was something about her smile that was slightly off, something about when she said she loved me that didn’t sit well in my old heart.” — They Said It Would Be Her, by Elizabeth Andre
“Agnes is eight when she first sees the river. Cutting its way through town, the only thing she knows not coated in coal dust. She sticks her toes in, comes home with wet socks and a secret. See, the river hadn’t been there yesterday.” —Stream of Consciousness, by Ziggy Schutz
“Terry twirled in her green synthsilk dress, looked at her reflection, liked what she saw. She felt good in her own skin, for maybe the first time.” —Altball, by RE Andeen
“The thing was in the corner. It had come through the window and had slid down the wall. Scratch went the sound. The noise of a hundred nails clawing at the wood. Nails of white bone. Alex pulled the sheets up quickly, covering every inch of skin and hair in a warm darkness.” —Whose Nightmare, by Jamie Bonomi
Author Bio
A hundred and twenty authors are included in Migration:
Butterflies, by A O'Donovan
The Return, by A.M. Leibowitz
A New Spring, by Aaron Silver
Universal Quota, by Abby Bartle
The Call of Home, by Adrienne Wilder
Starfall, by Adrik Kemp
Playing it By Ear, by Aidee Ladnier
Rabbit, by Amanda Thomas
That Does Not Love…, by Andi Deacon
Inborn, by Andrea Speed
Saving Ostakis, by Angelica Primm
A Dawn Wish, by Antonia Aquilante
Diaspora, by Ariel E. James
Transmigration, by Ashby Danvers
Across the Mirror, by Ava Kelly
Between, by BE Allatt
The Speck, by Bey Deckard
The King of the Mountain Cometh, by Bob Goddard
Before and After, by C. A. Chesse
Home, by C.A. McDonald
Too Much Tech, by C.L. Mannarino
Ze Who Walks Into the Future, by Carey Ford Compton
The Gate, by Carol Holland March
Our Last Light Skip, by Chloe Spencer
Passage, by Christine Taylor-Butler
The Perils of Pick-Up Lines, by Colton Aalto
Parched, by Crysta K. Coburn
Changeling Dreams, by Damian Serbu
Destinations, by Dave Creek
Another Job, Another Planet, by David Viner
Thiefmaster Rosalind's Apprentice, by Devon Widmer
A Weight Off Their Shoulders, by Diane Morrison
Once a Year, by Dianne Hartsock
Mettle, by Die BoothForever Bound, by E.W. Murks
They Said It Would Be Her, by Elizabeth Andre
Til Death Do Us Part, by Elizabeth Anglin
Little One, by Eloreen Moon
GBFN, by Emilia Agrafojo
The Long Distance Thing, by Ether Nepenthes
Call My People Home, by Evelyn Benvie
Jace vs. the Incubi, by Eytan Bernstein
A New Tradition, by Foster Bridget Cassidy
The Curious Cabinet, by Ginger Streusel
Ready, by Hank Edwards
The Albatrosses, by Harry F. Rey
A Boy's Shadow, by Helen De Cruz
Portrait of a Lady, by Isobel Granby
Beam That Is In, by J. Comer
The Hunt, by J. R. Frontera
Repeating History, by J. Summerset
Neil's Journey, by J.P. Bowie
Homeward Bound, by J.S. Garner
Whose Nightmare?, by Jamie Bonomi
A Moment of Bravery, by Jessie Pinkham
Laetus, by Jet Lupin
Where You Go, I'll Follow, by Joe Baumann
Ambrose Out of Ash, by Jonathan Fesmire
Shooting Modes, by Joshua Darrow
TerrorForm, by Juam Jocom
The Curse, by Jude Reid
Throwing Eggs, by K E Olukoya
Fly, by Kayleigh Sky
The Keep, by KC Burn
Zulu Finds a Home, by Kevin Klehr
The Risks and Advantages of Data Migration, by Kim Fielding
Irreversible, by kim gryphon
Looner, by Krishan Coupland
The Essence, by L.M. Brown
Our Song, by Lauren Ring
O Human Child, by Lisa Hamill
Goodbye Marghretta, by Lou Sylvre
Choices, by LV Lloyd
Endangered Species, by M Joseph Murphy
Planet Retro, Unplugged, by M. X. Kelly
Elemental, by M.D. Grimm
To Wish on a Love Knot, by Margaret McGaffey Fisk
Firebirds, by Marita M. Connor
Breeding Season, by Mary Newman
Kooks at Home, by Matt McHugh
Spring, by Mere Rain
Into the South, by Mindy Leana Shuman
Not How We Planned It, by Minerva Cerridwen
What Is Left Behind, by Monique Cuillerier
How Far Would You Go for the One You Love?, by Nathan Alling Long
Innocence, by Nathaniel Taff
Heart and Soul, by Nils Odlund
Tides, by Patricia Scott
Killer Queen, by Paula McGrath
Genesis, by Pelaam
If Pigs Could Fly, by Penelope Friday
Click, by R R Angell
Be Kind to Strangers, by Raina Lorring
Altball, by RE Andeen
Far From Home, by Riley S. Keene
Hope for Charity, by Robyn Walker
Night Comes to the Bea Arthur, by Rory Ni Coileáin
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.
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.
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.”
“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.
This weekend only get the entire Baal's Heart series at a fraction of the price
Caged: Love and Treachery on the High Seas: FREE (global) Sacrificed: Heart Beyond the Spires: $1.99/£0.99 (US/UK) Fated: Blood and Redemption: $1.99/£0.99 (US/UK) Careened: Winter Solstice in Madierus: $0.99/£0.99 (US/UK - this one's not on sale)
