torqued tales

Torqued Tales This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. Torqued Tales TOP SHELF An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers PO Box 2545 Round Rock, TX 78680 Hans und Georg Copyright 2007 © by Mychael Black, Tiger, Tiger Copyright 2007 © by Laney Cairo, Locks of Love Copyright 2007 © by Jordan Castillo Price, Happy Whenever Ever Copyright 2007 © by Dallas Coleman, For Kingdom's Sake Copyright 2007 © by Jane Davitt, The Master Cat Copyright 2007 © by Kiernan Kelly, The Nature of the Beast Copyright 2007 © by Kara Larson, Snow White and Rose Red Copyright 2007 © by Jay Lygon, Godwyn of Coventry Copyright 2007 © by Renee Manley, Trip Trap Copyright 2007 © by Syd McGinley, Little Cowboy Riding Rig Copyright 2007 © by Sean Michael, A Fucked Up Fairytale Copyright 2007 © by Willa Okati, The Emperor's New Clothes Copyright 2007 © CB Potts, Outfoxed Copyright 2007 © by Angelia Sparrow, Jack and the Big Ole Pinto Bean Copyright 2007 © by Julia Talbot, Lie to Me Copyright 2007 © by BA Tortuga, The Bat Prince Copyright 2007 © by Elisa Viperas, The Three Little Twinks Copyright 2007 © by Vic Winter, Roy Le Roy and the Bears of Hangman's Bluff Copyright 2007 © by Cat Zheng Cover illustration by Pluto Published with permission ISBN: 978-1-60370-058-0, 1-60370-058-7 www.torquerepress.com All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680. First Torquere Press Printing: June 2007 Printed in the USA

2

Table of Contents Foreword by SA Clements - 4

The Emperor’s New Clothes by CB Potts - 5

Tiger, Tiger by Laney Cairo - 16

The Bat Prince by Elisa Viperas - 27

The Master Cat by Kiernan Kelly - 42

Lie to Me by BA Tortuga - 66

For Kingdom's Sake by Jane Davitt - 78

Snow White and Rose Red by Jay Lygon - 97

Hans und Georg by Mychael Black - 109

Trip Trap by Syd McGinley - 119

Godwyn of Coventry by Renee Manley - 139

The Three Little Twinks by Vic Winter - 150

Jack and the Big Ole Pinto Bean by Julia Talbot - 157

Outfoxed by Angelia Sparrow - 164

Little Cowboy Riding Rig by Sean Michael - 173

The Nature of the Beast by Kara Larson - 181

Happy Whenever After by Dallas Coleman - 198

Locks of Love by Jordan Castillo Price - 202

Roy Le Roy and the Bears of Hangman's Bluff by Cat Zheng - 219

A Fucked-Up Fairytale by Willa Okati - 226

About the Authors - 238

3

Torqued Tales

Forew ord:

Or Once Upon a Time in Ce nt ral Texas

There lived an editor who had the urge to collect stories from some of the most prolific and talented authors in gay romance, to go to these authors and beg for stories that came from a creative Neverland. I've loved fairy tales from the moment I knew they existed. Fairies, elves, knights, dragons, tin soldiers and evil queens. Princes and princesses, merpeople and trolls. Wild-eyed hags and slavering beasts that waited for the unwise to trip themselves up, throw themselves under the bridge, find treasure or lose everything. Man, I'm so in. Now that I'm an adult, I admit I look for fairy tales of another type - stories that have an edge, that make me laugh, that are, well, twisted. Within this anthology you, dear and gentle reader, will find nineteen tales of magic, of passion, of wicked humor and not-entirely pure intentions. There's a little leather, a few cowboys, some whispers from Down Under, not to mention cats and bats, beans and bears, a naked regent and the biggest baddest fairy you'll ever care to meet. Don't forget to leave yourself a trail of breadcrumbs so you can find your way back to reality. Oh, and I wish you a happily ever after. SA Clements, editor May 2007

4

The Empe ror's New Clot hes By CB Pot ts Long ago and far away, best beloved, there was a kingdom. Technically, of course, it should have been an Emperor-dom, for it was ruled over not by some lowly King - after all, you can get Kings six for a dollar at any decent bazaar these days, and twice that on Sundays - but by an honest to goodness Emperor. And if you don’t think that’s special, well, all I can say is that you must be new to the land of fairy tales. As such, I bid you welcome and beg you to sit and stay, just for a while. For anyway, in this Kingdom that should have been an Emperor-dom, there was, in fact, an Emperor. Oh, what a glorious specimen of manhood he was! This is not something that I’m saying simply because I am a lowly teller of tales and the Emperor who ruled this kingdom, which in truth should have been an Emperor dom (and you’ll forgive me, best beloved, if I stop belaboring this point, having now reached the conclusion that it has worked quite hard enough!), has entire legions of soldiers most well equipped with bright shiny implements of destruction. No, I tell you these words because they are the truth, or at least the most reasonable facsimile thereof that you are like to find. Verily, the Emperor was a beautiful man, tall if you like that sort of thing, short if you did not. With a complexion both pale and dark, eyes of the summer sea and winter sky, he was so handsome that his own mother could not stand it and in fact pitched herself right out the window rather than have to live in the reflected glory of such a beauteous babe. You would think that the people would love such a man. You would be wrong. Now, best beloved, I do not blame you for being most confused. Beauty is the highest virtue, is it not? We prize the pretty above the substantial every time, and will clasp the foul bejeweled serpent to our bosom while giving the loyal yet mangy cur the back of our boot. But perhaps I am preceding myself to the conclusion of this tale, which I have not yet, in truth, begun to tell you. Beginnings sometimes are longer than the entirety of a piece, ‘tis true. This is largely because the honorable and proud tradition of fairy tales developed long before the perhaps less honorable yet doubly proud tradition of editors burst forth upon the land, to scourge us verily with the lash of proper punctuation and awkward clause construction. But to the point we always must return, and the point to which we are returning, with sorrow in our hearts for ‘tis a sad, sad point - is the state of regard in which the populace held their Emperor. It was, indeed, a low one. “Sure,” they would say, clucking their tongues in a most worrisome way - for what is more worrisome than the clucking of tongues on all save a chicken? - “He is a babe. But he is a moron.” Could such heresy be true? Could such a babe, as the vulgar tongues would have it, honestly be weak in the brains department? Could such magnificence be less than brilliant? Might he be, in fact, a moron?

5

Torqued Tales

The evidence seemed to be with the people, I’m sad to say, and I’m sure that even that menacing fellow in the corner with the particularly sharp and shiny implement of destruction who just happens to be wearing Imperial regalia would agree with me. Where was the disconnect? What had separated the most beautiful Emperor from the affections of his people? Surprisingly, or perhaps not surprisingly, it was money. The surprise lays only in the level of your cynicism, best beloved. If you were pure of heart, idealism not yet tainted by what the baseborn call reality, you may indeed find yourself shocked by even the supposition that cash flow was enough to destroy affection. The rest of us know that that’s often the way of things. You would like me to elaborate further upon this point? What good people you are, to make a sad taleteller’s heart ring with joy, for I’ve a tale to tell and listeners to listen to it. There is no greater bliss to be had, at least not while I’m still under the watchful eye of the menacing fellow in the corner. Did I mention he had some particularly shiny and fearsome implements of destruction with him? ‘Tis true, but I’ll not let that stay my words, for my words are the truth, at least, while I am saying them. You see, in those days, the Emperor was exceedingly fond of fine clothes. So fond he was, so terribly, terribly fond of making himself beautifully well-attired that he spent all of his money - and all of the people’s money - and all of the people’s people’s money, so not even the richest merchant in the land had a farthing to spare - rigging himself out. The Emperor cared nothing for his soldiers. Indeed, they had to provide their own sharp and shiny implements of destruction themselves, for the Royal Treasury could not bear the burden of an additional, non-clothing-related expense. The Emperor cared nothing for the theatre - he’d not step one extremely well-shod foot near a stage unless a fashion show was being presented upon it. He cared nothing for drives in the country; the populace of some cantons had not seen him in so long that they’d actually forgotten his existence and lost their crucial national identity. In the resulting confusion, they decided that they must in fact be Flemish, and you know no good ever comes of that type of thinking. All of the Emperor’s time was consumed with issues sartorial: shopping for, commissioning, trying on and showing off new clothing. He had a robe for every hour of the day, twice that on Sundays. The advisors were in despair. When they talked to their counterparts in other lands, they would hear that the heads of those illustrious states were ‘in council’ or ‘in conference’. Imagine their shame when they would have to, time and time again, own up to the fact that their Emperor was ‘in wardrobe’. That type of thing can be fatal to a bureaucrat, especially if he is of weak constitution. Fearful of their health, not to mention the dignity of their position, it may be that a minister here and an advisor there let the Emperor know of his displeasure. These words did not sit well in the Emperor’s ear - but neither did they weigh heavily enough to spur him to action. After all the spring season was about to start, and he needed a whole closet full of new clothes to welcome the warmer weather. That’s where things sat when the weavers arrived. *** 6

The arrival of weavers in the city was nothing new. Much of the land was consumed with the production and use of fabric. Indeed, a whole garment district had sprung up around the Emperor’s whims. The land lived in response to his wardrobe wishes; when he favored bright red fabrics, entire districts were denuded of cochineal beetles. The Emperor’s fancy turned to blue, and fierce warriors went to battle without their woad. It was the way of this kingdom, this kingdom that in truth should have been an Emperor dom. But these weavers were different. They did not make fine white linen, nor shimmering silks as fine as an asthmatic virgin’s breath. No heavy wool came from their looms, nor the most mystical of petro-chemical based rayons. In fact, nothing came from these weaver’s looms, nor would it, they claimed, until they had a chance to talk with the Emperor. Now, this was greatly distressing to one of the myriad of minor functionaries that flittered round the Emperor like fruit flies near a rapidly-failing banana. Full employment was his watchword, and he was most determined that there should be no idle hands on his watch. Yet these weavers would not work, they said, until they saw the Emperor. So the minor functionary pulled strings and shuffled appointments. He played games with the Royal Fitting Schedule and - at great personal risk, mind you! - even affronted the Keeper of the Clothes Press, the second greatest official in all the land, save the Wardrobe Master. All of this to get the two weavers - Jacob and Johan, their names were, in case it interests you, which I can’t see why it would, save that you were the type of person who would be interested in things like what the two weaver’s names were, and in that case, you should now be well satisfied - in front of the Emperor. Once he’d accomplished that, the minor functionary - and his name doesn’t matter, even if you are the type of person who cared about such things, because if you were, you would have asked me before now, and you didn’t, so there you go, capitalizing on an opportunity brought to you by Jacob and Johan, who you will remember are the two weavers from the paragraph previous - found himself watching the most tremendous performance he’d ever seen. This is perhaps not remarkable. After all, the total lack of royal interest in the arts theatrical had not been terribly good for the local playhouse. Serious thespians had long since departed the kingdom, opting instead to ply their trade where coins flowed freely from royal patrons and warm beds were assured the most comely performers. But let us not disparage Jacob and Johan’s performance based upon the naiveté of the heretofore and forthwith nameless minor functionary. No, it was not lack of judgment that made their salesmanship impressive. It was technique. “Woe!” Jacob said, upon seeing the Emperor, throwing his hands up in the air. “It’s true! It’s true! Those rumors we heard, fair brother, are tragically, woefully true!” “I see.” Johan circled the Emperor, taking in his attire with a critical eye. “Anyone can see it, really. Sad.” 7

Torqued Tales

“What?” The Emperor sputtered, most unused to this kind of treatment. Most clothiers approached him as if they’d found the Holy Grail of finance, the never-ending font of fortune. Which, in truth, they had, so their attitude was understandable. The change was most disconcerting. “What can you see? What is sad?” “They say clothes make the man, Your Majesty,” Jacob said, letting one hand glide down the front of the Emperor’s shirt. “You are a wise man, and it is well known that you appreciate the sentiment. Yet it’s clear that this…” he paused, as his hand drifted even lower, over an ornate waistband to a close-buttoned fly, “ensemble … fails to do you justice.” “We won’t even talk about the view from the rear.” Johan cupped his hands over the Emperor’s posterior. “With these awkward lines and poor fabric choices, I can’t tell if you have an arse at all, much less an Imperial one.” Their hands were demanding, knowing, and before long the Emperor found that he did not at all mind being pinned between the pair of weavers. “But what can be done?” he gasped, grinding his hips forward ever so subtly.

Jacob grinned. “We are most skilled in the fitting arts,” he said, timing a squeeze ever so carefully. “And

creating garments that will showcase all of your splendor.”

“Yes…” The Emperor said, closing his eyes for just a moment. “Please do go on.”

“And,” Johan said, rubbing his hands to create the most delicious sort of friction against the Emperor’s

backside, “we make all these clothes out of our magical cloth.”

Jacob was rubbing harder now, in a most persuasive fashion. “Magical cloth.”

“Bring me this magical cloth!” The Emperor bellowed. Then he looked down at the front of his freshly

stained trousers. “And do it soon!”

“Soon?” Jacob looked at Johan. “Oh dear.”

“Oh, dear,” Johan said to Jacob. “He wants it soon?”

The Emperor at this point was looking around for the Royal Cigarette Bearer, having forgotten that he’d

banished the lad in a fit of trendy health-consciousness.

“What?” He looked from one brother to the next. “There is a problem with my most royal command?”

“Oh, no, sire,” Jacob said.

“Certainly not,” Johan agreed.

“We’d be happy to provide you with the magical cloth - enough magical cloth to create an entire wardrobe,

and ensure you always feel as good as you do right now - but there may be complications.” Jacob shook his

head. “Producing the magical cloth is very expensive.”

“Am I the Emperor or am I not?” The Emperor raged. “I want the magical cloth, and I want it now.” He

waved his hands. “Spare no expense.”

8

Jacob and Johan smiled. “In that case, Sire, I don’t think there will be any problem.” *** Soon Jacob and Johan had set up shop in the most luxurious corner of the great weaver’s hall. The other weavers, perhaps a bit jealous of being upstaged by two newcomers, albeit very handsome

newcomers, gathered round to watch the pair at work. It was astonishing to see them bustle around their

shop, demanding the finest gold thread one minute, bolts of silver fiber the next. There was a clack and a

clatter from their loom that had never been heard in the city before - one nearby listener likened it, albeit

improbably, to the sound of a four-in-hand being driven down a flight of marble stairs.

If you’ve ever heard the cacophony that sixteen well-shod hooves makes when descending a grand staircase,

coupled with the music a carriage makes, bouncing and rattling over the self-same, you can imagine the

racket.

However, in the unlikely event that you’ve not seen such a spectacle - and if that is the sad case, I urge you

to move forthwith to a locale where such excitement is almost an everyday occurrence and eliminate the

chance of your untimely demise coming about as a result of sheer, overwhelming boredom - you’ll have to

take my word as your guarantee: the weavers were powerfully noisy indeed.

But for all the noise and bustle, all the chaos and confusion, very little in the way of actually weaving

appeared to be happening. None of the fine threads Jacob and Johan demanded went onto the looms: empty

shuttles clacked, and no fabric was appearing.

The head weaver, who’d lost his prime spot to the upstart brothers, demanded to know what was happening.

He confronted Jacob and Johan in a shadowy corner.

“What are you two about?” he raged. “You’re playing at weaving, and stealing the Emperor’s gold - gold

that should be mine!”

“Now,” Johan purred, “You can’t expect me to believe that a man as wise as yourself cannot see our magical

cloth.”

In a completely unrelated turn of events, Jacob sank to his knees in front of the head weaver and began to

undo his breeches.

“For we know that all who have great wisdom and insight can see the intricate pattern we’ve woven with

these fine threads.” Johan pointed to the empty loom. “And marvel at the lustrous sheen of the finished

bolts.”

The head weaver gasped aloud, as his shaft was treated to a sudden surprise he’d not experienced since he

was a very young man: two decades and three wives ago, he’d thought such a thing was but a memorable

dream.

“I do see it,” he gasped, letting grateful fingers trace across the top of Jacob’s head. “It’s a marvel!”

The head weaver walked - or, if we were going to worry about accuracy in this fine tale of ours, and why

should we not be, if we’ve the option, staggered - away, beaming from ear to ear.

“That magical cloth is the finest thing I’ve ever seen,” he declared to all who would ask. “A wonder to

behold! Any who can’t see that must be the worst sort of fool!”

9

Torqued Tales

***

Soon the city was buzzing with the tale of the magical cloth, so fine that it could only be seen by the wise. Everyone was eager to see the fabric - and more importantly, to see if their neighbors could see it as well! There was such a crush to see the weavers at work that the pair began to book appointments. Only the most important ministers and craftsmen were deemed worthy to gain entrance to their loft; Johan would greet them with great ceremony and explain the marvels of the fabric. Jacob would do his part to ensure that the officials were equally entranced with all things textile. The ministers and chamberlains, officials and pundits, who visited left, finding them in a most unusual state of unity: all agreed that the fabric was the most marvelous thing they’d ever seen. All were determined to keep a diligent eye upon its progress. A very diligent eye. *** It did not take long for the Emperor to hear of his cabinet’s great interest in the new clothes. He found their concern to be most surprising for, before this point, their position on matters sartorial was one of grudging acceptance at best, outright disdain at worst. So he grabbed his most trusted, yet contrary, advisor and asked him what he had thought of the weaver’s work. This advisor, who was indeed trustworthy, and not one who was ever afraid to speak his mind, looked his Emperor in the eye. Then he smiled, his mind filled with memories of Jacob’s most talented tongue. “The weavers,” he confided, dropping his voice so none save the Emperor might hear, “do works the like of which I’ve never seen before.” *** The Emperor decided that he must see this marvelous cloth for himself. It was so splendid, apparently, that even his most cynical advisor - one who had once dared presume that ten frock coats for a single week might be excessive! - found it impressive. Yet a slow and sinking dread kept him from descending to the weaver’s studio. “They say only the wise can see this fabric,” the Emperor mused. “And for many, many years my advisors have told me that I am not wise. The Treasurer has called me a fool, and the Generals think I’m the worst sort of idiot.” He shook his head, recalling a long lifetime’s worth of arguments. “What if they’re right? What if I cannot see this fine fabric because I’m a fool?” He confronted his reflection, which, if the truth were to be told, was something that this Emperor did regularly. It wasn’t often that he was far from a mirror’s comforting companionship, the shiny surface the most loyal advocate one could employ in the quest for the perfect ensemble. 10

But for all the times the Emperor looked into the mirror, this may well have been the first time that his

Imperial Majesty truly saw himself within it.

“Oh well,” he sighed. “Better a fool who knows it than one unaware of his station.”

The Emperor left his chambers. He was going to see this marvelous fabric while it was still on the loom.

*** “Your Majesty!” Jacob’s voice was smoother than freshly spun silk. “What a pleasant surprise.” “Yes, uh,” the Emperor began. “I thought that I too would see the cloth the whole city’s chattering on about.” “Right this way, Your Majesty.” Johan led the way into the loft, carefully locking the door behind them. “I think you’ll be well pleased.” The Emperor’s first glance at the loom left him feeling anything but pleased. He could see nothing save the heavy wooden frame: no warp threads glistening in the sunlight, no weft threads like fine spider webs ensnared. The glittering, glamorous fabric the whole city was buzzing about was invisible, at least to him. “I am a fool,” he cried, aghast to have his suspicions confirmed. “For I cannot see this magical cloth!” “Really?” Jacob stepped up most possessively behind the Emperor and pushed the royal locks out of the way. “I think if you look again, you’ll be surprised.” With that, he lowered his lips and began to kiss the Emperor’s neck. “No,” the Emperor cried. He turned stricken eyes upon Johan, not at all sure what he was supposed to do in the face of unexpected embraces. “I don’t see it.” Johan smiled. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty.” He sank to his knees in front of the Emperor. “Give us but five minutes, and you’ll be able to see the cloth entire.” Now, of course, you won’t want to hear about the scandalous acts that ensued at this point. Such tales might be fine for late night gatherings at the tavern - the rougher taverns, in the more squalid corners of this most refined town, though of course I would never, myself, know of such a place, being a tale teller who prides himself on only visiting the honorable, upstanding… What’s that? You want to hear the rest of this tale? Even you, oh keeper of the Emperor’s honor, resplendent with your bright and shiny implements of my destruction? You want to know what happened that night, between the Emperor and the two blonde brothers? Yes, yes, they were blonde. I must have mentioned that. It’s not the type of thing a tale teller forgets, you know. After all, how often do you have a story featuring two blonde men, so identical that they appeared to be twins, though they shared no common parent, who looked like Nordic Gods…

11

Torqued Tales

I didn’t mention that? Not at all? Are you quite sure? I must have told you about Jacob’s lush, pouty lips, full as a ripe apricot. And of course I told you about Johan’s piercing blue eyes, clear as aquavit, shot through with the chilliest hues of ice. No reputable tale teller would leave that out. I really think you should put down that sharp and shiny implement of destruction. It makes it unbearably difficult to concentrate on the tale I’m telling. Of course I’m telling a tale. What in the world makes you think I’d do otherwise? Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the whole city had been struck dumb by the marvel that was Jacob’s mouth. You know that mouth, the one that was currently busily chewing upon the Emperor’s neck? They had lost the power of speech temporarily. Had they felt instead Johan’s oral prowess, they’d be muted forever. Johan fell on the Emperor the way a pack of rabid dogs falls on a buffet table, with an all encompassing fury, consuming as deeply as possible as rapidly as possible. “My God,” the Emperor gasped, feeling his balls flatten against Johan’s chin. “What is happening here?” Johan gave a little flip with his tongue that should have rendered the answer self-evident, but far too many generations of close conjugal relationships among the crown-wearing set had not resulted in an Emperor terribly swift on the uptake. Jacob chuckled against the Emperor’s ear. “We’re going to help you see the magic, Your Majesty.” He let his hands push the fine cut breeches covering the Imperial arse all the way down. “Wisdom can come from surprising places.” Dropping to his knees, Jacob then proceeded to point out one of those surprising places with his tongue, having spread the Emperor’s shocked cheeks wide. “Gaargh!” “Yes,” Johan said, slipping off of the Emperor’s prick for a moment, milking the shaft with very skilled hands while he spoke. “Can you see the fabric yet, my liege?” “Almost!” The Emperor’s hips were bucking backwards, pushing his ass toward Jacob’s face. “I swear it! Just don’t stop!” Johan smiled and took the Emperor in his mouth again. Long practiced in the art of persuasive dance, it didn’t take long for the two to find their rhythm; Jacob would plunge his tongue deep inside just as Johan opened his throat, his partner’s retreat was timed to match the Emperor’s. Johan let his hands settle on the Emperor’s narrow hips, where they were promptly covered by his partner’s hands. One would push as the other pulled: they shared the most intimate of kisses this way, with only the Emperor’s body separating their lips. “That’s it!” The Emperor squealed. It was not the tone one would expect to hear from a head of state, owing more to gleeful abandon than magisterial reserve, but no one present thought to complain about it. “I can see the cloth!’’ His hands tightened in Johan’s hair, demanding and grateful all at once. “And it is beautiful!”

12

***

“We are glad that you like it, Your Majesty.” Royal garments had been buttoned, wrinkled pantaloons quickly smoothed. If it weren’t for the suspiciously high spring in the Emperor’s step and the super-nova smile he was wearing, one might never have known that anything had happened. At least until the Emperor talked. “Oh, I like it,” he purred, looking from one to the other. His hand reached out for Johan’s, clasping it tight. With his other hand, he pushed a stray blond lock back from Jacob’s forehead. “I like it very, very much.” *** At that point, the weavers were off and running. They began to work even faster at their empty looms, fingers flying. Then it was time to make the clothes - and wasn’t that a sight to see! The weavers were now, also, in clear defiance of all guild regulation and the custom of the time, skilled tailors; they alone had the ability to take this magical cloth and fashion fine garments from it. Jacob and Johan were up for nights on end finishing the clothes. With elaborate gestures, they pulled the invisible cloth off of the loom. They clipped at the air with great scissors, and then sat down to sew the invisible cloth with unthreaded needles. It took them an eternity - an eternity while they slept in the finest chambers and demanded that rich meals and strong wine be brought to them by the prettiest serving boys that could be found. The Emperor was fine with this. He was so fine with it that he maintained an uncharacteristically fine temper through the many fittings the weavers requested. The many, many prolonged fittings. *** Then the day arrived. The Emperor was going to don the new clothing, rendered of the most magical cloth, created by the superlatively skilled weavers who’d come to his kingdom, that in truth should be an Emperor dom. (Thought I’d forgotten about that, did you? I know you did!) It was a grand occasion. Johan held out the invisible breeches, and carefully guided the Emperor into them. Then Jacob held up the coat for his Majesty’s arms. “Aren’t they wondrous?” Johan asked. “Light as gossamer! You wouldn’t think you had a stitch on, they’re so fine. That’s the beauty.” “Indeed I don’t,” the Emperor agreed, preening in front of the mirror. In truth, all he could see was his own naked form, but he could hardly admit that now, could he? Not after all those fittings. The ministers and chamberlains all congratulated the Emperor on his appearance, taking special care to congratulate both Jacob and Johan on what a magnificent job they’d done. Some even went so far to kiss the tailors upon both cheeks - a sign of high regard that had never, in long memory, been granted to any other clothier. 13

Torqued Tales

But Johan and Jacob were like no other clothiers. *** The legend had preceded the Emperor onto the main street. All the populace knew that only the wise could see the clothes - and conversely, that only a fool could fail to do so. The prudent had prepared their comments in advance, lest they be left with nothing to say. Their cries rang out as the Emperor progressed: “Aren’t the Emperor’s new clothes wonderful! What a lovely train he has to his robe! What a splendid fit!” The Emperor had never had that kind of reaction before, no matter what he was wearing. He was not a bad man but he was vain - vain enough that having his vanity stroked had a markedly tangible reaction. The crowd saw him stiffening, of course, but said nothing. Who could let on that they were the lone fool in the crowd, the one who couldn’t see the magic clothes? No one wanted to be considered stupid, and so the magic clothes were a great success. That was, best beloved, until they passed by a small child. You know this kind of child: they’re everywhere these days, the precocious tot who lets Great Aunt Mathilde know that she’s fat or clue in Uncle Horace that no one thinks his jokes are funny. We had one of those adorable creatures in my family, as a matter of fact, until he was tragically fed to a giant squid, completely by accident. That’s a good story. Remind me to tell it to you some day. But this child had not yet met his cephalopodan destiny, more’s the pity. Had he kept his mouth shut, we could still be enjoying the Emperor’s naked strolls through the city, and as I mentioned a few moments ago, he is a babe. I say that most respectfully, you realize, o holder of the sharp and shiny implement of destruction. So this child, to return to my point, for all points must be returned to, like crime scenes, only cleaner, was wholly incapable of keeping his wee mouth shut. When the Emperor walked by, he called out in loud ringing tones, the type that only occur when you need them least, “He hasn’t got anything on!” His father, well aware of the power of the Emperor, attempted to shush the child. Those around him looked straight ahead, lest their expressions indicate that they too knew that the Emperor was naked. “Uh-huh!” The child protested, determined to disregard parental advice. “He’s naked. I can see his Pee Pee standing up!” Maintaining illusion in the face of (and you’ll forgive me, I’m sure) such baldly stated truth was more than the crowd could bear. They dissolved into giggles, barely containing their mirth at the sight of a naked monarch. *** “What am I to do with you?” The Emperor, now wearing clothes made out of more mundane and hence opaque cloth, paced through his chamber. Johan and Jacob were bound to the wall, wearing only garments they might have woven themselves. “You have made me a laughingstock, and attempted to rob me blind.” He kicked the sack of silver and golden thread recovered from the pair’s quarters, a small ransom in fine metals. 14

“Forgive us, your Majesty.” Jacob looked ashamed. “That was not our intention.” “Hmmph.” The Emperor turned away. “I should cut that lying tongue out. But I find that I have a fondness for it.” And so it was, best beloved, that the kingdom lost two weavers that day. Do not cry for Jacob and Johan, though. The Emperor’s sartorial devotion remained steady, even if his expenditures were more prudent from that point forward. This was the tailors’ contribution to the kingdom that should have been an Emperor-dom that they would have robbed. They were now responsible for ensuring that the Emperor’s new clothes suited him well. That all of the Imperial garments be cut perfectly. To ensure this, the Emperor goes to Jacob and Johan for a new fitting every single day.

15

Torqued Tales

Tiger, Ti ger By Lane y Cairo The front bar at the Nannup Hotel was mostly empty, a few tourists sipping chardonnay while they flicked through travel brochures, and half a dozen locals, clustered around the gigantic TV screen, watching the frenetic action of a footie game. The barmaid, Trish, waved at me and reached for a glass. “G’day, Tim,” she said, tilting the glass so the beer she drew me had not a trace of head on it. “You’re quick. Didn’t expect you until this evening.” “Thanks for ringing,” I said. “Given the choice of being here, or staying in a departmental meeting, of course I drove over.” The middy of beer she pushed across the bar was frosty cold, and the first mouthful was heaven. I work as a field biologist with the Department of Conservation and Land Management Manjimup field office, in the southwest of Western Australia, and the thing about field biologists is that they always prefer beer to departmental meetings. “So, tell me about the sighting?” I said, and Trish leant forward across the bar, propping her ample bust on her folded arms, then checking to see if anyone was listening. “You know they’re building out at the Donnelly townsite?” I nodded. Donnelly was an abandoned timber mill hamlet, deep in the forest, and somebody was turning it into a luxury eco-retreat or something. “Well,” Trish said, and she dropped her voice lower. “Dave was taking a truckload of building supplies out there, early this morning, before sunrise, and he stopped for a leak, pulled the truck right over because there was a bit of mist and he didn’t fancy anyone running into the back of the truck. He’s standing there, in the bush, doing his bit, and when he glances up, there’s a fucking tiger watching him. It took off, into the mist, but he got a good look at it.” “Is he sure?” I whispered, leaning even closer to her. “Does he know what to look for?” My heart was pounding so hard it was shaking my ribs; for all the repeated sighting of the Nannup Tiger, there was still no proof. Trish, my reliable informant, shook her head. “He didn’t get a look at the hind legs or tail, so it might have been a feral dog.” “Stripes?” I asked. “Stripes,” she confirmed. Stripes were good enough for me.

16

One of the tourists stood at the bar beside me and wrinkled her nose disapprovingly, so I pushed some money across the bar to Trish for the beer and went back out into the rain. I needed some supplies, then I was heading out of Nannup, to Donnelly. There was a thylacine out there somewhere, waiting for me. I suppose I should explain a bit about the thylacine, which you’ve probably heard called the Tasmanian Tiger. Thylacines were marsupials, occupying the same evolutionary niche as the wolf, and were supposed to be extinct. The last known specimen died, miserable and alone, in a Tasmanian zoo in 1936. That’s what the books all say, but it doesn’t match the truth, at least in my opinion. Here, around Nannup, honest and sober locals have been seeing a strange, striped, dog-like creature for the past century, flitting through the dense jarrah and karri forest that surrounds the town. Problem is, no one has ever managed to get a decent photo. It’s not just in Western Australia either. In South Australia, Victoria and Tasmania, people keep seeing thylacines. Unfortunately, farmers and bushwalkers are not biologists, so the official verdict on the thylacine is still extinct. I filled my Land Rover up with fuel at the only petrol station in town, and grabbed a couple of meat pies to eat while I drove, then headed south and west out of town, into the forest. Bet you’re thinking I must be mad, and you could be right about it being an obsession, but I’ve got two words for you: Gilbert’s Potoroo. Believed extinct for over a hundred years, until a couple of dedicated field biologists accidentally caught one in a quokka trap, Gilbert’s Potoroo is still hanging onto existence. If the potoroo can do that, so can the thylacine. The sealed road ended at the turn-off for Donnelly. I kept my speed down as I bumped over the corrugated track. I didn’t expect to see anyone else on the road, especially a pedestrian, so the person shambling along the middle of the dirt track was a surprise. The man, dressed in rags, hair hanging down in clumps, lifted his head as I pulled the Land Rover to a halt beside him. He peered warily through the open passenger window, and I said, “Want a lift?” He was soaked through, and rain was still falling, light fading now the sun had dropped below the tree line. “… goin’…?” he mumbled, and I had to strain over the sound of the engine ticking to hear him. “Up into the hills behind Donnelly,” I said, and he looked at me properly for the first time and sniffed the air. The forests around Nannup are supposedly empty: endless hills covered in endless karri, jarrah and tingle trees, unmapped and virgin. The reality is that there are people in the forest, tending illegal marijuana plantations, harvesting the psychoactive mushrooms, chaining themselves to bulldozers, subsisting on the vermin rabbits, and generally complicating my job. I have no personal problems with the ferals, just as long as they didn’t ringbark trees, crap in the streams or get in the way when I’m doing a biodiversity assessment. I leaned across and opened the passenger door, and he scrambled in awkwardly, all elbows and filthy knees, banging the door closed. He smelled like a wet dog, but I knew what I’d smell like after a weekend hiking through dense undergrowth in the rain. The second meat pie was balanced in its paper bag on the dash, and my passenger’s gaze was riveted by it, so I handed it to him. 17

Torqued Tales

He smiled at me, teeth large and white in the gloom, and ripped the soggy paper open with his filthy nails, then pushed the whole mess into his mouth in one go, paper and all. “S’good,” he said inarticulately, then leant his head out of the open window and spat the paper out. I handed him the half of my pie that was left and put the Land Rover back into gear. Once that pie was disposed of, my passenger wiped his mouth on his arm and looked around the cab of the Land Rover. A toy thylacine dangled from the rear-vision mirror, a joke gift from my work mates, and he poked it with a cracked fingernail. “Small,” he said disapprovingly. I glanced at him, and he’d stopped playing with the toy and was hanging out of the open window, hair lifting in the rush of air, and he had a huge grin on his face, like a ride in a car was the biggest treat in the world. “What?” I said, and he pulled his head back in and made a clicking noise with his teeth. “Have you seen a thylacine?” “A whatta?” he asked, so I pointed at the toy thylacine again, then rummaged around down the side of my seat, looking for my clipboard. A decent enlargement of a photo of the last captive thylacine was stuck to the back of my clipboard. It’s a great photo, showing the amazing stretch of the thylacine’s jaws. My passenger grinned broadly and poked at the photo, chuckling to himself, then stuck his head out of the car window again. He was still laughing, I could hear his short bursts of amusement echoing off the forest pressed up against the edge of the road. I didn’t drive as far as Donnelly River. Instead, I turned off the dirt track and drove down a firebreak, away from the river, through dense tingle forest, huge trees meeting over the track, towering above the car. The firebreak only went down into the next valley, so presumably it was a logging track, not a firebreak, and I parked the car where the track petered out in a tangle of Proteaceae. “Close enough to where you live?” I asked my passenger. “’Anks,” he muttered, pushing ineffectually at the passenger-side door, so I leant across and undid the door for him. He didn’t actually smell as bad as I thought he would up close, just kind of muddy. He took off, out of the open door, into the forest, disappearing into the dense undergrowth immediately, and I had to shake my head in amazement as I picked up my pack out of the back of the car. It took me every last moment of daylight to get over the hill in front of me, scrambling over fallen jarrah branches, clambering through the basement layer of acacias, and my passenger had just melted away. That was a level of forest-craft I could only aspire to. I am competent enough, however, to be able to put my one-person tent up in the dark and rain. I was already wet and there didn’t seem much point in clambering into its cocoon yet, so I squatted on a fallen tree trunk

18

and ate my cold can of baked beans in the rain. Water trickled down my neck, and dripped from the brim of my hat, but I wasn’t unhappy or uncomfortable; quite the contrary. The night was loud with sound: water splashing, a creek nearby rushing; a barking owl screeched overhead, and I made a mental note to log the location of the owl when I got back to my office. Flying foxes flittered through the dark when I glanced up. I went to bed after my cold meal, propping my boots and waterproof jacket just inside the cocoon’s entrance, out of the rain and away from scorpions and spiders, and slid fully clothed into my sleeping bag. Other people, out in the dark and rain, might have had trouble sleeping, but I fell asleep instantly. I’d heard the sound in my dreams before, a short coughing bark, the top pitch high, with a rough low edge, but that time, when I sat bolt upright in my sleeping bag, my head colliding with the saturated tent surface, the bark kept going. The sound was close, not more than a few hundred meters away at the most, and I almost fell attempting to simultaneously get out of the tent and shove my feet into my boots. The cold air made me grab my waterproof jacket and shrug it on, then I stood in the tiny clearing I’d pitched my tent in and listened. Whatever was making the bark had stopped, possibly because of the noise I’d made, but I stayed there, motionless, straining to identify each of the forest sounds. The bark, ha-ha-ha-ha, was closer that time, making me gasp. No extant indigenous species made that sound, no feral cat, dog or fox either. I was hearing a thylacine. Digital recorder… It was in my pack, wrapped in plastic with my camera. I held the recorder in one hand and shielded it from the rain with my hat, and stood there in the wet, watching the tiny LED on the recorder flicker as it recorded the barking cough, through three full cycles, before I switched it off to conserve its battery life. I had the only known recording of a thylacine barking. I must admit, I didn’t actually know what to do then. Crashing through the bush, trying to find the thylacine, would be pointless. I was too loud and too slow. Going back to bed didn’t seem an option either, not with the barking cough still sounding, moving away from my camp and deeper into the forest. I made coffee on my tiny gas stove, and clambered back into my tent to wait for dawn and enough light to go looking for tracks. It wasn’t even dawn, just the first light that turned the forest monochrome, when I pushed my way down to the bottom of the valley, over branches, through undergrowth, grass trees whipping at my face. I filled my flask at the creek, to take back to the camp and boil, then began to scout around, looking for rabbit and roo paths through the dense thickets. The sun rose, somewhere outside the forest, casting enough light for me to see the disturbed leaf litter clearly, xanthocephala pushing luridly orange fruiting bodies up through the wet and rotting surface, coral fungi thriving, indicating how wet the topsoil was. The widest track, fifteen centimeters across, leading to the creek, was the likeliest track, and I crawled along it, identifying and discarding wallaby and rabbit droppings. I was so focused on droppings, looking for the dense cylindrical feces that would indicate a large carnivore, I didn’t notice the indentations in the humus at first.

19

Torqued Tales

I must admit I shrieked when I spotted the rear paw prints with heel indentations, and the long tail drag mark

between them, and my hands shook so badly I couldn’t get my camera to work at first.

I had a sample drawing of a thylacine spoor in my pack, along with a plaster kit, and I made myself sit for a

few minutes before I checked the marks against the drawings, just to make sure I was able to think again.

The spoor still matched, even after I’d calmed down, and my hands had stopped shaking enough that I could use my unboiled drinking water to mix up the plaster for the casts. It even stopped raining, so the casts had a chance of setting.

I squatted there, watching the numbers change on my wristwatch as I waited for the plaster to dry, and a

kind of silence settled over the forest; the kookaburras stopped warbling, the magpies too.

I looked up, and found the feral person I’d given a lift to the day before standing ahead of me, on the narrow

roo track.

“Hi there,” I said.

He smiled at me and nodded. “What are you doing?” he asked, pointing at the plaster drying on the track.

“I’m taking casts of foot and tail prints,” I said, and despite my earlier attempts to calm myself, I sounded

fanatical, even to my own ears. “Did you hear a thylacine last night? Do you live near here?”

“What’s it sound like?” he asked, squatting down on the other side of the plaster and poking it

experimentally.

He seemed a lot more articulate than the previous day, but I had no way of guessing what chemicals he’d

been under the influence of then. Balingup mushrooms were a potent combination of a whole lot of

psychoactives.

“Kind of like this,” I said, then I tipped my head back and did my best to imitate the barking cough I’d heard the night before, the sharp high notes and low rumbles echoing through the forest, setting a kookaburra off nearby. The man lifted his head too, and began to bark with me. It was a primal moment, the two of us barking, our voices winding around the trees. I tailed off, and he kept going for a few seconds, and he was bloody good, getting a resonance to the sound that I hadn’t managed. When he’d finished, the forest was silent, apart from the distant sounds of a possibly hysterical wallaby,

thud-crash-thud-crash, making its way through the undergrowth.

“Did you hear that sound last night?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Could have,” he said. “Have you got any food?”

The casts had set, so I lifted them carefully off the dirt. “I’ve got food. My name’s Tim, what’s yours?”

“Ben.”

