Chet could use a rest day but missed his books intensely. Saemion offered up her collection of lurid pulp romance novels for his perusal. There were several set in historic time periods—Chet studied their covers doubtfully before selecting one and retreating to the barn. He gave up around chapter three, grumpy at the historically inaccurate details.
Fenimore, who’d been sharpening his blade on a leather strop, glanced up. “Rain’s stopped. Come on, let’s explore this place.”
The farm was beautiful, Chet had to admit. There were rolling pastures and bawling baby animals in pens. Masie came out with a bucket of scraps and fed the free-roaming palaeoth, who butted their blunt heads against her waist, nearly knocking her over.
“Get on with you,” she said with mock anger, slapping their furry haunches.
Saemion was outside in another cone-shaped hat, weeding the enormous vegetable garden, domesticated peteinos sifting the soil and making mewing noises at her side. For a while, Chet weeded beside her, breathing in the scent of fertile, wet soil while Fenimore poked about.
After a time, Fenimore grew bored and cajoled Chet until he got to his feet. “Look, there’s a lake over there.”
“That’s the doedicu range,” Saemion said, pausing to wipe her brow. “Their tails are clipped, but stay away from the male enclosure on the far side of the lake.”
Sure enough, Chet spotted his first doedicu as they wandered to the wooden fence. It was enormous, over six feet, its dome-shaped shell layered like ancient leather armor. More doedicus rushed the fence upon spotting them, shuffling quickly upon their short feet. Expecting treats, probably. Chet felt guilty about his empty hands and pockets. As Saemion had said, the doedicus’ tails had each been cut short at five feet long and lacked their famous spikes. Chet hung back as Fenimore held out a fennel bulb pilfered from the garden. A doedicu stuck its head out of the shell and whiffled the vegetable curiously with its thick beak. It took the bulb delicately, then scampered away on its short feet, head retracted into its shell to avoid the other doedicus crowding in for a taste.
“They’re really tame,” Fenimore said, breaking out into a grin. “I bet they’ll let us ride them. Come on, let’s try it.”
“But...” Chet swallowed as Fenimore vaulted the fence. Chet hunched. He was no athlete; he was a scholar, for Pantheon’s sake.
Fenimore glanced over his shoulder. “Unbend, you milk-livered pumpion. It’s time to grow a pair, eh?”
“If you think insulting me is going to make me do something stupid—”
“They’re tame, cream puff! Don’t make me come back there and get you.”
“Right. Tame, right.” Chet gulped and awkwardly climbed the rough, splintery fence.
The beasts sniffed him curiously. They were huge. Chet had once read that the coteries of Palister had required boys to ride an unclipped doedicu three miles before permitting him to be a man. In that culture, Chet would have been a boy forever. A baby doedicu, perhaps a season old, clung to its mother’s side as she investigated Chet. Chet found himself breathing easier around the baby animal. It was so cute.
“Come on, let’s ascend a big one together,” Fenimore said. He grabbed Chet’s hand and hauled him through the grazing herd.
Chet’s shoes, already damp from the wet grass, were soaked through as they stomped through mud. Where did the lake start, anyway? Chet looked over and saw several doedicus—or at least, their half-submerged shells—in the water. Amphibious grazers, they were at home in the lake as on land.
Fenimore stopped and surveyed the herd. “There, that one, the castrated male. Seven feet tall if it’s an inch.”
Chet groaned. “Fenimore, I don’t think this is a good—”
Fenimore grabbed his hand and hauled him to the doedicu. Then Fenimore let go and scrambled up its shell. The grazing doedicu ignored him. Chet bit his lip and followed—or tried, anyway. His feet kept slipping.
“You’re not going fast enough!” Fenimore snarled. He grabbed the neck of Chet’s sweater and hung on as Chet tried to find a foothold.
Perhaps it was his awkwardness that alerted the doedicu to their presence, for it stuck its head out, bellowed, and scampered on its tiny feet toward the lake. Terrified of falling to the distant ground below, Chet screamed up to Fenimore, “Don’t let go, don’t let go...”
Water splashed around them; the shell tipped as the doedicu dove. Fenimore didn’t let go of Chet so much as he lost his hold on the doedicu. They both fell into the lake. Chet splashed down, accidentally gulping water. It was cold. Oh Pantheon, it was cold!
