Writing

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.”

Wednesday

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Explain.” His interest was definitely piqued.

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

Don frowned, skeptical.

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

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

“I don’t know. I forgot to ask.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Does she make house calls?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

“Can you move it?”

Steve paused, thinking. “I think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wanderer – Part Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A moment later, the flap lifts again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How old are you anyway?” I ask, shifting the subject. “You know I’ll figure it out one day.” He has to be over twenty. Maybe even thirty, judging from how long this particular covey of Rimers have been established here.

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

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

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

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

“Really.”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Asher, don’t do this to me.”

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” he says, his voice calm.

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

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

The Wanderer – Part Two

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+++

I’m rocking slowly. Voices… overlapping.

“Careful with his head—”

“Watch it—”

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

“Doesn’t he look like—”

“No, it can’t be—”

“I think it is, I think it’s the—”

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

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

+++

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

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

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

The tent flap opens, and I’m blinded by the light—the figure beyond is nothing but a dark blob until it enters and the canvas falls close behind it. When my vision clears, and I see who my visitor is, I sigh and rub my sore, sandblasted face, squeezing my eyes shut despite the pain. Just my luck… seems I’ve been rescued by a damned cult—the man’s a Disciple of Rime. But, truthfully, as far as cults go on Chornoboh-7, Rimers are probably the best I could have hoped for. For one, I know they didn’t drag my sorry corpse out of the wastelands just so they could eat me—cannibals, they are not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But—”

“I am no one.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not going to suck itself.”

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

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

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

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

+++

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How…” I manage, shaking my head. “But, where are you getting the water?” I’m absolutely stunned. Chornoboh-7 is supposed to be a barren moon, but the field of vegetation must be three, maybe four acres across. I turn and raise a hand to shade my face. It’s green as far as the eye can see in the other direction.

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

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

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

“You made a joke.”

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

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

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

Overlap

by

My walls are green
My bed is soft
My mind fractures

Your walls are blue
Your skin is warm
My mind is yours

The walls are gone
Our touches hurt
Our thoughts bleed out

Loathing and Love

by

You know, I'm nothing without my ghosts.
I have become a ghost myself, stealing into your dreams.
We play without touching;
I can see you as you are
And you forgive me for who I am.
This is loathing and love;
This is bloodless torture.

Moonlit Dalliance

by

“I love you.” A whispered confession.

“What? You don’t know me.” I looked over at him, just a dark shape walking down the wooded path next to me. Tonight, the moon’s face peeped out only long enough to dapple the most obtrusive of leaves before demurely retreating behind her tattered veils.

“I think I fell in love with you just now,” he replied. “I’m in love with the spaces between your words, the sound of your shoes on gravel, the hesitation in your voice… and I love the way our strides match, the way you push aside the branches for me, the smell of the night air on your skin.”

“Hm.” I smiled, shaking my head, and I found I wasn’t put off by his proclamations, odd as they were. “What about here?”

As he stared off to the side, his silhouette was limned in passing by the bashful moon. “Are we far enough from the road?”

“I believe so.”

We left the path, finding a space between the trees, and for a few breaths neither of us moved. Then, he stepped closer, dropping to his knees in the cushion of fallen leaves. With nimble fingers he unbuttoned my trousers and I reached out to cup the back of his neck. This would be delicious—I could already feel it.

After placing a lingering kiss on my swollen crown, hand clasped tight around my root, he looked up at me. At that moment, the moon decided to shed her modesty and stepped out naked into the night, bathing the young man’s face in silver. There were tears in his eyes.

“Tell me you love me,” he whispered, breath feathering my sensitive skin.

Such foolishness… This is not what I was paying for. However, as a tear broke free and slid down his face, I felt something give inside of me.

“I love you,” I murmured, thumbing the wetness from his cheek with a gentle smile. And, at that moment, for just an instant, I believed my words with all my heart.

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