Journey put in, as if to console him, “It does other things, too. I recall there was some sort of shielding power when it’s mostly unlocked. Don’t know how well it would work, though, with something like modern bullets.”
Her wording piqued Chet’s interest. He glanced at the morningstar-shaped object, currently in Fenimore’s lap. Fenimore’s mouth was closed tight and he cradled the device as if it were his child. Chet felt a protective twinge, too. The Raptus was an ancient tool of the Magicians, out of circulation for three-hundred years. This was his milk and meat as an archeologist.
“Still, I’ve never heard of this thing," he said at last.
Journey leaned back and stretched; even in the dim light of the storm, Chet could see her muscles flex. And, um, other parts of her body move, too. “I’m not surprised. The Raptus was lost and forgotten, save by us and the Shadow Dancers.”
“You keep mentioning the Shadow Dancers.” Chet was trying not to look at her breasts, as he wanted to keep his mind clear. Clearer. What had the Flame said yesterday about Rory’s people? And Rory herself had acted affronted by their presence, which wasn’t in character for her at all.
“Aiena was the goddess in charge of cataloguing Foex’s things after he drank himself to death. Some of Foex’s creations she used or taught to other gods, like Pelin’s barrier that has such prominence in the history of Palister. Other creations were more difficult. Some she buried, and some she destroyed.”
Chet swallowed as a wave of self consciousness washed over him. Journey wasn’t including herself in this litany of historic events—and interactions with Pantheon members—but surely she had been around for some of it. Knife, too. Weren’t they among the oldest reincarnating people on Uos? They remembered. And here they were trapped together in a van, talking like normal people. Not like historic celebrities, quiet though they were.
Wait. Chet frowned, trying to remember. What had Journey said about the Shadow Dancers messing up? And Fenimore had just said something similar, hadn’t he? Perhaps that was how the Raptus had ended up in the hands of ambitious royal cousins, which had caused Knife and Fenimore to be dispatched by their prince.
Along the same lines, why did the Shadow Dancers need it back? “Did Aiena give the Raptus to her affiliates because she wanted them to have this mind-control power, too? Did one of them try to steal it?”
Knife said, "Just the opposite. Aiena was swamped while dealing with Foex’s things—let alone the Magicians’ things—after their deaths. She had too much to do before dealing with something so piddly that just impacts humanity. She realized that not just any human should be put in charge, so she gave it to her Shadow Dancers for safe keeping, and she took an extra step, too. You see, the Magicians had explicitly locked the Raptus by linking it to six of their own kind. It was the ultimate security measure. Magicians, of course, reincarnated like Flame.”
“They reincarnated before the existence of Flame,” Fenimore said.
Knife frowned at him, apparently perturbed at being interrupted. “Yes, yes. I cannot fault your classical education, Fen. In any case, Aiena decided it would be prudent to lock the Raptus for safety’s sake. Being that she is Pelin’s foster mother and that Flame were the only reincarnating god affiliates left on the planet, she asked the Council of Six to stand in as guardians. We’re even the right number.”
“We took on the responsibility knowing full well what might happen if we did not. We weren’t happy about it, though.” Journey lay down on her back and tucked her arms behind her head. Chet was vividly reminded she wore nothing but a fuchsia bra and satin panties. Oh, Pantheon, those tits were magnificent lying down, too... Chet wished she’d put on clothes, but they were still wet and would be for a while.
“Well, this sort of charge isn’t our specialty, is it? Not even mine.”
Chet frowned. “So why are we bound to it now? The four of us?”
Journey sat up. The movement didn’t help, and Chet tried to look elsewhere, failing miserably. Her breasts were too full and exciting, wrapped in those fuchsia shells. “We don’t know. It’s a problem.”
“Has it ever done anything like this before? In your experience.”
Both Flame shook their heads. Their eyes were round, expressions equally disturbed.
“The Raptus wants masters, I think. It wanted masters three-hundred years ago, and it doesn’t seem to have noticed the time gap,” Fenimore said. “My understanding is the Raptus can still be partially used, locked as it is, but not fully.”
Journey frowned. “Yet this seems very odd, what with you two being unaffiliated. I cannot believe that the makers of this object would wish to endow it upon random, unaffiliated people.”