Soaked through, Chet gasped and swam toward shore until he found footing in the soft, muddy bottom. Where was Fenimore? Could he even swim? Something grabbed Chet’s foot, hauling him sideways and underwater. Chet’s scream was lost in the lake. A moment later, he fought his way back to the surface, Fenimore laughing beside him.
“The look on your face.” Fenimore’s beautiful eyelashes dripping water, cheeks dimpled with mirth.
“That’s not funny!” Chet cried out, splashing at Fenimore. “I thought you’d drowned!”
“The venerable Countess LaDaven didn’t raise her sons to be cowardly of the sea. I spent my childhood summers at the seashore in Torque.”
“Bully for you," Chet grumbled, wading out of the lake.
Sardonic applause caught his attention, and he looked toward the fence: they had an audience. Saemion, Masie, and Othnielia had gathered there. Othnielia still wore his cone hat, yellow slicker and knee-high waders despite the fact that the rain had stopped.
“Good thing for you I clip tails and castrate my doedicus,” he commented as Chet hauled himself over the fence, Fenimore following lightly. “If you two had tried that with one of the intact males, you would have ended up with broken bones.”
Chet didn’t reply, stomping back toward the barn. He was wet, muddy, freezing and didn’t have a change of clothes. Not even a change of underwear. Undoubtedly, Othnielia could lend him something if he asked. How humiliating. Chet wasn’t going to ask if it killed him. Fenimore cheerfully chattered with the others and followed them as far as the house. Chet stumbled into the barn. It was warmer here, anyway. He stripped off clothes and laid them over the wooden beams. They dripped on the distant floor below, his shoes helplessly wet. Chet huddled under a blanket, teeth chattering and attempted once again to read the historically-inaccurate romance novel. He set it aside after a minute, seething. How dare Fenimore make him a laughing stock!
As if in reply to his thought, Fenimore’s head appeared in the ladder hole. He’d already changed into dry, borrowed clothing. “Here,” Fenimore said, tossing up a bundle of clothes. “These are for you.” He disappeared, grinning sardonically.
Chet unrolled the bundle, grateful despite himself, then froze. It was women’s clothing. There was a purple skirt and a low-cut blouse, a white bra and sexy pink underwear. Chet couldn’t breathe. Part of him was furious. What was this fresh humiliation Fenimore had dished up for him? Another part of him was... curiously aroused. The cloth was soft, the underwear and bra satiny. He’d never considered dressing in women’s clothing, yet here was the perfect opportunity.
Fenimore poked back through the ladder hole, hauling up a covered wooden bucket. “Still not dressed? You’ll catch your death.”
“Why didn’t you bring me regular clothes?”
“Is it not obvious? You scream so like a girl I thought you might as well dress like one as well.”
Chet scowled at him. “You’re so obnoxious, you, you...”
Fenimore touched him under the chin, and Chet abruptly lost his train of thought . “I had also thought how delightful it would be to pilfer you as a woman. Flame are not the only ones who can play such games.”
Chet’s muscles contracted at the thought, his penis hardening between one breath and the next. Fenimore noticed, grinning down Chet’s naked body under the insufficient blanket.
“Get dressed,” Fenimore ordered. “If you’re go
od, I shall undertake to educate you most thoroughly, little girl.”
Chapter 13
Loft and Cellar
Chet picked up the pink underwear, his chilled body suddenly warm with the thought of being fucked in women’s clothing. He slowly drew them up. The underwear did not in any way cover his erect dick; in fact, his circumcised glans stuck out of the top.
Fenimore groaned at the sight. “Oh, you’re a sweet package I’ll enjoy tearing open. Go on, cover yourself. Be modest, girl.”
The bra was difficult. Chet had to fasten it backwards just to see the weird clasps. He’d never actually taken one off a woman, he realized—Journey had done all the work when she’d fucked him. Now he wished he had more of an education in that area. But once the bra was on and the right way around, he realized just how sexy it was, even empty of breasts. Fenimore, apparently awaiting this moment, handed him two small, unripe persimmons. Chet tucked one inside each cup and grinned. Instant breasts, at least for show. He finished dressing, noticing how the blouse accentuated those little bumps even further, the skirt brushing against his legs alluringly.