I had tins of baked beans, and Ben emptied one of them into his mouth with his fingers while I put what was

left of the town water I’d brought with me on to heat for coffee. It was full morning, watery sunshine

20

slanting through the jarrah trees into the tiny clearing, and I wasn’t sure why, but Ben looked less wild than he had in the dusk, the matted hanks of his hair alternately dark and blonde. “So, this thylacine…” Ben said, then he paused to suck the last of the baked bean sauce off his fingers. “Why are you hunting it? What you going to do if you catch it?” “Not hunting, looking. It’s important to provide protection to any remaining thylacines. They need a secure, safe reserve, so they can hunt and breed without any risk from humans.” Ben chuckled. “Good things, hunting and breeding.” The water in the billy started to boil, so I turned the gas off and poured water into my enamel mug, over the top of the instant coffee, then added a squeeze from a tube of condensed-milk-and-sugar. One mug, and courtesy required I offer it to my guest first; I just hoped his dental hygiene was good, despite his crumbling jeans and shredded T-shirt. Ben took the mug and breathed in, inhaling the steam, and let out a deep sigh, then grinned at me. His teeth were white, gleaming through his straggling beard, and I had to grin back. He closed his eyes and sipped the coffee, let out another sigh of pleasure, then drained the mug. “Been a long time,” he said, handing me back the empty mug. When he stood, I stood too. I don’t know whether it was the elation of finding the spoor, or the wild beauty of the morning, but when Ben kissed me—flicker of lips against mine, smelling of rain, tasting of coffee—I didn’t pull away, just kissed him back. His hands curled around my upper arms, gripping me tightly and pulling me close to him, so his beard tickled my face and I could feel the heat radiating from his body. The mug clattered to the ground, and I closed my eyes and fell into kissing him. It felt completely right when he slid his mouth wetly across my day-old stubble, scraping his teeth down my neck, sucking on the skin, his tongue slick against my throat, and I could hear myself moaning. It was amazingly good, making me hard, and I didn’t even consider protesting when Ben pushed me down onto the leaf litter, not when he was grinding himself against my thigh, making the hottest snuffling and gasping noises against my neck. He shifted his weight up a little, lifting himself so his cock was rutting against my groin, and kissed me again, and it was as wild and crazy as when we’d both barked at the forest. If I was horny—you wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to get laid in a small country town like Manjimup when you’re queer—then Ben was hornier, because before I’d even had a chance to get my hands inside his ragged clothing, he was shouting inarticulately and shoving his clothed cock hard against my belly. He collapsed down onto me and started laughing breathlessly, and he was right, it was about as funny as it could be, so I laughed too. It stopped being funny, and went back to fucking hot, when he crawled down my body and unzipped my trousers. He was all tongue, slippery and wet, and it felt far better than it had any right to, making me grab at his multi-coloured hair, desperate for more contact, enough sensation, pretty much anything.

21

Torqued Tales

His teeth scraped down my cock, and it should have hurt, but it didn’t, not once his tongue had wrapped

around my cock and his head was moving under my hands.

I came, loud in the forest, and when I opened my eyes, blue patches of sky were visible between the

towering jarrah trees. Blue sky day, thylacine day, smile day.

Ben lowered himself back over me, so his body was over mine, and he smiled and licked his lips

suggestively, pulling my trousers and underwear down, sliding his hard cock between my thighs.

I could do frottage, absolutely, so I squeezed my thighs together, trapping his cock, letting him use the

friction against my skin to get off.

Ben’s back, when I slid my hands across it, was coarse with wiry body hair, making the tips of my fingers

tingle, and his cock leaked copiously, turning my thighs slippery as he hissed and growled.

That time I got to watch his face, thick beard, luscious red lips and tongue, eyes half closed as he grimaced

and his come spurted against my thighs, going on and on.

We kissed, his weight pressing me into the dirt, and fuck, he was still hard, if out of breath.

“Bark,” he said, and there was something about him, about the way he smelt and felt, about how he touched

my cheek.

“Bark?”

“Like before,” he said, and he gave me his odd, clicking smile.

We were deep in the forest, bull ants had discovered the bits of my skin that were exposed, and I’d found

good evidence of a thylacine. Being asked to bark seemed almost normal.

It was difficult at first to stop laughing long enough to do the thylacine’s barking call, especially with the

feel of Ben’s cock still rubbing between my thighs, then Ben braced his hands in the leaf litter and began to bark too. The noise was giddying, reverberating through me, doing things to me that I didn’t understand, so my head swum and my whole body tingled.

Ben’s belly, coarse with hair like his back had been, rode across my cock, making me hard again. Coming

like that, Ben nipping at my throat, both of us groaning and yelling and barking, left me breathless and

exhausted.

Ben slid partly off me, so I could breathe, and we just lay there, in the dirt and bull ants.

“I don’t think I could move, even if a thylacine walked into the clearing,” I said.

Ben chuckled, and it struck me that he was possibly the most easily amused person I’d ever met. Or perhaps

I was far more amusing that I’d thought.

“Not gonna happen in the daytime,” he said sleepily. “Got any food?”

22

I rolled onto my side and slid my hand across his belly, to his ribs. The bones were clear ridges under his skin; no wonder he was hungry. If he ate everything I had with me, then I could always drive back to Nannup, get more food. “I’ve got food,” I said. “How do you know thylacines are nocturnal?” He smiled at me, and said, “Just do,” and I had to smile too. He ate ramen noodles out of my billy, shaking his fingers and mouth at the heat, then handed the billy back to me and flopped back onto the dirt, closing his eyes, contented smile on his lips. Ben went to sleep, just like that, curled on his side in the dirt, bull ants clambering over him. I watched him for a while, sunshine and shade dappling his skin through the rents in his clothes, then crawled into my tent, away from the ants, and slept too. Ben had gone when I woke, and I spent the rest of the day quietly, boiling more drinking water, bathing quickly in the icy freshness of the stream, working on the field report for the thylacine. If my sound recording and plaster casts were going to be taken seriously, I needed to log the exact location with my GPS, then document the surrounding forest, and it all took time. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I hadn’t dared to hope for more than another chance to record the thylacine’s bark, but inside me there was a spark that said that I should keep my camera beside me, just in case. The sun set, filling the forest with shadows and mosquitoes. I’m good at waiting, all biologists are. We expect to spend eight hours belly-down in the mud, watching frogs spawn, so sitting on a log, being snacked on by blood-sucking insects, while owls and flying foxes swooped around me, was nothing unusual. The thylacine bark started again as soon as the sky overhead was completely dark, and I sat silent and still, listening to the source of the bark circle around me, moving closer in. The sound of the creature, moving closer and closer, made my skin prickle, and I had to keep mentally running over the thylacine literature to remind myself they had never previously attacked a human unless provoked. Still, it would have been good to have one of work’s tranquilizer rifles with me, just in case. The ambient light improved as the moon rose over the tree canopy, around about the time the thylacine’s bark stopped, no more than a couple of hundred meters away. The night had made me acutely aware of the scents around the camp: the smell of my own urine, where I’d been pissing against a jarrah tree; the tinned braised-steak-and-onions and ramen noodles I’d eaten; even the faint smell of sex and sweat, lingering on my clothes and skin. Was this what the world was like for other mammals? I swear there was no sound, not even a twig cracking or a leaf rustling, but it felt like someone or something was watching me. I’m not prone to imaginary phantoms, whatever the whole thylacine obsession would indicate, so when the back of my neck prickled, I stood as quietly as I could and peered out into the forest. Nothing moved amongst the undergrowth, but when I turned back to sit down again, there was a thylacine at the edge of the clearing, sitting up on its haunches, front paws held kangaroo-style in front of it, weight steadied on its tail. I trembled, whole body shaking, unable to move for fear of startling the magnificent creature. It held my gaze, eyes gleaming in the moonlight, ears pricked forward, nostrils twitching as it sniffed the air. My camera was in my pocket. I moved my hand slowly towards it, and the beautiful creature followed the movement, watching me slowly take the camera out. The zing the camera made as I switched it on sounded impossibly loud, and I held my breath, terrified the noise would startle the thylacine. 23

Torqued Tales

The moonlight was barely sufficient, and I didn’t dare use the flash, so tucking my elbows in and taking care not to breathe would have to do. The camera clicked in my hand, and I risked moving my other hand to flick the camera’s function across to video. The thylacine dropped down onto all fours and took a cautious step into the clearing, then another one, nose lifted, snuffling and sniffing. My knees wobbled and I sank down onto the log, tears leaking from my eyes stopping me from seeing clearly. It was too much, after having spent ten years in what everyone else said was a hopeless hunt, to finally be so close to a thylacine, close enough I could smell its fur. The thylacine tipped its head slightly and took the last couple of steps to stand directly in front of me, close enough to touch. This was beyond even my wildest dreams. This was beyond a clear photograph or a DNA sample. This was personal contact. I lifted the camera and filmed the thylacine’s face, then cautiously reached my other hand out, slowly, slowly—though if it had bitten me, I’d have had a good dentition record and lots of DNA. The creature didn’t bolt, didn’t even move away; it leant forward, and I touched the fur on its neck, petting it carefully. It snuffled and clicked its teeth, and jumped at me, pushing me backwards off the log, into the leaf litter, licking at my face and neck, jamming its powerful back legs into me, catching me with its claws. Me? I was crying, hugging the darling creature, scratching it behind its ears, almost shouting with delight. The thylacine panted and looked down at me, then lifted its head and began to bark loudly, and to me it sounded joyous. I barked too, trying to match the thylacine, like I had with Ben that morning. That was the moment when I realized however bizarre it was to be sharing barks with an extinct marsupial wolf, something even weirder was going on. “Ben?” I asked, pushing myself up, so the thylacine backed away and let me sit. “Is that you, Ben?” The thylacine tilted its head, then opened its mouth and clicked its teeth, just like Ben did when he smiled or laughed. I touched the thylacine’s neck again, and it moved back into my arms, leaning its weight against me so I could embrace it. Human culture is rife with stories of creatures that were human, and humans that were creatures. I just never thought they could be real, and I’m good at believing impossible things. “Ben,” I said under my breath, and Ben sighed throatily, too. “Let me take your photo, with the flash on?” *** I drove into Nannup at first light, once Ben had transformed back into a human right before my eyes. Trish lived in a caravan, out the back of the Nannup pub, and I could hear her swearing after I banged on the caravan door.

24

“Stone the crows,” Trish said, yanking her caravan door open and peering at me while she fastened her

dressing gown. “Do you know how early it is? Can’t be much past sparrow’s fart.”

“I need to use your laptop,” I said.

Her eyes, bleary with sleep, went suddenly wide and she stepped back inside.

“Did you…?” she said, and I held up my camera.

She booted her laptop, then bustled around, putting the kettle on and finding mugs, while I plugged the cable

for my camera into her laptop.

I could hear the kettle humming, and my camera whirred in my hand as it connected to Trish’s laptop.

“Struth,” Trish muttered as the first indistinct photo of the thylacine standing up at the edge of the clearing

loaded.

“Just wait,” I said, clicking through the blurry photos to the video footage of Ben coming close enough for

me to pat him.

Trish started squealing then, jumping up and down, rocking the caravan, so that anyone walking past would

have thought we were shagging.

“You can’t tell anyone,” I said, and she stopped jumping around and wrapped her arms around my shoulders

to hug me.

“All right,” she said, and I clicked forward to the first of the photos I’d taken using the flash, showing Ben’s

markings clearly, his eyes reflecting red in the flash, fur light apart from his stripes and the markings on his

face.

“How?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Where did you find it?”

“Don’t ask,” I said. “And he’s a male. I need to email these, make sure they’re backed up.”

“Of course,” she said, leaning across me to open her web browser. “Who are you going to tell? You could

make a fortune selling these.”

I shook my head. “These are going to Conservation and Land Management, no one else.”

Trish sighed. “You’re right.”

I logged into my webmail. “I’m going to make sure that this thylacine gets a permanent sanctuary. Have you

got any steak in your fridge?”

The small general store in Nannup had opened by the time I’d sent rough field notes and all the photos to my

boss, so I bought all the packs of steak in their fridge, and condoms and lube. Next time I set off for a

weekend field trip alone in isolated forest, I wouldn’t assume I wasn’t going to get laid.

Ben met me when I parked my car at the end of the logging access road, then plunged through the bush

effortlessly ahead of me, back to the camp. He was the most beautiful man, or creature, I’d ever seen, sliding through the undergrowth, as silent in human form as he had been as a thylacine.

25

Torqued Tales

I should have been trying to work out how he metamorphosed, but it wasn’t easy when Ben was in front of me, long legs and round arse, gorgeous thylacine-coloured hair. “Meat!” Ben said, when I handed him the bag of steaks. He grinned at me, then shook the Styrofoam tray. “Want me to cook it?” I asked. “I’m not keen on raw steak myself.” We ate steak cooked over my gas stove, Ben ripping hungrily into the meat, tearing it apart and stuffing himself, until he burped loudly and sprawled back across the dirt in the clearing, hands pressed to his bulging belly. “Good hunting,” Ben said sleepily. I stretched out beside him and yawned. “Want to get into the tent, away from the ants?” The light inside the tent was aquatic blue, filtered through the nylon. Ben let me slide his clothes off him, and I stroked his cock with more than prurient interest, wanting to know how human he was, since I’d never seen him naked before. Marsupials have a different reproductive arrangement from placental mammals, with everything back to front, and thylacines in particular had a furry pouch that protected their genitals, but what I felt was reassuringly familiar. Ben liked it, too, rolling onto his side and pushing his cock into my hands, making hissing noises. “Do you want to do this?” I asked, because even with his hands on me, I needed confirmation. “Yeah,” Ben said. “Do you know how few people like me there are out there? Do you have any idea how long it is since someone touched me?” Asking any more questions wasn’t an option, not when Ben sucked on my neck, pressing his body against mine urgently. In the time it took me to grope around the floor of my tent, in search of the condoms I’d bought, and then to get the box open, Ben managed to come over my legs, grinding and groaning. While I was sure there were disadvantages to having a lover who shed, there were benefits, too, in being with someone who was just a little wild in bed. We made a lot of noise, when Ben slid into me, both yelling and swearing, then it was the hottest thing ever, feeling Ben go crazy, slamming into me, hands all over me, making me lose control too. “Hunting and breeding,” Ben said, curling around me afterwards. “You said you’d give me hunting and breeding. Take me with you when you leave.” “I don’t live in the forest,” I said, propping myself up on one elbow so I could see him. Ben was almost asleep, eyes closed, face lax, and he looked so relaxed and peaceful I had to smile. “Lonely in the forest,” he said, then he let out a long sigh and went to sleep. So that was how I came to drive into Manjimup that afternoon, back to the scientific breakthrough of my career, Ben hanging out of the passenger window of the Land Rover, barking at the passing cars. I just hoped he was just housetrained.

26

The Bat Prince By Elisa Vipe ras Prince Damian looked very much like his mother. They shared blue eyes, skin the color of fresh milk, and black hair that was silky on her and scruffy on him. However, those were the only things they had in common, and though Damian had come to terms with this, his mother still hadn't accepted that his priorities in life were different than hers. Scrap metal littered the hardwood floor, forcing the queen to gingerly pick her way through the workshop. Even so, her silk skirt snagged on a stray nail and ripped loudly. The queen swore in a very unbecoming fashion while jerking herself free, and Damian had to duck his head down to hide a smile. "Honestly, Damian!" She motioned around the workshop, face like a thunderstorm. "This is where you are on your Sunday afternoon?" "Why? Have you seen me elsewhere?" Damian hefted his latest invention carefully, testing the weight of it. A thrill ran through him: it was light enough to practically fly from his fingertips. This time, it'd work. The queen sighed. Damian's mother always tested out her body language in front of a mirror to make sure it conveyed precisely what she wanted it to. In this case, it seemed like frustration tinged generously with disappointment. "You could be having high tea with Princess Cassilda," she lamented, "and instead you're playing with a ball." Princesses didn't come with instruction manuals, and until they did, machines would always win out in Damian's heart. "It's a weather-predicting device, not a ball." Damian cradled his invention somewhat defensively. "And it's much more important than a silly princess. If this works..." He paused and tossed the little gold ball into the air, catching it before it came near to the floor. "It'll alert us to coming storms." The queen crossed her arms over her chest, mouth in a thin, unimpressed line. "It could save lives!" Damian insisted, holding his invention out toward her. "Also, it's shiny." He turned it a little so that light glinted off the metal. "Isn't it pretty?" The queen didn't even glance down at it. "No, dear. Princesses with long flowing hair are pretty. This is a machine." She spoke slowly, as if to a child. "A machine in need of a good test run." Damian leaned over and gave his mother a quick peck on the cheek. "I'll be back in an hour or two." His mother snagged him by the collar of his tunic. "No, you'll be back in half an hour in order to be present when Queen Mashira and her daughter Princess Ansiel stop by for a visit." She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "Right?" Damian smiled innocently at his mother, then wrenched himself free and nearly tripped over his own feet making a run for it, his invention still cradled in his arms. His workshop leaned against the rear castle wall, which meant one of the exits faced the sizable Royal Gardens. Damian darted into the gardens, winding his way around ivy-wrapped columns and sculpted hedges until birdsong replaced the din of the castle.

27

Torqued Tales

His pace slowed from a careless run to a leisurely saunter. The gardens were nice, after all, with the topiaries and fountains slowly giving way to a thick glen. The king specifically requested that Damian test his inventions there, as there were fewer chances of human lives being endangered. After searching for the perfect spot, Damian settled on a small clearing and sat down in the shade of one of the trees. The trunk was covered in smooth bark, and thus was comfortable enough to nestle against. Damian held his invention out at arm's length. With his thumb, he pressed the button in the center of the sphere. The machine hummed as it warmed up, and Damian braced himself, grinning dopily. Now to watch his invention waft gently into the air. The sphere hissed, popped, and shot into the foliage with the speed of an arrow. Twigs and leaves rained down onto Damian's head, joined by a flock of birds that squawked and swarmed indignantly around him. Damian shouted and covered his head with his arms, cowering for dear life. “Yo, what the Hell was that?” One bird apparently had been upset enough to complain. Damian peeked out between his arms guiltily and found no more birds, only a little brown bat hanging upside down on the lowest branch of a nearby tree, wings wrapped tightly around itself. Large black eyes fixed directly on Damian, who could've sworn there was annoyance written all over the long foxy face. "You deaf or somethin', kid?" Talking animals were uncommon, but by no means rare in the kingdom. They were plentiful enough to have forced Damian’s father to create a strict policy detailing how to deal with them. It basically amounted to ‘pretend they’re not talking’, and worked rather well, excluding the one time a cow had delivered an eloquent and moving speech about why she would rather not be the king’s supper. Still, it seemed just plain rude to ignore a bat that was directly addressing him. Damian offered an awkward smile. “I’m sorry. That would’ve been my weather-predicting machine.” He rubbed his head ruefully. “Suppose it's the tree’s machine now.” “No shit.” Definitely a male bat, judging from the baritone voice. The bat stretched his wings out, yawning widely. “Nasty way to wake up, ‘S all I’m sayin’.” “I’m very sorry.” Damian craned his neck up. To his dismay, the thick leaves hid the golden sphere from view. He squared his jaw. He had to get it back – four days of hard work would be lost if he didn’t. Damian rubbed his hands together. "I guess I'm going to have to climb the tree." There was a bray of laughter, and Damian identified it as coming from the bat. “That a joke, kid?” No wonder his father had enacted that policy about talking animals. “I worked hard on that invention," Damian said, somewhat haughtily. He circled the tree, still trying to find a decent foothold. “I need to get it back.” “No offense, but you ain’t gonna make it,” the bat said cheerfully. Much as he hated to be agreeing with a pessimistic bat, Damian's hopes quickly dwindled. The tree trunk was thick and symmetrical, with smooth bark and nothing but thin branches within reach. He’d have to go to back to the castle and get a ladder.

28

Somewhere above him, inside the canopy of leaves, Damian could hear the invention whirring. Possibly

damaging itself, Damian thought with distress.

That frightening prospect made him turn to the bat. Damian motioned up the tree. "I don't suppose you'd be

willing to help me get the machine back down, would you?"

The bat eyed him steadily. "What's in it for me?"

Damian blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I scratch your back, you scratch mine." The bat fluffed his fur up. "Know what I'm sayin'?"

Damian hesitated, thoughts of fleas and nits rising to the forefront of his mind. Washing his hands at home

would take only a minute, building a new machine a whole week. He'd just have to remember not to touch

his face. Gingerly, Damian extended his fingers, trying to get under the bat.

His hand was slapped away. "You idiot, I meant I ain't workin' for free."

"Oh." Damian drew his hand back, relieved. "Well, what is it you'd like?"

The bat rubbed his chin with his thumb. "I'm thinkin' I want a favor from you."

Somehow, the bat managed to infuse the word 'favor' with a considerable amount of menace. Damian

would've said no, but he imagined his machine, whirring against a branch and scratching its carefully

polished exterior. He shut his eyes and shuddered.

"I want a meal," the bat continued. "A good meal, you know what I'm sayin'? More'n one course, somethin'

good to drink…" A pink tongue flicked out to lick at his snout.

Something pinged and a small screw dropped from above to land in the grass near Damian's boot. Damian

cringed. "Yes, yes, fine." How much could a bat eat, at any rate? A grape, a slice of apple, a thimbleful of

milk.

"A'ight." The bat stretched his wings out wide. "Hold on." He took off from the branch and flew up into the

foliage.

Damian squinted, but neither the bat nor his invention was visible. "Be careful!" he called up.

The leaves rustled and then there was the sound of a branch breaking. "It's tryin' to fly up!" The bat shouted.

"I'm gonna have to spike the bitch down, so get ready to catch it!"

Damian held his arms out and braced himself.

The machine came close to smashing into Damian's skull when it fell, but a quick step backward took care

of that, even if it still hit his chest and arms hard enough to knock him onto his backside.

The golden sphere growled against Damian's chest, trying to shove off him and back into the air. "Oh, no

you don't," Damian muttered, fumbling for the switch. He hit it and the machine's engine died down with a

final whir.

Damian exhaled, shut his eyes, and let his head fall back and rest in the grass.

29

Torqued Tales

A small weight settled on top of the invention, and Damian opened one eye. He found the bat perched on the sphere, peering into the view screen. "Yo, kid, why's this doohickey showin' three squiggly lines?" "That means it's going to rain." Damian let his head fall back into the grass. The sky above him was a deeply beautiful blue, the sort poets enjoyed writing about and referring to as azure. Damian made a face. "And since there's not a cloud in the sky, evidence points to my invention being quite broken." "Wasn't me," the bat said quickly. "No, most likely something I did while building it." Damian sighed. "I'll take it back to my workshop and fiddle around with the settings some more." The bat nodded and politely flew off Damian's chest to land upside-down on a nearby bush. "I don't know nothin' about that sorta thing or I'd be glad to help." He folded his wings around himself and flicked his long ears forward. "Sorry to hear your doohickey don't work, Your Highness." "Thanks anyway." Damian sat up and brushed the tiny bits of grass off his pants and tunic. "It's all right. Not really my first failure, and I'm sure it won't be the la–" He paused. "Wait, you know who I am?" The bat shrugged. "I live in the kingdom, don't I? Immigrated from the northeast awhile back, but I been here long enough to know what's what." "Fair enough." Damian stood and tucked his machine back under his arm. He was halfway back toward the castle before becoming aware he was being followed. He whirled around and nearly got a face full of bat. "Whoa, kid, you gotta warn me 'bout those sudden stops." Damian stared. "Why are you following me?" The bat seemed surprised. "I'm gonna go get my meal. C'mon, kid, move it." "Uh, no." That didn't seem strong enough, so Damian added, "Nooo. No no no no." He smiled and pointed to the gardens behind him. "See, I'm going to bring your meal out to you. And you eat it there with all your forest friends and what not." The bat settled onto a nearby valance. "Nuh-uh. Eatin' in the castle's the best part'a the whole deal! You think I'm gonna give that up, you got another think comin'." Damian spluttered. "I can't take a bat into the castle!" "Oh." The bat blinked and then narrowed his eyes. "I see how it is. Well, kid, you're screwed. You an' me, we got a bargain. No backin' out." "Really. Well." Damian thought about the fact that he had very long legs and a lot of experience outrunning princesses, judging it against the speed with which the bat had flapped up into the trees. He fixed his eyes on a spot on the castle wall slightly behind the bat. "Is that a moth?" The bat turned its head. "Where?" Damian took off into a run. He sprang over the drawbridge, tore through halls, and made his way inside of the castle. Somewhere in his sprint, he'd slammed three doors and crawled through one half open window, 30

and really, he prided himself on somehow winding inside his workshop again. He hadn't run into his mother, father, or little sister, and the bat was gone. Things were looking up. Happily, Damian settled into his chair, ready to work the rest of the afternoon away. *** "Damian," the king said slowly, "there's a bat outside the castle." "A bat? Really?" Damian kept his eyes on his worktable where he was currently replacing his invention's scratched up metal cover sheets. "That's surprising. I mean, it's not as though they're native to the local caves or anything." The king sighed. "And that's another sarcastic reply from my only son, which means another five percent of your half of the kingdom has been donated to your sister's dowry, politics be damned. Zofia will be so thrilled." The king clucked his tongue. "But you, you're down to only thirty percent. At this rate, you'll have to marry a prince yourself." Damian did not reply. The king leaned back on Damian's workbench. "Possibly not a bad idea, given your aversion to the fairer sex. Your mother's going on about you missing another date with a princess. What's that about? Do I have to start setting you up with neighboring eligible bachelors?" A muscle in Damian's jaw twitched. Still, if his father was talking about his failed social life, at least he wasn't talking about the bat. "Anyway," the king went on, "this bat was making quite the commotion." He stepped around the workbench, arms behind his back. "He was shouting a lot. Things like 'so that's how it is' and 'you got to sleep sometime’." The king waved a hand. "He sounded quite upset and in need of a grammar lesson." "Well, I hope you ignored him." Damian carefully screwed in a new glass panel in front of the machine's sensors. "In accordance with your Talking Animal policy, of course." The king snorted and stopped pacing. "There's no way to ignore something like that." He picked up a miniscule wrench and turned it from side to side. "And see, the thing is, when confronted about the ruckus he was making, the beast was surprisingly capable of rational speech." The king stared intently at his son. "He explained to me, Damian, exactly why he was so upset." Damian looked very, very hard at his hands. "Damian," the king asked in a weary tone, "did you agree to let a bat in for dinner in return for getting one of your damned machines down from a tree?" Damian shuffled. "Yes, sir." The king sighed deeply. "Son," he said, not unkindly, "it's very important to honor any bargain with talking animals, otherwise things go badly very fast." Damian tilted his head. "What do you mean?" 31

Torqued Tales

The king cleared a sliced-in-half birdcage and several rivets from a stool and sat down. "When I was your age," he began, "I fell in a well. It was the sort of situation where I would've taken help from anyone who came by, even if that someone was a donkey." "And then a donkey came by?" Damian guessed. "An enchanted donkey, who offered to pull me up in return for a kiss." The king shrugged. "The well was cold, dark, and uncomfortable, so it was really easy to promise that I'd kiss a donkey. So, ah, she found a bucket and managed to pull me up." "Hard to do with no hands," Damian commented, holding his fists up to mime hooves. The king ignored him. "Anyway, so I came out, I was fine, and I realized I didn't really want to kiss a donkey." His nose wrinkled. "She hadn't even brushed any of the burrs out of her fur. So." He held his hands out, palms up. "I broke my promise and a terrible curse befell me." "What happened?" Damian asked. The king stood, brushing off his pants. "I married your mother the following week. Who, incidentally, was just informed she must host a bat at dinner tonight. Ask me how thrilled she is." Damian winced. "Can you try to distract her during dinner, please?" A bark of laughter came from the king. "As if I'd show up for that mess. No, I've a sudden meeting with my advisors, very important yet boring re-zoning sort of thing, really. Sorry I'll miss dinner." His eyes twinkled. "Your guest is waiting in the receiving hall. I suggest you fix yourself up and go practice being a good host before your mother has to take over." Damian exhaled and glanced at his workbench ruefully. Well, so much for that. His mother had finally dealt with the shame of having to host a last-minute dinner for a creature who couldn't dress up for it by making sure that Damian and his sister wore their finest. "It'll make me feel better," she said airily. Damian changed from his comfortable work clothes to his annoyingly high collared court suit. It was a deep blue with silver braid, meant to bring out his eyes, but really just seemed to make his skin look ghostly pale. He sighed and tried in vain to do something with his hair. All this for a damned bat, he thought miserably. He wandered downstairs toward the receiving hall. Someone had to guide the bat to the dining room, after all, and the queen would not suffer the ignominy of asking a servant to do the deed. "As if I'm not mortified enough," she'd said. Damian peeked into the receiving hall. The red velvet chairs were empty, and the bat wasn't anywhere to be seen. "Hello?" he called out hesitantly. His hopes rose momentarily. Maybe the bat had gotten tired of waiting and left.

32

"Up here." The sound came from above. Damian craned his neck back. The bat hung from the lintel, wings

wrapped around himself.

Damian cleared his throat. "Well, this is awkward."

The bat peeked over his wing. "Why, 'cause you used the oldest trick in the book to try an' get rid'a me?" He

fluffed his fur out. "Should be ashamed of myself, fallin' for that." He shrugged. "I found a way around it,

anyhow, didn't I?"

"Yes, it seems you did." His neck protested the sharp angle and Damian reached back to massage the aching

muscles.

"I'm good at shit like that," the bat said proudly.

Damian nodded. "Let's try this again," he proposed, and bowed stiffly. "Hello, bat. I'm Prince Damian, and

it's a pleasure to meet you." Not wanting to be rude had stuck him in this mess, so perhaps it could help him

out of it.

The bat waved down at him. "How you doin', Damian?"

"Fine, I suppose." Damian shuffled. "I'm here to escort you to dinner."

To Damian's surprise, the bat grinned. "Escorted by the prince himself. God damn, now that's how you start

a good meal." Damian didn't roll his eyes, but it was something of an effort. Instead, he braced himself for the rest of the evening. *** The long marble table in the main dining hall usually sat fifty people quite comfortably, seventy in a pinch. This evening, only the very tip of it was used to serve the four attending the dining party. The queen sat at the head, Prince Damian to her left, and Princess Zofia to her right. The bat sat on the actual table, halfway between Zofia and Damian. A silk pincushion served as a bat-sized seat, and an upside-down crystal ashtray covered with one of Damian's embroidered handkerchiefs became a little bat table. The utensils came courtesy of one of Zofia's dolls, except for the queen's best glass thimble, which was being used as a bat-sized goblet. Even with those arrangements made, the evening was off to a less than promising start. The queen had a headache, Zofia was whiny, and Damian… well, Damian had a bat. Which Zofia kept trying to pet.

The bat avoided her the first time, but at the second slapped her hand away, snarling. "Yo, kid, you poke me

again an' we're gonna have a problem. This bat's got teeth, 's all I'm sayin'."

Zofia turned to the queen. "Mommy, the bat won't let me touch him!"

The queen sighed and rubbed her temples with her forefingers. "Zofi, sweetie, don't poke the bat."

Zofia wrinkled her nose. "He smells funny, anyway."

33

Torqued Tales

The bat stared at her. "You smell funny," he countered. "Like you been hangin' out with the skunks all day."

"Mommy!"

Damian lowered his eyes and pretended to be very interested in his fruit salad.

"Zofi, for goodness sakes." When Damian looked up, he found his mother's eyes shut. She took three deep

breaths before she opened them again, and her expression transitioned from pained and stressed to the perfectly practiced cordiality she employed at banquets and parties. She tilted her head toward the bat, smiling with her lips pressed tightly together. "So how is it that you know my son?" The bat, previously lapping up milk from the crystal thimble, did a rather batty spit-take. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on a sec." He wiped his mouth with the corner of the handkerchief. "Your son?" The smile on the queen's face became stiff, as though it were drawn on paper. "Yes, my son."

The bat shook his head. "You mean he's your stepson, right, an' you're just callin' him 'my son' so he won't

suspect you're tryin' to off him or somethin'?"

The queen stared. "No. No, that's not it at all."

"All right, you got to forgive me for assumin', but most stepmothers are into that, an' I didn't think you was

his real mother." The bat gave a low whistle. "I mean, damn. You don't look nowhere near old enough to

have a kid Damian's age. You got a witch doin' youth spells for you?"

Oh, brother. Damian rolled his eyes and glanced over at his mother. To his horror, her smile had softened,

grown closer to something genuine.

"Just good breeding," she told the bat, tone soft and demure.

"Knew it. You know how's I can tell?" The bat squinted up at her and waved the tip of a wing in a small

circle. "You got that aura'a grace to you."

Damian snorted loudly.

The noise earned him a stern glare from his mother, who then turned to the bat with a large, bright smile –

showing teeth, now, and letting it crinkle the corners of her eyes slightly. "Thank you, little bat. You've a

wonderful talent for... honesty."

For a long second, the bat just stared at her. "Ma'am, if you wasn't already spoken for, I'd be joustin' for that

handkerchief, you know what I'm sayin'?"

The queen laughed loudly: her real laugh, not the quiet practiced laugh she kept for banquets and balls. "I like your pet, Damian." She fingered her necklace. "I know I was worried at first, but he's absolutely charming." The bat choked a little and had to beat his chest. "Whoa, whoa, 'pet’?" He smiled wryly. "That's a little

much, Your Majesty."

"He's only staying for dinner, mom." Damian glared at his food. "After that he's leaving."

34

When Damian looked back up, the bat was watching him, indiscernible expression on the long face. "Yeah," the bat said finally, "just hangin' around here for dinner." He turned to the queen, grinning and patting his stomach. "Haven't eaten this good in years. Don't know how I'm gonna fly outta here." The queen affected a little gasp. "Oh, you can't possibly leave! It's dark outside!"

"Mom." Damian stared. "He's a bat."

The queen narrowed her eyes at him. "You see how he talks to me?" she told the bat. "He's like that all the

time."

"Don't listen to him. Dust off your shoulder." The bat mimed brushing his shoulder off in Damian's

direction. "As for me, no worries. Nighttime's the best time, far as I'm concerned."

"Then why were you awake during the day?" Zofia piped up.

The bat shot a look at Damian. "The kid here woke me up."

"Damian!" The queen made a shocked noise that sounded like she'd choked on her fish. "Just for that," she

continued, smiling prettily at the bat, "we must put you up for the night. Please stay."

Damian shoved his plate toward the center of the table. His appetite was gone. "Mom, jeez, if the bat wants

to leave, let him leave."

"I’ll be fine, Your Highness," the bat said quietly.

If he hadn't known better, he would've guessed the bat sounded hurt. Damian shook his head. It was a bat,

for goodness sakes. They didn't have feelings.

Then again, they didn't normally have voices, either.

A funny feeling wormed through Damian's stomach, and he swirled his fork around his plate listlessly.

"You can't leave," the queen protested. "It's storming outside!"

Damian's head jerked up. "It's storming? Really?"

"Yo, Damian, your doohickey works!" The bat grinned at him.

"Yes, I guess it did." In spite of himself, Damian grinned back.

He's so cute! The queen mouthed to Damian, pointing to the bat. "That wind is far too strong," she said.

"What if it blows you into a bramble bush and rips your wings up?"

The bat considered this. "That would suck a lot," he admitted.

"No more shall be said." The queen snapped her fingers. "Stay the night."

"He's not staying in my room," Zofie said. She'd separated her fruit salad by color. "Unless he bathes," she

added, and paused thoughtfully. "Can I give him a bath?"

The bat inched away. "You can bathe my cold dead corpse, kid."

35

Torqued Tales

"No, Zofie," the queen said, "he'll be staying with Damian." *** The servants were polite enough to not ask who they were arranging a guest room for, though Damian did

catch sight of a slight smirk on the lips of the chambermaid as she made up one of Zofia's doll beds.

"It's a special bat," he explained. "A talking bat."

"Of course," she said smoothly, and winked at him.

Damian bit his lower lip and stepped outside.

The bat waited in the hallway, flopped over one of the busts of Damian's great-grandfather. His wings hung

down and covered Great-Grandpa's ears, looking very much like the old man had bought himself a bat-

toupee. The bat raised his head slightly when Damian came into view. "Yo."

"Hello." Damian motioned behind himself. "Your room's almost ready. You can go in soon."

"Thanks." The bat wriggled and flapped up, now bobbing up and down in the air. "Where're you off to?"

"My workshop. I'm going to finish fixing my machine." Damian crossed his arms over his chest and thought

of the way the bat had looked hurt, almost sad. "Listen," he said slowly, "I was an ass earlier." He shrugged.

"I wasn't really expecting spending my evening with a – well, with you." He offered a small smile. "So I'm

sorry. I was rude."

The bat tilted its head. "That's real big of you, Damian. Thanks."

Apologizing to a bat was somewhat surreal, but Damian felt better. "If you like," he proposed, "we can

breakfast together." He paused. "Er. Suppose it'd be more of a bedtime snack for you."

"Eh, no problem for me, know what I'm sayin'?" The bat grinned. "Food's always welcome."

Damian nodded. "Well. I'm just going to, uh." He motioned vaguely down the hall. "Go. Over there." He

started shuffling away.

"Can I hang with you?" the bat called after him.

Damian stopped. "Er. Excuse me?"

The bat alit on a nearby shelf and swung by its feet, hanging upside down. "It's been awhile since anyone

was nice to me. And I know you’re only doin’ it to avoid the enchanted-animal retribution sorta thing, but, you know." Damian stared.

The bat shook his head and hid it under his wing. "Naw, never mind. It's stupid. You have a good night,

Damian."

"No, it's all right!" the Prince said quickly. "As long as you're not going to ridicule me for enjoying putting bits of metal together." 36

"Well, I'm a bat. Can't be making fun'a no one too much, you know?" The bat took off into the air and hovered over Damian's shoulder. "So where's your workshop?" "Just outside." Damian shrugged and started leading the bat down the hallway. "My dad doesn't like me mucking around where things can catch on fire and people can be hurt." No way of knowing for sure, but it seemed that the bat hung back. "There a lotta injuries when you get around to muckin'?" he asked, and Damian caught tones of hesitance. "Just burns, usually, and the occasional pinched finger." Damian held open the door for the bat. "Just me, though." He smiled. "I'm good about not injuring anyone else." The bat turned out to be an ideal assistant. Damian hadn't really expected it to do anything other than stare at him as he worked and possibly make the occasional smart aleck remark. Instead, the bat busied himself by flying between Damian and the small cabinets where the tiny screws and caps were kept, getting whatever Damian needed and putting away whatever became a spare piece. He made an excellent transport system and learned to identify the small instruments quickly. "I think it'll work now," Damian said finally, closing the open panel of his machine. "Hopefully." "That is one clever doohickey," the bat said. He sounded impressed. "Howzit you thought'a makin' it?" It was very nice to be asked about his inventions, especially since the bat sounded interested instead of amused. Damian smiled. "Were you around for the really bad storm a few months back?" "Yeah." The bat's ears twitched. "Fuckin' thing threw me into a windmill." "Ouch. Well, see." Damian motioned to his invention. "If this works and successfully predicts weather, we can warn people – and bats – and they can prepare." He patted the little gold sphere. "Less victims, happier kingdom." The bat gave a low whistle. "You really thought this thing out, huh?" "It's important," Damian said earnestly. He kicked at the floor of his workshop. "My dad wishes I was more interested in jousting, but science is the language of the future." He rolled his eyes. "I think he's worried I won't be able to defend myself. Maintaining a kingdom takes more than just brute strength, though." "That's right. You need to know how to use brute strength," the bat agreed. "Exactly." Damian smiled, pleased. "I mean, if I've done a good job managing things, I can always hire other people to be my strength." "Yeah, there're always goons for hire." The bat rubbed his chin. "Still, you should pro'lly get some sort'a experience with fightin'. Don't want people to think your spine's made'a jelly." "Well, I'm not entirely ignorant of fighting techniques." Damian shrugged. "It just doesn't rule my life. There are other things out there." "That's real bright, Damian." The bat smiled his foxy smile. "See, there's more to you than bein' sullen, you know what I'm sayin'?"