Chet nearly groaned at this attitude. Of course, unaffiliated people were so random, the un-chosen and all. He turned to Fenimore. “Were the, um, royal cousins you were pursuing god affiliates?”
“Of course they were,” Fenimore sighed, making the same lemon-eating face.
Chet smiled at him. Fenimore understood. He was unaffiliated, too—just another guy. Just a guy from the 73rd century with an incredible will and sinewy musculature, but hey, Chet had to take them as he found them.
The rain grew more intense overhead. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed at the same time, incredibly loud. The inside of the van had grown even darker, Chet realized. No one could possibly see anything if they looked in the covered, steaming windows now, as Fenimore had done—less than an hour ago? It seemed longer.
Chet glanced around at the others. Knife and Fenimore were looking at one another with the same intense, hungry expression. Chet frowned, uncertain what they were thinking. Then Fenimore slowly stretched. Every movement languid, Fenimore began removing his shirt. His chest still had dust clinging to it. Chet noticed curiously that Fenimore’s torso wasn’t like those of bodybuilders: he was hairy and covered with imperfections, the most prominent of which were smallpox scars and healed knife wounds. Nevertheless, when he moved Chet could see his muscles ripple in the shadows. Then Fenimore leaned into Knife, his whole body arching over him like a bridge. Fenimore took hold of Knife’s shoulders and tried to push him down.
Knife was smiling, his eyes knowing. He reached up and grabbed Fenimore in turn, tossing Fenimore lightly to the bed beside him. “If you think you’re to be on top, you are surely mistaken.”
“I think you should throw yourself upon your back and stick your feet in the air, Flame, and be grateful about it,” Fenimore growled, fighting for leverage.
“Is that what you think?” Despite his satisfied purr, Knife didn’t quite have Fenimore pinned. Fenimore was smaller, but his reach was sufficient, his will just as intense.
Chet froze as he watched them play, not sure what he was seeing. Their movements were like a wrestling match in secondary school—only the guys in secondary school didn’t fight nearly so dirty. Maybe it was more like watching mating animals, except there was no male or female here, no obvious conclusions based on anatomy. They were writhing intently, each trying to gain ascendency over the other. Sometimes a moan emerged, sometimes a growl. Knife lost ground by getting Fenimore’s pants off; he immediately went under. Fenimore’s uncircumcised dick was hard, ready to go, his hips already bucking. Yet Knife wasn’t giving up without a fight.
Chet wanted to shield Journey from this, then realized she was no lady, she was Flame. Her eyes were shining as she stared, and her right hand... Chet’s inhaled in shallow bursts. Her right hand was inside her panties, touching herself with slow, circular movements. Her left hand, in turn, was stroking her satiny bra. The smell he’d noticed in Journey and Knife’s presence before had filled the van full force. Again, he was reminded of his former roommate Steve, though the connection felt inappropriate. Especially because Chet’s cock responded readily, rising to full mast.
“Hah!” Fenimore had Knife’s boxers down, but an instant later he lost leverage as Knife grabbed him from beneath, flipping him onto his back. Chet gulped at the sigh
t of a naked Flame. There was nothing obviously wrong with him, though. Knife’s penis was long and unusually thin—on purpose?
Knife threw himself on Fenimore and crooned in his ear, “That’s right, boy. You’re mine.”
“You can’t perforate me dry!” Fenimore snarled. He seemed genuinely outraged, and they both paused, as if the game were in timeout. Then they turned to look at the curtain separating the driver’s seat.
“Excuse me, miss?” Knife called out. “Do you happen to have any oil-based lotion or cream on hand?”
The prostitute stuck her head though the curtain. Chet, who hadn’t seen her before, blinked in surprise. Flaxen skinned, she was chubby cheeked and amazingly young; she actually looked like one of his sisters. She didn’t seem at all shocked at the position Fenimore and Knife were in. The idea of two men—or a man and a Flame, rather—in such a compromised position didn’t seem to faze her. Did she often harbor homophiles in her van?
The prostitute pointed helpfully. “Look in the second wire rack from the top, behind the magazines. See it?”
“Thank you,” Knife said.