Fenimore lay back in the straw, hands behind his head. “Go on, walk up and down the loft. I want to see you wiggle your hips at me, girl.”
Chet walked, his face warm. He felt... sexy. He tried to wiggle his hips, and Fenimore snickered; Chet grinned back ruefully. “I just need some practice.”
“Mmm. I agree, practice is needed. You were always more feminine than me, even if Foex prevented us from living as actual women.”
“What?” Chet stared at him. What a weird non-sequitur.
“Try wiggling again.” Fenimore reached out a hand, and Chet sauntered toward him, trying for slower, circular movements this time.
“Better,” Fenimore said judiciously. “That’s a good girl.”
“Could I have your cock, please?” Chet said with sudden courage, ducking his head shyly.
He blinked, suddenly alarmed at the question that had passed his lips. How had this happened? How had he morphed from a student of archeology to a, a homophile asking for something forbidden from a male, um, lover? Had traveling with Flame changed him so deeply that he didn’t even think before doing something like this? Journey had put her finger right on it: he had always been aroused by both men and women.
His courage would fail him, yet he was wearing female clothing now, too. The clothes had certainly given him the audacity to ask for what he wanted.
“May I have your cock, please, sir,” Fenimore corrected.
Chet put his hands on his hips, deliberately keeping his wrists loose. “May I have your cock, please, sir? I am ever so hungry for it.”
Yes, the clothing was definitely making a difference. How odd. The Flame weren’t present—and they certainly hadn’t given him this strange power—but they’d shown him the way of it, hadn’t they? Chet remembered Knife pretending with everything he had that he was an innocent university student, even crying and shaking as the police held guns on him. Changing his shape hadn’t done that, not entirely. Knife and Journey had shown him that shifting was more than magic. It was attitude.
“I think you need to dance for me first. Show off your body, and give me something to look at.” Fenimore grinned up at him. “You need to earn my regard, girl. Only then will you get what you hunger for.”
It was so easy to lose himself in acting, to bury himself in the performance. As an undergraduate, Chet had once gone into a men’s club on a dare. Now he tried to emulate the dance moves he’d witnessed there. He ran his hands up and down his body, lingering at his breasts. He turned around and stuck out his ass in Fenimore’s direction. He knelt before Fenimore and jiggled his chest so that the bra and persimmons shook, too. He acted like a slut, enjoying every moment of it.
No matter how shocked he was in the back of his own head.
Fenimore, thoroughly engaged, unbuttoned thefly of his borrowed trousers and pulled out his erect cock. “Good girl,” Fenimore breathed. “Now take me lightly—lightly!—in your mouth. Cover those delectable pearls with your lips and swallow my sex. Do not brush me with your teeth, or I shall tie your hands together and flog you thoroughly with the ceros whip I saw hanging downstairs. Perhaps I shall do that anyway after I’ve had you.”
Chet gasped at the thought. He knelt before Fenimore, legs spread under the skirt. Chet’s dick popped free of the underwear, and he self-consciously tucked himself back in. Fenimore’s cock bobbed before his eyes as Fenimore stroked himself. Chet gently took it into his mouth. Oh, my, he thought, eyes wide. The taste wasn’t exactly to his liking, but the act was intensely sexual in a way he’d never experienced. In his surprise, his teeth brushed Fenimore’s penis...
Fenimore growled, grabbing Chet’s hair. “That’s one stroke, doxy. I said no teeth.”
No teeth, right. Chet tried to cover his teeth with his lips, but it was a struggle, especially because he wanted to feel Fenimore’s cock with his full mouth, enjoy and explore the soft texture to the utmost. Fenimore had other ideas. He controlled Chet with both hands, fucking his mouth. Every few strokes, Fenimore pushed himself deeper inside. Chet mewled and struggled for air. He would be released and the cycle would start again. Fenimore kept count for every time Chet accidentally uncovered his teeth, which was often.
Fenimore pulled out of Chet’s mouth when they reached twenty one. “That’s enough or you’ll be a bleeding mess by my hand.”
“...Sorry.”
Fenimore placed a finger over his mouth. “Little girls are to be seen, not heard. Turn around and show me your arse. On your hands and knees, mind.”