37

Torqued Tales

"Well, no, not really." Damian scratched his head. "What do you mean?" The bat blinked and shook his head. "Aw, sorry. Nothin', nothin', just me thinkin' out loud." He paused. "See, I kinda thought you was an ass before, but." He grinned wide enough for Damian to see the sharp little white teeth in his mouth. "You ain't a bad sort, Damian." And for some reason, being friends with a bat did not seem as bad as it might've, once. "Thanks, bat," Damian said. The bat fluffed his fur and took off into the air, landing on Damian's shoulder. "Don't mention it, kid." "I'll give the machine another shot tomorrow and hope it's still working." Damian arched his back until his spine popped before starting on his way out. He locked his workshop behind him. "For now, I think I'm going to turn in. It's been a big day." "You're tellin' me." The bat's ears flattened against the back of his skull and his muzzle split into a wide yawn. "Missed out on a good couple'a hours worth'a sleep." Damian winced. "I'm very sorry about that, by the way." "Nah, don't be." The bat's little claws dug into Damian's shoulder while he climbed up the stairs, seemingly to keep hanging on. "Small price to pay for the first decent meal in ages. Not to mention the decent company." With a wing, he did the batty version of giving Damian a playful punch on the arm. "Hey, this is all well an' good for you, but how do I get to my room?" Damian blinked and looked around. Indeed, he'd automatically made his way to his own room. The effects of exhaustion, he supposed. Damian stifled another yawn and grimaced. "Listen," he tried, petting the bat's head with his forefinger. "Would you mind being my roommate tonight? Your room's all the way over on the East Wing and I don't think I can make it without passing out." "Kid, I don't care. I'm too tired to bite your finger off, you know what I'm sayin'? An' I would, normally, since you're pettin' me without my expressed consent." Damian lifted his hand off the bat. "Sorry." "Don't worry about it, I'm expressin'." The bat pushed its head up into Damian's hand. "Let's get some shut eye, yeah?" That was an incredibly good idea. Damian gave the bat a last pat before settling him on a cushion at the foot of his bed. "Wait here. I'm going to get into my pajamas." They'd been laid out for Damian by one of the chambermaids, and he stepped behind his painted screen to change. "Nice room," the bat commented. "I never knew a man needed more'n one pillow." Damian finished hoisting his pajama pants up. "My mom decorated." He shrugged. "Not my thing, but I couldn't argue." "Got to pick your battles." The bat seemed pleased. "See, you ain't dumb at all." "Thanks." The bed was possibly large enough for four people, which meant most nights Damian shoved all the pillows down to the foot of the bed and sprawled straight in the middle. Tonight was no exception, though he did pull the bat's cushion up to rest next to his pillow. 38

"Is this all right?" Damian asked the bat, offering a handkerchief as a blanket.

The bat nodded. "I'm fine like this." After a long pause, he raised an eyebrow. "You ain't gonna roll over an'

do me in, are you?"

"It's a big bed." Damian arranged himself on his side, facing the bat. "If I get too close, you can poke me in

the eye."

The bat snorted. "You're into some freaky things, kid." He grunted and wriggled on the cushion, getting

comfortable. "Been ages since I slept on a real nice bed like this."

Damian reached over to blow out the candle on his bedside table, enveloping the room in darkness. He

pulled the covers up over his shoulder. "I thought you liked twigs," he mumbled sleepily.

"I gotta sleep upside down. Don't mean I like it." The bat snuggled up in the handkerchief. "This, now, this

is nice. Real nice."

Damian's eyelids drooped, and there came a point when they felt too heavy to bother opening again. "I like

you," he murmured.

He heard a soft snort in the darkness. "You ain't so bad yourself, kid."

*** Damian awoke staring at another man. Not a bad looking man, to be fair. He was young and had nicely shaped lips, a long slim nose, and thick brown wavy hair. He seemed to be deeply asleep and – Damian peeked beneath the bedsheets – yes,

definitely quite nude.

Well, really, there was only the one thing to do.

Damian placed a hand on the man's shoulder and shoved him off the bed.

He hit the ground with a satisfying thump and a loud "Yo!"

The bat, Damian thought suddenly, horrified. The strange nude man had fallen on the bat and crushed him.

He leaned over the edge of his bed and glared down at the intruder. "Get off my bat!" he demanded.

The naked stranger grimaced and rubbed his back. "Wait, your bat?" His lips curled in a smile. "As in, you

owned the bat?"

Damian glared down at him. "He was my friend, and if you're sitting on him, I swear you'll never sit on

anything else ever again!" There'd be time to think of the logistics of the threat later.

"Yo, Damian. C'mon." The stranger grinned a big, foxish grin. "I know it's early, but."

Damian blinked.

"How you doin', kid?" the man asked softly.

39

Torqued Tales

Slowly, awareness and logic began to slip past the morning haze clouding Damian's mind. After all, a strange man couldn't sneak past that many guards, and an assassin wouldn't have stayed lying next to him for a spur of the moment nude nap. "You are not a bat," Damian managed. "Not since you broke the curse by bein' nice to me." The bat, now no longer bat-shaped, grinned even wider and motioned to himself. "I'm a beautiful son of a bitch!" And still quite naked. Damian rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. His cheeks flushed hotly. "I don't suppose you know why you're naked?" The bat – well, former bat, really – made an indignant noise. "Ain't like the witch what cursed me was gonna bother to shrink my clothes to bat size." "Oh," Damian said. "I mean, I asked. I didn't want to be naked and cursed." The bat pulled himself up over the edge of the bed and folded his arms, resting his head on them. "She said you don't get clothes when you're cursed. Kinda like givin' it away, you know, sayin' 'Yo, I'm a prince in disguise 'stead of a bat’!" "Well, you can look around in my closet and see if something fits you," Damian offered. The bat grinned and punched Damian's arm. "Ain't you the picture'a grace an' generosity. You got it, your highness." A sudden alarming thought occurred to Damian. "You didn't get cursed for beheading fair maidens, did you?" He'd heard stories, and he somewhat worriedly drew his knees closer to his body and shrank away. The bat raised an eyebrow. "You think I'd tell you if I had?" He stood and headed toward the closet. "Nah, Damian, was just a misunderstandin'. I went to collect some interest that was owed to me an' my family, bitch didn't want to pay up, and next thing I know, bam. I'm flyin'." The closet door creaked as the bat opened it. Damian sneaked a glance. For having been fist-sized for so long, the bat seemed to have exited the experience with a surprisingly sculpted body and nicely shaped arms. Damian quickly turned his gaze to the ceiling. "So, ah. You're a prince, then?" "It's kinda complicated." The bat had disappeared behind Damian's change screen. He leaned over to stick a hand out and move it from side to side in a so-so motion. "Pretty much if I want to say I'm a prince, my family's got enough money an' power so's no one can contradict me on it." The bat winked and disappeared behind the screen. Damian swung his legs over the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair. He thought hard, and when the bat came out, dressed in a simple white shirt and brown pants Damian's mother had been saving for him to grow into, he could only think of one thing to say. "Do you want to get breakfast?" The bat laughed, a loud bray, and plunked himself down next to Damian. "Fuck yeah. I've been stuck eatin' bugs an' fruit for awhile." The bat tilted his head to the side. "An' I'm a steak kind'a guy so you know, that was torture. I tried bein' a vampire bat, see if I could get some cow like that, but I got kicked a few times and 40

gave up." He stretched his hand out, flexing the fingers. "Real nice to know that ain't gonna be a problem no more." "We could have steak for breakfast, if you'd like," Damian offered. "I'd like." The bat smiled and looked at Damian for a long time. "But for now, I'm gonna kiss you, Damian. Hope that's okay." And though the thought of kissing any of the princesses his mother chose for him made Damian feel ill, the idea of kissing the former bat didn't. "I wouldn't mind." "That's great," the bat said. He cupped Damian's face and pulled him closer and closer until their lips touched. Damian opened his mouth for breath and felt the bat's tongue slip in, gentle and persistent. The bat's very slight stubble scraped against the soft skin of his chin, and Damian was surprised to find himself enjoying the sensation and making a disappointed noise when the bat pulled back. "Yeah," the bat said, grinning, "I missed that, too." The bat's arms were firm under Damian's hands, and he couldn't resist the urge to press his fingers in slightly, rub circles with his thumb. He was exploring, certainly not clutching. "You know, we don't have to go to breakfast right now." "No?" The bat's hands fell to Damian's waist. "I dunno, kid, I was really lookin' forward to that steak. You'd have to make it up to me." "I can think of something," Damian promised earnestly. "Yeah, you're smart like that." The bat chuckled and leaned in for another kiss. Damian obliged, because kissing the bat was rapidly making its way up on the list of pleasant things to do. He liked having his face cupped by strong hands and he liked the deep sweeps of the bat's tongue in his mouth, along with the slight scratch of stubble. And best of all, he was almost positive this was going to upset his mother.

41

Torqued Tales

The Maste r Cat By Kie rnan Kelly Chapter One “What?” “I said that your father’s will reads, ‘To my youngest son, Daniel, I leave the cat’.” Daniel Green blinked rapidly for a moment or two, then jumped up and leaned forward over the conference table, his hands planted firmly on the richly varnished mahogany. He could feel his gut twisting as he tried to digest the news. “The cat,” he repeated, as if unable to comprehend what those two words meant. “He left me the cat? What else did he leave me?” “Nothing. Just the cat.” His father’s lawyer looked as though he were biting his cheek to keep from laughing. Across from Daniel his two stepbrothers weren’t so tactful. They were roaring, slapping the tabletop and elbowing each other in the most perfect display of asshole-ism that Daniel had ever witnessed. “But…but that isn’t fair!” Daniel stammered, resisting the urge to pick up the heavy crystal candy dish from the table and beat his stepbrothers bloody with it. “I was the one who stayed home to take care of him while they,” he cried, pointing first at Simon and then at William, “ran around Europe having fun, getting drunk, and fucking everything that had a pulse! I gave up going to college because Father refused to hire a nurse, for God’s sake! And all I get for it is the fucking cat?” “Oh, wait! There is something else,” the lawyer said, running his finger down the document that lay before him. Daniel held his breath, praying that it was a fistful of money. There wasn’t much left, considering that Simon had already gotten the house, and William had gotten the Jag and the vacation bungalow, and the two of them together were splitting the bulk of the bank accounts. Still, whatever it was, it would be better than nothing. “The litter box. You get that, too.” That set his stepbrothers off into a new round of guffaws. Daniel flopped down in his chair, the wind whooshing out of him as though someone had punched him in the stomach. For a moment or two he thought that he might become physically sick, and wondered if he could make it around the table in time to spew his breakfast all over his stepbrothers’ handmade Italian suits. For six years, ever since graduating high school, Daniel had dutifully tended to that rotten son-of-a-bitch. Daniel’d given him his medication, prepared his meals, driven him to doctors’ appointments, and had generally run himself ragged to accommodate his father’s every need. He’d taken every snide comment, every acid-tongued insult in stride, letting his father’s hateful words roll off his back, excusing his old man’s nastiness as the pain of his illness talking.

42

Why? Because of some misplaced sense of filial responsibility Daniel had felt for the man who’d been married to his mother for all of one year and had been nothing but a signature on a child support check ever since. But as it turns out, all of the insults and degradation Daniel had suffered at his father’s bedside over the past six years had not been born of pain or illness – it had been simply the byproduct of a vicious, evil, sour old man who evidently took great delight in seeing his youngest son waste his life. The bastard. “You can take the cat and the box today,” Simon grinned, his jowls jiggling slightly as he spoke. “I want you and that flea-bitten, mangy furball out of my house by sunset.” “And you’d better not touch anything else –- we counted the silverware,” William added snidely. “Swell,” Daniel said, wishing he could strangle the two of them with their own hand-painted, silk neckties. His stepbrothers were the product of Daniel’s father’s first marriage, and were carbon copies of the old man. Spiteful and mean to the core, they had always taken great pleasure in being malicious and hurtful at every opportunity, especially where Daniel was concerned. Salon-tanned and paunchy, they had no more than half a brain between them, and were as lazy and venomous as a pair of fat snakes sunning themselves on a rock. Daniel knew that they’d blow through their father’s estate in a matter of months, gambling, partying, whoring, and generally being a pair of prizewinning jackasses. Daniel bit back the words that danced on the tip of his tongue. He’d always been more like his mother, God rest her soul, than his father. Hating confrontation, his nature was that of the peacekeeper and he’d often go out of his way, rearrange his own life, inconvenience himself rather than argue. And look what it’s gotten me, he thought as he turned his back on his stepbrothers and his father’s lawyer, walking toward the door, his hands clenched into painful fists. Six years of my life lost, a pet I can’t afford, and a box of Tidy Cat. That’s just par for the fucking course, isn’t it? He mumbled angrily to himself all the way past the receptionist’s desk, into the elevator, and down all thirty-two stories to the ground level of sleek skyscraper that housed the attorney’s offices. He was still grumbling under his breath when he slid behind the wheel of his sickly green,’79 Dodge Diplomat. Cranking it over, ignoring the metallic, grating noise that had recently joined ranks with a dozen other unhealthy sounds that plagued his clanking, mobile deathtrap, Daniel backed out of the parking space. Bucking and hissing, the Dodge sputtered its way into traffic, behaving itself for once by only stalling out a couple of times along the way. The seat vibrated fitfully under his ass, making the car feel like a two thousand pound dildo, but managed to take him across town to the expressway. Keeping to the slow lane, he cruised down the highway at a remarkable thirty-five miles an hour (remarkable, because usually anything over twenty-five resulted in a hiss of steam and the temperature gauge sliding into the red zone). By the time he got home –- what used to be home, Daniel reminded himself, considering that as of the reading of the will he was homeless –- it was late afternoon. A warm, furry body insinuated itself between his ankles the moment he opened the door. Purring loudly, the cat rubbed its body in a figure eight between Daniel’s legs, slowing him down considerably.

43

Torqued Tales

“For fuck’s sake, Puss, knock it off! I’ve –- we’ve –- only got a few minutes to get our stuff together and get the hell out of here before the Gruesome Twosome get home,” Daniel growled, shaking his left leg, trying to shoo the huge black and white tomcat out from under his feet. Daniel walked in a stilted shuffle to the kitchen, trying not to trip over Puss along the way, and began making a pile on the table of what he’d be taking with him. It was a meager pile indeed - the litter box, a half-empty bag of Tidy Cat, six cans of cat food, a small box of cat treats, and Puss’ food and water dishes. He added Puss’ threadbare, plaid blanket (one that had belonged to Daniel as a baby), a squeaky mouse, and a scratching post to the pile. Puss had been a gift to his father from his last lover just before the old man’s illness had debilitated him, forcing Daniel to move in. His father had named the cat ‘Pussy’ after the bleached blonde pole dancer’s most memorable attribute –- at least, that’s what Daniel’s old man had always claimed. The kitten had grown into a huge, sleek, muscular tom, and although it seemed to hate Daniel’s father, hissing and spitting every time Nathan Green had even looked in its direction, the cat had grown very attached to Daniel. It was just as well, considering that Puss was now all Daniel had left in the world. Even though he’d balked at the cat being his only inheritance, Daniel loved Puss, who’d been his only friend for six years, doting on the cat, feeding him fresh fish and filling his dish with sweet cream whenever the opportunity availed itself. Puss followed Daniel everywhere in the house, except for Daniel’s father’s room, and slept curled up on Daniel’s cot down in the cellar. The only time Daniel had ever stood up to his stepbrothers was the day soon after he’d first moved in. Drunk –- as usual –- they’d taken it into their heads to torture the poor cat, and had managed to slice Puss’ ear before Daniel had threatened them both with a tire iron snatched from the garage. Puss still sported a vee shaped cut at the top of his left ear as a remembrance of that day, and for his trouble Daniel had earned himself a beating that had left him sore and bruised for a week. Giving the cat a quick rub on the head, Daniel sighed and got to work. He stuffed his inheritance -– except for Puss, of course -– into a green Hefty bag, twist-tying it closed. Leaving it on the kitchen table, Daniel went down the stairs into the basement to pack the rest of his belongings. Daniel’s room was actually the boiler room, a tiny eight by eight square at the back of the cellar that he shared with the furnace. The rest of the large, spacious basement had been renovated into an exercise room for his stepbrothers - not that they’d ever once planted their fat asses onto any of the state-of-the-art equipment. Daniel had been the only one to ever use any of it, and he’d done so nearly every night that he wasn’t too exhausted to move, although always secretly. His stepbrothers would have pitched dual fits if they’d known that he’d touched anything that belonged to them. Taking another trash bag, Daniel filled it with his personal property. All of Daniel’s belongings -– his clothes, sketchpad, and toiletries - fit into less space than the cat’s had, a fact that wasn’t lost on him. You knew you’d hit rock bottom when your cat had more stuff than you did. Sighing, he carted the bag upstairs to the kitchen, setting it along side of the first one. This is what my life amounts to, Daniel thought, staring at the two plastic bags. Two garbage bags full of shit, and half of it isn’t even mine.

44

He checked his wallet next, which contained his driver’s license, library card, two rumpled five-dollar bills, and his ATM card. Silently, he thanked the powers that be for his PayPal account. Daniel had been born with an artistic gift, one that his teachers in high school had fostered, and that he’d always hoped to further by attending art school after graduation. That, of course, hadn’t materialized. But his drawings of surreal fantasy worlds and creatures were quite impressive, and he’d found that he could make a little money by selling his sketches on eBay. His work was created, sold, and shipped in total secrecy. No one knew about it – not his father, not his stepbrothers. Daniel was thankful that he hadn’t told them, hadn’t given any of them the opportunity to take what little he had, or stop him from drawing. Given that it was one of the few pleasures Daniel enjoyed, he knew without a doubt that they would have found a way to destroy it for him. Now, Daniel was grateful for another reason. The little bit of savings he’d managed to squirrel away from the sales of his artwork would buy him a hotel room and food for a week or two, giving him the opportunity to find a job. Shouldering the garbage bags, he hauled them outside and secured them in the leaky trunk of his car before returning to the house for Puss. Snapping Puss’ leather leash to his collar, he tossed his house key on the table, closed the front door behind him and walked Puss to the car, putting him in the back seat. “Stay put,” Daniel ordered as he cranked over the engine and backed out of the driveway. Puss, of course, obeyed as well as any cat would, immediately jumping over the seat into the front and insinuating himself onto Daniel’s lap. Paws alternating, Puss kneaded Daniel’s thighs with his sharp claws, purring loudly before finally settling down. “Hey pal, let’s not forget who the master is here,” Daniel squeaked as Puss’ claws sunk into the flesh of his thighs. Puss replied with a brief, haughty look that seemed to say, “You keep on believing that, pal”, and by the time Daniel pulled his stuttering Dodge onto the highway, was fast asleep on his lap.

45

Torqued Tales

Chapter Two Daniel’s room in the Paradise Suites Motel was neither paradise nor really a suite. It was a glorified hotel room, boasting one double bed, a nightstand, a dresser, a television set, and a small, round table and two chairs. On top of the table sat a hotplate and a coffeemaker. There was also a knee-high refrigerator, and a tiny bathroom. The carpet was threadbare and stained, and the ceiling was splattered with large, orangebrown water spots. It wasn’t the Ritz –- hell, it wasn’t even a Motel Six, but it was relatively clean, accepted pets, and had been available for a discounted weekly rate. For Daniel and Puss it was now home, sweet home. He unsnapped Puss’ leash and set him down, smirking as the cat immediately jumped on the bed and curled up on Daniel’s pillow. Sleepy green eyes followed Daniel as he set about unpacking. Not that there was all that much to unpack. Two complete changes of clothing were neatly folded into the drawers of the dresser along with a couple of extra t-shirts, two pairs of relatively white jockey shorts, and a pair of ratty, old, gray sweatpants. Daniel’s few toiletry items – shampoo, razor, shaving cream, deodorant, and soap – found homes on the small vanity in the bathroom. Puss’ food and water dishes were placed on the floor near the table by the window, and his litter box near the bathroom door. The entire process took less than ten minutes. Daniel stripped, piling his clothes neatly on top of the dresser. Taking the shampoo from where he’d placed it on the bathroom vanity, he slid the slightly mildewed plastic shower curtain aside. Reaching in, he twisted the shower knob all the way over to Hot. Waiting for the water to warm, he looked into the mirror that hung above the sink. Warm brown eyes looked back at him, set in a face that most would have considered attractive, if not handsome. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and his thick sable brown hair needed a washing, but overall he supposed that he wouldn’t frighten small children. But his eyes held a haunted look, a look that would have been more at home on the face of a man far older than Daniel. He’d seen a lot in his short life, been through more than his share of troubles, not the least of which was spending six years being browbeaten under the verbally acidic whips of his father and stepbrothers’ tongues. I should be relieved that its over, he thought, frowning at his reflection. I should be happy that I’m finally free. But he didn’t feel relieved. He didn’t feel much of anything except the nagging ball of fear that was growing in the pit of his stomach, and the bitter bile that rose in his throat over the unfairness of his father’s will. Booted to the curb at twenty-four, with no education, damn little money, no friends and no prospects, his future - free or not - was looking pretty grim. Stepping into the shower, he let the water sluice over him, hoping that it would ease some of the tension in the muscles of his shoulders and back. Unfortunately, the tepid temperature did little to relieve his aches and pains. Lathering up, he washed off quickly and rinsed, stepping out of the shower and drying himself with a scratchy hotel towel. In the bedroom, he eyed Puss sleeping soundly on the only pillow he’d been given.

46

“Well you seemed to have adjusted pretty easily,” Daniel said, running a hand lightly over the sleeping cat’s soft fur. “Wish I was as adaptable as you, buddy. Then again, you don’t have much to worry about do you? I’m the one that has to figure out how I’m going to get your next bowl of Meow Mix.” Puss stirred under his hand, his purr-machine kicking on at Daniel’s touch. “Between you and me, bud, I’m not so sure that we’re going to make it. I only had enough money to pay for this luxurious suite for two weeks. If I can’t find a job before then, we’ll be sleeping in the car.” Sighing, Daniel stretched out on the bed next to Puss, not bothering to take back ownership of the pillow. Tucking an arm under his head, Daniel closed his eyes, more tired than he could ever recall feeling before. His last thought was a wish that once –- just once –- he’d have someone to take care of him the way he cared for Puss. *** Daniel awoke with to the smell of fresh coffee and sat up, rubbing his hands over his face. Blinking, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and started to stand up before he realized something. He hadn’t made coffee. He didn’t even have any coffee to make in the first place. Spinning around he saw the hotel-supplied coffeemaker sitting on the dresser, full of piping hot, black liquid that smelled heavenly. Next to the coffeemaker was a plate of cookies, Double-Stuff Oreos from the looks of them -– Daniel’s favorite. A ceramic mug, a spoon, a couple of sugar packets, and an opened pint of cream were also neatly set out. “Sorry. I drank most of it. You know that I can’t resist cream,” a deep voice said from near the bathroom. “But I left you enough for your coffee.” Daniel’s head whipped to his left. Leaning against the frame of the bathroom door was a stranger. At least six feet of lean, hard muscle, the man had a wealth of thick black hair that fell past his bare, broad shoulders in a shimmering, silken curtain. Daniel noticed that his hair had an odd white streak at the crown that swept his brow in a rakish fringe, but the man’s most striking feature were his eyes. A brilliant green and somehow familiar to Daniel, they sparkled with intelligence in a face so handsome that it could have graced the cover of a fashion magazine. His gimlet stare held Daniel motionless, although Daniel’s common sense was screaming for him to move, to run. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?” Daniel finally sputtered, although his feet still refused to move. Unable to stop himself, his eyes drifted over the man’s sculpted chest and whipcord abdomen to his lean hips and long legs. “Are those my sweatpants?” Daniel asked incredulously. “Of course they are –- it isn’t as if I have any of my own, and I couldn’t very well go scrounging for your breakfast in my all-together, now could I? Well, actually, I could, but I thought it better to put something on. I know how you humans feel about public nudity. Besides, I felt naked without my fur. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. It’s fucking drafty,” he answered, rubbing his arms as if he were cold. The stranger’s voice sounded like velvet –- smooth and, oddly enough, vaguely reminiscent of a cat’s purr. Daniel could almost feel it tickling at his ears, and would have been intrigued if it weren’t for the obvious fact that the man in his room was not only half naked and wholly uninvited, but also completely insane. But his words made Daniel aware of his own nudity, and he could feel his cheeks and other parts of his anatomy

47

Torqued Tales

heat under the stranger’s scrutiny. He dove for the bedspread, dragging it off the mattress and wrapping it around himself. “Oh, please. It’s not as though you have anything I haven’t seen a thousand times before –- from all angles, might I add,” the man laughed. “Who are you?” Daniel finally thought to ask again, his voice squeaking like Puss’ toy mouse. “How did you get in here? What do you want?” The man’s laughter was rich and rumbling as he stepped away from the door and glided toward Daniel. Every movement he made was unconsciously graceful and elegant, his muscles moving fluidly under his sleek skin. “Don’t be silly. You know who I am.” “Have we met before? I think I would have remembered you if we had.“ “Did you fall and hit your head during the night? How could you not recognize me? We’ve slept together every night for years,” the man chuckled, walking past Daniel and flopping back on the bed, his arms tucked comfortably behind his head. Daniel’s mouth flopped open, his cheeks burning furiously at not only the man’s innuendo, but at the sight of the substantial bulge under the crotch of his sweatpants. They were at least two sizes two small for the man, and clung to his body like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. “I’ve never slept with you!” Daniel cried, adding under his breath, “I know I would have remembered that.” The man started to laugh, but when Daniel continued to stare suspiciously at him, he stopped and sat up, looking at Daniel askance. “You really don’t recognize me? I didn’t think I looked all that different. A little bigger and a lot less furry, but not so far off that you wouldn’t know me.” He splayed a large palm across his chest. “It’s me, Daniel. Puss.” “Puss?” Daniel repeated, laughter catching in his throat. Good God, this man was gorgeous but definitely ready for a rubber room. “Yes, Puss.” “My Puss.” “Yes, your Puss. Although we really need to talk about that whole ownership thing you seem to think you have going.” “Puss…the cat.” “Yes, Puss, the cat. What part of ‘It’s me, Daniel, Puss’ didn’t you understand?” “You’re not my cat!” “Of course I am.” “You’re fucking insane!” Daniel shouted, finally finding enough wind to raise the volume of his voice beyond a pathetic squeak. He pointed toward the pillow. “There’s Puss-“ He paused, looking at the empty spot where Puss had been sleeping. His eyes darted around the room, looking for the cat. “Puss? Where are you? Here kitty, kitty,” he called, looking around. When Puss failed to 48

come running, Daniel quickly shuffled to the bathroom, trying not to trip over the fringed edge of the bedspread, and peeked inside. No Puss. He returned to the bedroom, dropping to his knees -– easier said than done without getting himself hopelessly tangled in the yards of faded purple chenille, and peered under the bed. There was still no sight of Puss. Standing back up, never loosening his death grip on the bedspread, he glared at the stranger. Daniel’s chest began to tighten with worry, his heart fluttering behind his breastbone. “What did you do to my cat?” his hissed through gritted teeth. “Did you let him outside? He’ll get lost! He won’t know how to survive out there! If you’ve hurt one hair on his head, I’ll-“ “Daniel, c’mon now, stop this. You’re starting to scare me. I just told you that I’m Puss.” “You’re a fucking man, not a cat!” Daniel roared, pointing a shaking finger at him. “Look at yourself, for God’s sake! You’re human, not feline, you fucking crackpot!” “I can’t believe that you don’t recognize me!” the man cried, jumping up from the bed. He stood nose to nose with Daniel, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Look. Look at my ear, Daniel,” he said, holding back a hank of silky black hair and tilting his head toward Daniel. Daniel opened his mouth to tell the stranger once again that he was a total nut, when his eyes alighted on the man’s left ear and the wicked vee-shaped scar that marred the slightly pointy tip of it. He knew that scar. It was just like the one Puss had on his left ear. The one Daniel’s stepbrothers had given him years ago. He opened his mouth but nothing but a hiss of air came out as his voice failed him. Something leathery was pressed into his hand and he looked down at Puss’ collar, snapped in two. “Sorry about the collar. I never liked being a sub anyway. I’m definitely the dom type,” the stranger grinned. “Besides, it’s too small for me now.” Daniel felt the blood rush from his head to his feet as he looked up from the torn collar in his hand and into the stranger’s brilliant, familiar green eyes. Staring at him for a moment in complete and utter stupefied silence, the next sound Daniel made was a hollow thump when he fell to the floor in a dead faint and his head connected with the carpet.

49

Torqued Tales

Chapter Three Daniel became aware of three things simultaneously as he blinked open his eyes and the room swam back into focus. First, he had a whopper of a headache. His skull throbbed and his neck ached from kissing the carpet. Secondly, he’d lost his bedspread when he’d fallen. The carpet was scratchy under his ass, and the cool air was raising goosebumps on his arms and legs. Thirdly, there was a large, warm, decidedly non-furry body sensuously wrapped around him. A large hand slid across Daniel’s chest, painting his skin with a trail of fire as its thumb brushed over a nipple. Warm breath that smelled slightly of sweet cream ghosted over his cheek, and a heavy leg lay over both of his, pinning him in place. Most disturbing of all, a soft, purring sound reverberated in his ear as a face nuzzled him just under his jaw. He froze, although if he’d been asked at the moment he wouldn’t have been able to decide if he did so because he was hurt, upset, or fearful that the last item on the list would vanish if he so much as twitched a muscle. “Oh good, you’re awake! You had me worried for a minute,” Puss whispered. Something warm, wet, and slightly raspy lapped across Daniel’s jaw line. “Are you…licking me?” Daniel asked, resisting a sudden urge to arch his neck to make it easier for that sinfully pleasurable tongue to reach more of his skin, while at the same time reminding himself that he should be pissed off, not painfully aroused. Daniel was finding it far more difficult to convince his cock of that fact than his brain. His traitorous dick was filling at light speed, his balls swelling against the warm, bare skin of Puss’ leg. “I always lick you. You’ve never complained before.” “You were never six feet tall and human before.” “Er…well, truth be told, I’m not really human now, either. I’m still basically a cat, Daniel. On the inside.” “Which reminds me,” Daniel said, somehow finding the fortitude to slide out from under Puss’ considerable weight and addictive charms and stand up. “How exactly is it that you’re able to change your shape, anyway? You realize that I’m a hairsbreadth away from convincing myself that I’ve had an aneurysm or some such and that you’re part of a hallucination, right? Odds are that none of this is real. I’m probably lying in a hospital room, in a coma.” Puss laughed, sitting up and arching his back, stretching in a most unsettlingly feline manner, before standing. “You truly are the most amusing human at times, Daniel. I’m so glad that you belong to me.” Daniel watched him out of the corner of his eye as he pulled out a pair of jeans from the dresser, shimmying into them. “And what did you do with my sweatpants?” he added, noticing that not only was Puss as naked as Daniel had been, but that he had a King of the Jungle sized boner.

50

“They didn’t fit very well –- they were a little snug in the crotch. I threw them over there,” Puss said, pointing toward a corner of the hotel room. Lifting himself up, he leaned on one elbow. “All cats can change shapes, Daniel,” Puss continued, sounding like a kindergarten teacher patiently explaining something obvious to a five year old. “It’s just that most of us aren’t inclined to do so. I mean, after all, we are at the top of the food chain. Why take a step down?” “You’re at the top of the…are you kidding?” Daniel snorted, walking over to table and pouring himself a cup of coffee. If this was a brain injury-induced hallucination, at least it was an entertaining one, he thought. And the coffee was perfect - strong and piping hot, just as he liked it, illusion or not. “Everyone knows that humans are –- pardon the expression –- the top dogs on the planet.” “No, you aren’t,” Puss said, sounding affronted. “We are. We really are far superior, Daniel –- no offense intended. We have perfect bodies –- very little body fat, physically honed to perfection, strong. Can you jump up on top of the dresser from a standing position? No? I can. For that matter, all but the youngest kittens can do it. Cats are smart, sly, and we can walk without making any noise at all. We have incredible balance, and almost always land on our feet. We’re the perfect predator! And we have you humans trained just the way we want you. Everyday you fetch us food, water, cream, treats...when was the last time a cat fetched anything for you? I mean, think about it Daniel! I don’t see anyone running around after you with a pooper scooper.” “I’m toilet trained!” “So could we be –- let’s face it, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to piss in a porcelain litter box, Daniel. But it’s much more fun to watch you people sift through our shit everyday,” Puss grinned. “That’s gross!” “Maybe, but you should see the faces you make when you do it. It’s priceless. Really, it just never gets old.” Daniel sputtered his coffee, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “Fine, for argument’s sake, let’s say that all cats can shapeshift, but usually choose to remain feline. The question is, why did you decide to do it, and why now?” “Oh, that’s easy. You needed me, Daniel,“ Puss said simply, shrugging his impressive shoulders. “You always protected me from those stepbrothers of yours, the mangy bastards. Honestly, those two half-wits the reason some cats believe that humans shouldn’t be allowed to breed. Anyway, I always pay my debts.” “How, exactly, do you plan on helping me?” “Well, I can start by helping you get rid of that erection you’ve got stuffed into those pants,” Puss said with a grin. “I’m not sleeping with you!” “Don’t be silly. We’ve slept together every night since you were eighteen, Daniel.” “Not while you looked like this, we haven’t!” Daniel cried, gesturing toward Puss’ six feet of muscled flesh. “I am not having sex with you!” Puss looked thoughtful for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose I could shift back into my true form if it would make you more comfortable, but then the logistics of blowing you would be a nightmare.” 51

Torqued Tales

“Ew! No! That’s not what I meant!” Daniel squealed, his eyes growing wide as he took an involuntary step backwards. “Don’t you like the way I look as a human, Daniel?” Puss asked, smoothing his hands over his perfectly sculpted chest and stomach. Between his strong thighs a triangle of crisp black and white hair nested his engorged cock. His fingers brushed through the curls and wrapped around his length, his eyes drifting slowly over Daniel’s body. Daniel could feel the sizzling heat of his gaze from across the room. “I like the way you look,” Puss continued, as his hand slid up and down over his turgid shaft. “I’ve always liked the way you look. Want to know a secret? It used to really turn me on when I watched you jack off at night.” “Oh God, I don’t want to hear this…“ “I even tried to join you a few times, but you’d never let me near you. You kept pushing me away.” “Of course I did! First of all, you were a fucking cat! Secondly, you were never very careful with your claws, Puss! Having a perforated dick was never high on my wish list. Thirdly, I do not want to be having this conversation!” “Why are humans so prudish about sex? I’ve always wanted to ask you that. Even when it’s obvious that you need release, like now, you pretend that you don’t. Cats aren’t like that. When we get the urge, we do something about it.” “I guess that means that human beings are a little more selective about who they have sex with than cats,” Daniel said haughtily. “Oh, sure they are. I suppose that’s why you sucked off the cable repairman in the hibiscus bushes, huh? Because you’re so discriminating?” “How did you know… Oh, God! You watched us, didn’t you?” Puss snorted. “Oh, you had quite an audience that day. Besides me there was Patches, the calico from next door; Yin and Yang, the two Siamese from down the street; and Prescott, the Yorkshire terrier from over on Elm. Who, by the way, is a cat trapped in a dog’s body, and not a half-bad lay if you don’t mind a yapper.” “Stop doing that!” “Doing what?” “Playing with yourself! It’s…distracting,” Daniel huffed, turning his back on Puss. Not because he didn’t want to feast his eyes on Puss’ thick, tempting cock, but because it was making his own hard-on speed past horny and spiral out of control into painful. He tried to divert his thoughts by pouring another cup of coffee, but only succeeded in missing the cup altogether and scalding his hand. Yelping, he tucked his hand under his armpit, dancing around in a small circle, cursing up a storm at his own stupidity. Puss was at his side in an instant. Daniel hadn’t even heard him move, but there he was, taking Daniel’s hand into his. Puss blew soothingly over the angry red burn, then ran his tongue lightly over it.

52

Daniel felt as though his feet had sprouted roots into the room’s cheap, construction-grade carpeting. As Puss’ pink tongue flicked over his skin, its slightly abrasive texture sent chills rocketing up and down Daniel’s spine. How would that tongue feel if it were to lap over his balls and across his inner thighs, or trace the deep vee between his leg and hip? Or swirl over the head of his cock? Daniel’s breath grew ragged as these thoughts and a dozen others like them flashed through his mind. His cock ached, straining against the denim of his jeans, demanding to be set loose. Puss was right. Daniel needed to get laid in the worst way, and who better to see to him than the one friend he’d had for the past six years? The one who’d always been there for Daniel, who’d given him comfort all along? That Puss sometimes had a tail and dined on mouse Tartar really didn’t matter, did it? Nope, Daniel decided as Puss turned his hand over and licked the thin, hypersensitive skin of his wrist, it didn’t matter at all. As his eyes met Puss’ with a clear invitation shining in them, and Puss leaned in to kiss him, Daniel failed to realize that at some point in the last five minutes he’d shunted aside any lingering doubts he might have held about Puss. Somehow, between the times he’d woken up and the moment Puss’ soft, warm lips touched his, Daniel had totally discarded his belief that Puss was a figment of his imagination. And as Puss’ raspy tongue slid between Daniel’s lips, and his large hands cupping Daniel’s ass and pulling him flush against Puss’ hard body, Daniel believed.

53

Torqued Tales

Chapter Four “I want you naked, now,” Puss hissed impatiently, clawing at the button-fly of Daniel’s jeans. Damn these humans and their insistence on stuffing all of their good parts into stiff, unyielding clothing, locking them away behind buttons and the like. Made a cat want to scratch the eyes out of whichever asshole had invented pants in the first place. Luckily, Daniel jumped to it, shimmying out of his jeans fast enough to impress Puss with his speed. Not bad for a human. Of course, it would have been faster if Daniel hadn’t insisted on wearing clothes to begin with – one of the major reasons why cats were superior to humans. Cats understood the importance of easyaccess. The heat of Daniel’s exposed skin drew Puss like a moth to a flame. Oh, sweet Bast, yes! Puss thought, as he pressed against Daniel, skin to skin, rubbing as much of his body against Daniel’s as he could. He wanted to meld every inch of himself with Daniel’s silken flesh, wrap himself around Daniel, to get under his skin, crawl up inside of him until he was surrounded by nothing but Daniel. Puss pressed his cheek to Daniel’s, feeling the stiff, short whiskers that dusted Daniel’s jaw scratching his face as Puss slowly slid down the length of Daniel’s body. Puss’ cheek brushed over Daniel’s chest, pausing to run circles around a nipple with his tongue until Daniel mewled like a newborn kitten. Daniel smelled as good as a trout caught fresh from the stream and still twitching, Puss decided. Tastes even better, he thought as he dragged his tongue down over Daniel’s flat stomach to where his short, crisp, brown pubic hair began. Here Daniel’s scent was strongest, and Puss’ senses reeled as he took in a deep breath, filling his lungs with it. “Puss…“ He heard Daniel whisper as he felt Daniel’s fingers threading into his hair. “Need…“ “Yeah, I know what you need,” Puss answered, letting his breath ghost over Daniel’s cock. It twitched before his eyes, the tip glistening with liquid drops of need. Unable to hold off a moment longer, Puss flicked his tongue over the head, lapping at those drops as if they were the richest of cream. They were. Daniel’s taste filled Puss’ mouth, hot and salty, making him greedy for more. He rubbed his cheek against the velvety soft skin of Daniel’s erection then slowly licked along the length of it, until his nose was buried in Daniel’s pubic hair. He cupped Daniel’s balls, gently squeezing, before dropping his head lower and taking one into his mouth. Rolling it over his tongue, the hair tickling his palate, Puss purred. He felt Daniel’s fingers twist painfully tight in his hair, felt his hips buck, and knew Daniel was feeling the vibrations all the way up through his body. Above him, Daniel was nearly begging for it. Puss could feel Daniel’s entire body trembling, and that only added to Puss’ desire. He glanced up at Daniel as he parted his lips and took the head of Daniel’s cock into his mouth. No filet mignon or caviar ever tasted as wonderful as Daniel did on Puss’ tongue. His taste was primal, the taste of life itself. Puss’ eyes closed as he savored it, rolling his tongue over the rounded head before drawing Daniel deeply into his throat.