Chet craned his head. He hadn’t noticed the organization racks screwed into the back of the seat. They held all sorts of items, the bulkiest of which were clean towels. He was vaguely reminded of the tools table at the dig site in that everything necessary was at hand, carefully prepared and organized.
Knife squirted a generous dollop into his hand. Chet held his breath until he realized that oil-based anything won’t hurt the Flame. Then he frowned. What about spit? Or semen? Or whatever fluid women had?
He glanced at Journey. “Won’t he be burned by, um, bodily fluids?”
“Hardly.” She grinned up at him. Her hand rested outside her panties, to his relief. “We wouldn’t be very well designed if that happened. No, by Pelin’s grace, we can interact with bodily fluids without burning.”
“But that... makes very little sense, when you think about it.”
“Pelin is a goddess. She doesn’t have to bow to the laws of nature nearly as often as you and I.”
Fenimore waited patiently on his back, legs upright and spread. The timeout was apparently in full effect. Knife massaged the thick liquid into Fenimore’s ass without further comment.
Feeling like an anthropologist in the field, Chet whispered to Journey, “Won’t Knife need some, too?” Or was it now assumed by everyone that Knife was going to, er, penetrate Fenimore? Was the ritual mating fight over?
Journey rolled her eyes, as if she wished he’d just let her watch the live show, but she said, “As I’ve mentioned before, Pelin is thoughtful in many ways. Our asses never require lubrication, or even stretching in advance, since we’re fully capable of shaping ourselves to match whatever comes our way.”
“Oh.” Chet hunched, feeling vulnerable.
Journey smiled up at him, her expression more hungry than friendly, her body turned his way. Chet felt himself straighten automatically at her attention. It was funny how she seemed no less feminine with a bald head. Really, one got used to that feature quickly. Especially because Journey was otherwise physically breathtaking. The smell in the van now filled him completely, making him feel heady with longing. With, with lust.
“You’ll have to forgive me," Journey murmured as she reached over and touched Chet, stroking her fingers up his arms. “I feel the need to take something for myself here.”
Chet mewled as she pulled him onto the other side of the hefty bed. Luckily, Knife and Fenimore were standing up as they did their—business. Journey stripped Chet with a thoroughness and efficiency usually reserved for the armed forces. She brushed his cock with her hand and he gasped, trying not to come.
Journey frowned. “I think I’d best be on top. We don’t want you spent too soon, do we? You are not to move without permission, and that means no thrusting up into me. Do you understand?”
He nodded frantically. She pulled off her panties—her cunt was hairless, too—and mounted him as if she were riding a ceros with one critical difference. Chet gasped as she reached down and slipped him inside her. Oh, she was wet, and warm, and tight, and... and perfect. So perfect. Chet began moving instinctively, and she slapped his chest, a playful swat rather than a real blow.
“I said hold still, boy. You are inside me, and I’m in charge here. Do you copy?”
“Y-yes, ma’am,” he whispered, then put a hand over his mouth, regretting the rude slip. Journey was not a ma’am, she was Flame. But Journey didn’t withdraw. Indeed, she barely seemed to have heard him at all.
Chet couldn’t believe his luck. He was inside her, warm and wet as a tropical ocean. Journey rocked above him, breathing in time with each scintillating movement. She threw back her head and moaned. He wished he could touch her breasts, still enclosed by the satin bra; they were the central focus of his world. Chet bit his lip, hands outstretched without touching.
Journey seemed to have noticed, for she reached back and unclasped the bra, tossing it away apparently without a second thought. “There you go. Please, feel free.”
Oh, Pantheon, her breasts were huge. Chet had never touched human breasts except through clothing. He couldn’t believe he’d waited so long. They were soft, marvelous, the nipples and areolas profoundly exciting. Journey’s bouncing movements accentuated the luminosity and impact of her breasts. Even the snug encompassing of his cock dimmed compared to this treat.
It occurred to him, somewhere in the back of his head where he was still rational, that Journey had shaped her breasts large on purpose. Like distracting a baby with a pretty mobile? Journey had what she wanted, and she was willing to give him something in exchange. The thought made him crumple inside. He thrust up into her, blatantly disobeying her command.
Journey groaned and slapped his thighs. “Bad boy," she moaned. “Bad, bad boy.”
Her movement, her words, her tits—everything—filled him as he came, arching up into her.