Chet obeyed, shaking. He wanted Fenimore’s penis inside him. Chet suddenly remembered that they didn’t have any condoms, but he didn’t want to stop now. Truly, he didn’t. He especially didn’t want to go banging on Othnielia’s door and ask for condoms, his cock sticking up like a spike beneath the skirt. Othnielia probably didn’t even have any; she didn’t need them, after all. Besides, what venereal disease could Fenimore have that was so bad? Modern medicine had undoubtedly far outstripped any 73rd century plague.
Fenimore rose and retrieved the bucket, uncovering it as he returned. Chet caught a whiff of doedicu lard. “You’re going to be a filthy little girl when I’m done with you,” Fenimore murmured.
Chet felt Fenimore lift his skirt as cool air wafted between his legs. Chet wiggled involuntarily, his dick popping out of the feminine underwear once again. Fenimore swatted him on the ass, and Chet squealed.
“Stay contained,” Fenimore ordered, tucking him back in. Chet almost came in his hands, gasping. Fenimore’s fingers lingered on his buttocks, still covered by the underwear, rubbing Chet up and down. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want your cock inside me.” The words burst out of him without checking in with the shocked part of his brain, the rational side. Chet felt exhilarated and powerful. He’d never before experienced this freedom, and he might not get another chance.
“You are a slattern,” Fenimore chuckled. “A little whore. Do you really want me to do a kindness to you?”
Do a kindness? Maybe it was an anachronism for fuck. “Yes, sir.”
“Ah, that’s my good girl. You’ve finally acknowledged me as your lord and master, eh? Such a sweet anuro. I think I shall have you after all.” Fenimore let go of his ass with his left hand, moving the underwear to one side with his right. A greasy finger found Chet’s ass, and Chet moaned, bearing down. The finger slipped inside him. The grease was both absolutely disgusting and the most sexual sensation Chet had ever experienced. Not that he’d felt many, but still. Fenimore greased him thoroughly, like a railroad engine.
“Oh sir, fuck me hard. Please fuck me. Do me a kindness,” Chet moaned. His cock slipped out once again, but Fenimore didn’t put it back. Chet could feel the front of the skirt against his dick, the underwear hem tight around his scrotum.
“Am I to fill your burning shame, doxy?” Fenimore’s tone was low, alluring. H
e grabbed Chet’s underwear and pulled it down to his knees, trapping them together.
Ew. Burning shame? Probably another anachronism, this one not nearly as sweet, but Chet was still aching to play along. “I’d give anything for you to fill me.”
“Perhaps I shall accommodate your base, hysteric lust, then. Spread your legs further and show off your civet. Wider. Wider. Good, like that. Common slut.”
Fenimore spat, and Chet felt the wad his hit back, through the blouse. He half turned, shocked to be treated with such contempt, but Fenimore mounted him and drove inside. Chet shrieked, his high-pitch tone sounding girly even in his own ears.
It was like being fucked by a machine. Fenimore took him hard, without reprieve, plunging deep inside. Chet groaned at the pain, feeling terribly feminine in the clothing. He really could feel himself become a whore for Fenimore: power of suggestion was nothing compared to being encompassed in the blouse, the fabric of the skirt, the bra clinging to his chest. And like a woman, Chet was disappointed when Fenimore came less than a minute after entering him.
“That wasn’t much,” he said, sprawled beneath Fenimore. “Thought you’d have more in you, sir, with all your talk.”
Fenimore grabbed Chet’s hair and pinned his head to the hay. “Just for that, girl, I’m going to stay inside you until I’m hard again.”
Chet frowned. He was compressed and splayed in this position. Surely Fenimore didn’t mean—? He did. Minutes passed as the man lay on top of him, wiggling just a little, apparently enjoying the position of ascendency. Chet had all the time in the world to regret his dive into the obscene. Despite everything, he was still aroused. Fenimore reached around and grabbed the persimmons still bound by the bra, squeezing them. Chet bore his touch, his own dick so hard it quivered. He wondered why he hadn’t come, why he didn’t come now. Perhaps the clothing was once again responsible for his restraint? If he’d been naked, he would have shot off just like that, but somehow he couldn’t quite come as a woman.
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