54

He slipped his hands around Daniel’s slim hips, cupping his ass. Those two handfuls of firm flesh and a mouthful of hot, tasty cock were nearly enough to make Puss come, his cock dripping with a powerful need. He began to purr again, and within moments heard Daniel crying out as he neared the edge. Too soon, it was too soon. He wasn’t going to let Daniel come so easily. Releasing Daniel, Puss rose to his full height, trailing his hands over Daniel’s body, memorizing every line, every dip, every inch of skin along the way, until he looked Daniel in the eye. “I want to fuck you, Daniel.” “W-what?” Daniel blinked, looking confused. “But, I-“ “Let me rephrase that. I’m going to fuck you, Daniel. Now,” Puss growled, capturing Daniel’s lips. He thrust his tongue into Daniel’s mouth, letting him taste how ready he was for Puss’ cock. Puss swallowed Daniel’s moan and felt him rubbing his arousal against Puss’ groin. “On your knees, human,” Puss ordered, and wasn’t surprised in the least when Daniel obeyed. Oh Bast! Puss nearly lost control of himself when Daniel kneeled and presented, his smooth, white ass thrust up toward Puss, ready to be fucked. Between Daniel’s cheeks, his rosy rectum clenched in anticipation, and Puss dropped to his knees and buried his face between Daniel’s ass cheeks, greedily lapping at Daniel’s hole. “Mine,” Puss growled against Daniel’s asshole a moment before plunging his tongue in. He sucked and tongued Daniel until he was squirming and begging for Puss’ cock. “Not yet,” Puss said. He wasn’t ready yet, didn’t want this to end, and knew that the moment he slipped his cock inside of Daniel’s body it would be over for him. There’d be no holding off then, no stopping. He sat back on his haunches, running his palms over Daniel’s ass. “Sweet ass,” Puss murmured, “Know what I’d like to see on a such a sweet, white ass? A little color.” Daniel’s resulting yelp when Puss’ hand slapped his ass was like music to Puss’ ears. He grinned as his palm print rose in bright pink against Daniel’s pale skin. “Mmm, this is a good color for you, Daniel. A little deeper pink would be nicer, though,” he added, laying another swat across Daniel’s rump. “Puss!” Daniel gasped, looking wide-eyed over his shoulder at Puss. He was turned on; Puss could see it in his eyes. Grinning, Puss reached up onto the dresser and pulled down his leash. “You know, it always irked me to have to wear this leash. All you had to do was tell me to stay put and I would have. But no,” Puss continued, his grin widening, “you had to use this thing. Do you know how embarrassing it is for a cat to be leashed? Seems only fair that I get to use it in return.” Holding the leash by its clip, Puss flicked the leather handle against Daniel’s ass. Puss’ cock jerked at the snap of the leather against flesh, his balls swelling at the thin red line that rose on Daniel’s cheeks. “More,” Daniel whispered hoarsely. Puss saw Daniel’s hand moving as he stroked his cock. He was obviously enjoying this even more than Puss was. “Oh?” Puss asked, arching an eyebrow. “Were you a bad boy? Do you deserve to be punished?”

55

Torqued Tales

“Yeah, bad,” Daniel whispered, his eyes huge as he looked back at Puss. “Real bad. More.” Another crack of leather against flesh filled the air, another low groan from Daniel that pulled moisture from Puss’ cock. “Yeah, you’ve been bad all right. You thought that you were the master, didn’t you?” “Yeah, I did,” Daniel groaned, starting to slide down onto his stomach. Puss gripped his slim hips firmly and pulled him back up to his knees, laying another open-handed smack on Daniel’s ass. “Stay put!” Puss ordered. “But you were wrong, weren’t you? Who’s the Master? Say it, Daniel. Tell me who the Master is,” he demanded. “You. You’re the Master, Puss,” Daniel gasped. “Fucking A,” Puss hissed as he pulled back and laid the leash against Daniel’s ass again and again. When Daniel’s cries grew edgy, Puss’ hand smoothed soothingly over the welts he raised on his smooth skin. He couldn’t wait, not another minute. The sight of those streaks of red against Daniel’s pale skin, combined with his sweet moans in Puss’ ears were too much for Puss to bear. He threw the leash to the side and spread Daniel’s ass cheeks with his fingers. “Gonna fuck you now, Daniel. Got to fuck you. Now.” Pressing the head of his cock against Daniel’s tight hole, he slowly pushed his way inside. He gripped Daniel’s hips tightly, his eyes rolling to back of his head. “Bast! Daniel, you’re so fucking tight!” he growled as he sank himself up to the root inside the searing kiln of Daniel’s ass. “Fuck me, Master,” Daniel urged, backing into Puss. That was all the impetus Puss needed. He set a punishing pace, slamming himself into Daniel’s body. “Oh, yeah. Fuck you good and hard,” Puss grunted, his pelvis slapping against Daniel’s flesh. He could see Daniel’s arm moving, knew that he was jerking himself off as Puss rammed his cock inside him. Puss felt his balls filling, and knew it wouldn’t be long at all before he spilled. “Do it, Daniel! Do it now!” he cried, as his orgasm ripped through him. His spine crackled with the force of his climax as it rocketed through him, stars flickering in his vision. Daniel’s cry sounded far away, but his asshole clenching around Puss’ cock as Daniel came wrung the last of Puss’ seed from his body. He collapsed, his weight bringing both of them to the floor. “You are mine, Daniel,” Puss whispered, rubbing his cheek against Daniel’s back. And it was true. That was all there was to it. Puss had claimed Daniel, made him his. Just as he’d promised, he’d taken care of the most pressing of Daniel’s problems. All that was left was to take care of the other one. And Puss knew just how to do it.

56

Chapter Five Daniel rolled over onto his back, one arm tucked under his head. He felt boneless, sleepy, sated, and totally drained, but better than he had in months. Hell, he felt better than he had in years. Regardless of what alphabet soup formed Puss’ DNA, the cat was without peer in bed. No, Daniel silently corrected himself, Puss had been more than just an excellent fuck. He’d been a lover, in the fullest sense of the word, something Daniel had never experienced before. He’d watched Daniel for clues to what he wanted, then had given it to him. Until that moment, Daniel’s experiences with men had been fast and meaningless – such as his infamous cable-repair-guy-in-the-hibiscus encounter. Quick, anonymous, jump-and-humps. No feelings, no emotions, no strings attached. He’d never had anyone touch him the way Puss had, so completely, from the inside out. Gently. Slowly. Tenderly. And then with such heated passion that Daniel feared that Puss was going to set him afire. He chuckled as he envisioned himself bursting into flame right in the middle of the hotel room, like some tabloid victim of spontaneous combustion, burnt to a cinder in the middle of the bed from the best orgasm he’d ever had. “What’s so funny?” Puss purred, nuzzling his way under Daniel’s arm. He laid his head on Daniel’s chest, looking just as relaxed and replete as Daniel felt. “Nothing. Everything. The fact that the best lay I’ve ever had was with a lower life form.” Daniel felt Puss’s growl against his chest and his body stiffen. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that, Puss. I just…you were incredible, man. Cat. Er, Puss.” Daniel winced, then began to gently stroke Puss’ thick black-and-white head of hair, feeling Puss relax against him again. In a few moments, he heard Puss begin to purr, and knew his apology had been accepted. “Oh God, I do not want to get up,” Daniel murmured, “I wish we could just lay here like this forever.” “Why can’t we?” Puss asked, bumping Daniel’s hand with his head alerting Daniel to the fact that Daniel had stopped petting him. “I need to get a newspaper and look for a job.” “Don’t worry about that, Daniel. I told you that I was going to help you. Sex isn’t the only thing I’m good at, you know.” “Oh? And what else can you do, my furry little friend?” Puss laughed. “That’s Master Furry Little Friend to you,” he said, earning himself a light swat on the head from Daniel. “I hear things, for one. Nobody ever pays any attention to the cat. People have all kinds of interesting conversations when I’m around, your stepbrothers included.” “What? Simon and William? What are you talking about, Puss?” Daniel asked. He pulled away, ignoring Puss’ hiss of disappointment, and sat up, leaning back against the headboard. “Let’s just say that I overheard Simon and William discussing a few interesting tidbits of information that they failed to share with you,” Puss answered evasively.

57

Torqued Tales

“Such as…?”

“Such as the fact that your grandfather named you specifically in his will.”

“What!” Daniel cried, sitting bolt upright. “What do you mean, Puss?”

“I heard Simon and William talking about it. It seems that your grandfather left a nice chunk of change to

you when he died. You were just a baby then, and your father -– King Bastard of the Asshole People -– conveniently forgot to tell anyone about it. Paid off the executor of the estate to keep quiet, too. When you turn twenty-five which, if memory serves is on next Tuesday, the bank will release the trust fund. Simon plans on waltzing into the bank with a few forged papers and claim the money for himself and William.” “The fuck you say!” “It’s true. But don’t worry, Daniel. I’m going to have a little talk with Simon and William, and help them

see the flaw in their plan.”

“What flaw? It sounds like a fucking perfect plan to me. I don’t even know which bank the account is in!”

“Simple. The one flaw in their plan is that they let the cat out of the bag. And now, that cat is royally pissed

off.”

Daniel’s eyes widened at the evil, dangerous grin that spread across Puss’ handsome features.

“Right. You’re just going to walk into their house stark naked and strike up a conversation with them, huh?”

“No, of course not. As much as I hate to say it, I’ll need clothes.”

Daniel looked into Puss’ sparkling green eyes. There was only one creature on the planet that Daniel trusted,

and he was the owner of those beautiful eyes. “All right. God help me, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…okay. I’ll run over to the Salvation Army Store first thing in the morning and get you something to wear.” “Good. Make it leather. Preferably black.”

“Black leather?”

Puss grinned at him. “I’m a cat, remember? Leather is the next best thing to a fur coat.”

“Puss, I don’t think the Salvation Army Store has a second-hand leather goods department.”

“Do the best you can. Now, I’m going to take a catnap. I’m exhausted. You wore me out, human.”

Daniel smiled, and sighed happily as Puss snuggled in close, wrapping his long body around Daniel’s. Forty

winks didn’t sound like a bad idea at that, he thought contentedly, letting his eyelids drift closed. He fell asleep almost immediately, so hard and so deep that he never felt Puss stir, or heard the motel room door open and close. ***

58

“Sorry, Puss. These were all that I could find,” Daniel said, placing the shopping bag down on the bed next to Puss. Puss reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of knee-high, black leather combat boots. He rummaged through the bag before casting a skeptical look at Daniel. “You’re kidding, right?” “Nope. Sorry. No leather pants, just these. But I was able to snag you a pair of black jeans and a black tee shirt that should fit,” Daniel said, forcing himself to refrain from smiling at the adorable pout on Puss’ handsome face. “C’mon, put them on.” Puss, obviously disappointed, struggled into the tight black jeans, growling. He pulled the tee shirt over his head and sat down, slipping on the combat boots and lacing them up tight. Standing he eyed himself in the mirror. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but I suppose they’ll have to do,” he said. “Shit, Daniel! How do you stand having your dick squashed like this all the time?” “You get used to it,” Daniel laughed. “Oh, yeah, I bought this too,” he said, bringing out a second bag he’d been holding behind his back. Puss opened the bag, his eyes growing wide. “Ooh, now this is more like it!” he cried, pulling out a fulllength, black leather trench coat. He slipped it on, smiling broadly. Daniel had known the instant he saw it that Puss would love it. He couldn’t resist, even though it had cost far more than he’d wanted to spend, even second-hand. But looking at Puss’ smile, and the way the coat fit him across his broad shoulders, Daniel had to admit that it had been worth every penny. It was as soft as butter, falling in luxurious folds from Puss’ shoulders to his ankles. With Puss’ unusual hair and spectacular body, the coat made him seem both sexy and dangerous. Just looking at him made Daniel hard and needy. He stepped in close, sliding his hands under the coat and over Puss’ well-muscled chest. “You look good, Puss. Good enough to eat.” “First things first, Daniel. I’m going home to have that talk with your stepbrothers. Afterward, you can dine at the All-Puss Buffet,” Puss grinned. Daniel leaned in, giving Puss a good, hard kiss full of tongue and attitude. “Cheeky cat. Let’s not forget who the master is, kitty.” Puss gave him a heated look that nearly melted Daniel’s jockeys. “Good advice, human. Sounds like someone needs a reminder.” His growl was low and menacing, making Daniel’s cock twitch and his ass burn with the memory of the night before. He kissed Daniel back, smashing their mouths together. Puss’ kiss was proprietary and hungry, and Daniel felt it all the way down to his toes. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Puss said, pulling up the collar of his trench coat. “Oh, no, not a chance! I’m going with you.” “No, you’re not.” “The hell you say! This is about me, Puss. About my family screwing me over. I deserve to confront them about it,” Daniel said firmly. There was absolutely no way he was going to let Puss leave without him.

59

Torqued Tales

Puss rolled his eyes, then swiped Daniel’s sunglasses from the top of the television set, putting them on. “Okay. But let me do all the talking. You just stand there and look intimidating.” He paused, then shook his head. “What am I saying? You couldn’t intimidate a flea off a bald cat with a flea collar and a blowtorch. Just keep your mouth shut and do the best you can.” “Don’t be catty.” “But I’m so good at it!” Puss laughed, looking at him from over the rims of the sunglasses. He grinned, then opened the door and stepped outside into the sunshine. Daniel followed, locking the door behind them.

60

Chapter Six Daniel parked a half-block away from his house -– Simon’s house, he corrected himself. Puss was out of the car and waiting on the sidewalk before Daniel had turned off the engine. He hurriedly climbed out of the car as Puss started toward the house. Following Puss up the walk, Daniel felt his stomach twist into a familiar knot at the sight of it. He’d thought he’d never come back here, would never have to look at his hateful stepbrothers’ faces again. But if it were true that his grandfather had left him a trust fund and that his stepbrothers planned to steal it, then he would tear the house apart with his bare hands to find the documentation he needed to keep that from happening. His gut roiled with righteous anger. They’d taken everything and had left him with nothing, and he’d be damned if they’d steal this from him, too. Daniel felt himself begin to tremble as Puss pushed the doorbell, as memories assaulted him from all sides. He remembered coming here for the first time as a boy of eighteen, just after his mother had died. His reception had been frosty at best, both his stepbrothers going out of their way to make certain that he knew how unwanted his presence was in their lives. His father had been no better. Daniel had been treated like a servant from the minute he’d entered the house until the moment he’d left it. The time in between had been filled with work and heartache, and now here he was, ready to go back into the lion’s den. Daniel had just opened his mouth to tell Puss that he’d changed his mind when the door opened. “What the fuck do you want?” Simon growled, his moon face creased into a scowl. “Can’t you read, moron? The sign says No Solicitors.”His eyes widened when he spotted Daniel standing behind Puss. “You! What are you doing here, asshole?” “That’s quite an impressive vocabulary you have there,” Puss grinned, pushing past a sputtering Simon and pulling Daniel into the house behind him. “Mensa material, that’s what you are.” “Get the fuck out of my house or I’m calling the police!” Simon roared. Daniel saw William round the corner of the hallway, no doubt coming to see what the ruckus was about. “I don’t fucking believe this! I thought we saw the last of your ugly puss, Daniel,” William spat the moment he set eyes on Daniel. “Now, I truly take umbrage to that remark,” Puss hissed, standing tall and glaring down at the top of William’s head. “Have you looked in a mirror lately, you balding, pathetic excuse for a sentient lifeform?” “Who’s he?” Simon demanded, eyeing Puss. “My cat,” Daniel answered, rather enjoying the way Simon’s face darkened into a deep, angry red, his eyes bulging with fury. “Answer my fucking question, you little shit!” Simon roared, his meaty hands clenching into fists. Daniel’s muscles tensed, ready for a physical confrontation, but Puss took a step to the left, putting himself between Simon and Daniel. “We’re here, in case you were wondering, to collect the paperwork regarding Daniel’s trust fund.”

61

Torqued Tales

It was as if Puss had thrown a bucket of ice water over Simon and William. They both froze, exchanging wary looks with one another. “W-what trust fund? Our father didn’t leave the little bastard a dime!” William stuttered. “Not from your father, you dickless wonder. The one your grandfather left Daniel,” Puss said, shooting William a look that could’ve curdled milk. “Now, be a good little monkey and fetch those papers before I get really angry.” “T-There aren’t any papers because there isn’t any trust fund! Our family’s money belongs to us. He’s not getting a fucking penny of it!” Simon sputtered. Daniel noticed that his face wasn’t red anymore –- it had gone a rather sickly green. “Bullshit,” Puss said calmly, pushing past Simon and heading toward the hallway. “I know those papers are in this house, and I’m going to find them.” “Get back here!” William screeched as both brothers ran after Puss. “I’ll call the cops! You’re trespassing!” Daniel bit back a grin at how flummoxed Puss was making his stepbrothers. Even if he didn’t get a dime from the trust fund, it was almost worth it to see Simon and William bested by a house cat. Puss walked into the kitchen, and spent a few minutes pulling out drawers and opening cabinets, flinging utensils in every which direction. “What’s in here?” he asked, opening the kitchen door. “That’s the back door, you fucking idiot!” Simon bellowed, grabbing hold of Puss’ sleeve. Puss spun on his heel, nearly knocking Simon on to his considerable ass. “Are you left-handed?” Puss growled in voice so frosty that even Daniel got a chill from it. “I hope so, because if you don’t let go of my sleeve I’m going to rip your right arm out of its socket.” Simon’s jaw fell, but so did his hand from Puss’ sleeve. Puss pushed past him and wandered back out into the living room with everyone else following. He began to search the living room, lifting knickknacks, turning cushions over, and peering under the furniture. What the hell was Puss doing? Daniel was at a loss as he watched Puss search in places where no one with half a brain would hide anything. For all his intelligence, maybe Puss simply didn’t have clue where humans would hide valuable paperwork. Simon and William were coiled so tightly that Daniel thought at any moment they’d start spinning around the room like two over-wound tops. Between their barely contained rage and Puss’ odd behavior, Daniel was beginning to think going after the paperwork was a mistake. “Puss, I don’t think what we’re looking for is in the aquarium,” Daniel said, as Puss peered into the fish tank. “I should have eaten them when I had the chance,” Puss smirked, rapping his knuckles on the glass side, watching the angelfish dart away. “Well,” he said, turning back to Simon and William. “I guess you were right after all. There’s no paperwork here. Let’s go, Daniel.” “What? Puss-“ Daniel sputtered, floored by Puss’ sudden and inexplicable one-eighty. “Come on, Daniel,” Puss insisted, taking hold of Daniel’s arm and pulling him toward the front door. “So sorry to have taken up your time, gentlemen. It’s been fun, though. We’ll have to do this again sometime. Have a family reunion - a picnic in the park, maybe. Good to see you both. Take care.”

62

He dragged Daniel outside, hurrying down the walk, ignoring Daniel’s continued protests and the angry running diatribe of his brothers. “Just drive, Daniel,” Puss said, sliding into the passenger seat of Daniel’s car. Behind him, Daniel could hear Simon and William screaming insults and threats at them. He slipped into the driver’s seat, his face a mask of combined confusion and rage. “Why, Puss? Why did you do this to me?” he spat as he started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “What good did that do us? Is this the way cats get their jollies? It was a complete waste of fucking time!” “Oh, ye of little faith,” Puss laughed, folding his arms across his chest. “Didn’t you enjoy the looks on their faces? Did you see Simon? I thought he was going to have a stroke, right there in the middle of the living room!” For all his anger, Daniel couldn’t help the small smirk that lifted a corner of his mouth. “Yeah, that was pretty good. And William looked like he was going to lose his lunch for a minute. But Puss, what about the papers? There must be a trust fund -– they wouldn’t have gotten so flustered if it wasn’t true.” “I’m tired,” Puss said, yawning so widely that his jaws popped. “I need a nap.” He closed his eyes, tipping his head back against the seat, and was snoring in moments. Daniel shook his head, frowning and completely confused. Unable to get another word out of Puss, he silently vowed to get some answers when they got back to their hotel room. *** “All right, Puss, give. What’s going on?” Daniel demanded the moment the motel door swung shut behind them. Puss was being obstinate, and frustratingly close-mouthed, slipping out of his coat and letting it fall to the floor. Daniel picked it up, hanging it in the tiny closet. “I asked you a question, Puss. I think I deserve an answer. What the hell was that all about today?” Puss didn’t even look in his direction, disappearing into the bathroom instead. Daniel pounded on the door, refusing to give up. “Answer me, Puss! Goddamn it, don’t you ignore me!” Inside the bathroom the toilet flushed, and the door opened so suddenly that Daniel found himself pounding on Puss’ chest instead of the door. Two hands grabbed Daniel’s head and his angry protests were swallowed by a hard, hungry kiss. “You humans talk too much,” Puss laughed. Daniel tried to pull away, to ignore the heat that Puss had ignited in his belly when he rubbed himself against Daniel. It was difficult, damned near impossible, but he managed. “Don’t change the subject! I want to know why you thought it necessary to drag me through hell today!” Daniel yelled, turning his back on Puss, trying to hide the evidence of his arousal that poked against his fly. “Daniel, I thought you trusted me.” “I did! I do…just tell me why, Puss. What good did it do us? We didn’t get anything- “ A knock at the door interrupted him. Daniel growled, but said, “We’re not done with this, Puss. That’s probably the police, come to arrest us for trespassing!” he grumbled as he stalked to the door and opened it.

63

Torqued Tales

Standing outside the door were three men, one of which held a yapping Yorkshire terrier under his arm. They looked at Daniel suspiciously, but their eyes lit up when they spotted Puss from over Daniel’s shoulder. Before Daniel could say a word, the three of them pushed past him into the room. “Hey…wait a minute! You can’t come in here! Who are you?” Daniel protested, frowning. Puss turned toward Daniel, flashing him a grin. “They’re the cavalry,” he said as he walked over to Daniel. He took Daniel’s arm, leading him toward the three men. Indicating the tallest, a man with two-tone, brown and blonde spiked hair and a sly grin, Puss said, “This is Patches,” then turned to the Asian twins who stood nearby. “And this is Yin and his brother, Yang. This little moppet is Prescott,” he continued, reaching down and taking the excitedly wriggling Yorkshire terrier from Patches’ arms. “He can’t shift, poor guy, but he didn’t want to be left out.” “These are…cats?” Daniel asked, staring wide-eyed at the trio of men. “Of course. Who else would I call in to help us? Ferrets?” “When did you…how did they…?” “Last night, after you fell asleep. I explained everything and they agreed to help us.” “Any friend of Puss’ is a friend of ours,” Patches grinned. “Even if he is only human.” The twins nodded in agreement, watching Daniel coolly from under thick black lashes. Daniel noticed that all three were dressed in mismatched outfits, as if they’d snagged odd pieces from someone’s clothesline. Still, regardless of the ill fit of their garments, Daniel could see that their bodies bulged with the same strong, sleek muscles as Puss. “Hey, isn’t this the guy who sucked off the cable repairman in the hibiscus bushes?” Yang asked, jerking his thumb toward Daniel. Puss sputtered, covering his mouth with his hand as Daniel shot him a fierce scowl. “Um, no, no…wrong human,” he said, biting his lip. “Oh. Well, humans all look alike to me,” Yang shrugged. “Yeah. Hey, Puss, I think this is what you wanted,” Yin said, handing a large, manila envelope to Puss. Puss grinned, taking the envelope and passing it to Daniel. “Here you go, lover. One set of bank papers, just as promised.” Daniel opened the envelope, riffling through the papers inside – there were bankbooks, statements, and a copy of his grandfather’s will. According to the papers, there was enough money in Daniel’s trust fund to set him up for life. “I don’t understand, Puss. How did they get these?” Puss laughed, throwing his free arm around Daniel’s shoulders, hugging him close. Prescott wiggled in his other arm, managing to lick Daniel’s chin. “Remember when I opened the kitchen door? I never closed it. They came in and searched the house while we were in the living room. By the time we left, they’d already found the papers and had gone out the kitchen door again. Simon and William never even knew they were there, but I can just imagine their reaction when they went to find these papers and they were missing! They’re still probably trying to figure out what happened!” “Thank you, thank you!” Daniel grinned, staring in wonder at the papers he held in his hand. He looked up at Puss and his friends. “How did you find them so quickly? We weren’t in the living room all that long.” 64

Patches laughed. “There’s a reason humans call some thieves cat burglars. They’re quick and quiet and

thoroughly efficient, and we happen to be experts at it.”

“Yeah, we don’t pussyfoot around!” Yin grinned, earning himself a long-suffering groan from Puss and

Patches and a rap upside the head from his brother. Even Prescott whined and rolled his eyes.

“See you in the alley, Puss!” Patches said, giving Puss a quick hug and relieving him of Prescott. He nodded toward Daniel. “Nice meeting you, Daniel. Take care of him for us.” He walked to the door, and opened it for Yin and Yang. Puss closed the door behind them, turning to grin at Daniel. “See? I told you I’d take care of everything. You can always trust me, Daniel.”

“I’m sorry I doubted you, Puss, but you could have let me in on it, you know,” Daniel said, wrapping his

arms around Puss’ waist.

“Nah, wouldn’t have been as much fun then. It was worth it just to see your face when you looked in the

envelope.”

“You’re evil, Puss. Pure evil.”

“And don’t you just love it?” Puss grinned, leaning in and capturing Daniel’s mouth in a searing kiss.

Daniel broke away, a small frown creasing his brow. “Puss, now that I have the bank papers, does this mean

that you’re going to go back to being a cat?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No,” Daniel said immediately, shaking his head. “I want you to stay like this, Puss. I want you to… “

“To what, Daniel? C’mon, I need to hear it,” Puss whispered, drawing Daniel close.

“To love me.”

“I have news for you, Daniel -– I’ve loved you since I was a kitten,” Puss smiled. “And I have every

intention of continuing, but there is one thing I’m going to need once you get your money.“

“What’s that?”

“New boots. These pinch,” Puss laughed.

65

Torqued Tales

Lie To Me By BA Tortu ga Lord, that wind could howl.

Jesse sat in his little cabin and glared at the toes of his bad foot, sticking right up above a wad of bandages.

He should be out working the winter herd, not sitting on his pockets and watching the fire crackle. He'd had about all he could take of mending tack and oiling saddles. The front door opened, a swirl of wind and snow coming in along with the old half-breed, Sam. A wide smile split Sam's wrinkled face, and the man held up one hand.

"Hey, buddy," Jesse said, holding up a hand in return. "Whatcha need?"

"Brought you something," Sam grunted, pouring a cup of coffee and sucking it down. "In lean to."

"Well, uh... Thanks?" Hell, with Sam it could be a wild boar or a piano. A man never knew.

"You like. will keep you busy. Got sugar?"

Sam loved his sugar, would trade almost anything for it. "Sure. You can have a small bag, though, and not a

bit more."

Jesse watched carefully as Samn measured out sugar, then grunted and took his leave, waving to the lean-to.

"Storm stops, you go see."

"Thanks for stopping by!" Jesse yelled after the retreating form. "Rotten old sumbitch."

As it was, it was three days 'fore the storm stopped long enough for him to get to the lean-to. Jesse had

known old Sam would lay out enough feed for his mule, and sure enough, the old guy had been a trooper,

feeding for him.

The gift was an old log, twisted up, but thicker than a man's body, and Jesse half laughed. "Well, the old guy

is a strange-un, but he knows me," Jesse said out loud. He loved to turn old wood into new shapes, and

carving was something he could do sitting on a camp stool.

He stared at the wood, something stirring in the back of his mind for what he'd make out of it, but for now he'd let it simmer. The wood would speak to him, would tell him what it wanted to be. It always did. *** A wooden Indian.

For Christ's sake, what had he been thinking? And did it look like something he could sell to the store in

town? Hell, no.

66

No, sir. This was no sober-looking chief with a big headdress. This was a brave, smooth and brown, full-on life sized. That was what the wood had told him it was, so that was what he made it. Goddamn, he was a fool for wasting his time.

Still, three weeks had gone by fast, what with him limping into the lean-to every day and sitting to carve.

And it was a thing of beauty for sure.

"Sure wish you was alive and speaking English, friend," Jesse muttered as he rubbed oil into the wooden

chest of his new bunkmate. "Then I'd have someone to talk to besides old Fred there."

The wood seemed to shudder under his touch, seemed to shift a little with the oil. Odd. Jesse stared at the

statue a minute, waiting for more movement, then he shook his head. "Must be gettin' squirrely, up here

alone."

He went back to rubbing, losing himself in the motion. A deep groan, like the sound of the roof slats under

the weight of the snow, sounded, almost vibrating his fingers.

Jesse jumped back, landing on his ass, right over teakettle. "Goddamn! What in the name of all that's holy

was that?"

The statue seemed to... shift? No. No. He'd done got cabin fever.

Maybe he ought to go have a nip from the bottle Cookie'd left him, sit in front of the fire and contemplate.

He'd made it all the way to the door when he turned back, squinting hard at the statue. It looked smaller,

almost as if it was trying to crouch, trying to walk. To follow him.

Blinking hard, Jesse shook his head, taking two limping steps back toward the thing. "What in tarnation?"

The thing creaked - creaked like it was moving, damn it. MOVING. Then the dark eyelids seemed to flutter

in the moonlight.

Resisting the urge to scream like Betsy Lewis faced with a spider, Jesse moved closer, figuring he'd just prove that he was seeing things. Yes sir. Imagining. There wasn't a single sound. Not a creak. A groan. Nothing. Just the still, quiet statue and him, the wind howling outside. Sighing, chuckling a little, Jesse turned away, figuring he needed a biscuit and some stew. That'd cure him of seeing things. And a little nip of whiskey would silence the little voice that said if he wasn't seeing things at least he'd have someone to talk to. Something touched his shoulder before he even took a step, the touch heavy and warm and weird. Jesse teetered, almost falling again, whirling to look. His eyes damned near bugged out when he saw what

was behind him.

Dark-skinned, face rough and planed, the pattern of the wood obvious and visible, but those eyes were...

Were.

Open.

Awake.

67

Torqued Tales

Alive.

He bit his lip on a scream. Jesus fuck.

The soft chuckle sort of got lost in the pounding of his heart, but he could see it. See it in those eyes.

Lord help him.

"You. You're alive." Sort of. A little.

"A. A. Alive." That voice echoed deep inside him.

"Good heavens." His heart was trying to leap out of his damned chest. He'd heard of that before, but his

durned body had never tried to do it before.

That heavy, stiff hand landed on his chest, pressing against him. "Good."

"Uh." His head got all swimmy, and Jesse thought he might just pass out. Jesus Lord.

Those stiff, strong arms wrapped around him, the wooden chest pressed against him.

Good Lord and butter, he was gonna start babbling like a crazy fool. "You. I. You cain't be alive."

"Alive." It was grinning.

Grinning.

And them teeth were white, like newly carved pine.

That was sort of the last straw. Jesse heard a roaring river in his ears, and the world went white as a blizzard,

his vision narrowing until it just gave out, sending him right into a dead faint.

The last thing he saw was that wooden face, just a 'smiling at him. Jesus Christ on a crutch. *** Humans were the oddest things, honestly. After all his effort to show up - spells and promises, sacrificing a perfectly good tree, finding a sympathetic ear to drag him out of the woods, everything - and did the human seem grateful? Or horny? No. Loki stretched, his wooden joints creaking and stiff after dragging the human into the warm house. No. He had to find someone who simply babbled and then went to sleep.

Ridiculous.

Of course, the human was pretty, too, especially under all the clothes. Those were fine in the snow, but this

house was altogether too warm for that nonsense.

He had just finished pulling off the man's coverings when those eyes opened, as blue as the morning sky.

"Shee-it! It wasn't no dream."

68

Now, he didn't look exactly like himself - the human had made him a bit too broad and he had the sneaking suspicion that his nose was too big, but he definitely didn't appear to be a dream. He tended to be much less solid in dreams. The man reached out and touched him, fingers flinching a little, but then settling on his chest. "What the

Hell?"

"Hello." Oh. Touches. He did remember those fondly.

"Hello..." The man looked at him, staring at his face, at his body. "I'm nekkid. Did you do that?"

He nodded, neck creaking. Of course he did. The man was fascinating.

"Oh. Uh. Why?" The black inside the blue eye almost swallowed everything else up, and the man licked his

lips, color rushing into his cheeks.

"Because you..." He thought quickly, humans could be so very particular about their bodies. "You seemed warm." His groin creaked, began to grow.

Those sky eyes widened, which seemed impossible, as wide as they were, and the man stared down at him,

that pink mouth dropping open. "Wasn't. The lean-to ain't warm."

"I moved you." He reached down, the man's flesh soft, supple, warm and giving.

"Oh." The word came out as a squeak, that warm flesh growing for him just as his own grew. "All right,

then."

"Yes. Right." His fingers dragged lower, fascinated by the heavy tube of flesh.

"Uhn." That noise was much less a squeak, much more what he wanted. Low, deep, the sound had him

smiling, his cheeks feeling hard and stretched.

"You made me for this." He knew, even if the human didn't. He traced the hard cock, circled the ridge at the

tip.

"I... Did not. Just wanted someone to talk to..." Oh, the man was lying. The leaping of the pulse in the big

vein told him that.

"Talk. You can talk to me." Talk to him. Touch him. Feel him. Play with him.

"I can talk... well, sure, because it's every day that a piece of wood comes to life." The man waved one arm,

the other hand still pressed to Loki's chest.

"No. No, the magic doesn't work every day." Maybe once every hundred years, if he was lucky. He didn't

get lucky often.

"Magic..." The laughter started then, sounding wild, like the moon when it was full.

"Magic." He took hold of the man's face, forced the sky eyes to his. "Should I dunk you in the snow?"

69

Torqued Tales

That helped with the madness, he'd heard.

A frown snapped pale brows together. "No. No, I think I ought to put you back in the shed, though. You

shouldn't ought to be touching me... there."

"Why not?" The man enjoyed it; he had not been asleep in the wood quite that long.

"I don't even know your name!"

"My name?" There was power there. True power. "I don't have a name."

His groin creaked and filled again.

The man looked down again, and those cheeks flushed even brighter. "Are you lying? Everyone has a

name."

"Do they?" CREAK. Loke rubbed the man's cock, thumb nudging the tip.

"They do. I do. My name's Jesse." Those hips started rolling for him, the long prick sliding through his hand.

"Jesse." His human. His own man. His hand kept moving, drawing the pleasure up through Jesse's flesh.

"Yeah. Yeah. Oh, that feels good." The lean body arched for him, Jesses head falling back as if it was too

heavy to hold.

"Yes. Good." Loki agreed, whole-heartedly. That silken flesh felt like heaven in his palm, felt like

springtime.

"More." Legs spreading to hold him up, Jesse pushed and rubbed, giving him what he needed. The hand on

his chest started to stroke, to pet him, testing his flesh.

"More." He wrapped both his hands around the pulsing flesh, groaning deep within him as Jesse arched.

"Oh. Oh, damnation." Now both hands were on him, clenching on his shoulders while Jesse moved

violently.

"No. No damnation. Not here." Not yet. He wasn't finished playing.

One leg wrapped up around his body, all pale skin and rough hair, giving him chills. "No. None of that. Just.

Oh..."

"Yes. Oh." He leaned in, lips brushing against Jesse's. "Beautiful man."

"Not... You. Oh, Lord help me." With that Jesse bucked like an unbroken pony, sending wet heat over his

creaking hand.

"Mmm." The seed eased the stiffness in his knuckles, made his hands feel more supple. "Thank you."

"Sure. Anytime." Blinking, Jesse leaned on him, lips very close to his chin. "Are you real?"

"I am as real as you need me to be."

70

"What does that mean?" Those lips moved up and up, covering his, warm and alive. It had been so very long. He didn't know. He didn't really care what it meant; it was just what you said.

Jesse didn't really seem to need an answer either. Once the man had given into the pleasure, he seemed to

give in completely.

As it was meant to be. He wouldn't have gone to all of this trouble for nothing. *** Jesse just kind of... hung there, clutching what should have been a statue, but what felt awfully real. Goddamn. What in Hell was going on? He stared up at the wooden Indian, who was looking less and less...

woody all the time. "You sure you don't have a name?"

"I don't need a name." The Indian's member sorta... jerked and swelled. Damn.

He'd felt that happen the last time he'd asked. And every time the feller answered without telling him, he got

poked. "Huh. Well, I want something to call you if I'm gonna do this..."

He reached right down, bold as brass, and grabbed that amazing thing in his hand. It managed to be warm

and yet smooth and sorta. Well. Sappy?

The low, creaking groan filled the air, vibrating the... uh... guy's chest.

"Oh. Look at you." The sight should have sent him gibbering. But man, that was pretty. All long and stiff

and it had been a long, long time since he'd held someone in his hand.

"Mmhmm. Look. Touch. Taste." Sounded like the guy was full of options.

"I could do that. If you'll kiss me back." That first kiss hadn't gone so well. It was like chewing a log.

"That I can do." Mister Big and Woody leaned forward, lips softer now, warm and eager as the branch that

rubbed on his palm.

Oh. Damn. He was lost, sure enough, kissing that wooden feller for all he was worth. Pleasure exploded in

his head, making him all shivery. All that heavy weight landed on him, smooth carved skin rubbing against

him, not leaving even one splinter.

"Oof." Jesse stroked over the shoulders and back, actually able to feel the man warming up under his hand.

The other stayed wrapped right where it had been, pulling and pushing, fascinated by the heavy prick.

"Please, Jesse." The words buzzed against his lips, those dark wood eyes starting into him.

"Please what? What do you want?" The name seemed to glance off the tip of his tongue, like if he bit down

he might find it. Strange.

"More. You made me for this." He had. He'd carved... the name was right there.

"You called to me, though. Right from the wood." He always listened. Guess it had given him something

hellacious special this time.

71

Torqued Tales

"Mmhmm. Needed." A soft, warm tongue trailed up along his shoulder.

"Needed. I sure did need someone." Lord Almighty. He rubbed up a little, his legs around the backs of those

smooth thighs.

"Yes." Those strong, stiff fingers joined his, wrapping their cocks together, letting them both feel.

So damned good. It was so good that he ignored the pain in his poor leg as long as he could, but soon

enough he had to put it down, using the other one for leverage.

Another of those deep rumbles came, free hand reaching for his leg. "Hurt?"

"Just a little." He grinned, not wanting to lose the moment. "You can look later. Right now..." Jesse

tightened down his own hand, showing the guy what he wanted. Those dark eyes rolled, that focus snapping

right on back to where he needed it. Hellfire.

They rocked together, their cocks sliding, his own wetness easing the way. He could smell them now, and

damned if the scent of musk wasn't overtaking the smell of pine.

The damn ropes on the bed started creaking, the skin under his fingers growing more and more supple as

they rocked.

"You... You planned this. Somehow. Didn't you?" Not that he cared. Jesse felt too damned fine to care. So

close to the edge he could feel it march up his spine.

"Planned?" That cock filled, grew harder.

"Uh-huh. You knew this was gonna happen." Feel that. Jesse squeezed, not even caring anymore if the guy

was lying, if it did that.

"I hoped." The growth wasn't as pronounced this time.

Well, that wouldn't do. "Tell me your name."

"L..." That hard prick slid over his fingers, hot as a brand.

"L?" He was gonna. Like soon. "Are you ready?"

"I am." Oh, yeah. Yeah, Loki was ready. Loki. "I am, Jesse."

"That's no lie." But it didn't matter. If that cock grew anymore, it was gonna explode. Jesse pulled at them

harder and harder, just going to town. Before he could even give any warning he was shooting all over, and

the world went as white as a blizzard.

Those long arms wrapped around him, holding carefully, that carved strenght smooth on his skin.

"Damn. Oh, damn. Are you... What... You staying?"

"As long as I can, human. Sweet man."

Well, there wasn't no growing with that. So Jesse figured that must be the truth.

72

Hell, even if Loki just stayed the winter, it would do. He'd take what he could get. *** His sap was rising. Literally. Loki shifted, moving so that the spring sunshine feel upon him through the window. Soon, he'd have to go, to let this wooden shell go and find another home.

Soon.

Not yet.

Not quite yet.

Jesse slept in the little bed, quilt pulled up to cover all but the top of his blond head. His sweet man. So

happy with what they did that he hardly ever asked questions anymore. Unless he was needing.

The sun heated him, deep down, his fingers and toes curling, looking to sink into the soil. No. No, he needed

to sink into something much more alive. "Jesse."

Loki headed for the bed, the man sleeping there.

Jesse sat straight up, the ropes creaking, the quilt sliding south. "Huh? Oh, hey there."

That smile was warmer than any light. His fingers slid over that taut belly, as his lips moved to taste that

smile. "Hey."

"You weren't thinking of bolting, was you? I kinda got used to having you about." Kissing him right back,

Jesse slid against him, warming him deep down.

"No. I don't bolt." His body groaned and creaked and he shook his head at it. He had been dreading having

to leave. Two different things.

Pulling back to frown at him, Jesse touched his cheek. "Don't like to me now, Loki. What's wrong?"