Journey sighed and rolled off. “Shit. There goes my fun, for the moment.”
Chet glanced past her and realized that Fenimore and Knife were still in full coitus. Knife was on top, Fenimore was on the bottom, writhing and giving Knife trouble. Knife had him by the hair—such long hair—and was using it for leverage. Knife was taking Fenimore almost violently. The sound of their fucking filled the van.
Chet grabbed his own cock; he was getting hard again. Journey stroked his shoulders absently but made no move to mount him again. Was she angry? But no, she was smirking at Knife, who was clearly on the verge of coming. Chet, seeking a closer look, noticed that the base of Knife’s penis was now very thick. Huge, in fact. Knife let loose a wild howl as he climaxed, Fenimore snarling beneath him.
Knife and Fenimore parted. A thoughtful silence followed as people cleaned up. The towels in the organization rack were put to good use while Knife and Journey took turns with the lighter. Chet looked once, then had to look away. Even knowing that fire was their natural element, it still seemed painful. Fire to genitals, ick. Chet found himself facing Fenimore, who shot him a sly smile.
Fenimore’s smile took on a predatory glint as he studied Chet’s dick. “Ah, such a resoundingly fit model of the flaxen race. I’m honored.”
Chet scowled. “Great good Pantheon, I wish you’d knock that off. I’ve never met anyone so racist in all my life.”
“He doesn’t know that word, Chet,” Knife said from the other side of the van.
Chet glanced over at Knife. He and Journey were cuddling together, spooning—Knife in the back, Journey in front. They didn’t seem to be having intercourse. It looked... comfortable, like old friends enjoying one another’s company. Her tits were smaller now, Chet noticed regretfully.
Fenimore stepped closer, grabbed Chet’s shoulders and reeled him in. Chet froze, all thought of the Flame evaporating from his mind. Fenimore’s penis touched Chet’s, like two swords crossing. Chet gasped, overtaken by the sublime sensation. Then Fenimore threw him to the bed. Chet instinc
tively rolled over and tried to scramble away. He was stopped, locked down by rock-hard arms. With languid movements, Fenimore sank on top of him, pinning him to the mattress. It wasn’t even a contest. Knife could play these games, but Chet was nothing in comparison. He was soft, a rag doll for Fenimore’s pleasure.
Fenimore licked his ear. “Now, my little friend, I am going to explore your sweet arse and take you hard.”
Chapter 6
Taking One for the Team
Chet couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He didn’t know how to react, or indeed, whether there was any reaction he should be having. It was so strange to be lying face down and naked under a forceful man, about to be penetrated, trapped inside a prostitute’s van with Flame looking on. Let alone bound to a lost magical object of vast power. If someone had told Chet that he would be doing this a week ago, he’d have never believed it. He would have laughed.
He wasn’t laughing now.
“For Pantheon’s sake, LaDaven, ask for Chet’s consent first,” Journey said. Chet looked up. Though she was only a foot away, it might as well have been miles across the mattress. “He’s not a servant for you to plunder.”
“Don’t dare judge me, Flame. I notice you didn’t ask the boy’s consent before you took him. You had your pleasure as he whimpered beneath you, demolishing his virginity without a second thought. Now I seek to do the same, and you speak out on his behalf?”
Journey reddened and looked away. Chet blinked, utterly shocked at the insinuation that Journey had raped him. After all, she was a woma—no. She was Flame. Was Fenimore right? She’d certainly ordered him around, but he’d enjoyed it. She’d given him something in return. Would Fenimore?
Chet cleared his throat. “Could I, um, please sit up, Fenimore? I can’t see you at all like this.”
Chet felt Fenimore sigh as he rolled off. Chet sat up and folded his legs beneath him. He looked at Fenimore. He had the same bottle in hand that Knife had used and was squirting out the thick contents into his palm, giving it an extra squeeze as if marveling at the bottle’s construction. Chet gasped as Fenimore wrapped one hand around Chet’s waist, his wet hand disappearing under him. The oily fingers found Chet’s ass and penetrated him. Chet gasped, his eyes shut tight. The pain was worse than he’d imagined. Oooh, that was a tender spot. How could Fenimore’s entire dick possibly fit inside him?
The Artifact of Foex Page 6