"Spring." He waved to the window, frowning. "I only have so much magic."

So much time. Silly, since this human had stolen his heart, his name.

"You. Oh. The magic ends in the spring?" That frown deepened, his man starting to mull that over. Jesse

was the most stubborn creature he had ever seen. He nodded. It was the easiest answer, yes.

"Well, that ain't right. How do we stop it?" Those blue eyes locked with his, Jesse starting to touch him,

hands sliding down his arms.

"Stop it?" Loki blinked, moving to straddle Jesse's thighs, skin softening for the moment, reacting to Jesse's

hunger. Made for him.

73

Torqued Tales

"Yeah. How do we make you stay. Unless..." Now Jesse looked away, but those arms never stopped

wrapping around him.

"Unless?" He leaned, groaning as his lips found skin.

"Unless you don't want to stay?" Oh, poor man, doubting him.

"I want to stay." Nothing creaked or groaned, not even his fingers, which gripped Jesse's shoulders, holding

on. "I want to stay."

Eyes meeting his again, Jesse smiled. "Oh. Oh, good. I want you to stay, too." Yes. Yes, the kiss that came next told him that as much as anything. Loki poured himself into the kiss, the pounding of his heart insisting that he was trapped, hidden within the wood. One of Jesse's hands slid down to cover his heart, like the man could hear his thoughts. Yes. Yes, he was so alive with this man. His blood flowed faster, need seeming to make him swell. "Jesse." "Yes. Yeah. Loki." Every time his name passed Jesse's lips he felt more real, more flesh and blood. He

arched, moaned into those soft lips. Again. Again, love. Please.

Jesse kissed him again and again, lips closing on his, tongue slipping between. The heat flared between them

as it always did, making him fear he would burst into flame. He reached for Jesse's hip, drawing them closer

together, until he imagined Jesse would sink inside him.

"Inside..." Jesse stared at him, lips swollen and dark. "Why didn't we think of that?"

"Think?" Jesse was thinking? Now?

"Yeah. I mean... we never have. You. In me." Those cheeks were a dark red.

His eyes rolled. "I. Yes. No. We haven't."

Yet.

"We should oughta. That might just work." Biting his lower lip, Jesse reached down and cupped his

member, holding it loosely. Contemplating. His hips rolled without him thinking on it, the need within him

battering to get out.

"Yeah. Yeah, we could do that. I got some... Somewhere." All the while Jesse muttered, he stroked as well, making Loki feel like he might explode. He stopped trying to follow Jesse's words, focusing instead on the touch to his prick. "Don't run off." Jesse let go of him, the shock of the air almost making him lose his hardness. But the sight of Jesse's naked body springing out of bed saved him. Loki stretched out upon the bed, hand wrapping around his cock, thumb working the shaft. Soon enough, Jesse was back, a bottle of oil in one hand. The man stopped dead, staring at him, mouth dropping open a little. "Look at you. I could just eat you up like molasses." "I would let you." He would let Jesse do nearly anything. Ironic, that he would be caught so easily after so long.

74

"I got other plans." He got a bright smile, the blushing cheeks not subsiding at all. "Now, let's see if I can

remember how to do this."

Loki let one leg sprawl; he believed that his human would remember. Jesse touched him all the way down,

sliding right in between his legs, opening the oil. "Now, if I remember, I need to do this." The man simply

wet two fingers and reached behind himself, fingers disappearing inside Jesse's body.

His eyes flew open, staring at way Jesse took himself in, oiled that tight, secret hole for him.

"Oh, damn. Been a bit." Jesse bit his lower lip, his face going a deep red. He could feel the tremors in those

fine muscles.

He rumbled, reaching for Jesse to soothe, to pet. "No hurting."

"No. No, s'good. Just tight. You're gonna be big..." A smile spread on Jesse's face. "Cain't wait."

Oh. That smile was.

Love.

Love.

He loved a human.

His chest felt as if it would crack.

Kissing him, Jesse moved, fingers pulling free, body swarming up atop his. Those lean thighs straddled his

hips, and Jesse smiled, eyes dazed. "Ready?"

"Ready." He loved this human.

"I... I sure do love you, Loki. I don't know what I'da done if you hadn't come." With that, Jesse slicked up

his prick with the oil and bent up, then down, taking him in.

"Love." His neck creaked, throat working as the heat surrounded him, gripped him.

Jesse's hands landed on his shoulders, bracing that strong body so it could rise and fall, giving him

everything. Heat and need and love. He groaned, the sound creaking out of him, tearing from him.

"Yeah. Just like that, honey. Just like that..." So tight, so hot. He'd forgotten how hot humans were inside.

"Just..." His voice left him, only creaks and groans leaving him. His blood pounded, feet planted on the

ground.

They lost all of their words, only their bodies speaking to each other. Sweet Jesse. His lover. Letting him

inside. His sap built inside him, rushing through him, the need threatening to crack him. He didn't care,

though. Not with Jesse looking at him like he was all of the world, right there. Beautiful.

"Love." The word escaped him, the walls seeming to shudder around him.

"Soon. Touch me." Grabbing one of his hands, Jesse brought it between them, pushing it down to touch the

hard, curved prick.

75

Torqued Tales

"Yes." He bucked up, knuckles creaking as he stroked down, petting Jesse's cock.

"Good. Oh, Loki. Honey. I need..." Sweat ran down Jesse's temple, the scent hot and musky, like the earth.

Like he could put his roots there.

"Anything. I would give you anything." He climaxed, hips rocking up, filling Jesse with all his need.

Crying out, Jesse spent for him as well, hot seed splattering his belly, making his skin feel smooth and hot

and alive.

Everything began to glow, his limbs tingling, growing heavy.

A soft gasp came from his lover, those blue eyes going wide, Jesse's mouth dropping open. "L... Loki?"

"Y..." He tried to nod, but could not. He was. He was Loki and he loved.

Jesse kissed him, the touch a little desperate, a little scared. But there. For him.

The light took everything. Everything but those sky eyes.

Was it worth it? The little voice seemed to slide into his mind, the voice of a dozen of his kind curious. Yes.

Yes. Jesse was. Worth every second. No matter the cost. *** Jesse stretched, his back popping. Winter was coming on, and his leg had healed up, but never had been

right ever since he tore it up.

Still, he wasn't gonna complain. Not when it was the winter that had brought him Loki. And damned if Loki

and him hadn't found a way to make his wooden Indian into something a lot more human.

Loki had stayed. With him. It still took his breath away sometimes. Right now he wasn't breathless at all.

No sir, he was just a little cold, and a lot horny.

He found Loki standing in front of the hearth, a basin of water beside him, a piece of toweling in his hand.

Jesse stopped a moment to admire, to just stare at that mahogany colored skin, glistening in the firelight.

Then Jesse walked right over, smiling into those very human eyes.

"Hey there, lover. I got a favor to ask of you."

"Anything, Jesse." The low voice still creaked a bit, rasped with need.

That need was all his. Jesse took one more step, one that brought him right into contact with that fine body,

made just for him. With his own hands. Reaching down, Jesse cupped Loki's prick in his hand, feeling the

heavy weight of it. "It's real simple, honey."

The thick flesh filled, the blood throbbing, making the flesh heat for him. Lord, that still amazed him. But he knew Loki could do better than than. Leaning in, he stroked, Loki up and down, taking a kiss for a long moment. 76

Then he chuckled a little, watching Loki's eyes begin to twinkle. "Lie to me, honey."

77

Torqued Tales

For Kingdom 's Sake By Jane Davitt The flutter of a dress, white like the wings of the moths clustered thickly around the candles and lamps illuminating the ballroom, disappeared into the shadows of the palace gardens and Damon was left to stare after the girl he'd just tried to kiss, her discarded shoe in his hand. Already, he was starting to wonder what he'd done, but the shoe he held, a dancing slipper, a pretty piece of frippery, prevented him from passing it off as a wine-soaked fancy. The slipper was real; the pearl-white satin stained with grass where its owner had stumbled, startled by the chimes of midnight from the clock tower. The delicately vicious point of toe and heel, designed to make a lady's foot seem impossibly tiny as it peeked from beneath a froth of silk, both left a dent on his questing fingertip as he searched for a clue. Laughing softly at himself - what, had he expected her name to have been inscribed on it, as an inkyfingered schoolboy would do to safeguard his belongings? - he tossed it into the air and caught it, still staring out into the stiffly formal gardens, lit by the full moon, all silver and black, the rigid, clipped regularity of bush and tree and bed softened and blurred. "An odd keepsake, Your Highness." A tall figure walked up the wide, low terrace steps toward him. Damon didn't need a better light to recognize Pavare, Duke of Selsis, Lord of the Northern Marches. No one else at court had his height, his breadth of shoulder, his rakish, slightly dissolute, arrogance. And none, of those whose fealty was accepted by the king, at least, had his reputation, whispered about in shocked, gleeful tones by the envious or cowardly; openly, roundly condemned by… well, no one. None would dare; my Lord Pavare's blade was so very swift to answer… and a woman with a sharp tongue and a habit of frankness who might feel herself safe if she indulged the latter whilst using the first, was mistaken if she had husband, son, or brother of an age to meet Pavare in the misty dawn - and be buried before the next sunrise. Damon studied the slipper. Safer to look at the pearls studding the heel, the diamonds flashing coldly on the buckle, than the gray eyes and thick black hair, unpowdered and carelessly drawn back off the thin, pale face, of the man approaching. Pavare… disturbed him. Sometimes walked in his dreams as he lay restless and fevered in his room, the arched ceiling painted in gilt and cream and scarlet festoons, as befitted a prince's chamber, historic scenes picked out on the paneled walls, meant to inspire him, remind him of whom he was and his duty. In his dreams, Pavare was rarely kind, but there was a certain tolerant amusement in the gray eyes that met his gaze when he finally lifted it from the slipper. His own eyes were blue eyes, summer eyes, to go with his golden hair; the court poets harped on that theme endlessly, until he longed for dull brown locks and a nondescript hazel instead, just to spite them. "It is no keepsake," he said, striving for control over his voice. "Should its owner have furnished me with her name, I would gladly see to its safe return, but as I have neither name nor direction, I cannot perform that task."

78

"You danced with her all night." Pavare raised winged eyebrows, dark, savage slashes against his white skin. "One would have thought a man so besotted would have cajoled a name from her lips by which to address his love." The amusement had fled; only the mockery remained. Damon took a steadying breath. He, at least, was safe from Pavare's blade; the scandal, were he to challenge the heir to the throne, would be more than even Pavare would dare. Possibly. Whatever the risk, he cared not; he had always given Pavare his honest thoughts over the years in which they had been acquainted. Of course, as eight years separated them and he was but a score and five now, for most of that time, Pavare had been less a friend than the man Damon had striven to emulate, admired, worshipped… grateful for a careless word, a smile, once the dizzying bliss of a sword lesson when Pavare had been bored on a rainy afternoon… It was only once he'd reached adulthood that he'd become to know the man as a man, not an idol. He'd watched Pavare drink, fight, gamble; curse, kill and - He wrenched his thoughts away from the image of the time he'd entered Pavare's chambers without waiting for permission, eager to tell him that a stag had been sighted in the woods and a hunt called. Two bodies, both male, twined together like ivy on rocks, the pale skin of Pavare's throat marked red with kisses, his lean, powerful body gentled to the curve of his lover's back. His eyes had met Damon's startled gaze with a studied calm and one hand had tugged the heavy silk covers up higher, not over his own bared limbs but over his companion, who had stirred and muttered sleepily, his hand groping backwards. Damon had backed away, a stammered apology dying on his lips because a prince did not lie and he could not truly regret what he had seen. What he had discovered, not about Pavare, but himself. His last glimpse had shown him Pavare's hand drawing back the tumbled curls that fell in disarray across the pillow and pressing a kiss to the nape of his lover's neck, drawing a shudder and a sleepy, sated moan of pleasure. As dismissals went, it had been effective. And it had been since that day, some six months past, that he'd begun to dream of Pavare, imagination supplying the details memory could not. They had never discussed it; what was there to say? Pavare was a law unto himself, his wealth and lineage rendering his eccentricities allowable. None but the most old-fashioned cared that Pavare bedded men; his reputation lay in tatters because he stayed faithful to none of them, chose them from all walks of life, and had failed to take the time needed to provide an heir for his title and lands. Duty first. How well Damon knew that rule. The ball was given in its name; each drop of wine, each crumb of food, each note of music - all laid at the altar of duty because it was high time Prince Damon took a bride and he was being given his choice because the king was indulgent where he was concerned. His choice of well-bred beauties, groomed and trotted out, anxious or predatory mamas in attendance. And he, rebellious for once, had singled out a stranger, a charmingly wistful smile on her pretty mouth, a girl who seemed alone, quite alone, and had swept her, silken skirts and all, across the polished dance floor, 79

Torqued Tales

through silence and whispers, alternating as the turns of the dance took them in various directions.

He'd still overheard enough to make his smile grim and his mood bitter. So he was dancing with a nobody,

an interloper, was he?

His choice. His. The king had given him that freedom. And she had been… different. Even if he suspected

the dazzle in her eyes had been placed there by his rank - oh, not a social climber, no; just very young and in

love with romance as every young girl was.

A prince was, he supposed, romantic.

They'd hardly spoken and she'd barely met his eyes.

And she'd fled just as he was about to give her the kiss the moonlight demanded.

"No name," Pavare said thoughtfully. He plucked the shoe from Damon's grasp without asking and studied

it. "They said she danced in glass slippers."

"Who said?" Glass? How could that be? And yet…yes, he'd seen the pink skin through the translucent glass, like rose petals under ice… "People. Idiots." Pavare tapped a finger against the shoe. "This is not glass."

"But it was," Damon said slowly. "At least…Yes, it was, I swear it." He gave Pavare a look that dared him

to argue. "And I am no fool."

"Oh-ho!" Pavare began to chuckle, rich and deep. "I smell magic. How very amusing."

"'Magic'?" he repeated stupidly. "Pavare, that is utterly forbidden! Love spells are -"

"But it wasn't a love spell," Pavare interrupted. "Love cannot be compelled; you know that." His eyes

darkened and he lifted a hand as though to caress Damon's face before letting it fall to his side. "This," he said, hooking his finger inside the shoe and allowing it to dangle, "belongs to a young miss who made a wish, I wager. Something trite and foolish; a dance with a prince, perhaps." "Well, she got that," Damon said dryly. "Several of them, in fact."

"And now you must track her down and capture her hand, as her heart is already yours." Pavare leaned

closer, setting the shoe aside on the terrace wall. "And after her hand, her lips? Did she even allow you the

refreshment of a single kiss to quench - or would it have fanned? - your ardor?"

"I did not kiss her," Damon said, the words forced past stiff lips. Pavare's breath, wine-scented and spicy

was warm against his face and he felt the airy caress ripple over him, leaving him yearning for more.

"What? You don't like kisses?" The words were murmured, low and ripe, heavy with that ever-present,

infuriating amusement of Pavare's.

Annoyance lent Damon strength. He was a prince full-grown, his blade blooded on an ogre, his virginity

long since gone. He had been sitting in on the sessions with the king's advisors for a full year, had negotiated a tricky trade agreement with a neighboring kingdom, and he was damned if he was going to allow Pavare to reduce him to stammering incoherence.

80

Again. "I like them," he said evenly. Taking the initiative for the first time ever in his dealings with Pavare, he ran the tip of a finger slowly over Pavare's lip, licking his own at the same time. "Do you?" Pavare's teeth snapped down and Damon snatched his finger back just in time. Pavare grinned at him, his eyes sparkling. "So you've grown tired of waiting, my prince?" "Perhaps." Damon met the gray eyes without flinching. "Or perhaps you have?" Pavare's mouth twisted ruefully. "You have been a little… slow to grasp your opportunities." "How remiss of me." Damon broke away, walking down the steps into the garden, knowing that this night, this time, Pavare would follow. He took the path leading to the summerhouse, but as soon as they were out of sight of the palace, he whirled around, taking the few paces needed to bring him close to Pavare, and kissed him. The strength of the body pressed up against his, all whipcord muscles, steel under the froth of lace, the gloss of silk, came as no surprise, but the heat of the mouth working against his did. To Damon's way of thinking, Pavare was cool like running water, like the winds which blew around his castle in the mountains; this passion was unexpected. The wanton hunger of his response called a matching ardor from Damon. His hands found the shape of Pavare's head, the coarse silk of the dark hair sliding through his fingers as the leather strip binding it back slipped free. Made clumsy by need, his hands shaking, he ran his fingers through the wealth of hair, his thumbs stroking the tips of Pavare's ears, pointed slightly, a legacy, if the gossip was true, of a fairy ancestor. Pavare rolled his head, his lips parting on a gasp. "Damon…" There was nothing of the courtier in Pavare; he gave the king respect and bowed his arrogant head gracefully, but Damon he had always treated as an equal where others fawned. And why not? Pavare's great grandfather had been a duke; Damon's a woodcutter. No secret, that; the royal coat of arms included a tree and an axe, and each year, on the first day of winter, any woodsman in the kingdom was allowed to enter the palace and receive a silver coin and the right to cut enough timber to keep his Majesty's citizens warm when the bitter winds, carrying snow and ice, howled down from the mountains. From Pavare's mountains. Pavare. who was now mouthing fiercely at Damon's throat, real and vivid as flame, his heat burning away the memory of every other kiss Damon had been given: tepid, pale presses of lips, respectfully gentle. Damon had fought Pavare before; with swords, with fists, the sparring always leaving him beaten and bruised, his old weapons instructor looking on, sour approval on his wrinkled face. Old Simeon wasn't overly fond of Pavare but he approved of princes learning how to lose on the practice grounds rather than the battlefield. Damon had been a fast learner. But not now. He used his grip on Pavare's hair to drag the man's head up and into a place where he could 81

Torqued Tales

stare into the gray eyes, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. "You may not mark me." He held Pavare in place, opening the ties that held his shirt fastened, baring his chest. "Not where it will show." Pavare grinned. "You bear my mark already. Your cheeks are flushed, your mouth bruised sweetly - you should see yourself, my prince." "I can see you," Damon answered, his tone dry. "You seem in much the same state." The chuckle Pavare gave him had a ragged edge. "I am. Speak of it to any and I shall deny it." "I would like you to have more to deny than a blush and a kiss," Damon told him. He nodded toward the summerhouse, the carved wood silver in the moonlight. "We shall be private there and I believe the benches to be wide enough to be accommodating." Pavare gave him a glance from under long, thick lashes. "I can, in fact, vouch for its suitability for dalliance, my prince, but will you not be missed?" He tilted his head, the light breeze carrying the faint scrape of the violins as they began to play. "I will be missed if I do not return, yes." Damon raised his eyebrows. "And if I leave?" "If you leave, I will be…" Pavare paused. "Frustrated. Damnably ill-tempered. Convinced that my charm has deserted me and my bed is destined to be a cold and lonely place from this night on." The snort of derision Damon gave was met with an answering twinkle. "Pavare, should your bed ever be cold and empty, it will be because you chose to spend the night in your lover's chamber." Pavare's lips parted as if to continue their duel and then he shook his head. "This is not - we have no time, Damon. Already the king calls for you; do you not hear him?" Damon could, faintly, over the music and the chatter. His father's bellow had a way of making itself heard over any distance. "I must go." "You must do more than that," Pavare murmured. "He will wish to meet your love." Ruefully, he shook his head, correcting himself. "Your lady. The one who fled." "For once he will have to endure an unsatisfied whim; she is gone and I do not know her name." Damon hunched his shoulder irritably. "What does it matter? She's nothing to me. Pavare-" Pavare stepped back, his face assuming an all-too familiar cool hauteur. Before Damon could do more than blink, a servant rushed in on them; a young pageboy, too agitated to recall his training. Damon had been a page for a year, as was the custom for all noble children; the girls were maids, the boys pages and thus an awareness of how duties should be performed was gained, and some fellow feeling for those who served them. He had been assigned to the king and had learned that his father was harsh at times but fair. And even now, his mind in turmoil, part of him was chanting, "Step and step and wait and bow… speak when spoken to, polite and low…" This page delivered a jerky bow and flinched as Pavare dealt the back of his head a stinging slap. "Your manners, boy, need work. Is this how you approach your betters?" "Sir-" Belatedly, the page gathered his wits, bowing deeply to Damon and then to Pavare. He took a breath 82

and recited his message, his hands behind his arrow-straight back. "His Majesty requests the presence of his son, Prince Damon, and his companion, in the ballroom at their earliest convenience." A subtle shifting of the page's gaze to Pavare made it clear that he was not the companion the king expected to see. "If I may be excused?" Pavare said, his voice flat. He turned a scant beat before Damon's nod and disappeared into the shadows. Damon sighed and walked back along the path to the ballroom, the page falling into step behind him. As they passed the table he picked up the slipper, eying it as he would a scuttling spider, a venomous snake. Then he walked into the ballroom, head high, through the parting crowd of courtiers to where his father waited. *** "You are to marry her soon?" Pavare sounded disinterested, his attention on his sword, polishing an imperfection on the gleaming blade with a soft cloth. Damon took a sip from his glass of watered wine, still breathing heavily, sweat damp on his body. Pavare had fought like one possessed today, his blade beating Damon's aside, his bare feet noiseless against the wood of the practice floor. Had they not been fencing with the sword tips sheathed, Damon would have been bleeding in a dozen places - if corpses bled. As it was, his skin was reddened and bruises were already forming. He stripped off his shirt and stood before the open window, shivering as the breeze dried his body. After too long a time had passed for him to fool himself that Pavare would take the hint and speak of something other than his wedding, he sighed and answered. "Yes. Very soon. Invitations are being written, dresses made, and the chef has declared himself willing to hurl his worthless body from the castle ramparts if the cake is not the most splendid ever seen. All is in hand. All is going well. All is as it should be." "No." Pavare's voice was bitter. "It is not. You are not as you should be, you are not well - Damon, you wed out of duty, not love; how can that be held up as glorious, romantic? How can the kingdom rejoice at a union between strangers?" "Is it not always so with us?" Damon demanded. "Part of the price we pay for our rank and privileges? The king wishes to have grandchildren to sit on his knee and tug at his beard. Wishes to see the succession safe before he passes. Fates willing, that will be some time away, but I can understand. It is my duty. Once, perhaps, I could have chosen as my heart dictated, but now? No." Pavare bit his lip. "You are correct in all you say, Damon. Your sense of duty is inspiring; your noble sacrifice equally so." "I sense there is a sting in the tail of this compliment…" Pavare tossed his sword down with a noisy clatter and stalked over to where Damon stood, grabbing him and shaking him. "I do not wish to lose you before I've even had you! I waited - too long, I see that now, but you were so young - Damon-" His palm cupped Damon's face, his fingers gripping painfully tight before the touch gentled. "I was a fool. I should have done as I always do and just…" His thumb swept over Damon's lips. "Just taken," he whispered, his mouth seeking out a kiss Damon had no intention of allowing. His defenses were straw walls when it came to Pavare. "I am not yours for the taking," he said coldly, hating himself. He shrugged free of Pavare's grip. "You forget yourself." 83

Torqued Tales

Pavare stared at him in silence for a long moment. "I see that I do," he said softly. He bowed, low and graceful, then straightened and smiled, his mouth twisting oddly. "I offer my most profound apologies, your Highness." Damon willed himself to remain where he was, not to reach out.

"I am to wed." The words fell like stones into water, sinking, lost in the silence.

"You do not love her and she does not know you."

"I must marry. The line must continue, and I-" Damon swallowed. "I am all he has."

"Now."

"Now," Damon echoed dully.

"It makes it harder, does it not?" Pavare walked past Damon and leaned on the windowsill, the breeze light

enough that the hair falling over his brow barely moved. "You were brought up to be-"

"A replacement," Damon finished, turning as Pavare walked by, unable to keep from looking at him.

"Second in line. Less weight on my shoulders, fewer expectations - yes. Tirell was so - how could he die,

Pavare? How?" He felt himself start to tremble, the memory of the day the rider had come with the tidings of

his brother's death still brutally clear and sharp as if it had been an hour, not a half-year ago.

The day after Damon had walked into Pavare's bedroom unannounced, in fact.

Pavare's shoulder lifted and fell in a fatalistic shrug. "His horse stumbled on a narrow, icy path, my dear.

Your brother was all that is noble, all that was good, but he was not - he had not your luck."

"He was cursed, you mean!" The words burst out of Damon, bitter and acid. "My father should have forced

that witch to remove what she did before he banished her!"

"Perhaps," Pavare said sadly. "What's done is done, however, and your brother is gone."

"They found no body." How often had he said that? And when had the pitying looks become impatient?

"They dragged the river, they searched the cliff…the horse, yes, poor Hyrion, but my brother-"

"You cannot think him still alive?" There was pure astonishment in Pavare's eyes. "Damon, consider! It

happened many leagues from here to be sure, but if he had survived, word would have been sent faster than

a hawk could fly. Anyone from peasant to noble would have rendered him assistance; your brother was

much-loved, as are you."

"I know." Damon sighed. "I know," he repeated. "But I still - I miss him, but I do not feel the emptiness his

death should bring. I feel he is still within reach." He grimaced. "I tried to find him. I rode out with the

searchers and then I-"

"What?" prompted Pavare.

"I used my birth wish from my godmother," Damon said. "Used it to wish him safe, here again…"

"Wishes are chancy things," Pavare said after a short silence. "Powerful yet unpredictable. It could be that it

84

worked in a way you could not have foreseen. And if he was truly gone…" "Then the wish would remain and it does not." Damon met Pavare's eyes. "It does not. I tried it. Tested it when - when - I had waited and he had not returned. It did something to help him, of that I am sure." Pavare's breath hissed out. "You should have come to me!" "Why?" He got a searching, doubtful look. "Damon - Your father is not a friend to magic, and who can blame him… but in the north we see it as another skill to be learned, if one has the aptitude. My father had me taught it in much the same way as I learned to read and fence. I was…good at it. Never brilliant, no, but gifted enough. I could have directed the wish, strengthened it…" "I did not know," Damon said, his heart heavy. "And as you say, my father - I did it in secret and told no one until now. I thought it best." "Yes, well," Pavare said briskly. "Enough of regrets. I had thought your brother's death certain, else I would have suggested this before, but if you like, I can scry for him; seek him on the winds. That was always easy for me." Damon gave him an astonished look. "Scry? You can do that? I thought it a tale for children!" "Children get told much that is untrue, to be sure," Pavare said, "but in this case, no." He arched an eyebrow, the mocking smile back on his face. "Well? May I offer my prince my services?" "Pavare…" His throat tight, Damon lifted his hand, tracing that smile with his fingertips. "I will take anything you offer, always. You know that." "No," Pavare said. "Not my heart; you will not have that." "That, no, I cannot…" "I will need a map of the kingdom, a candle and an eagle's feather," Pavare said, turning away from Damon's imploring look. "I will attend to that. I want you as little involved in this as possible." "When shall we do it?" Damon thought back to the tales his nurse had told him at bedtime, her rocking chair creaking as she sat beside his bed knitting, her soft, country voice placid as she recounted legends and fables told to her by her own mother. "Midnight?" Pavare snorted. "I think not. We will ride out after luncheon to, hmm, yes. Leveret Woods. There is a cliff on the eastern edge of the woods where we can see any who come near. If any ask, tell them we plan to hunt the wolf - no, they will not allow you to go unattended…" He sighed. "It is so much simpler at home." "Do you miss it?" Damon asked curiously. "You have been here at court for so long; I thought you preferred it here." Pavare returned to his lands from time to time, as all the nobles did, but Damon could not remember the last time he had stayed there for more than a week or so. "I prefer-" Pavare cast up his eyes. "I weary of the courtly subtleties," he muttered. "Damon, I stay for you. To see you. To be near you. The day you wed is the day I leave. There! A piece of northern directness for 85

Torqued Tales

you, my sweet southern prince." "Oh." It was woefully inadequate, but it was all he could find to say. "Indeed." Pavare grinned, clearly enjoying his confusion. "Now, go, Damon." A lace-trimmed handkerchief appeared from nowhere, wafted languidly, lavender-scented. "And do wash before we ride out, my dear sir. My horse has a sensitive nose." Damon growled at him and dived for the handkerchief, wrestling Pavare for it, play fighting as they had done so many times before. It was different now. Pavare's strong body, redolent with clean sweat and a trace of the sandalwood soap he favored, was hard against his bare chest, the struggle fierce, no quarter given. Blocked and frustrated by Pavare's speed as the scrap of fabric was whipped away from his clutching hand, Damon grew determined to win at whatever the cost. Then his hand found bare skin, damp and heated, curving around the back of Pavare's neck, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull that laughing, taunting mouth closer to kiss. For a moment Pavare resisted, his hands on Damon's shoulders, striving to push him away. Then Damon's tongue stroked Pavare's lips open and he felt Pavare yield, and tug him against the lean, muscled frame, Pavare's fingers painfully tight, his mouth merciless, taking all Damon had to give and demanding more. Damon had first been kissed at the age of twelve by a pretty farm girl, daisies twined in buttercup-gold hair, blue eyes shining. It had been a press of mouths, clumsy and yet sweet. Since then, a thousand kisses, a dozen or more mouths had taught him the way the courtiers kissed, as formal, as choreographed, as a gavotte. This was nothing like those kisses. Pavare's tongue flicked and licked as decisively as his sword had thrust, leaving Damon's lips stinging, swelling as from a bee sting, with none of the pain and all the sweetness of the honey taken fresh from the comb. Sharp and swift, Pavare's teeth bit and worried at the tender skin of Damon's throat, as he had done the night of the ball, sucking at it as though it was nectar and he in truth a bee, before the kisses continued. Damon felt his arousal mount until he could no longer be satisfied with kisses, even ones like this. He worked his hand down between their bodies and ran his hand roughly over the proof of Pavare's arousal, feeling it jerk in the confines of his breeches. "Damon…" Pavare groaned. "We cannot, not here…" "I need you." Damon circled the hardness with his thumb as best he could, fancying he could feel its slickness and heat through the man's breeches. "None will enter." "Your bride-to-be might," Pavare ground out. "That simpering miss is underfoot constantly." "You must not speak of her so." Damon drew back, his ardor quenched. "Ella is…" He hesitated and then sighed. "She is sweetness itself. I just have no taste for sugar." "Indeed." Pavare sighed, his expression bleak. "She sees only your rank. I see the man behind it." "I wish you could see more of me," Damon said. "All of me, in fact." He got a reluctant grin in return for his 86

sally. "I have swum with you often enough to have an idea of your form," Pavare teased him. His smile faded. "You will ride with me later? We will do this thing?" Damon stared out of the window, at the rolling hills and the town nestled at their feet; at the blue sparkle of the wide, placid river and the dimmer, misty blue of the faraway mountains where that same river was an icy, rushing torrent foaming over bare rock. Was his brother truly still to be found in the kingdom that he should have inherited? It could do no harm to try one final time to find him. He nodded. "I will." *** The woods were drowsy with heat, the air pressing close against Damon's face. "Is it much farther?" he called out to Pavare, patting his horse's neck encouragingly as the animal whickered and shook its head to disturb the thickly clustering flies. "No," Pavare called back, reining in his horse and fumbling for a canteen of water. He drank and then pointed. "See the break in the trees? The cliff top is there, and if memory serves there is a small spring falling into a pool nearby. We can tether the horses there and let them drink." Damon nodded, easing his collar away from his chafed neck, and urged his horse forward. Within a few minutes he was dismounting with a sigh of relief, and leading both horses to the pool, deep in shadows, the rocks around it green with moss. The spring, even on this summer day, emerged from a cleft in the hillside pleasantly cool and clear and the pool itself, emptying into a stream which, Damon presumed, would meander down to join the great river itself, was waist deep and wide enough that it would have taken a stroke or two to cross it. He refilled both water bottles and then let the horses drink, tethering them where they could crop the thick, soft grass that had sprung up, emerald green and lush, around the pool. When he walked onto the cliff top, a breeze fanned his heated face and he sighed with pleasure, wishing he had thought to bathe his face and hands. He chuckled, hearing the echo of his nurse's voice, scolding him as a child for doing just that and risking a chill, according to her. Odd how the past could influence one in so trivial a way… Pavare had set out a map of the kingdom, the heavy parchment weighed down at the corner with pebbles. He brushed his fingers over the northern mountain ranges, his eyes wistful. "I need to go home, soon…" "I wish I could go with you," Damon told him. "I was taken there once as a child, I believe; my brother and I visited every corner of the realm so that all could see us, but I was too young to recall it clearly." "I remember," Pavare said. "You were, three, I believe, and I eleven. You wanted my bow and arrows to play with and cried when your nurse forbade it." He laughed. "How she scolded me for allowing you to hold an arrow I had just made, in case you cut yourself! Your father bade her hush, but she carried you off regardless… That woman would have faced down a horde of goblins, a tribe of ogres if they tried to harm her nurslings." "A redoubtable woman," Damon agreed, smiling. "I miss her more than I can tell. With our mother dying 87

Torqued Tales

when I was but a babe, Nanny Sarah was most dear to us." "My mother still lives but I cannot say she is dear to me," Pavare said ruefully. "She terrifies me. And even now, she can outshoot me. Her eyes are as keen and sharp as the eagle this feather is from." He picked up the feather, smoothing it and letting the sunlight catch it, making bronze and gold out of the glossy brown shades. "How will you use the feather?" Pavare took out the candle, set into an odd holder, its base a spike of metal. "Like this." He plunged the candle through the parchment, directly over the symbol of the castle. "Close enough to where we are," he commented, taking out his tinderbox and striking a small flame with a few practiced movements. The candle was lit, Pavare murmuring a few words when the small flame wavered in the breeze, making it burn steadily, the small light lost in the sunlight. "Now," Pavare said, stretching out his hand to Damon. "Think of your brother. Picture him." "What have you there?" Damon asked curiously, sliding his hand into Pavare's. The feather was between Pavare's fingers but there was something else glinting there, a twist of golden hair. "It is a lock of your brother's hair," Pavare said. "Filched from the locket of the Lady Diane." He gave Damon a roguish look. "She will never know; I replaced it with hair of a similar hue from Molly, the chambermaid, and somehow I do not feel your brother would mind." "Not he!" Damon exclaimed. "How did she come by it? He loathed her, the spiteful, empty-headed baggage that she is." Pavare shrugged. "I know not and it matters not. Trust that it is his, though; I checked." Damon carefully did not ask how. He had little leaning toward the magical but his skin was prickling being this close to Pavare as he prepared his spell. "Think of him," Pavare said softly, his low voice compelling. Damon watched the lock of hair drop toward the flame and hang there, against all reason, against all rules, each hair twisting as though it were alive, forming a braid. The eagle feather was likewise held and dropped, hovering like the bird itself. "Speed and sight and air so bright…" Damon's eyes closed, a score of memories surging up, called from his mind without volition. Tirell… laughing down at him as he extended his hand and hauled his baby brother up to ride before him on his pony. Tirell drunk, slurring and sobbing his heartbreak against Damon's shoulder when one of his lady loves had taken a fever and died, mourned fleetingly by the court; not so Tirell. Tirell dancing, indefatigable, his smile merry, his feet nimble. Tirell, bloody, bruised, holding a pup rescued from drowning at the hands of some village boys whose ready fists had pounded the simply dressed boy they had failed to recognize as their prince. Tirell had been rescued by his guard, thundering up, ashen-faced and sweating, and had pardoned each boy the next day after letting them sit in a dungeon overnight, their petty cruelty well and truly regretted. One had become a member of his entourage; Simeon, apprenticed to the Royal falconer, who had set free each of Tirell's hawks and gone back to his village when the news of Tirell's death had been confirmed.

88

Tirell. Brother, friend. "Seek him, search him, find him out…" The air was busy, buzzing, alive, but he could not open his eyes. He smelled wax and then the acrid stench of burned hair. With an effort he forced open heavy eyes and saw the braid of hair consumed, vanishing utterly, and the feather settling down gently, the point of the shaft resting on the marshlands west of where Tirell had been lost. "He lives," Pavare whispered. "The hair was taken by the flame and see -" He blew out the candle and as the smoke curled up it formed a braid, hanging grey for a moment before dissipating. "Damon, your brother lives." *** On foot, the marshes were arduous to cross, but they had no choice. No horse could safely navigate this morass of bright, treacherous green, cloaking shifting, sucking mud. Damon swatted an insect bent on eating him alive and sighed. He could not regret what he and Pavare were doing, but he could wish it was a little more like the stories, where the heroes seemed to reach their destination at a swift gallop, with inns aplenty to rest their weary heads and fill their empty stomachs. He and Pavare had been on foot for two days, their food was dwindling fast, and the feather, when held out, still pointed obstinately toward the heart of the marshes where Damon doubted any could live. "Madness, boy, madness!" his father had thundered. "Your wedding is in two weeks and Ella sees little of you as it is." Ella had stepped up to his side then, her pointed chin raised, her gray eyes serious. "Sire… I mourned the loss of Prince Tirell without knowing him; how much deeper is the grief of a loving brother?" Her small hand had gripped Damon's with a surprising strength, her nails delivering a warning nip to quiet his protest at the king's refusal to allow him to search for his brother. "You told me as my wedding gift, I could have anything within your power to grant; grant me this. Allow your son to undertake this quest to ease his mind." "What?" The king had stood, towering over her slight figure, his face poppy-red. Ella's work-worn hand had slipped free of Damon's and she had taken two quick steps, her flowered skirts spread wide as she sank into a deep, graceful curtsey, peeping up through tear-sparkled lashes at the king. "Please, your Majesty?" The throne room had been silent, a sharp, waiting silence that had softened and warmed as the king shouted out with amusement. "Oh, come here and give an old man a kiss, my pretty little Ella! And wipe those tears away, I say; I cannot bear to see you cry, child." Ella had bussed his cheek, wisely refraining from doing more than murmuring a few quiet, grateful words and Damon had set out the next day, charged to be home the day before the wedding on pain of banishment. Pavare and he had been accompanied by guards but they had outpaced and then lost them after the first day, tired of their lagging pace and grumbles about what a waste of time it was and how they were missing the pre-wedding festivities. 89

Torqued Tales

"Ella is a good person," Damon said suddenly.

Pavare paused, rubbing a filthy hand over an equally filthy face. "Yes, she is," he agreed unexpectedly. "I

misjudged her. She has a sparkle of wit and a good deal of common sense about her."

"She knows of my feelings for you."

"Does she indeed?" Dark eyebrows arched. "And who spread that gossip to be pecked at? I had thought we

had been discreet."

Damon tapped a finger against his chest. "I told her. I could not marry her without her knowing that my

heart was yours."

It was as close as he had come to telling Pavare he loved him. Years of admiration, months of longing, a few

heated, stolen kisses - they added up to little, perhaps, but it mattered not; he loved Pavare with a deep

certainty of the rightness of his love. Pavare was his.

"It is?" Pavare leaned in, stared at Damon, who guessed his face to be as mud-bespattered as Pavare's, and

then grimaced. "I cannot kiss you. There is no place on you that is not smeared with foul-smelling mud."

"Craven," Damon said with a fond scorn. "For that you will forfeit the first bath."

"Whenever we get to a place that offers such delights," Pavare muttered. He scratched at a welt where he

had been bitten. "What did she say?"

"That she knew and it made no difference; she was destined to marry a prince." Damon shook his head in

bemusement. "Sensible on all but that point…"

"I told you there was magic involved," Pavare said sourly. He began to walk again. "Is it true what they say?

That she has actually been working as a servant?"

"It is," Damon confirmed. "But Ella's well-born enough on one side, at least; her mother was a distant cousin

of the Duke of Westchester, cast-off when she married a rich merchant."

"Aye, the Westchesters never did have overly full coffers…"

"It was a love match, but she died soon after Ella was three and the stepmother sounds to have been a

harridan. The merchant lasted a handful of years and the woman placed her own daughters from an earlier marriage in Ella's place and the child was all but forgotten by the world, left to slave for her sisters, wearing rags…" "And she showed up at the ball in glitter and glass and captured you, my love." Pavare's laughter was a clean, fresh sound against the muted background of the still, fetid marshes. "Magic and strong at that." "I agree, but she has done nothing to compel my love; my respect and liking, perhaps…"

"I do not think her tale is yet told." Pavare paused. "Damon - look over there. Is that smoke from a

chimney?"

"What?" Damon stepped up beside Pavare, close to him on the narrow path, slipping his arm around Pavare's shoulders to steady himself. "I don't see… oh! Why, yes, I believe it is!" 90

Pavare took out the eagle's feather, whispered a brief incantation, and opened his palm. The feather rose,

twisted, and pointed at the trickle of smoke.

Damon and Pavare stepped away from each other and drew their swords.

"Step silently and follow my lead," Pavare cautioned.

"I follow no man into a fight," Damon said indignantly.

"Shush!" Heedless, now, of the mud, Pavare clapped his hand over Damon's face. "My prince, I mean no

disrespect. If your brother is there, he is a prisoner and likely held by more than chains." He patted Damon's

cheek. "And your father will have my head if I allow you to come to harm."

"Oh, very well," Damon snapped. "But I will be close on your heels." He sniffed. "And if my father thought

me a coward, he would not want me back."

"You could never be that, my love," Pavare said absently. "Now, hush, or I will gag you. I trust that will not

affect your sword arm?"

Damon opened his mouth to protest in the most scathing of terms and then reconsidered. Pavare smiled

slightly and wisely held his own tongue.

They approached what turned out to be a small cottage, circling it warily. There was no sign of an inhabitant

beside the smoke and the ground seemed firmer underfoot. They had reached the edge of the marsh, Damon

realized, seeing the green of trees in the distance. He wondered why the cottage had not been built closer to

the woods but marshes moved and the cottage was old; he supposed once, maybe in his grandfather's time,

this could have been forested land.

The cottage door opened and they sank into a crouch behind a stand of bushes, prickly with spikes and

purple berries, smelling as foul as the soil from which they took their nourishment.

The tall figure who emerged was Tirell.

Damon choked, his breath uneven, his eyes misted. Furious with himself, he shook his head, blinking to

clear his eyes, straining to see, to be sure…

"It is he," Pavare said, the words breathed into Damon's ear. "I see him, too."

"We must call to him!" Damon said, trying to keep his voice equally low. "Pavare, he - why does he not

run? There is no one watching, no ropes binding him."

"He is not visibly bound," Pavare answered. "There are other ties that can hold a man in place, as well you

know."

Before Damon could reply, the cottage door opened again and a slender, dark haired girl appeared, smiling

and calling out to Tirell. "Jennis, love, I need water from the well if I am to make supper."

Jennis? Damon frowned as his brother turned, his familiar voice deep and happy as he told the girl that he

would fetch her two buckets, three, if she made him her rabbit stew.

There was something in the casual, loving exchange that brought Damon's temper boiling up. How dared his

91

Torqued Tales

brother, mourned by a kingdom, heir to that kingdom, be here, happily content in a run-down cottage? Before Pavare could stop him, he leaped up and ran toward his brother, heedless of the sword in his hand, a roar of fury spilling from his mouth. Tirell turned, blanched, and put himself between Damon and the woman, his face full of confusion and fear. The woman, though… Her pretty face twisted in a gleeful, spiteful smile before she shrank against Tirell with a piteous moan of terror. "Tirell!" Damon came to a halt, searching his brother's face in vain for some sign of recognition. Behind him he could hear Pavare cursing steadily under his breath as he walked across the clearing to join him. "Tirell, it is I, Damon. What are you doing here, brother?" "He is not your brother," the woman hissed. "He is my husband, Jennis. Get you gone!" Damon lowered his sword and saw Tirell relax a little, although there was a look in his brother's eyes - an uncertainty as though he groped for the truth and found it slipping through his hands like waterweeds. "He is my brother, Prince Tirell, heir to the throne of this land and thought dead these past six months," Damon told her coldly. "We thank you for your care of him, lady, though much greater thanks would have been yours had you brought him to the palace." "'Prince'?" She laughed, a musical ripple of amusement that sent a shiver through Damon. Pavare's hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing it in both warning and reassurance. "He is a peasant, like me. We live here with a few chickens and a goat, and I make medicines from the herbs that grow in the marshes to sell for a few pennies. You are mistaken, sir." "Avril…" Tirell's forehead creased. "He speaks and it stirs memories-" "Memories of dreams, fever dreams," she said, her hand caressing Tirell's arm. "You were ill, my sweet, remember? The air here can bring the sweating sickness and I nursed you-" "I'm sure you did, witch," Pavare said, stepping forward. "When you found him wandering, close to death from his fall into the river, I'm sure your foul, black heart rejoiced at the chance to… nurse him." The point of his sword was raised, aimed at her, unwavering. "You worked your spells to cloud his mind. Made him believe-" "No!" Tirell shook his head. "Witch? She is no witch! What madness is this you speak? Spells and princes! I am - I am-" "Where were you born?" Pavare asked softly. "Your mother's name? Your childhood friends? What lass gave you your first kiss; where did you get the scar that marks your forearm?" Tirell glanced down at the white slash scarring his skin. "That was…my axe slipped, cutting down a tree." He glanced questioningly at Avril who cooed approvingly and nodded. "Lies!" Damon said. "How could an axe you held cut you so? 'Tis impossible!" He stepped forward and grasped Tirell's wrist, shaking it. "It is a sword cut from my blade when we sparred as children and I could not sit to eat for a week because our father beat me soundly for not using the wooden practice swords. Think, Tirell, think!" Tirell groaned, his face contorting. "I cannot hear this. I cannot…" He backed away, stumbling over to a bench, where Avril joined him, her face all pretty concern. 92

"She holds him somehow," Pavare whispered. "Feeds him potions, most likely. They would not need to be strong if the illusion was never challenged as we are doing now. And perhaps your wish protected him somewhat…" "But who is she?" Damon asked. "Why would she do this? What does it gain her?" Pavare shrugged. "He is company, a strong arm, a pleasant companion in her bed; that she keeps him is no matter of wonder… but I feel there is more here than we see." He frowned. "See…yes… I wonder…" "Speak plainly and swiftly," Damon said through his teeth. "Before she cajoles him into forgetfulness again." "When you look at her, what do you see?" Damon shrugged. "Young, pretty…dark hair and green eyes. Why?" "Anathea had green eyes." "The witch who cursed him at birth?" Damon gaped at him. "She was banished! And even at his christening, if the tales I've heard are correct, she was already advanced in age." "True. And adept at cloaking her age." Pavare's lips twisted in a cynical smile. "Or do you think your father often beds hags?" "My father?" Damon gulped back a protest, too much of the story making sense now. His nurse had always tutted and looked knowing when he'd asked, drowsy with sleep, why the wicked witch had been so unkind to his brother, and blown out the candle when his questions had persisted. "Do not judge him. As she has done to your brother, so she did to him." Pavare looked grim. "From what I hear, your mother never forgave him, even so." Damon cast Avril a look. "But how can we be sure? Green eyes… they are not uncommon, Pavare." "Indeed… but a witch mark always remains, no matter how changed the body." Pavare walked over to the couple on the bench, staring down at them with his sword at the ready. "Lady, I believe you to be the banished witch, Anathea, your person subject to death should you return to this land." He laid the blade of his sword against her throat, keeping it there even as Tirell cried out and tried to intervene. "Stay back, my prince." Damon went to his brother, drawing him up from the bench and back a few steps. Tirell struggled, but half heartedly, as though too much troubled him to make his protest sincere. "If you are the witch, you carry her mark," Pavare said. "Should you be innocent, I fear I must cause you some embarrassment, but I need to see your left hip, lady. If you are indeed Anathea, it will have a star on it, scarlet and the size of my thumb." He arched an eyebrow. "Stand and raise your skirts." "A star?" Tirell shook his head, grief and anger marring his features. "Aye, she has a star there. Often as we lay together have I seen it." "Fool! Ingrate!" The witch stood, knocking Pavare's blade aside, heedless of the gash it opened on her arm. "Aye, I am Anathea. And when the river brought you to me, I knew I had been gifted with a second chance 93

Torqued Tales

to rob your father of what he held dearest." Her eyes narrowed. "Then, he had but one child to take from him… now he has two…" "Harm either and your death will be slow," Pavare cautioned her. "Your life ends now, witch, but I will make it a kinder death than you deserve if you-" "If I-?" She moved away in a swirl of wind come from nowhere, dried leaves rising in a cloud around her, hovering in the now-still air. "Submit? Bow my neck for you to cleave my head from my shoulders?" "If that is how you wish to die, I have no objections," Pavare said, the irony clear in his voice. "Yet somehow I fancy you plan to fight us." She turned her head to look at Tirell. "And do I fight alone, my darling? Or will you stand by me? Protect me?" From the way the dazed look on Tirell's face had altered to one of disgust and anger, it seemed unlikely. Damon was not quite ready to arm his brother - not while the witch still lived and could possibly sway Tirell's thoughts again - but he felt fairly sure that his brother was remembering enough to be sure of where his loyalties lay. "You face three of us," Damon told her. "And your sentence was pronounced before my birth; your life is forfeit, your magic black. You cursed my brother and all his life ill-chance has followed him. That curse will end with your death and I wish mercy had not stayed my father's hand long ago." "Most likely, another spell compelled him," Pavare remarked sourly. "You think me powerless?" She stared at them curiously, her voice flat. "Think me weak?" "I think you rotten to the core," Pavare snapped. She raised her hand and flicked her fingers contemptuously, murmuring under her breath. The leaves around her shot forward, flying as though alive, a stinging cloud of insects by the time they reached the three men. Damon cried out, clawing at his face and feeling the wetness of blood under his fingers. Beside him, Tirell moaned. "My eyes! No!" "It is an illusion," Pavare said harshly, standing straight, ignoring the myriad attacks on his exposed skin. "They are still nothing but leaves. Close your eyes, my princes and heed nothing but my voice." "Die, as you have lived, in ignorance and in darkness?" Anathea taunted. "Aye, why not?" "Listen to me," Pavare said, his words cool, compelling. "Both of you. You know me. You trust me. Damon, do this for me; Tirell, place your life in your brother's hands. He has never given up hope that you lived. Never." Damon took his brother's hand, pulling him close, shielding him as best he could. To feel his brother, strong, fearless Tirell, shiver against him like a frightened puppy - He bit down on his lip and gave Pavare one final look, needing to see that arrogant, pale face, tight with determination now, before he closed his eyes. The bites were small, excruciating, maddening; he felt eaten alive, his skin shredding, chewed away. He leaned against Tirell, holding to the thought that Pavare's features were unmarred. Pavare's voice wound around him as Pavare's arms had, holding him safely. "Leaves, my prince, no more 94

than that, once green and fresh, whispering in the wind, now dried and light. They cannot harm you, can do no harm you do not allow - and I shall never let you be hurt. Your face is fair still, my love, marked with no more than tears, and even that is an injury I shall avenge." The whispered words calmed him, allowing him to hold to that truth. He nodded, the pain lessening, and stepped forward, toward the witch, raising his sword in both hands, bringing it across in a scything arc. The stroke which took her head jarred his arm as flesh and bone met steel, but it was the oddly muted thud as her head struck the ground which had him turning his head to spit out the sour taste filling it. His brother cried out, not in grief or loss, but relief and amazement, and Damon stumbled back into Pavare's waiting arms, his sword heavy, blood-stained, pointing down. It was over. *** "So tell me, brother," Tirell asked as they rode, the three of them on horses Pavare swore he could outrun, knock-kneed, ancient mounts, ambling along placidly. "While I have been absent, what have you been doing?" He frowned. "You were to have left the court, were you not, and taken up residence in one of your holdings? I know you were looking forward to that." It would not have mattered had he not; at twenty-five, all younger princes left, their possibly dangerous ambitions diverted into the overseeing of what would become minor courts along the borders. As the only other prince, Damon had been given his choice; the northern holdings or those in the south. He had been inclined to those in the south because they were closer to the main court, but now… "I was." He avoided Pavare's glance. "I will now, I suppose, once you are settled." "And where shall I look for you when I want to see my little brother?" Tirell asked, the heavily playful tone due, Damon suspected, to Tirell's inability to express himself with any subtlety. "I will make my home in the mountains," Damon replied. Pavare's home was an hour's ride, no more…their lands met, the border marked by a river, filled with leaping fish, bordered with woods in which they could both hunt… He could smell the air, fresh and clear, imagine the storms rolling around the majestic peaks of the mountain… And he would have Pavare in his life, as advisor, friend, neighbor… lover. He turned his head and gave Pavare an exultant grin, expecting it to be returned, but Pavare's face was troubled. "What is it?" "Should you not perhaps consider where your bride would prefer to live?" Pavare asked. "The south is warm, the breezes mild; the people gentle of spirit and cultured. It may be that she-" "Bride?" Tirell interrupted. "What is this?" "There was… our father wished…" Damon stammered. "He gave a ball and I met…" "A young girl named Ella," Pavare said smoothly. "Destined to marry a prince. Which, with you missing, 95

Torqued Tales

led her to Prince Damon." "You took my girl?" Tirell said, chuckling, reaching over to deal Damon's shoulder a blow which rocked him in his saddle. "You dog!" "You may have her," Damon said impulsively. "She… she is a delightful girl, Tirell, and-" Tirell guffawed. "Lord, Damon, you can't pass the girl around like a parcel! Besides…" He flushed. "You remember my godmother? The one who softened that bitch's death wish to a curse?" "Aunt Salera?" The woman had left the kingdom when Damon was a child and he could not recall her at all. "What of her?" "She left me a letter, telling me that I would know my true, umm, love-" Tirell was blushing as red as the poppies in the cornfield beside the road. "Because she would be the only girl in the world who could dance in slippers of glass and not have them shatter." He shrugged. "Nonsense, of course, but that's what she what? Why are you two smiling like that?"

96

Snow White and Rose Re d By Jay Lygon Thick puffs of steam curled around Buck’s mouth every time he exhaled. The mountain air stung his lungs. Why did I think this would be fun? he wondered as he tried once again to get into the special rhythm of cross-country skiing. His thighs ached and his toes were numb. When he first set out, the snow-dusted trees in the dense woods were beautiful, but after a couple hours struggling along the trail, the stark contrast of bark and snow seemed bleak. He stopped and glanced down the hillside that sloped away from the trail. He’d been warned to stay on the cross-country trail, but going downhill instead of following the level path sounded a lot easier. It wasn’t marked, but there was a wide path leading downhill between stands of trees. For the past couple hours, all Buck had heard was his own huffing, the creak of the bindings on his skis, and the crunch of the snow. A loud snap made him turn to look up the hill. Something lime green hurtled towards him. Buck tried to run, to jump, to simply get the hell out of the way, but his long cross-country skis kept him glued to the spot as a snowboarder schussed off the hillside, went aerial, performed a brief twisting maneuver, and slammed into his chest. Buck lay in the snow with the snowboarder on top of him. He’d been knocked clear off his skis. All he could see of the young man who’d knocked him down were a pair of squinty blue eyes, and those eyes weren’t a bit sorry. If anything, they were annoyed. The snowboarder jumped to his feet, grunted something that Buck was sure wasn’t an apology, set his foot into his snowboard, and sped off downhill. “You’re not supposed to be on these trails!” Buck yelled. The thick drift of powdery Vermont snow crumbled under his weight as he struggled back to his feet. “Damn kids,” he muttered. “No manners.” Sharp pangs shot through his knee when he put weight on it. He picked up his nearest ski. The toe binding swung loose. “You could at least check to see if I’m hurt!” Buck howled at the last flash of neon green jacket before the snowboarder disappeared into the woods. Still muttering, Buck limped over to his other ski. That binding was intact, but with a bum knee and only one ski, he knew he’d have to walk the three miles back to the lodge. His dark brow furrowed as he glanced up at the sun. It was already low in the sky, and night came quickly in the mountains of southern Vermont. He snorted. There was nothing to do but start walking. Buck put the long skis over his shoulder and headed for the ski lodge. Skiing through the thick, fresh powder on the trail had been difficult work. Even though he was in good shape, his calves and back muscles strained from the effort. Walking through the snow was even harder, and his aching knee made it worse. He gasped in breaths of the chilly air at the summit of a small rise. A heavy bank of clouds gathered overhead. Fine flakes of snow flashed in the last rays of the sun as they swirled around him. As far as he could see, there was nothing but woods. Grumbling, Buck trudged on.

97

Torqued Tales

When night came, the darkness was complete. No moonlight could penetrate the overcast sky. The snow fell in thicker flakes that clung to Buck’s eyelashes. He kept his head down and concentrated on the trail. He had no idea how far he’d walked, or how far he had to go. He tried not to let his situation get him down, but it was hard to ignore that he was in real trouble. His clothes weren’t warm enough for a night outdoors, especially with new snow falling. He had one snack bar and some water, but no matches or other equipment to help him survive. No one at the small Bed and Breakfast where he was staying would notice if he didn’t make it back to his room. He’d come up from New York alone, and had ignored the friendly invitations from other guests to join them in the communal hot tub on the back deck of the inn that evening. Many people left their cars overnight in the parking lot by the lifts, so his wouldn’t alert the ski patrols that someone was still out on the mountain. The dull ache in Buck’s knee became a sharp, constant throb. He shifted the skis on his shoulder and used his poles as a crutch, but that didn’t help. Exhausted and miserable, he paused. He had to be realistic. He couldn’t walk much further. It was time to figure out how to survive the night. Then, like an answer to a prayer, he saw a light through the trees, coming from the window of a cabin. There was a jeep parked by the cabin. The thick dome of snow on the roof and drifts around the wheels showed that it hadn’t been driven in several days. Light from the windows shone on the pristine snow leading to the front door. Whoever was inside hadn’t set foot outdoors. Buck hesitated for a moment before knocking. Maybe the residents didn’t want to be disturbed. But there was no one else to turn to, so he lifted his gloved hand and pounded, sending a small avalanche sliding off the roof and down the back of his neck. The door flung open as Buck was shaking the snow off his shoulders. Standing on the threshold was a redhead in his mid twenties who clutched the waistband of his loose-fitting jeans in a fist. The redhead was built like a wrestler, on the short side with a thick neck, broad shoulders, and a solid, muscled body. A quick grin flashed on the redhead’s face. “Reinforcements!” Buck blinked. Heat rolled out of the cabin and over him, and carried on it the smell of coffee and warm food. Past the young man, he could see a wood-paneled front room with a couch and a recliner pushed back away from the thick rug in front of a large fireplace. The coffee table was askew, as if shoved aside in haste. On top of it was a big bottle of lube. T-shirts and condom wrappers littered the floor. On the far wall of the front room were two doors. There was another door on the wall behind the couch. It was open. Buck caught a glimpse of kitchen counters. But his eyes went back to the mess on the floor, and then to the young man in front of him, who was breathing heavily. Obviously, he’d interrupted a very private party. “It’s just like the fairy tale. Snow White and Rose Red are snowed into their cabin, when a bear knocks on their door,” the redhead said. Buck’s eyebrows furrowed. “Snow White, with the dwarfs?” “Different story. No dwarfs here.” The redhead shouted over his shoulder to someone inside the cabin. “Hey, York! Did you order out for a bear?” A lanky brunette, wearing only a tight-fitting pair of jeans, slinked to the doorway. He looked Buck over with a cool eye, as if appraising what was before him. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms, letting Buck take in the full sight of his bare chest and the thick trail of hair leading from his defined pecs, 98

down a flat stomach, past his belly button, and disappearing under the waistband of his form-fitting pants. “No. But if I’d known I could get home delivery, I would have. Hi. I’m York. The one with the terrible manners is Lan. Come on in.” York didn’t wait to see if Buck came in. He strolled to the fireplace and stretched out on the floor in front of it. He grasped the bulge at his crotch and worked it with lazy strokes while he watched Buck. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction. Buck simply nodded. “Let me take those.” Lan took Buck’s skis and poles. “Wow. That binding is shot.” “Huh?” Buck turned from the porn-perfect vision of York sprawled on a thick rug in front of the fireplace. “Uh, thank you. I got hit and run by a snowboarder. He knocked me flat and then sped away. The little brat.” “These woods are full of evil gnomes this time of year. It’s winter break,” Lan said. “Or maybe they are dwarfs.” Buck grimaced as he shifted his weight. “My knee is killing me. It’s a good thing I saw the light in your window, otherwise I would have had to spend the night out there. Do you have a phone I could borrow? I don’t want to interrupt…” Lan leaned the skis against the wall near the door. “Your knee is hurt? We should have a look at that. Shouldn’t we, York?” York propped himself up on an elbow, giving Buck another good look at his long, muscular body. “Absolutely.” He patted the rug beside him. “Come over here and we’ll see what we can do for you.” Normally Buck preferred men a bit older, but his cock seemed to think he’d walked on the set of a porn fantasy come true. It was already preparing for action. “Name’s Buck, by the way,” he said as he shut the door behind him. “A pleasure, Buck.” York’s hand trailed up his chest and tugged at a nipple. Everything he did looked so staged that Buck wondered if he practiced in front of a mirror. Buck let Lan lead him over to the fire. He’d stopped shivering as the warmth inside the cabin crept over his skin. York didn’t move, but he watched with a lazy grin as Lan quickly stripped off Buck’s jacket and sweater. “You were right about him being a bear. Nice fur, Buck,” York said. “Yes, very nice,” Lan agreed. His hands spread over Buck’s pecs. “You don’t mind, do you?” “Not at all, as long as I can…” Buck touched Lan’s pale pink nipple. Lan flinched. “Cold?” “Maybe after you’ve warmed up,” Lan suggested. “But yeah, I love it. Goes right to my dick.” To prove it, he grasped the front of his pants. “So let’s get you warmed up, and take a look at that knee.” He reached for Buck’s fly. “By the way, I thought I’d warn you ahead of time. From the way York’s looking at you, he isn’t thinking about your knee. He’s an insatiable slut.” Instead of denying the accusation, York chuckled. “Not that he means that in a bad way.” Lan rolled his eyes. He draped Buck’s shirt over the arm of a worn, plaid couch, the kind of furniture that only looked right in mountain cabins. “You think I was kidding about reinforcements? I’ve been trapped 99

Torqued Tales

inside this cabin for three days with him, and he was tearing off my jeans again when you knocked. I mean, I like day after day of non-stop sex as much as the next guy, but he’s wearing me out.” York crawled across the floor to squat in front of Buck, his mouth only inches from Buck’s groin. “I’ve always wanted to wrestle a bear. You can go, Lan. For now.” Buck sucked in a breath, amazed at the rudeness, but Lan said, “I’ll go make Buck something warm to drink.” “Take your time.” York turned his attention back to Buck. “Now, about you…” He rubbed his face against Buck’s groin, exhaling hot breath over the outline of Buck’s hard-on. His hands slid up Buck’s thighs, and eased off the snow-soaked jeans. “Much better. Mmm. Hairy thighs. I like that.” He took Buck’s cock into his mouth, pushing tight lips down the shaft. Buck had been on the receiving end of a lot of blowjobs, but that was a new sensation. It was like pushing into a tight hole. Somehow, York worked his tongue around the head while taking the cock further into his mouth. When it seemed the brunette couldn’t possibly take more, he slowly pulled back. By the time he reached the head of Buck’s cock, he’d added just enough suction to make every nerve jump. Buck touched York’s head. “Nice, but I can’t concentrate with my knee throbbing.” He carefully got down on the floor. After he grabbed a pillow from the couch and put it under his head, he said, “Now, show me that again.” York’s long finger tugged at the button fly of his skin-tight jeans. He stood and peeled them off, then grasped his cock and stroked it a few times. “Yes, you’re very pretty, but I’m more interested in what you can do with your mouth.” York’s brows furrowed. “You sound like Lan.” “Lan’s an interesting name,” Buck said. He almost laughed when York’s bottom lip puffed out in a pout. Apparently, talking about Lan wasn’t in the script. “It’s short for Lancaster. Not that interesting. It’s just his last name.” York kneeled on the floor between Buck’s thighs. Buck couldn’t resist the urge to tease the brunette’s vanity. “York and Lancaster, like the houses in the War of the Roses. Lancaster’s heraldic badge was the Red Rose; York’s a White Rose. I’m a history teacher.” “Oh. I was a history major, once,” York told him. “I’ve had a lot of different majors. I’ve been thrown out of a couple universities. That’s why my parents hired Lan to keep me out of trouble.” “You need a baby sitter at your age?” York sat back and frowned. “Are we going to talk, or are we going to do this?” “You sound like a whore.” Instead of being insulted, York laughed. “Guilty. Really pissed off the old man when he found out I was turning tricks. It wasn’t like I needed the money, but I liked being paid. Made it nastier. So Dad hired Lan to keep me in line.” York partially cupped his hand over his mouth. He leaned down, his eyes glittering with laughter, and whispered loudly, “But I think I’m corrupting him.” 100

A prep school punk. That explained a lot, like why York treated Lan like the hired help. Buck didn’t care much for kids who had everything but never had enough. Then that incredible mouth went to work on his cock again, and he decided that he could put up with the attitude for a while. Buck grasped the back of York’s head, twinning his fingers into the brunette’s hair. He pulled until York lay on top of him. His other hand grabbed the boy’s muscular butt. Their cocks rubbed together, pinned between their bodies, as they kissed. York pulled back, panting. He rolled off Buck and grasped Buck’s hard-on. Without waiting for Buck to agree, he tore open the package and rolled the condom down Buck’s cock with one hand. He poured lube over the condom and straddled Buck’s hips. “Last chance to say No.” Buck grabbed York’s buttocks, spread them, and thrust up into the boy in one hard stroke. For a moment, York’s expression seemed frozen in shock, and Buck realized maybe he shouldn’t have, but then York’s eyes widened and an easy grin spread across his face. “Now I know where the nickname Buck comes from. Ride ‘em cowboy!” York said. The muscles of his lean thighs flexed as he lifted himself partially off Buck’s cock. Buck grabbed York by the hips and pushed him back down. He enjoyed York’s obvious annoyance that time. When York tried to set the rhythm, Buck shoved York face down on the floor and quickly rolled on top of him. York spat out a mouthful of rug and looked over his shoulder to glare at Buck. “You want to play whore? All right. But if I’m the customer, we do this my way,” Buck warned him. York shrugged and turned his face back down to the rug. Buck took his time slowly sliding back into the boy. When York tried to push back and take it in quicker, Buck pinned him to the ground, forcing the boy’s arms close to his body. “You don’t move. I don’t like pushy bottoms,” he growled close to the boy’s ear. He pressed his lips the nape of York’s neck. York shivered under him, and finally sighed. Buck could feel the hard, lithe body beneath him relaxing. “Stay just like that.” Every thrust sent a pang through his knee, but Buck concentrated on the torturously slow ride. When York writhed, he stopped until the brunette calmed down. The only movement he allowed York was the rhythmic clenching and loosening of his ass that felt so good. The boy knew how to milk a cock. As the welcome tightening of his muscles warned him he was close to climax, he sped up his trusts until they were fast jabs. They both breathed hard. With a quiet moan, exhaled against the nape of York’s neck, Buck came. “Is he making you do all the work?” Lan asked as he came into the room. “York, you lazy ass.” York turned his head so that he could look up at his friend. “He made me.” “Since when does anyone make you do anything?” Lan grumbled. He reached down to offer Buck a hand. “Come up onto the couch.” He snatched the pillow off the floor and put it under Buck’s foot. “Here’s your hot drink, as promised, and an ice pack.” He put the pack on Buck’s knee and tucked a warm blanket around his guest. “I hope Irish coffee is okay.” York rolled on his side and yawned as he tried very hard to look like a contented cat. He stroked his hard-on. In the fireplace behind him, sap hidden in the logs hissed, wood crackled, and a spray of sparks flew, disappearing up the chimney. “He did make me, but I liked it. He’s a grumpy bear.” Buck sniffed the steam rising from the mug Lan handed him. The coffee was mostly Irish cream, but it was good. The warmth spread through his body, bringing a flush of heat to his skin. As the liquor worked its 101

Torqued Tales

magic on him, he felt his eyelids drooping. The icepack on his knee dulled the throbbing down to a manageable ache. He tried to stay awake, but it was a losing battle. *** Buck fought his way out of a dream. He opened his eyes. The logs in the fireplace were gutted and glowed deep orange. His mind sluggish, it took a while to notice the boys on the floor. Lan was on all fours on the rug. York kneeled behind him and ground against Lan’s bare ass. “Quit fucking around,” Lan snapped. Under the blanket, Buck’s cock hardened. York wrapped his arm around Lan’s waist. Lan pushed up on his toes, the solid muscles of his thighs flexing. The boys strained against each other, Lan’s face turning red from the effort; York grunted. Buck slid his hand under the blanket and stroked himself. Nothing seemed to be happening. The boys pushed and flexed, but didn’t move. Then Lan gripped York’s leg and knocked York off balance. York didn’t go down easy, he twisted to keep his second shoulder from touching the floor. Slow and steady, Lan used his solid bulk to bring York down. As soon as York’s back was to the floor, Lan pounced. He straddled York’s chest with his knees pinning York’s shoulders to the floor. “Suck it.” Lan’s chest rose and fell quickly as he brandished his cock near York’s mouth. “Come on, suck it.” “I’m trying. Get off me and I will.” “You’re not trying hard enough. Let me help.” Lan grabbed York’s hair and pulled York’s head forward. He shoved his cock in York’s mouth. “You know the rules. One full minute. Get sucking.” He let go of York’s hair as York enthusiastically worked his tongue and lips over the thick cock. Buck realized he was stroking himself too fast, so he slowed down the pace. The flex of Lan’s thighs and muscular butt was mesmerizing as he thrust forward, but it was the swell of York’s lean neck where the head of Lan’s cock pushed down his throat that Buck couldn’t stop watching. Lan shoved his groin against York’s nose and reached down to massage York’s convulsing throat until York lightly slapped Lan’s thigh, a sign that he needed to breathe. Lan slowly withdrew his cock from York’s mouth. York gasped for air. Then he wiped the back of his hand slowly across his wet lips. “You’re going to pay for that,” he said with a smirk. He rolled on his stomach and then got up on his hands and knees. He arched his back. “Come and get it.” Lan kneeled behind him, got his hands in position, and said, “Go!” The boys huffed. Buck could see the glint of sweat on their bare skin. Soon, a purely masculine scent filled the room. Buck breathed it in, his nostrils flaring to catch every last bit of it. The boys were playing, but there was something dead serious in their expressions too. Neither one wanted to lose, even though they were both obviously turned on. The sight of the two fit bodies grunting and grinding made him want to get down on the rug with them. Suddenly too warm, he threw off the blanket and kept stroking.

102

They grappled, holds changing, as they shoved across the floor. Lan kept low, using his strong shoulders to push against York’s stomach. Lan’s arm went between York’s thighs and it looked as if he might lift the other boy up and slam him down, when York used his flexibility to escape and roll off the carpet. York leapt to his feet. “Hah! Out of bounds!”

“Cheater,” Lan grumbled.

“Perfectly legal.” York glanced over and saw Buck stroking himself. “Well, look who got up.”

“I hope you boys don’t mind me watching,” Buck said.

York lowered his chin and looked at Buck through lowered lashes. He touched his chest, and slowly ran his

hand down to his cock. After a few tugs, he lightly pinched the head. “Why don’t you join us?”

Lan kneeled on the rug, his hairy thighs spread wide. His balls, which hung low in a well-filled sac, were

covered in fine curls a shade blonder than the reddish fur that spread across his pecs. Nipples, dark pink as if

they’d been worked well and long, poked though the hair. He looked Buck directly in the eye but said

nothing.

Buck told them, “I’m in no shape to wrestle.”

“We don’t have to,” York said.

“I think Lan still wants to,” Buck said quietly. Lan hadn’t moved. He still posed, not with York’s flirty

seductiveness, but as if waiting for something. It was as if he were offering his body for inspection, or for

judgment. “Hey York, how about making me another one of those Irish coffees?”

“Me?”

Anger lines drew sharp around Lan’s mouth and eyes, and just as quickly faded. Buck rose from the couch

and put his coffee cup into York’s hand. “Yes you, you spoiled brat. Go, now.” He gave York’s butt a slap,

not hard, but enough that the young man stalked off. As the kitchen door swung shut, Buck hobbled over to

Lan, leaned down, and cupped the redhead’s chin in his hand. He gently tipped Lan’s head back and bent

down for a light kiss.

At first, it seemed as if Lan didn’t want to kiss, but the reluctant lips finally yielded to Buck’s firm pressure.

“That’s better,” Buck murmured.

“Is your knee still hurting?” Lan asked.

“A bit,” Buck admitted.

Lan got to his feet. “Let me have another look. Sit on the couch.” He frowned as he gently touched the

swollen area. “I don’t think you tore anything. Can’t really tell, but I’d expect it to be more swollen if you

had. York!” he called out. “Have you seen the massage oil?”

The kitchen door slammed open. “I’m not your fucking maid.”

“Boy!” Buck barked.

“I think it rolled under the couch,” York grumbled before he stalked back into the kitchen.

103

Torqued Tales

Lan felt under the couch. He smiled triumphantly. “Got it. Just relax and let the magic hands go to work.” He poured oil onto his palm, rubbed his hands together, and grasped Buck’s foot. Buck moaned as Lan’s thumbs pressed against his arch and rubbed in circles. Magic hands indeed. The redhead was a genius. It was as if every nerve in Buck’s body was connected to the soles of his feet, and Lan knew exactly how to knead them into a state of perfect relaxation. The only tension in his body was in his hard-on, but even that felt good. By the time Lan finished Buck’s other foot, Buck didn’t know if he wanted to fall asleep or fuck. “Better?” Lan asked. “Much. Come here.” Buck spread his arms, inviting the red-head closer. They lay on the couch facing each other, a tight fit on the narrow cushions. Their legs tangled, cocks rubbed, stomachs pressed together, sharing the warmth that radiated from their skin. Lan ran his hand through the thick matt of dark hair on Buck’s chest for a while, as if he’d never touched anything like it before. “Do you know what I like sometimes?” Lan asked. “Just kissing. Just touching for a while.” “I like that too.” “Yeah, but I bet you get it all the time. Guys my age don’t have the patience for it.” Lan ran his hand down Buck’s thick arm. “You mean York.” Lan sighed. “Yes. But he’s not the only one. It’s like fucking is fine, but cuddling is out of the question. I don’t get it.” Buck pressed his lips to Lan’s neck. Lan shivered. “I love that. Turns me on like nothing else.” From the way Lan’s hard-on suddenly poked hard into his hip, Buck knew it was true. If the cute redhead want to make out for a while, Buck was more than willing. He liked a guy who looked like a tough jock but was confident enough to show his sweet side. He touched Lan’s mouth with his thumb, feeling the roughness of the chapped skin. His first kiss was just a tease of the lips, until he felt Lan sigh into the caress, and then he tasted the red-head’s mouth. At first, Lan kissed like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, breathing through his nose and pressing too hard. With gentle bites to the youth’s bottom lip, Buck got Lan to back off into slower, burning kisses. When Lan lunged at him again, he moved his kisses to Lan’s neck. Finally, Lan got the message. Between longer kisses, they touched and stroked, enjoying each sensation. York burst into the room, the kitchen door swinging wildly behind him. “Okay, I’ll admit it! I can’t make coffee to save my life.” When Buck and Lan kept kissing, he bumped against the couch. “Hey. I’d like some of that.” “Sure you would,” Lan mumbled before pressing his mouth against Buck’s again. York bumped the couch harder. “Hey! Don’t forget who you work for.” 104

Lan pulled away from Buck’s mouth. “I work for your father. Go away. This baby sitter is off duty.”

York put his hand on his hip. “You two are just going to ignore me?”

“We’re trying,” Lan admitted. He ran his hands over Buck’s hairy chest.

“Aw, come on. Please?” York asked.

Lan gestured to the tight press of his and Buck’s bodies on the couch. “Sorry, no room.”

“How about the floor?” York suggested.

Buck chuckled. “I don’t know. I’m pretty comfortable where I am.”

Lan snuggled against Buck’s chest. “Me too.”

“I’m coming in, whether you like it or not.” York climbed over the back of the couch, straddling their

bodies.

“Knock it off,” Lan swatted at him, but with a smile on his face.

“Make me.”

The boys tumbled to the floor together, half-heartedly wrestling with long gropes. They rolled closer to the

fireplace, taking time to grind against each other.

“Give him a good spanking, “Buck advised.

Lan considered it. “Nah, he’d enjoy it too much.” He turned back to York. “You really are a pain in the ass.

It’s a good thing you’re so damn good looking.” Before York could answer, Lan pressed a hard kiss against his mouth. Groping hands paused for longer caresses. The boys seemed to melt together, lost in lingering kisses. Finally, they separated. “Aren’t you going to join us?” York asked Buck. “You boys look like you’re having fun.” It looked like more than fun. There had been real passion and not

just lust in those kisses, and Buck felt a little like a third wheel.

“We’d have more fun if you joined us. Come on.” Lan patted the floor next to them.

“Please,” York added.

“Well…” Buck limped over and carefully got down on the rug. “You talked me into it.”

Lan nudged his head against Buck’s thigh until Buck let him have his cock. The redhead slathered long licks

up and down the shaft. Then he deep-throated Buck’s cock for a moment, but then slid his mouth up, sucking a little towards the end of the stroke before plunging back down and burying his nose in Buck’s groin. York straddled Buck’s face and pressed his balls close to Buck’s mouth for licking. York leaned over and took Lan’s cock into his mouth. Lan’s deep moan vibrated around Buck’s dick. Buck grasped York’s long, slender cock and guided the head past his lips, completing the triangle of licking and sucking.

105

Torqued Tales

York pulled away first. He panted. “Wow. Now that was cool.”

“So why stop?” Lan complained.

York’s grin was pure mischief. “I have a better idea.” He leaned over and whispered in Lan’s ear.

Buck watched Lan’s eyes widen, and a wicked smile to match York’s spread across Lan’s face. “Should I be

worried?” he joked.

“This is going to be so hot,” York promised. “I’ve always wanted to do this. Let’s go to the bedroom

though. It’ll be easier there.”

“Easier?” Buck asked.

“Much.” Lan grabbed the bottle of lube.

Buck followed the other two into the bedroom. There was only one bed, a big one. The quilted comforter

trailed onto the floor, and the sheet pulled away from the mattress at the corner. Clothes were flung on the pine chest of drawers, the floor, and over a rocking chair in the corner. The scent of men and sex was heavy in the room. Buck paused at the doorway to let it fill his lungs. York climbed on the bed, rolled onto his back, and shimmied until his ass was on the edge of the mattress. He brought his knees to his chest, giving Buck a great view of cock, balls, and ass.

Lan squirted a generous dollop on his fingers, and worked it into York’s ass. York’s hand patted along the

rumpled comforter until it found a condom, which he tossed to Buck. “You’re going to need that.”

“What are we doing?” Buck asked.

York grinned. “You’ll see.”

Lan withdrew his fingers from York. “Go ahead, Buck. Guests first. See, I do have some manners,” he told

York.

York made a face at him.

Buck stood at the edge of the bed. York put his ankles on Buck's wide shoulders as Buck pushed the head of

his cock in. After a couple thrusts though, Lan pushed one of York’s knees back to his chest and climbed

over Buck.

“Try to stay in him,” Lan said. He leaned over York’s body. They kissed deeply.

Buck kept fucking York as he looked down at Lan’s ass. He watched Lan guide his cock to York’s hole, and

then push beside his cock for double penetration. Buck grasped York’s hips and held on as he felt Lan’s

thick cock slide against his own. York exhaled slowly, his face twisted in concentration.

“Too much?” Lan asked, worried.

“No. It’s okay. It’s just a lot to take in,” York admitted.

106

Buck held his breath too as Lan carefully pushed deeper into York. The tight, hot fit was getting tighter by the second, but it felt good. Lan’s short, gentle thrusts rubbed against his cock. Short spasms tightened York’s ass, but then released. “Is that good?” Lan asked York in a quiet voice.

“Amazing. I’m so full, but it’s good.”

Lan told him, “It feels really hot.” He thrust harder, but kept the strokes short.

Buck simply held on, overwhelmed by the feel of another cock shoving along the length of his. He slathered

lube on his fingers and slid one into Lan’s ass.

Lan moaned. “More,” he said.

Buck worked another finger into the redhead’s ass and slid them in and out until his knuckles were

slamming fast and hard against Lan’s ass. Lan’s balls slapped against York’s with each thrust. York moaned, but obviously not in pain. Lan’s strokes sped up, then his body went rigid, and Buck could feel the force of the orgasm shoot through Lan’s body. “Stay in me until Buck’s finished,” York panted.

Lan nodded.

When Lan stopped thrusting, Buck took over. At first, he tried to hold back, but he could feel his balls

tightening. He forgot about finger fucking Lan, forgot about being gentle. He dug his fingers into York’s hips and slammed into him. Lan, sandwiched between the two, and trapped inside York with him, didn’t seem to mind. He moved with Buck’s body. Buck rested his forehead against Lan’s back, concentrating on the incredible rush about to surge through his body. He fought to hold back, but lost control of the rush that shot hard and fast through him. York’s eyes closed as the two men pulled out of him.

Lan curled beside York on the mattress and stroked his forehead. “Are you okay? Was that okay?”

York’s eyes slowly opened, and a satiated grin spread over his face. “Incredible.”

Lan lightly smacked his arm. “You had me worried. I’m supposed to be keeping you out of trouble, not

helping you make it.”

“Mmm. No. I’m great. Wonderful. But I don’t think I can move for a while,” York admitted.

Lan put his head on York’s chest, and motioned for Buck to cuddle with them. Buck crawled onto the bed

and pulled the heavy, warm comforter over the three of them. Within minutes, they were asleep in a comfortable, content tangle. *** Buck huffed as he headed down the trail. His skis stuck to the wet snow. He’d used the wrong wax. Tired, and disappointed that his last day of vacation wasn’t going well, he decided to stop for a rest.

107

Torqued Tales

Buck glanced down the long trail. He hated to admit it, but he wasn’t having any fun that week, with the exception of one night in a cabin in the woods. He’d given it two chances, and he knew for certain that he didn’t like skiing. His chest hurt as the frigid air filled his lungs. His toes and fingers throbbed from the cold. It was at least a mile back to the lodge, a trek he had no desire to make. Through the trees, he could see a cabin. Smoke curled out of the chimney. A jeep, nearly invisible beneath layers of snow, was parked near the front door. He grinned and bent down to unclasp his bindings. That time when he knocked on the door, it was York who opened it. The smell of sex and coffee wafted out of the cabin. York leaned against the doorframe. “Well, hello again, Mr. Bear. Another evil gnome get you?” York reached out and pulled Buck into the cabin. Buck laughed. “Not this time. But I didn’t want to take any chances.” Lan walked out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, offering tempting glances of his cock with every step. He had a second towel draped over his head, and he vigorously dried his hair with it. “Who was at the door?” he asked as he flung the towel back into the bathroom. “Your prince has come,” York told Lan. “Well, I haven’t come yet,” Buck said, “but I’m hoping to soon.”

108

Hans u nd Georg By Mychael Blac k The sweet smell of chocolate filled Georg with every deep breath he took. The bell above the shop door rang as a woman entered, pushing a stroller. Georg looked up and smiled as Hans' laughter drifted through the room. Hans stooped down and grinned at the little girl in her stroller. With a nod from her mother, Hans handed the girl a chocolate lollipop in the shape of a teddy bear. The girl squealed and giggled as she snatched the candy from Hans' hand, giving him a huge, chocolaty smile. A few moments later, Hans stood and pulled a box from under the counter. He rang up the mother's order and waved at the little girl as they left. Georg just shook his head and went to the counter. After giving the front door a quick glance, he bent over the counter top, meeting his lover in a soft, ever-sweet kiss. "Mmm, hi there." Hans pulled back and smiled. "Hi yourself. What time is it?" Georg looked at his watch. "Five ‘til six." "Thank God,” Hans sighed. “Close enough to closing time.” He typed a few things into the register, hit 'no sale', and pulled out the till. “Lock the door and turn off the sign?” "Sure.” Georg went to the front door and made a quick glance for lingering customers. Spotting no one, he locked the door, then reached over and flipped a switch, turning off the 'Open' sign. Snagging a piece of dark chocolate bark on the way, he headed back to the counter and leaned on it, sucking on the candy as he waited while Hans counted out the money. As he watched his lover, Georg thought back to the first time he'd stepped foot in the shop. Back then, Hans' grandfather-August Goebel-owned the candy shop, which had been in the Goebel family for ages. Hans' father bypassed the shop ownership, leaving Hans to run the place when August passed away. Georg had come in one autumn day, eleven years ago, looking for something for his niece. Never did he expect to find the most wonderful man in the world behind the counter. "Did fairly good today,” Hans said without looking up. “Kinda slow, but not bad.” Hans gathered up the bills and slipped them into a dark brown bank bag. The coins were left in the register with a few bills, all amounting to twenty-five dollars. Georg remembered Hans telling him that when he'd had to run the register once. After closing the register drawer, Hans gathered up the receipts in another bag—this one clear plastic—and then got his coat from under the counter. "Ready?” Georg grinned and nodded. Reaching out with the hand holding the dark chocolate bark, he painted Hans’ lips. Then he leaned forward to lick them clean, finally pressing in for a chocolate-laden kiss. As Hans stood there panting, Georg stepped back, finishing off the bark as he led the way with a bounce in his step to the front door. “Got everything?” He unlocked the door and held it open while Hans fumbled and punched in the security code before walking out.

109

Torqued Tales

"Yeah.” Hans pulled the door shut with a shaky hand, locked it, and stuck the keys into his jeans pocket. “Any ideas on dinner?” Shrugging, Georg gave his lover a noncommittal answer. “Thought maybe we could eat in tonight.” He bumped shoulders with Hans, who glanced at him with a wary look. “What?” "You're up to something.” Georg gasped in mock offense. “I am not!” Hans stopped, arms crossed over his chest, while Georg continued on, calling over his shoulder in a sing-song voice, “Meet you at home...” He took his time, confident that everything was as it should be. He'd spent the whole afternoon cooking and making things perfect. He wondered, as he stepped up to their front door and unlocked it, if Hans even remembered his own birthday. Georg snorted and pushed the door open. Probably not. Hans came in a few moments later, the man always slower, content to stroll leisurely wherever he went. Georg could just see the man lazily scattering breadcrumbs in a trail behind him, humming. He waited until Hans closed the door, then he leaned back against it and reached out. Hans grinned and stood between his legs, mouth coming down on Georg's to steal his breath as well as a kiss. "Mmm...smells good in here,” Hans hummed. "Been busy.” And he was busy now, tugging Hans' shirt out of his khakis, searching for skin. He found it, hands sliding over smooth, warm flesh, moving up Hans' back. “Happy birthday.” Hans chuckled softly, lips gliding along Georg's jaw, down his neck. “I forgot.” Georg started to say “I know,” but all that came out was a moan when Hans found a sensitive spot and began sucking up what Georg knew would be a dark mark. The sensations went straight to his groin, his cock filling as one of Hans' hands moved down to cup him through his jeans. Dinner. Food. Oh, God... Georg's eyes rolled back as Hans bit down, hand rubbing his prick. "Cooked dinner," he gasped, arching into that touch, thoughts scattering to the four winds. "Hans..." "Want you," Hans whispered, popping the button on Georg's jeans. "Appetizer." That grin was wicked as Hans sank to his knees. And people called him the wicked witch... Georg just nodded and stared down as Hans pulled his cock out and licked the tip. "Oh, fuck." The back of his head hit the door with a thud and he threaded his fingers through Hans' short-cropped brown hair. "Ich liebe dich," was breathed across his slick, heated skin, then Hans sucked him down, right between those perfect lips. "Hans!" Georg panted, unable to stop himself from thrusting into Hans' mouth. "Ja, ja..." His eyes rolled back when Hans started sucking-long, slow pulls, in and out. "Ich komme..." Hips jerking, Georg groaned, shooting down Hans' throat. Hans licked him clean, then sat back on his heels and grinned. "Now that was my idea of a birthday appetizer." Georg struggled to get his brain back into some semblance of working order. "What do you need, babe?" He pulled Hans up and kissed him hard. 110

"Just got it," Hans mumbled. "Been wanting to do that all damn day." His prick, though, was hard as a rock, Hans humping Georg's thigh. "Wanna wait, don't want to come yet." Georg nodded and grabbed his lover's ass, tugging Hans harder against him. "That certainly has its possibilities." Hans moaned, the sound low and needy. "Georg...yes...don't let me come...not yet." Hans was panting, breathless, rubbing that hard, beautiful cock up and down Georg's thigh muscle. "Oh, yeah. No coming for you just yet," Georg said with a smirk as he pried Hans off of him and turned the man around, steering him toward the kitchen where their dinner awaited. He walked around Hans and took his hand, pulling him in the room. "Oh. Oh, love..." Hans' smile was immediate, the man's face lighting up as they stepped up to the table. The table was already set with their good dishes, wine glasses, and a chilled bottle of red wine. A small, shiny black box, tied with a silver ribbon, sat in the middle of one of the plates. Georg guided Hans to that seat and once Hans was sitting, Georg went to the oven and pulled out the casserole he'd made. Living with a vegetarian had its moments of frustration, but after eleven years, Georg had learned to work well with it. Besides, Hans ate seafood and that worked out very well as far as Georg was concerned. Although Hans still playfully teased him about being a meat-eating pagan. Gotta love those stereotypes, Georg thought. He set the casserole-made of shrimp, cheddar cheese, wild rice, and cream of mushroom soup-on the table and then picked up the wine bottle. It was Hans' favorite. Georg popped the cork and poured them both a glass, then put the bottle back in its ice bucket. Sitting down, he lifted his glass. "Best wishes to my one and only love. May this fairy tale continue into eternity." It was their own little game of the candy-loving man being lured into the witch's clutches. Georg thought it fitting, since he'd made the first move all those years ago. Hans' cheeks colored a little and he touched his glass to Georg's. "Thank you, love." "Open your present." Georg nearly glowed with anticipation, anxious for Hans to open his gift. When Hans picked up the box, Georg spooned some of the casserole onto the plate, then got himself some. He sat back and sipped his wine as he watched Hans. Hans opened the box and went still. Beloved blue eyes lifted to meet Georg's own hazel ones. No words needed to be said. Looking back down, Hans took the ring from its box and slipped it on the ring finger of his left hand. Georg smiled. The silver band, with its engraved tribal art, sparkled in the kitchen light. "It's..." Hans shook his head, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "It's perfect." "I'm glad you like it." "I love it." Hans leaned across the table and kissed him softly. "Thank you." "You're welcome." As Hans sat back down, Georg smiled. "Marry me." "Name the day." Georg though for a moment, running through the calendar in his head. "June 21st?"

111

Torqued Tales

"Midsummer." Georg smiled again and nodded. "You're learning." One eyebrow rose and Hans smirked. "After a decade, I better be. June 21st sounds good," he said, starting on his dinner. "Gives us three months to plan and invite people." Georg took a bite, quite pleased with himself at how good the casserole turned out. Hans moaned as he took another bite. "The casserole is wonderful, love." "Thank you." *** After dinner, Georg drew them a bath in their oversized, two-man bathtub. He got in first, then reached out, taking Hans' hand. "Oh, this is great." Hans sank down into the water, leaning back against his lover. Steam wafted up around them and the ends of Georg's long black hair draped over Hans' shoulders, curling against his chest. One of Georg's arms slid around Hans' waist and a kiss was pressed softly to the side of his neck. Hans closed his eyes and smiled, head tilting to give Georg more room. "Smell good," Georg murmured, breath warming Hans' skin even more. The kisses grew stronger, a little bite beneath each one. Hans groaned and reached back, right arm curling around Georg's neck. The hand at his waist moved lower, long fingers splayed out over his stomach, the heat from Georg's touch burning Hans up from the inside out. Something was murmured against his skin, no doubt a silent prayer to the gods. Hans smiled, Georg's simple benediction making him feel more cherished than any material gift ever could. "Want you," Georg whispered, fingers playing lower, the tip of one just barely grazing the head of Hans' cock. Hans could only nod. His own personal witch could cast a spell with the simplest touch. "Want to feel you everywhere..." That hand cupped him, the heat flowing through them both. "Want to taste you..." One finger slid lower to tap his hole and Hans bit his bottom lip, legs drawing up. Georg's fingertip pushed inside him. Hans moaned softly, hips rocking downward, the teasing almost too much. "Love..." Georg's finger slid deeper, curling upward. Hans gasped, hips moving, needing more. Then the finger was gone. "Meet you in the bedroom." Georg kissed his temple and got out. He smiled and dried off, then left the bathroom, giving Hans a quick wink before disappearing around the corner. The man was up to something. Grinning, his curiosity piqued and his cock rock hard, Hans got out and dried off. Tossing the towel on the washer as he went by it, he rounded the corner of the hallway leading to their bedroom and stopped dead in his tracks. 112

A piece of dark chocolate was on the floor, a slip of white paper beneath it. Hans bent down and picked it up. "Follow the candy trail to your prize." It was signed: ‘The Wicked Witch’. Hans chuckled and nibbled on the candy as he bent to pick up the second piece a foot ahead. By the time he reached the bedroom door, his fingers were covered in melting dark chocolate. He sucked the fingers of his right hand clean, managed to stack the candies on the paper in his other hand, and opened the bedroom door. "Oh, my..." he murmured in a breathy whisper. Eyes wide, his gaze swept over the feast spread out for him on the bed. Georg was on his back, one arm beneath his head. His other hand leisurely stroked a long, hard cock, using chocolate syrup to slick the way. Hans' mouth watered as he set the candies and paper on the dresser. "Come closer, pretty boy," Georg purred. Hans went to the end of the bed and started at Georg's feet. He bent, pressing a soft kiss to Georg's ankle. The groan he got was tangible, felt as much as heard. His lover's ankles and calves were almost as sensitive as the man's nipples and cock. Hans sealed his lips around the inside of Georg's left ankle and sucked up a mark, Georg's moan sliding through him. That leg trembled as Hans made his way up, lips moving along the skin, tugging gently on the hair. Just below Georg's knee and a little to the side, Hans found a sweet spot. And it wasn’t covered in chocolate. "F-fuck," Georg gasped, other leg shifting restlessly as Hans sucked up another dark mark. He could smell the chocolate now. The rich scent mingled with Georg's own musk-sharp and bittersweet and oh-so-addictive. Hans always said he'd be the richest man on Earth if he could bottle that smell. Sweat, heat, the faint trace of soap, need; it all coalesced into a fragrance that overpowered the world's finest chocolates. Feeling like the little boy in the fairy tale, spellbound by the witch's promise of treats beyond his imagination, Hans finally reached his destination. Lips circling the head of Georg's cock, he moaned low and deep, the flavors of chocolate and Georg bursting on his tongue, making his mouth water. He sucked Georg down, his lover moaning and thrusting up, pushing that beautiful prick deeper into his mouth. "Yes," Georg hissed, one hand coming to rest on Hans' head. The other hand, the one covered in chocolate, cupped Georg's balls, rolling and tugging them. Hans let Georg's prick go, leaving it to slap against the firm stomach despite Georg's groaned protest. He slid his hands beneath Georg's legs and shoved them up to his chest, spreading his lover's asscheeks open. Hans licked his lips and moved lower, tonguing Georg's balls, occasionally licking the chocolate-covered fingers, too. "Where's the chocolate?" Georg's hand left his head and returned a moment later, tapping Hans' shoulder with a bottle of Hershey's Chocolate Syrup. Chuckling, Hans popped the cap and grinned as he held the bottle just above Georg's balls. Then he squeezed.

113

Torqued Tales

"Holy..." Georg arched, moaning as the stream of chocolate ran down the crease of his ass. "Now that,” Hans said with a wink as he closed the bottle and set it down, “is my idea of candy.” He lifted Georg's hips, almost rolling his lover in half, then set to his feast. "Hans!” Georg thrashed, hips jerking as Hans licked his hole, over and over, cleaning the chocolate off the smooth, puckered skin. Hans loved this. More than his beloved chocolate, more than anything in this world, he loved making his own personal wicked witch ache and writhe, crazy with need. Spearing his tongue, he finally breached Georg's body, Georg sucking in a sharp breath and exhaling a tortured moan. "In me,” Georg gasped, panting and shaking as Hans plunged his tongue in deeper. “Please, Hans. Need you. Oh, gods...” Hans pulled back and let Georg back down. He watched his lover's expression as he slowly impaled Georg on two fingers. Georg's mouth was open, tongue licking those irresistible lips, eyes wide and a little wild. Hans curled his fingers forward and stroked Georg's gland, smiling at the grunt and the way Georg's body danced on the bed. Leaning down, he licked Georg's cock, tongue sliding up the chocolate-flavored shaft to the tip. Precome mixed with the chocolate, sending Hans' senses reeling, his prick throbbing a bit just from the taste alone. "Now,” Georg pleaded breathlessly. Chocolate or no, he grabbed hold of Hans' shoulders, hips lifting, ass riding Hans' fingers. “Bitte!” There was simply no way in Heaven or Hell Hans could resist that, not when Georg started begging. He stretched over Georg, drawing in a nipple and rolling it between his teeth as he reached for the tube on the bedside table. Georg shouted, bucking on his fingers, nails digging into his flesh. Lube in hand, Hans sat back up and popped the tube open. Squirting some of the cool gel on his cock, he stroked himself to slick up, then he pulled his fingers out of his lover's body. Georg groaned as Hans pushed in, cock sliding into blessed heat. Georg's legs went around his waist, tugging Hans against the firm ass, burying him deep. "Ja, ja, oh..." Georg arched, hips rolling downward, driving Hans deeper. Bracing himself with his hands on the bed, Hans started slow and easy, strokes going deep. A flush spread over Georg's body, those eyes wide and loving, and a touch awe-struck. Hans leaned down, hips never stopping, and Georg opened to him, drawing Hans' tongue into a hot mouth. The lingering flavor of chocolate colored the kiss, both of them moaning. Georg's body tightened around him and Hans pushed harder, grinding his hips against his lover's ass. Georg's eyes flew open, the kiss never breaking, and heat spread between them. Groaning, Hans licked Georg's lips and rose up, ignoring the sticky mess of come and chocolate, and started thrusting faster. A moment later, he was shaking, cock pulsing deep in Georg's body as he came. Breathless, Hans collapsed on top of his lover. Georg chuckled softly, hands sliding up and down his back in slow caresses. "Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag," Georg murmured, pressing a kiss to Hans' temple. "Mmm, danke." *** Three months later...

114

"Are you ready? Where are the rings? Georg!" Georg chuckled and leaned in the doorway. "Relax, babe. I've got them." He patted the left pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Hans let out a slow breath. "I'm okay, I'm okay. Just..." He gave Georg a sheepish grin. "Nervous." Smiling, Georg reached out and pulled Hans to him. "It's okay, love. So am I. But we can make it through this. Our families and friends are here, everything has gone according to plan." Hans nodded. "I know." Georg leaned down, kissing the nervousness out of Hans, smiling to himself when the moans started, soft and low. Only then did he pull away and wink. Hans grumbled and turned his back to the door, readjusting himself in his slacks. "Great. Walking down the aisle, hard as a rock." "Just think," Georg murmured as he turned Hans back around, tucking his own ring in Hans' pocket. "I can take care of that afterwards." Groaning, Hans slapped Georg's hand away as it drifted toward his crotch. "That is not helping." The music started and Georg took Hans' hand. "That's our cue." The living room was filled with friends and family, and they all stood as Georg and Hans walked hand in hand into the room. Georg had insisted on live music, as opposed to recorded, so his aunt was seated behind her electronic organ. Vivaldi's ‘Spring’, from the Four Seasons, filled the room as they walked toward the hearth where Georg's Goddess-worshipping, high priestess cousin stood, beaming a brilliant smile. When they stopped in front of Grace, she lifted both hands. Everyone sat down in their folding chairs and grew quiet. "Once upon a time," she began. "There was a candy maker. He loved his candy and the people who came into his shop. He loved the bright smiles and the laughter of the children. He lived to bring joy to everyone around him." Hans squeezed Georg's hand and cast a quick glance at him, mouthing, "Ich liebe dich." Georg smiled. "Then one day, a witch came along. He walked into Hans' candy shop with notions of sweet treats for a little girl." Grace winked at them. "He walked out with the candy maker's heart." Soft chuckles drifted around the room and Grace continued. "Now, eleven years later, they stand before us. Hans and Georg are living the fairy tale dream of love and companionship. It's not been an easy road, but neither would trade it for the world. Do you have the rings?" Georg pulled Hans' ring out of his pocket as they faced each other. They'd rehearsed their vows-together and separately, though he knew them by heart. "Hans, you've been the love of my life-the sweet temptation to this old wicked witch-for over a decade." Hans' mouth twitched and he smiled. "And I can only pray that we have many more decades before us." He slipped the ring on Hans' ring finger.

115

Torqued Tales

Taking Georg's left hand, Hans said, "Georg, you are indeed my wicked witch." The smile finally broke free. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to take candy from strange men?" The entire room burst into laughter, Georg and Hans both joining them. When it finally died down, Hans finished by sliding a matching ring onto Georg's ring finger. "Ich liebe dich." They turned to face the crowd of loved ones as Grace announced, "By the eyes of your family and friends, and the watchful eyes of the gods, you are one!" Everyone clapped and shouted their congratulations as Hans and Georg started back toward the doorway. Once they were out of the room, Grace announced that the reception would be held in the backyard to enjoy the warm weather. Georg led Hans into the kitchen, where all the food sat on the table buffet-style. Hands on Hans' hips, Georg pulled his lover to him, their mouths coming together in a soft but thorough kiss. Georg moaned softly when Hans pressed against him, arms draped over his shoulders, hips rocking a little. "Think we can get away for a few minutes?" "Everyone's going to head outside, and traditionally, doesn't the married couple join them a little bit later anyway?" Smiling, Georg started backing Hans toward the kitchen doorway. "Uh-huh." He leaned in for another kiss, whispering, "Upstairs." Hans nipped his bottom lip and turned, walking out the door and up the steps. Georg followed, resisting the urge to grab the butt just a few inches in front of him. When they reached the bedroom door, he didn't have a chance to even touch. Hans tugged him into the room and closed the door, pushing Georg against it, mouth coming down on his. "Want you," Hans breathed as he worked to get them both free. Georg just nodded and cupped Hans' head, diving back into Hans' mouth. A groan filled the kiss, though Georg didn't have a clue which of them had made it. Then the heat of Hans' fingers wrapped around his prick and all thought fled Georg's mind. His hips bucked, thrusting his cock into Hans' fist. "Bed," he whispered on Hans' lips. Hans pulled away and headed for the bed, stripping as he went. Stretching out on his back, he held a hand out for Georg. Georg undressed quickly and went to him, lying beside his lover as Hans rolled to face him, their lips meeting in another kiss. "Hans..." Georg shivered, Hans' mouth moving over his jaw, down to his neck. The fire inside was building slowly, every touch, every kiss, every lick fanning the flame. Georg moaned softly when Hans began sucking up a mark on his throat, the sensations washing through him in unending waves. One of Hans' hands slipped between his legs and Georg spread them, gasping when a warm palm cupped him, rolling his balls in soft heat. Hans' hands were always soft-perfect for making the sweetest candy in the world. One finger tapped at Georg's hole and he shuddered, groaning as Hans' fingertip rubbed the puckered skin, teasing. "In me," Georg murmured, hips lifting. "Please..." Hans' finger left and he slid up, reaching for the lube on the table by the bed. After slicking two fingers, Hans leaned down for a kiss, fingers pushing into Georg, taking Georg's breath away. Hans stroked in and 116

out slowly, licking Georg's lips, those fingers working him open. Then they were gone and Hans was rolling

him onto his back, cock pushing into him.

"Hans!" Georg clutched Hans' shoulders, moaning with every slow stroke, Hans' mouth moving over his

neck, breath heating his skin. "Oh, God..."

"Georg." Hans groaned, thrusts growing stronger, going deeper.

Releasing Hans' shoulder, Georg grabbed his cock, stroking it in time to Hans' thrusts. "Ja..." He shuddered,

back arching. "Hans!" Heat poured over his fingers and onto his stomach. His body tightened around Hans,

the sensations rushing through him.

Hans jerked suddenly and groaned, pushing into him as that beautiful cock throbbed deep inside him.

Panting, Hans rested his head on Georg's shoulder. "Oh, God. Needed that. Felt so damn good."

Georg opened his mouth to respond, but laughter from the backyard stopped him. Chuckling, he kissed

Hans' head. "I think that's our cue to return to the party."

"Mmm..." Hans lifted his head and kissed Georg softly. "Yeah." He pulled out and stood, stretching, a sheen

of sweat on his skin. Georg had to resist the urge to lick him. "I'll grab a towel," Hans said as he went into

the master bathroom. A moment later, he returned, tossing Georg a handtowel.

Once they were both clean, dressed, and presentable, Georg opened the bedroom door.

"There you are!"

Georg's heart stuck in throat and he just glared at Grace. "What the hell?"

Grace shrugged. "Was looking for the bathroom?" she offered, not looking to be the least bit apologetic.

One eyebrow raised, Hans said, "Uh-huh. And how many times have you been here?"

Grace grinned and pushed between them, draping her arms over their shoulders. She kissed their cheeks. "So

what's on the agenda for a honeymoon?"

"We've got reservations for a Baltic cruise. Plane leaves tomorrow afternoon." Hans glanced over at Georg.

"Three, right?"

"Three-thirty, actually."

"What about the shop?" Grace asked, letting them go so they could head back downstairs.

"My cousin is holding down the fort until we get back," Hans said.

"Oh, good. No worries then about things going nuts."

"Not a one."

Grace stopped them once they were at the bottom and turned to face them both. "I'm so happy for you two. I

love you both like brothers, and to see you so much in love..." She bit her lip and smiled a little. "It's

perfect."

117

Torqued Tales

"Thanks, honey." Georg pulled her into a hug and a few seconds later, Hans joined them. "Come on, guys!" someone called from the back porch. "We got the cake waiting!" Laughing, the three of them separated, exchanged kisses, and then Grace left them, hurrying out to the porch. Taking Hans' hand, Georg led the way behind her. "Three cheers for the grooms!" The crowd roared, glasses clinking, hands clapping as Georg and Hans stepped onto the back porch. It was good to see everyone together, especially since several of them had come in from the States and a few from England. They all started shouting for another kiss and Hans grinned. He turned Georg toward him and kissed him slow and easy, laughing when he felt Georg almost melt right then and there. When they came up for air, Georg's eyes were wide and he licked his lips. "Damn." Laughter broke out again and much to Hans' delight, his lover's cheeks pinked. He leaned forward and kissed Georg's nose. "You're cute when you blush, you know." "Hush," Georg mumbled, swatting Hans' butt. "Beer. Food." "Sounds damn good to me, babe." They made their way down onto the grass and were swarmed by guests, receiving pats on their backs as they headed toward the tent-covered table where their cake waited. It was a beautiful masterpiece of black fondant and edible gold ribbons and beads-the colors of the Goebel Candy boxes and bags. Taking their places behind the cake, they posed while pictures were taken. Then they picked up the knife. Georg's hand on his, Hans cut into the cake. He carved out two small pieces and they each picked one up. They put their pieces to each other's mouth, and on the count of three from the crowd, stuffed each other full of cake. Fondant and cake smeared all over their faces and hands, but all they could do was laugh with the others as they licked each other's fingers clean. "A toast!" someone shouted. Everyone raised their glasses, Hans and Georg taking their engraved flutes, and Grace took the lead. "To the two best men I know," she called out, lifting her glass high. "May your days be filled with happiness, and may this fairy tale never end!"

118

Trip Trap By Syd Mc Ginley Once upon a time there were three gay brothers who were headed for the mountains to decompress after a hard year of partying, and they were called Buff. On the circuit they had the nickname Three Silly Boys Buff. And buff they were! You never saw so much tanned rippling flesh peeking from strategically torn tshirts and jeans. The eldest brother was pushing for the trip. He was worried about crow’s-feet and some extra ounces on his hips. “Mountain air and hiking will be just the thing to revive us and burn off those annoying hip handles.” He shot a nasty look at Middle brother, his biggest rival in all things, just a few years younger and a hair hotter. Middle brother just patted his own ass proudly and smiled sweetly. He knew he was hottest. Baby brother sighed. He was tired of all this sibling rivalry shit. His two bothers bickered endlessly about who was hotter and who had more suitors. They only thing they agreed about was that Baby was the dumbest and plainest and should therefore be the family errand boy. And secretly, Baby was fed up with parties and tricks. He thought he might like to learn a trade and settle down in a nice cottage with a friendly daddy bear. Just the type of guy his brothers sneered at and ran off, but Baby thought it might be good to have someone who could fix a furnace and would snuggle with you at night. Still, August in town was hot and dead so Big brother jumped into his Miata and told the others he’d meet them in the mountains. Middle brother put the tent and camp stove in the back of his Mini and told baby to follow as best he could. Baby thought about it, heaved on his backpack, and went to the bus station. He carefully read his Dummies Guide to Mountain Hiking as he journeyed, and listened to what his fellow passenger told him. Brothers would have called his seatmate a troll, but Baby thought his stories were interesting even if his beard was grey and his hands ropy with sinew. Baby thought he was tough and real. Not city tanned, but truly sun-baked. His black jeans were worn from work, not from dancing. Without his brothers around, Baby could hear himself think, and since he no longer had to scream to make himself heard over party noise and brotherly bitching, he discovered he didn’t actually have much that needed saying after all. He just nodded and smiled at his seatmate and asked the occasional question. He was surprised that the low chuckle he heard was his laugh. What had happened to his social giggle? Baby felt a touch freaked. He was a different person without his brothers, and it was scary. He picked his book back up, gave a polite nod to his fellow passenger, and put his earbuds back in. When the bus pulled into town, Baby asked directions to a store, then waved goodbye to his friend who was climbing to a beat up pick-em-up left waiting in the lot. Baby had written a careful list in his last twenty minutes on the bus and shyly shown it to his new friend. He didn’t laugh nor tell Baby he should have thought of this earlier but approved, in his gravely voice, and suggested Baby also add some Band-Aids for his tender city feet. Baby bought the Band-Aids, as well as a map, some oranges, blister ointment, trail mix, matches, jerky, sunscreen, a jaunty bandana, some special camp food packets, and a water bottle. To make room, he had to leave his hair gel in the bathroom, but a new ball cap covered his hair anyway. Besides his bothers would have product galore and would let him use it after enough wheedling. They’d rather share than have their

119

Torqued Tales

brother looking trashy. Plain and dim as they claimed he was, he was still a sib and still part of their triple threat strategy. Baby was already hot and tired by the time he’d walked through town to the start of the trail. Middle and Eldest were waiting in their separate cars with a/c running full blast. Eldest was chowing down on a wrap and Middle was chattering on his cell phone. “Let’s go!” said Eldest as soon as Baby had struggled out of his backpack. “Yes,” said Middle, hanging up his cell phone. “We’ve been waiting on you forever.” Baby scowled, and wondered whether he was in the right story. “Not fucking Cinderfella,” he squeaked as Middle added the tent to the top of his backpack and clipped the stove to the bottom of his pack just where it would bang his ass as he walked. Eldest and Middle were already off up the trail, Eldest sashaying a little and Middle strutting along. Baby set off at a steady pace. He popped his earbuds back in for a bit, but his techno mix seemed wrong in the foothills, so after awhile he turned the music off, but left the buds in hoping he could pretend to ignore his bothers. They were just far enough ahead that their squabbling was muted and Baby could imagine they were saying nice things to each other, or actually looking at the scenery. He had to admit his brothers were hot. So perhaps their shorts were a bit skimpy for hiking, but their thighs and calves pumped and flexed so lusciously as they climbed. Baby shook his head. He was used to his brothers’ narcissism, but he was fed up with admiring them. They never returned the favor, and he wasn’t bad really. A bit smaller, a bit shyer, but he thought rebelliously, not as shallow or as slutty. They’re just jealous because I’m youngest. Baby sighed as he rounded a bend and found his brothers lolling around on the grass. Middle was trying to get a cell phone signal. Baby was sure that they’d set off again if he stopped, but Eldest told him to sit down and join them. Baby struggled out of the backpack, and gave a sharp cry of protest when Eldest started messing with the tent. “Don’t unpack it here! We have miles to go yet.” “Oh, hush - I just want the cola I stashed in there.” Baby fumed as his bothers pulled out the two bottles of coke they’d hidden inside his burden. They left the tent half unpacked too. They walked on swigging their drinks. “Dickheads!” yelled Baby after them. He sat down, resolved not to sulk, but slowly ate an orange segment by segment. He lay back on the hillside and enjoyed the view. It was gorgeous. Blue skies. Crisp air. Cool breeze. No brothers. He took a small sip of water, and then set about refolding the tent. He strolled after them. If they went too far ahead, they’d be screwed. He had their shelter, and he knew mountain nights were chilly even at this time of year. Once or twice he even hung back when he thought he heard bickering around a bend. He’d never been this alone before, and he liked it. At last he had to catch up. Dusk was imminent, and he didn’t want to make camp after dark. His brothers had stopped at a semi-suitable spot, and at least didn’t get in his way while he set up the tent. They were kind enough all evening too. They groaned at the beef stew packet he heated up, but were gracious enough to admit that at least he’d remembered to bring something to eat. Baby kept his snide remarks about mountains not having Starbucks to himself, and tried to appreciate that his barely-in-the-tent position meant he could see stars and get relief from fraternal farts.

120

Stars! My god, he thought, look at them. You can really see them out here. He peeked at his snoring

brothers, and let them sleep while he gazed upwards into the deep blue sky.

He was perky in the morning and took the tent down around his growling brothers. They shut up when he

offered them coffee and granola bars for breakfast.

“Caffeine! Oh I love you, little bro! That Coke yesterday barely cut it!”

Baby sighed. No one seemed to notice that he’d found fresh water for them and started a little fire to heat it

up. He was proud that his book-gleaned knowledge had worked.

Eldest and Middle were already bitching about their feet and how sore they were. Baby silently passed the

bandages and ointment and said nothing about hiking in sneakers.

Huh, he thought, I guess I was smarter than I thought. At least I have my worn-in boots on. He did have a

small blister on his heel, but his brothers’ feet were messed up. They tottered on up the trail, while Baby cleaned up the campsite and enjoyed being alone. By lunch time his brothers wanted to go home. Baby offered them an orange each, and fresh bandages, but they were exhausted and repeated: HOME!

“But it’s just as far to turn around,” he said sweetly and pointed at the map.

“Home!” said Middle petulantly.

“Now,” added Eldest.

Baby sighed. “But, there’s nothing we can do. The loop back to the cars is as far going forward as it is

back.”

“But we’ve had enough,” whined Eldest.

Baby shrugged.

“You go and get someone,” said Middle. “I’ve tried and tried to call, but there’s no signal.”

“Get who? And cars can’t get here. We have to walk. We can rest today, and walk tomorrow.”

Eldest snatched the map, and jabbed his finger. “Look – there’s a road.”

Baby grimaced. Eldest was right. Damn, just when he was nearly the sensible one, Eldest had to spot

something.

“Okay, we can walk to the top of that road. But the map says it’s a private trail.”

“Private! Not to us,” snapped Middle.

“Who’d turn us away?” preened Eldest, oblivious to a big schmutz on his nose.

Rejuvenated, Middle and Eldest set off. Baby trailed along behind. He didn’t want to go back yet. He loved

the mountain. He wanted more quiet, more clean, more solitude, more walking, more plain water and fruit

121

Torqued Tales

snacks. The idea of late nights, clubs, pounding music, cell phones, loud gossip, anonymous sweaty tricks…

oh! Baby wanted to cry.

“Look,” shouted Eldest. “The road!” He pointed across the valley. The trail led to a wooden bridge, then a

road picked up from beside a rickety shack.

“But,” said Baby.

“Hush up,” said Middle.

“It says no trespassing,” said Baby plaintively and pointed to a sign a few yards up from their side of the

bridge.

“That’s for riff-raff,” said Eldest.

“We’re not trespassers,” said Middle. “We’re visitors.”

Baby sighed, shrugged off his pack, and sat down. “I need a rest - you feel free to go ahead.”

Eldest and Middle rolled their eyes, and swanned off down the hill. Baby didn’t dare yell after them, but

they’d left everything for him to carry again! Part way down, Middle paused and sat down to adjust his

shoes. Eldest laughed and continued. He was sure an ice-cold coke was his for the asking.

Over the bridge Eldest went, sneakers silent on the boards, and bold as brass he marched up to the shack and

hammered on the door.

A roar came from inside! Baby, despite himself, squeaked and clutched his own knees. Eldest backed away slowly, and Middle ducked down low. “Who the hell is banging on MY door?” bellowed a voice. “Where in tarnation is my shotgun? Trespassers!” Even from across the river Baby could hear Eldest shriek as he ran up the trail and over the hill. He shouted something as he ran. The door to the shack flew open, a gun barrel pointed out, and a shot boomed around the valley.

Baby heard a muffled, “oh fuck” from Middle.

Baby and Middle stayed frozen until the door shut. Middle looked up the hill. He pointed after Eldest and

mimed tiptoes. Baby shook his head and pointed back down the way they had come. Middle tossed his head. Baby groaned. He should know better. Anything he suggested meant Middle would do the opposite especially if it meant following Eldest. Even if it meant crossing the barrels of a shotgun. Baby threw his hands in the air and turned his back. He peeked over his shoulder after a second. Of course Middle was sneaking over the bridge. What an actor, thought Baby. Even now, Middle was mugging for an audience. Baby bit his lip and held his breath. As much as they drove him crazy, Baby never wanted anything bad to happen to his sibs. Just as Middle cleared the bridge the silence was shattered. “I’m TOO sexy!!!”

Oh fuck! Baby watched in silent horror as Middle scrabbled for his phone. Who’d have thought there’d

finally be reception here?

122

“Too sexy for my SHIRT!” All the times he’d begged Middle to change his ring tone. All the times Middle had said it was perfectly camp and retro and besides – it’s tuh-rue!!! And now it was going to get Middle killed. The door flew open. This time more than a gun appeared. “Oh,” thought Baby. “OH!” He watched as Middle dropped to his knees and implored the man with the gun. To Baby’s relief the gun stayed pointed away and Middle’s babble seemed to work. Middle was up off his knees and jogging away up the trail after Eldest. “Well!” thought Baby indignantly as his brother’s choice of loyalties sank in deeper than ever before, then he ducked down, as the man looked up the hill as if searching for someone. Baby lay low, and watched as the man leaned his gun against the shack wall, and set about doing some chores. The day was cooling in the valley now. The sun still hit the slopes where Baby laid hiding, but the man was working in the shade. It was still hot enough for him to take his shirt off, but he left his broadbrimmed hat on. Baby watched as he watered some plants, dug some weeds, and chopped a few logs down to size. His chest was broad and tanned. Not pumped – no big puffy pecs, but hard flat muscle. Baby squirmed, watching the man’s back muscles work. He moved around like it was his territory. Well, duh, thought Baby, it is. This is his land. Baby found that very sexy - not like a nice apartment might strike a gold-digger glow in his brothers, but sexy-safe like this was someone secure with himself and the world. Baby wriggled. He wished the man would take that hat off so he could get a good look. He had long lean legs clad in dark pants, a coppery smooth chest, and working man’s arms – strong and sinuous. No extra flesh anywhere that Baby could see and no fancy gym muscles. Baby pinched himself. How could he lust after the man who’d threatened his brothers? On the other hand, his brothers did intrude on the man’s clearly posted desire for privacy, and for no good reason other than their own laziness and lack of preparation. Baby sighed. Should he make camp back up the hill a little and walk home tomorrow? Should he start home now? But he had all the provisions and the tent, and his brothers were on the other side of the valley with a day’s walk ahead of them. Well, he couldn’t move yet – the guy was still there puttering around his yard. Baby lay back and dozed off thinking all the while about the man’s teak colored corded forearms. He woke up in the gloom of twilight. The valley below was already dark, and he could see a friendly yellow glow from the shack. I should look for my brothers. Baby gathered up his stuff and set off down the valley. I’m sure I can stroll by in the dark. He’ll never know. Baby sighed at that idea, but he picked up the pace, and then froze in horror. He’d taken several big strides on to the dark bridge in his boots and each step had clomped and clattered around the quiet valley. “Aw shit,” said Baby. “I guess sneakers were better.” But inside there was a little frisson of delight. So long as he wasn’t shot on sight, Baby would meet the man. He figured he should look contrite so he bowed his head and carried on across the bridge and hoped a humble demeanor would appease the irascible mountain man. He walked quietly – trip-trap, trip-trap – but not sneakily. 123

Torqued Tales

“So!”

Baby quailed and, despite his best intentions, dropped the stove.

“So they left you with everything, huh?”

Baby peeked up. That wasn’t quite the challenge he expected. All he could see was a silhouette in the

doorway.

“Uh, yes, sir. Sorry… I mean… I’m just trying to catch up to my brothers… I didn’t mean to…”

“What? Didn’t mean to what? Trespass? Disturb my evening? Make me open my door to a stranger for the

third time in one day?”

“Right,” muttered Baby. “I’m sorry. Please… just let me cross up the hill and find my brothers. They don’t

have anything.”

A low laugh rolled out of the shack door. “That’s their problem, not yours, little boy.”

Baby shuffled. “Please?”

“Ah no…I’m sorry, little one, but I’m not letting you pass. Both your brothers both promised me that the

next one along would be cuter, and that I wouldn’t regret waiting. And here you are, number three. No more

little blond boys waiting on the hill, now are there?”

Baby just made a strangled sound.

“They sold you out, kid. Now, pick up your stuff and come over here.”

“I’ll kill them,” muttered Baby as he picked up the stove, and finished crossing the bridge.

“I have good ears boy – I hear everything. Your brothers are rats, no doubt about it, but they’ll have a plenty

miserable time without your supplies, and I’m not going to hurt you.”

“No?”

“No! I’m not a monster. And I reckon you’ll find me familiar when you take a step or two closer. Come on,

hustle up.”

Baby stepped into the lit area and dropped the stove again.

“Clumsy, ain’t you, kid?”

“Not usually. You surprised me.”

“Good surprise?”

“Yeah. It was nice talking to you on the bus. And your advice made my trip really nice - well until my

brothers, um…”

“Spoil your fun a lot, don’t they?”

124

Baby loyally stayed silent, and his fellow bus rider laughed.

“Get on in, boy. I’ve supper cooking.”

Baby took a quick look around outside wondering if his brothers were watching and then stepped inside.

“Oh!”

“What? You thought it’d be a hovel?”

“Well, outside…”

“Right, outside isn’t pretty. It doesn’t need to be – just weather tight. Inside’s where it matters. Right, boy?”

Baby giggled. “Changed my mind a lot about exteriors recently.” He put his backpack against the door and

looked around the cozy cabin. A bowl of fruit sat on the scrubbed pine table. Two overstuffed armchairs

flanked a hearth. A plaid blanket covered a bunk in a corner. Yes, it was one room, but it was perfect. “Got me a fancy indoor commode too,” teased his captor. “With a shower, but I like the tub out back in summertime.” Baby giggled. “That must be nice - soaking and seeing the stars.”

“Taken with the mountain sky are you, boy?”

Baby nodded. “Yeah – it’s perfect. I get infinity now.”

He turned his head quickly to catch his host stifling a laugh in his beard. He felt a pout start and then

squashed it. It was a silly thing to have said.

“So, what can I do to help with dinner?”

“Nothing, punkin, just park that pretty little keister there. You’ll earn your keep later. And pay me back for

trespassing. And your brothers’ transgressions.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh. Now sit down.”

Baby sat and watched. To his disappointment, the man had put a shirt back on to cook, but he had taken his

hat off at last. Baby studied him unabashedly.

He was older than Baby. Older than Eldest even. In fact Eldest and Middle would dismiss him as ancient.

Eldest had been a clichéd twenty-nine three times now, and this man must be a decade older than him!

More!

“I’m forty-five, boy.”

Baby squeaked. “Are you psychic?”

125

Torqued Tales

“You’re staring at my beard. It’s been grey since I was thirty, but I can’t be bothered to shave up here

alone.”

“It’s nice. It suits you. You look stern, but then your eyes crinkle. And then your hat comes off and your

hair’s still black.”

“I’m a piebald…”

Baby giggled. “Everywhere?”

“Fresh! They’re still black too. I’ll let you check later if you’re good. Now, be quiet. I don’t like chatter while I work.” “Yes sir,” muttered Baby. He felt a little crushed even though the rebuke was friendly. And suddenly aware that he wasn’t really a guest. He was the price of his brothers’ passage. Dinner was worth waiting for – fried chicken, potato salad, sliced tomatoes and corn on the cob. Baby forgot his table manners and wolfed it down.

“Butter on your chin, boy.”

“Sorry – it’s so good. Did you grow it too?”

“Yes. And that’s one of my own chickens, too.”

Baby paled.

“Still tastes good, boy. Better, in fact. Not from a factory farm. She had a happy life scratching in my yard,

and a quick chop from my axe.”

Baby still put down his drumstick.

“You’re not going to be a city-ninny, now are you?”

Baby shook his head, but truth be told he felt a bit queasy. Not really about the chicken, but Baby was

scared of a man who slaughtered his own dinner. And who fired a gun at Eldest. And Baby was alone with

him miles from anywhere.

“I don’t even know your name,” he mumbled. Somehow knowing his captor’s name would feel better.

“Well, if you’d been polite on the bus and introduced yourself…”

Baby grimaced and stuck out his hand. “William Buff. My brothers call me Baby, but…”

“But you hate it?”

Baby nodded. “Bill or Billy would be better.”

“Well, Billy, I’m Thomas Roll. Later, you can call me Tom if you’ve pleased me, but tonight I think you’ll

be calling me sir.”

Billy gulped. “Yes, sir.”

126

Tom cleaned up the dinner dishes to Billy’s confusion. He was ‘sir’, but doing the dishes? “You need to save your energy after your hike. You’re going to need it. Besides, I want you to just think about what’s going to happen to you.” Billy bit his lip. Tom was right: watching those hands work played havoc on his imagination. Seeing the muscles shift under the tan skin as Tom set a plate to dry on the drainer was suddenly more terrifying and erotic than late night trick with a stranger. “Come and sit outside while the coffee perks.”

Billy and Tom sat on the back steps and stared out across the dark valley. No city sounds, no light pollution

except what golden light spilled out of Tom’s cottage, no stink of gas and sweat and garbage cans.

Billy shivered as he felt the length of Tom’s hard thigh rest against his, but he shifted his butt so his hip

nestled against Tom’s lean black denim-clad hip.

“It’s so peaceful here. I’m sorry we trespassed.”

Tom laughed. “I’m not – I wouldn’t have my compensation to claim otherwise would I?” He laughed at

Billy’s bitten lip, and added, “You know why I care about trespassers? Because I want my privacy to do

this.”

Billy squeaked as Tom held his wrists hard and tight and kissed him brutally. The kiss lasted so long that

Billy grew dizzy, and was about to struggle when Tom gave a final jab with his tongue and released him.

Billy sat there, breathless and dazed, and didn’t react when Tom got up and went inside. He’d just lost all his

composure. This wasn’t just an adventure.

“Here.” Tom was back with a cup of coffee. Billy took it gratefully and sipped to forestall having to speak.

His chatterbox ways seemed to have been left back in the city. It was enough for the night to be perfect

without Billy having to exclaim over it. And he suddenly doubted every word he could say. Tom was kind,

but Billy suddenly dreaded making Tom laugh for the wrong reasons.

Tom took his cup from him and kissed him again. And again.

“Take your shirt off.”

Billy fumbled his buttons, but didn’t hesitate to obey.

Tom whistled. “Well now, look at those gym muscles. I’ll put them to work tomorrow I think. I’ve some

chores for a boy like you, but tonight…”

Billy squeaked as Tom pinched one nipple and held it perked between his forefinger and thumb. His

untweaked nipple felt the evening breeze all the more. Tom had been subtly increasing the pressure of the

pinch, and Billy finally whimpered as the pleasure crossed into pain.

Tom laughed. “Poor little boy. No one plays with your chest?”

Billy pouted. Then sniffled.

“Oh, now what? What’s making you snivel? Not this little pinch?”

127

Torqued Tales

Billy squirmed under the renewed pressure, but shook his head. “No, sir. I was sad because no one plays with me. I just realized it’s all take... I’m down on my knees for a guy and then he’s moved on before it’s my turn.” “Well, well, well. An inexperienced little slut.”

Billy jerked away. “I’m not a slut.”

“On your knees for someone who moves on?”

“It’s just a bj.”

“Hey, don’t take it so seriously. I’m only teasing. I’m pleased to get this combination. You know how to

give head, but all your reactions are fresh. What more could I want? Little fresh nipples to tease and a mouth

that doesn’t need training. What a deal.”

Billy sighed. Perhaps Tom was just going to use him and send him on his way. He seemed relieved not to

have to spend time training him. Billy squashed the voice in him that had thrilled to the word training, and

he meekly sat back close to Tom so his fingers could continue their torment.

Billy wasn’t naïve or innocent, but he was starting to realize that he was very inexperienced in receiving

pleasure. He’d thought he’d be run ragged trying to please a ‘sir’, but Tom wanted him to lean back and

relax. Tom was doing all the work and Billy was reduced to moans and Jello-legs just from having Tom’s

expert fingers play with his pecs.

And when Tom licked his nipple, Billy all but screamed. Tom sat back and watched Billy’s face as the cool

mountain evening breeze wafted over his wet nubs.

Billy looked at Tom in awe. He’d had more sensations run through him in the last fifteen minutes that in a

whole city weekend. Tom was leaning back against the door frame, a thin amused smile lurking under that

beard. Billy couldn’t ever be sure why he did what he did next, but he slid to his knees and put his head on

Tom’s shoes. He just stayed there, and made no moves.

It felt right.

It felt natural.

Tom ruffled his hair after a few minutes.

“Good boy. Back up and stand in front of me.”

Billy felt shy all over again as Tom took his time looking him up and down.

“How are your feet?”

Billy blinked in surprise, but answered, “Just one blister, thank you, sir.”

Tom laughed. “I knew you’d be okay when I saw your boots. Let me see your feet.”

128

Billy bent and took of his boots and socks, and stood there barefoot in his jeans. He was glad he’d worn long pants and not the skimpy shorts his brothers had. Their inner thighs had chafed against the hems, and their knees had sunburned. And more importantly, he was a fraction less vulnerable to Tom’s scrutiny. But even that minor protection was gone; Tom was commanding his jeans and aussie bums come off too. Billy looked around nervously. “The only people who can possibly see you are your brothers. My nearest neighbors take privacy as seriously as I do.” Billy surprised himself by blushing as he stripped. He folded his jeans neatly and was made ridiculously happy by Tom’s nod of approval. “Living in one room heightens your appreciation of order,” said Tom as he watched Billy shimmy out of his underwear. Billy fought the bashful urge to cup his hands in front of his cock and balls. He knew it would annoy Tom. He paused for a second, then stood, legs apart and hands behind his back. He hung his head. He fought a giggle as the proverbial crickets chirped through the silence. He peeked up. Tom was staring at him and rubbing the front of his black jeans absentmindedly. Billy looked back down. The relentless gaze was too much. Eldest or Middle would have gyrated or flaunted themselves, but he stood still and let Tom take him in. His world crashed. Tom had stood, turned his back, and walked away into the cabin. Billy fought a sob. All those years of being Baby, of being third best, of being the last, and now he’d thought he was getting his reward for being kind and patient, but he was rejected. He lost his battle with the sob. Then over his snort-snuffle he heard running water. He looked up. A hose was poking out of the kitchen window and splashing into an outdoor tub. “Fuck,” thought Billy, “I need to get Baby under control. Tom’s not going to mess with me. And even if he does, well, I’ve only known him a few hours. I can’t be such a ninny. I can’t let him matter so much.” He waited patiently and worked on controlling his breathing while the tub filled. After awhile the water stopped and Tom came out carrying soap, shampoo, and towels. “Get in.” Billy put a cautious toe in. He wasn’t sure whether it would be scalding or freezing. He wouldn’t be surprised at either from Tom. The tepid water made his eyebrows shoot up. Tom laughed. “My water is pumped from the river, boy. It’s usually cold in summer, but just for you, I’ve had the stove heat the water tank. Just enough to take the edge off.” Billy smiled and stepped. It was perfect. The heat of the day lingered enough that he wanted to cool off, but river water would be too cold now the sun had dropped beyond the mountains. Once he was in and lolling around, the water was deliciously cool without being cold. It also allowed the soap to lather better than cold would. Billy soaped himself thoroughly and obediently stuck his foot out when Tom asked to see his blister.

129

Torqued Tales

Tom inspected it, and nodded, but kept his ankle trapped in his grasp. Billy’s balls and cock floated helplessly as Tom held his captured leg high. Billy had to hold to the sides of the tub to prevent himself being pulled under. “Do yourself, boy.”

Billy pouted. “Oh, but I want…”

“You want?” said Tom, his raised eyebrow doing all the work his tone avoided.

Billy bit his lip, and put his hand on his cock. He persevered though. “Yes, I wanted you to touch me.”

Tom grinned, his teeth piratical in the dark. “I will. And did I say I’d let you come? Perhaps I just want to

see your stroke. And perhaps I want you to come now so I can torment you all evening. So I can have you blow me or me fuck you or have you pamper me endlessly without me worrying about whether you spurt or not. I want you spent and focused on me. Or perhaps suffering from needing a second shot.” Billy scowled, but his hand had picked up the pace while Tom spoke. His pretty pale cock was red with need and thrusting up into the mountain air out of the wash tub’s chilly water. His balls bobbed on the surface, dunking under with his motion, but springing back up constantly. “Very cute. Now stop.”

Billy took three strokes to understand and obey, and Tom’s face shadowed deeper with each hand pump.

“Oh dear. Oh Billy.”

Billy pouted.

“You sulk when I tell you to do something, you scowl while you do it, and when I tell you to stop, you

continue. Then you pout when I rebuke you. Oh dear.”

Billy sank low in the tub and cursed himself.

“Out of the water.”

“I need to wash my hair yet.”

“OUT!”

Billy sloshed, and stood dripping beside the tub. Tom sat on the doorstep and beckoned.

“Over my knees.”

Bill balked. He looked around frantically. He scuffed his bare feet in the dirt and got them muddy. Then he

walked over and lay across Tom’s lap.

“Thank you,” said Tom and whapped his ass hard. He wasn’t playful. Or gentle. And Billy’s yells and yelps

echoed around the valley. He could hardly appreciate the firmness of Tom’s thighs, his butt burned so much.

Tom was impervious to his pleas, and kept going until Billy lay still and just whimpered. And finally said,

“Sorry, sir.”

130

“Thank you,” said Tom again. “Now, back in the tub. Your ass will appreciate it, I’m sure, and you can

wash your hair.”

Billy walked back to the tub, cheeks stinging and smarting, and prick waving.

“So pretty,” said Tom.

Billy didn’t even think of being smart-mouthed, but got in, shampooed his hair, and scrubbed his feet, and

didn’t even try to ‘accidentally’ brush his straining cock. He sat still, forlornly, after he was done.

Tom laughed. “Step out a second. boy, and stand on this mat.”

Billy stood there while Tom tossed the water towards the garden.

“Back in … I’ll pour in some clean rinse around you.”

Billy sat in the empty zinc tub feeling cold and stupid, and then a rush of cool water – cool he knew, but

warm compared to the air – gushed over his shoulder from the hose.

“Lie back,” said Tom’s voice from inside.

“Oh,” said Billy. “Oh!”

He lay in perfect water with cool air on his face and the infinite stars above him. No sound except the

crickets, the river, and the tub water splashing in.

The water stopped running, and Tom came back out. He sat behind the tub, and massaged Billy’s shoulders.

Billy thought this might be close to heaven. He drifted until Tom finally chivvied him out of the tub and into

a clean, if rough, towel.

“Let’s keep those tootsies pink.”

Tom swept Billy up into his arms and carried him to the cabin. Billy was impressed. He was the smallest of

the brothers, but he was close to six feet tall and had plenty of muscle. Tom wasn’t at all bothered by his size or weight, and merely turned sideways a little to fit them through the doorway. Billy wanted to stay snuggled in Tom’s arms, but he was already being lowered to the floor. “Well. Now you’re fed, cleaned, and had some of the silly spanked out of you. We can start on your

payment.”

Billy, still in a waist wrapped towel, slid to his knees. It seemed the smart thing to do. Tom laughed.

“Good start, but it won’t be that easy. Take that towel off. You can kneel on it.”

Billy was grateful for the damp terry cloth under his knees. Tom’s cottage was impeccably clean, but bare

boards were still rough on his knees. And, boy, did Tom make him wait! Tom puttered around his cabin

tidying, and doing small chores while Billy knelt naked by the pine table. His stubborn prick still stood out.

Finally Tom came and sat at the table and stretched out his legs so his boot nudged Billy’s hip.

“So, no hesitation this time: do yourself.”

131

Torqued Tales

Billy’s hands flew down and he forgot all technique and just pulled frantically at himself. Terrified Tom would say stop – he knew this time he’d obey even if he were on the very edge of shooting—he kept pounding. “You can come, boy,” said Tom quietly, and to Billy’s surprise he spurted on command. He yelled as his come shot onto the bare boards, and his back bowed as his hips thrust forward. Tom’s hand was on his chest pushing him back down so his thighs screamed and his knees spread. His butt cheeks touched the boards, and his hands left his cock to scrabble for support. Tom laughed. “Put them behind your head. I know your thighs and back don’t like this much, but look how defenseless you are: legs spread, no way to hide those balls or that little hole, just stay like that, little boy. Relax. Let your heels come to the outside of your hips.” Billy tried his best to let his back muscles relax, and as they did the pressure in his thighs let up, even though his knees still bitched at him. His hole was exposed, but his cheeks were also forced into tight bunches. “Good. Let your shoulders touch the ground too. Ah, so pretty.” Billy felt his abs pull and he wondered how he was going to get back up. This would be a hell of a sit up, and his knees felt locked. Tom knelt down beside him. “I like my boys to stay still because they’ve been told to do so, but sometimes I help them stay in place. Do you need help?” He dangled a leather thong in front of Billy. “What if…” “Ah, if you move, I start over.” “Tie me,” said Billy after a second. He didn’t know what Tom was planning, but if he was offering help, Billy wouldn’t be proud. “Smart.” Tom tied Billy’s wrists together with the ease of practice, and then to Billy’s dismay, attached the ends of the thong to Billy’s big toes. Tom just smirked at Billy’s look of outrage. “You don’t get to pick and choose your help, baby.” “Billy.” Tom paused. “Sorry. I just meant it as an affectionate term. I forgot it was what your brothers tormented you with.” Billy was aglow – Tom had used an endearment. He tried to wriggle and discovered just how little liberty he had. Tom laughed at his dismayed face, and reached out to caress Billy’s sticky prick. Billy moaned – he was still over-sensitive from coming, and Tom was merciless. Tom cupped Billy’s balls and patted them up and down as if he were choosing fruit in a store. Tom squeezed, and Billy groaned as Tom’s finger tickled his hole. Tom knelt back and took off his shirt. Billy’s eyes refocused and drank in Tom’s chest. Tanned, hard, with a sprinkle of grey hair trailing from his chest down past his navel and into his jeans. 132

“You said it was black,” gasped out Billy as Tom tormented his balls further. “I said I was piebald. And I said these were black, not my chest.” Tom unzipped and Billy had just enough time to take in that Tom’s pubes were indeed a glossy black before he was deliciously distracted by Tom’s cock. He licked his lips and looked longingly at Tom. He’d love to get fucked by that prick, and by Tom, but not in this position. And having Tom in his mouth was hardly a second best choice. Tom tormented him by tweaking at his nipples, biting at his biceps, rolling and patting his balls, and not letting any other part of himself touch Billy. He sat back and stroked his own cock while he watched Billy writhe. “Well, I don’t have all the toys a city boy like you might have, but a leather thong does just dandy, and this will be a lovely butt plug for you.” Billy felt a wash of humiliation rush over him as Tom hooked a large fat carrot from the veggie bin. A carrot he could handle, but this was fresh from Tom’s veggie patch and still had a positive bouquet of fronds attached. Tom tickled his hole with a little butter to lube him and then tickled him open with the fine point of the carrot. “Oh,” moaned Billy – it was torturously slender at the tip, but he knew he’d be opened wide in no time. Tom started a rock and twist motion and Billy’s hips began to churn. His prick leapt again and his balls felt as tight as if he hadn’t come for weeks. Tom bent in and licked his balls as he worked the root in deeper. Billy gave a shudder and lay very still as he felt the ferns brush his thighs. “Lovely,” said Tom. “Nothing but green showing.” He fluffed the greenery and winked at Billy. “You’re so mean.” “Yes. Yes, I am. I get all my delight from turning trespassers into still lifes.” Billy giggled despite his predicament. The carrot felt so good and every time Tom brushed a frond or tugged a stem it sent quivers through his ass. Tom was still stroking his own hard on and Billy could hardly bear not being able to feel that smooth skin against his lips. “Please,” he said. “Please, sir, let me suck you.” “Later,” said Tom. “Later.” He tweaked a hair from Bill’s balls and then another and watched Billy wince and twitch as he anticipated a third. “This is too easy for you. You need to suffer some before you’re rewarded or forgiven.” Tom got up, and stretched. To Billy’s fury, he moved to other side of the table where Billy could only hear but not see him. He heard Tom pull out a chair, and then sit. He heard pages turning. Damn! He was reading. Billy felt a cramp start in his thigh. He tried to tough it out, but after a few minutes he called for Tom. Tom sighed. “Well, I did say I liked you being inexperienced. Hold still while I cut the thong between your toes and wrists. Your hands stay tied. Ok now, slowly roll over onto your hands and knees. Don’t lose your plug.”

133

Torqued Tales

Billy groaned as the muscles in his cramped thigh moved, then set up a steady twitch. Tom’s strong sinewy hands started working on the stressed flesh. Billy relaxed under Tom’s hands as if he were a tired horse being tended by a groom. Tom soothed and calmed him as if Billy were an animal. “Good boy. Now stay in this pose for a while.” Billy was too tired and zoned to argue that he wanted Tom’s cock – and he realized it was smart not to have protested. Tom would only start over if he did. He had to pass through this before any rewards. He stayed as still as he could even though the fronds were caught in a cross breeze and were making him miserable with sensation. It felt like a long time, but he suspected that Tom only left him that way for quarter of an hour. Long enough for Billy to drift into a light trance despite the constant tickling. He heard Tom moving as though he were a million miles away up with the perfect mountain stars. Billy’s eyes were closed and the first he truly understood what was happening was when he felt the smooth velvet of Tom’s cock against his lips. His mouth opened eagerly. “So you said you do this a lot – I have high expectations.” “I get no complaints,” mumbled Billy taking in another mouthful as he spoke. Then he stayed quiet as he applied his considerable expertise to giving the very best blow job he could. He always worked hard at pleasing whoever was in his mouth, but his pride was on the line here, he was paying off his brothers’ trespasses, and, well, he wanted Tom to get his mind blown. Tom’s strong fingers entwined in Billy’s hair and partially controlled Billy’s motion, but he let Billy work his tongue and set the pace and depth. Billy was hard and dripping himself as he worshipped Tom’s prick, but what stirred Billy more was the play of muscles and tendon under the skin of Tom’s forearms as he held Billy down. “Gonna come, boy.” Tom’s hand shifted to cup the back of Billy’s head and Tom started a back and forth thrust. Billy whimpered a little, but took everything that came at him. He couldn’t lift his bound hands to fend Tom away or he’d have toppled over, besides the inch too far that Tom was going was perfect, except it made him sob, but it was perfect, but he was going to drown in come if Tom shot back there. Oh! God! He had! Billy swallowed and choked and nursed harder at Tom’s cock working to get every bit of come. He didn’t want to waste a drop. Tom was still cradling Billy’s head and had let his cock stay in deep. Billy gave a mew of disappointment as it finally shrank and slid out of his mouth. “Very good. You’ve paid off your first brother’s passage across my land. And you can sleep inside.” Billy felt a wave first of pleasure at the praise, then of dismay at only having paid off Eldest’s debt, and then of irritation – inside? Had Tom been going to make him sleep in the tent? Billy’s dismay didn’t fade when Tom shook his head when Billy held out his wrists to be freed. “No. I don’t want you trying to wander off before you’ve paid me in full.” “I could still leave.” Tom laughed. “Yes, walk naked through the mountains with your wrists bound. I’m sure it’ll be your brothers that you find first. And of course they’ll be kind about it.” Imagining his brothers’ reaction persuaded Billy more than anything so he hung his head meekly when Tom pointed to the bunk. 134

“Will you take out the carrot for me? I can’t reach with my hands tied.”

“No. That stays overnight too.”

“But it’ll tickle you in bed,” offered Billy slyly.

“Will it now? You, young man, just bought yourself a naughty boy bed on the floor.” Tom tossed a few

cushions to the side of the bed and pointed. “You sleep there. I’ll enjoy my nice spacious, non-ferny bed.”

Billy thought about stamping his feet, but instead he curled up sadly on his pillows, squirmed his ass around

to get the carrot comfortable, and then wrestled with his own ribs and elbows to get his bound wrists

positioned.

“Good night, sir,” he tried timidly.

“Good night, Billy. Sleep well.”

And, much to his surprise, he did. He didn’t wake up until Tom wafted some coffee steam towards him.

“Hey there, sleepy head. It’s well past daybreak.”

Billy groaned. Yesterday he had indeed awakened with the birds, but in town he usually woke around

eleven. He suspected Tom got up at six or seven or something else approximating the middle of the Buff boys’ night. He took the offered mug in his still bound hands and tried hard to smile. It was hard to be a morning person when you had to crouch to avoid a carrot poking you too hard. Tom was watching him closely and clearly enjoying his predicament so Billy resolved not to complain. “Well now. You have a morning of chores before the sun gets too high. That’ll cover your keep. Then we’ll

see about working off your second brother’s debt.”

“Sir? What about my brothers?”

“If you’re good we’ll look for them after lunch. Even they can survive that long. It’s summertime after all.”

Billy was so glad to be untied and un-carroted that he cheerily chopped wood and weeded the vegetable plot

all morning. Tom was around but they didn’t talk. It was relaxing to look over and see Tom poking around

under the hood of his pick-em-up.

When the sun was high, Tom took off his hat, picked some fruit and tomatoes into it, and beckoned Billy

down to the river.

“I like a skinny dip after chores – join me.”

Billy stripped off without being told twice and splashed into the river.

“Fuck! It’s cold.”

“Well duh, boy, it’s a mountain stream. Don’t worry – I’ve already seen you – shrinkage won’t change my

opinion.”

135

Torqued Tales

Billy snorted as he realized his tender parts had indeed tried to make themselves as small as possible, but he splashed around merrily and dunked his head under the water. It was the clearest water he’d ever encountered. He could see every pebble on the bottom, and even some fish darting away. “Fish!” he said when he surfaced. “Do you catch them too, sir?” “Yes indeed, I do. I like to sit on my bridge in the evening and see what I can catch. Of course, sometimes

my catch goes over, not under.”

“Sorry sir,” said Billy.

Tom laughed. “Ah, you’re a good catch boy. No need to throw you back in.”

Billy pondered the implication for a minute. “Sir? Did my brothers really say you could have me?”

“Indeed they did. They both promised me that the next person over the bridge would be cuter, younger, and

buffer than they were. And that I could do what I wanted with them.”

Billy was torn between delight that his brothers had finally said something flattering, and rage that they once

again dumped their obligations on him.

Tom caught his wrist and pulled him close. “And they were right. You are cuter, younger, and buffer. And I

can do what I want with you, can’t I?”

“Yes sir.”

“And Billy – I let them go – I didn’t want them. I planned on only scaring you as well, but when I saw you –

I wanted you after all.”

Billy gulped. “That’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.”

“Poor boy! Oh, hey, don’t get all teary on me. Come on out before your balls go blue and fall off. We’ll

rinse off the fruit and have a picnic while we dry off.”

Naked, Billy and Tom lolled around on the bank eating fruit that was still sun warm, but beaded with cold

mountain water.

“Second debt,” said Tom just as Billy started to doze in the sunshine. He reached to his folded pants and

fished out some lube. “I’m not in the mood for foreplay, so hands and knees and spread ‘em.”

Shocked at the shift in mood, Billy obeyed and decided to be grateful that at least Tom had lube. And he did

want to get fucked by Tom. Very, very much.

“My privacy,” said Tom shoving a greased finger into Billy’s ass and thrusting for a moment, “is my most

cherished thing. I take its loss very seriously.”

Billy wanted to buck his ass already - even Tom’s finger was driving him wild.

“Your brothers took it from me. So I need to reclaim my feeling of security on my own property. I’m going

to fuck you until you bellow. And I’m going to fuck you out here in the open in my own damn valley.”

“Yes sir. God sir, please don’t tease. I need your cock.”

136

“Need it do you? Not just want it?” “Need it,” repeated Billy and wailed as Tom’s finger left his hole and was instantly replaced by that beautiful thick head probing and bumping at him. Tom found his angle, and slid right in, all the way to the hilt without a moment of consideration for Billy. Billy pumped his ass in response – he loved getting fucked and it didn’t happen often enough. How had he been reduced to just giving bjs and never getting blown or fucked himself? “Don’t listen to your brothers,” said Tom doing his seemingly psychic thing again. “They’ve got you convinced that you’re their pale copy. You, boy, are the real Buff version - they were the trial and error versions.” Billy’s laugh turned to a shout as Tom began to thrust. He stopped thinking about his brothers, about anything at all except pleasing the prick inside him. On and on went Tom. He was a slow shot and Billy had passed from delight to a dazed, exhausted waking dream as Tom pounded and finally spurted deep inside him. Tom reached around and gave Billy’s bursting cock a quick rub – that was all it took and Billy bucked and yelled so the mountain echoed. They fell sideways together, and Billy slept in Tom’s arms with his cock still firmly lodged in his ass. “Psst! Hey! Wake up!” Billy opened his eyes. He was still held by Tom. He could hear footsteps on the bridge. He looked up cautiously. “Hey, Baby! Come on – you can get away while he’s asleep. We didn’t really think you’d have to sleep with that old troll. We’re sorry. You can ride home in Middle’s mini instead of taking the bus to make up for it!” Billy scowled at Eldest who was hanging over the bridge railing and beckoning him. He shook his head. “Oh don’t be like that, Baby! Come on - Middle’s found where the old goat keeps his truck key. We can ride down the mountain.” Well! thought Billy. The fucking nerve. My brothers are thieves as well as trespassers. He thought for only a second, and said. “Okay, bro. You go and join Middle. I’ll be along in a minute. The truck’s behind the cabin. Get out of sight in case he wakes up when I move. ” “Ooooh. Good point. ‘Kay. See you in a few.” Billy glared at Eldest’s back as he ran off the bridge. He waited a moment, and then rolled over. “Sir? We have trespassers again, sir!” “I know. I was already awake and wondering what you’d do.” Billy gulped. “Oh, sir! My brothers are so awful! I’m so sorry about them.” Tom squeezed him tight. “Get dressed, and we’ll go back and get my shotgun. Let’s give your brothers a fright and then I’ll make sure they get off and stay off my property.”

137

Torqued Tales

Billy could hear Middle and Eldest bickering in the truck. Its engine was already running. He just knew they’d be expecting him to ride in the bed. He and Tom came in through the back door of the house, Tom picked up his gun, nodded at Billy, and stepped out of the front door. Billy heard Eldest shriek and Middle swear loudly. Then he laughed because they both hollered: “Baby! Help! Rescue us!” He stepped out of the doorway, and saw Tom pointing his gun at his hysterical brothers. Billy had hung back to get the leather thongs Tom had asked for. They shrieked at him for help when they saw Billy crossing the yard. “Have them get out,” said Tom quietly, and Billy was surprised when, for the first time in his memory, his brothers did as he asked without backtalk. “Tie their wrists. Then tie them to each other.” Billy wished he had a camera. Middle and Eldest were cartoonishly horrified when their baby brother choose to side with ‘an awful old troll’ and trussed them up good and tight. A few well-chosen curses and gun barrel jerks from Tom persuaded them that they could indeed scramble into the bed of the pick-em-up. Billy felt sorry for them when they huddled together in the corner and looked at him imploringly. “Sir? They do look a bit worse for wear.” Tom gave them a cursory inspection. “Just some scratches and bruises – oh, and some poison ivy topped off with sunburn. Nothing a shower, a drug store visit, and a good sleep won’t fix. We’ll turn ‘em loose a mile from the edge of town. They’ll be fine.” Tom said this in a low voice so only Billy could hear. “Just them, sir?” said Billy equally quietly. “What about me?” Tom grinned wickedly. “Ah, little one. You have your own trespass debt to pay – plus we had two more intrusions today for you to work off.” Billy bit his lip to hide a puppy-happy grin. He hoped Tom’s valley wasn’t as private as it seemed – he was looking forward to working off a lot more tolls.

138

Godw yn of C oventry By Renée Manley Book the First In which the principal actors of this drama are identified, allowing the humble town of Coventry a most colorful background. Chetwyn, in the house of God, was never in want of comfort. Before him stood the priest, at his right bowed his wife, at his left prayed his children, and around him God spread wide His arms, enclosing the congregation with His mercy, love, and bounty. All misery and sin were left at the church door, and nothing but purity and goodness awaited everyone within the tall, gray stone walls. People always took Chetwyn—that popular, well-loved potter of Coventry—for a saint. He was a frequent churchgoer. He was also a most devoted husband and loving father as well as a generous and fair tradesman. He was modest about his skills in pottery, and he often asked for less than people expected when plying his wares. In truth, he couldn’t expect much more, given the burden of taxes under which the people of Coventry suffered. Chetwyn spent his time in church lost in fervent prayer of thanks for the bounty of what little he had, knowing God loved him. Everything changed when Lorineus began to appear in church with a new companion, and Chetwyn, poor man, fell hard from grace. Who would have known (save the devil, perhaps) that this virtuous man was harboring a bit of a secret about himself, one to which he’d sooner not give in if he could help it. “I’m so weak,” he murmured helplessly, hands wringing. Those who managed to hear him extolled him in their minds. What a humble creature, they thought. *** The folk of Coventry believed that evil would never be allowed past the church doors. Lightning would strike it down even before any of its wicked essence could stain a house of worship with a step across the threshold. Surely, they’d argued, heavenly wrath would never be held back, especially where a repeat offender was concerned. It was a belief that couldn’t be sustained in the presence of Talon—notorious lecher, drunkard, gambler, and wealthy cloth merchant. How he’d managed to slink into church, find his place among his virtuous brethren, without fire from heaven striking him down, no one could understand. “The devil has found a way to set his worst disciple among us,” some grumbled, eyeing Talon with badly concealed horror. Before the priest he’d stand with the others—sometimes dizzy from drink, sometimes barely awake and exhibiting signs of the previous night’s debauchery, rarely sober and well-dressed. There was one time when the man toppled over in a faint, having gone through more than twenty-four hours without sleep, his body sustained by nothing more than a few slices of bread nibbled off a serving-girl’s breasts and wine drunk from a goblet held between the same girl’s naked thighs. The stories he’d tell!

139

Torqued Tales

Then one day, Talon espied Lorineus with his new companion, and he sinned ten times more within church than without. Were God to speak that moment, He surely would have dismissed the man with a dull “A hopeless case. I’ve better uses for my time.” *** Lorineus was the dreaded lord of the land—the man who could crush all of Coventry with a mere word, which was, in this instance, taxes. It was for the people’s good, he’d claimed, that his protection be purchased so dearly. His influence, his political allies, his vast stores of wealth—in peace and in war, all would serve their purpose, so long as they were properly funded. “But we’ve nothing to give!” supplicants cried, wringing their hands as they knelt before him. They tended to bother him in groups both big and small, and though he was obliged (as the dread Earl) to listen to their pleas and tearful requests, he remained unmoved and had the confounded peasants booted out. “What on earth do these people expect?” he’d ask, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Everything they hope from their protectors comes at a price.” Convinced of his superiority, Lorineus carried on with his pleasures, which were varied and, by those standards, dangerously exotic. It was at one of his banquets when a distant cousin introduced him to a young man, and the great Earl, so lately untouchable and feared, was conquered by a quiet smile, a leafy green gaze, and a head of loose golden curls. And those lamented taxes found yet another use: princely sums that would be spent on a new lover. Lorineus, however, preferred not to say anything about it, given his beloved’s nature. Hell would have no fury, indeed, than a virtuous man’s indignation. *** He was blessed with beauty and generosity, a thoughtful disposition and the prettiest posterior. Though he might be born into a noble line, he remained unspoiled by wealth and power, often throwing Lorineus into fits of horror with all his acts of charity. “What have you done?” the older man would cry, his hands fisting his hair on each side of his head. “That bauble was worth a dozen good horses!” Godwyn would regard his lover with patience and calm—even faint bewilderment. “I know,” he’d reply with that infuriating matter-of-fact tone he’d always take when justifying his conduct. “That poor family needs a dozen good horses’ worth of medicine for their sickly children.” Providing him with gifts was a sore lesson on the transience of pleasure, for those same gifts always found their way to a peasant’s hands in hopes for more bread and security from poverty, even if only for a mere day. In time, Lorineus was forced to exercise prudence in his gift-giving. Godwyn’s power over him was such that any perceived misbehavior, misjudgments, or miscalculations would be forgotten quite easily without much effort on his part. Godwyn, beloved of God, would simply undress himself and stretch out on plump pillows, a little smile curling his lips, and all sins were suddenly forgotten. In church, Godwyn was perhaps the only person standing before heaven who was lost in prayers, for everyone else had their eyes on him for different reasons, his pretty posterior being one of them.

140

Book the Second Fortune turns capricious, and the virtuous Godwyn rises to the occasion, much to Lorineus’s chagrin. A small gang of youths thought it a very clever thing to honor the marketplace with their drunken presence. Most of them on foot, a couple on horseback, together they ran about the market in a frenzy, taunting merchants, upsetting their carts, and generally giving the sheriff’s men a jolly time of things. Poor Chetwyn saw many of his pots smashed to bits after being called ugly and dull. He sifted through the wreckage, in tears at the thought of his family going hungry that day. “Good man, have you anything else to sell?” a gentle voice asked, and Chetwyn glanced up to find Godwyn standing nearby, his young page gaping at the mess and scratching his head. “Not very many.” Admiration softened Chetwyn’s anguish (which was, in turn, softened by guilt over the softening of his anguish; surely, his poor wife deserved more from him!). “Most of what I’d hoped to sell are gone.” Godwyn knelt down. To Chetwyn’s amazement, the young man proceeded to help him gather his damaged wares, even taking the trouble of asking him questions about his craft and his creations with sincere interest that threw Chetwyn into a state of flattered confusion. Once the broken pots were disposed of, Godwyn pulled out a small velvet bag and gave it to the poor potter. “For your family,” he said, and Chetwyn, overcome, took Godwyn’s hand and kissed it, though he’d hoped to aim much higher than that, his eyes lingering on Godwyn’s shapely mouth instead. *** Talon walked through the devastated marketplace, bemused and thanking God that he didn’t need a confounded stall from which to vend his wares. Such was life, he sniffed, with some meant to live well and above the misery of his neighbors, and he was fortunate to own a real business with its own shop. He greeted several people he knew with feigned expressions of sympathy, shaking his head to emphasize his make-believe generosity. He turned into one of the side lanes and found himself near the potter’s stall. Talon stopped dead in his tracks and stared. Before him, amid the sad wreckage of his famous pottery, Chetwyn stood with Godwyn, pressing a kiss against the young man’s hand with a fervency that certainly left very little to one’s imagination though Godwyn certain didn’t seem to be aware of it. “Damn him,” Talon hiccoughed, astonished, “that man’s bold! What charming liberties he’s taking, and I’m sure Lorineus would love to hear of them!” It was, really, a roundabout way of saying “What on earth is that exquisite creature doing, soiling himself with a measly potter, when I’m closer his equal and better equipped to satisfy him?” His eyes narrowed as he followed Godwyn around, watching him aid unfortunate merchants in a variety of ways, while his young attendant ran to and fro, red-faced and panting, desperate to keep up with his master’s orders. Talon smiled to himself. Surely Lorineus wouldn’t object to his inviting Godwyn to a hunt or to fishing. ***

141

Torqued Tales

Lorineus glowered from across the dinner-table later that evening. “How much did you give away in this recent rush of charity?” “I can’t say,” Godwyn replied in his usual open way as he cut into the potatoes. “When faced with what I saw today, Lorineus, one doesn’t stop to think.” “Yes, apparently!” Godwyn remained unperturbed and regarded him steadily. “You should have been there. Those poor wretches—I can’t get myself to eat what’s in front of me right now, knowing that nearly all of them will go to bed hungry tonight.” “Considering your—unequalled—generosity today, I would doubt that highly,” Lorineus said, fighting for control. Surely, he thought, he’d never met a man half so exasperating in his life. He mulled things over through the rest of the meal, finally deciding to raise taxes further for the people of Coventry. What could be more logical? It would mean better protection against drunken thugs with the sheriff’s men better equipped and properly compensated. Damn those peasants, he groused as he chewed his food in dour silence. For all their wailing and pleading, they were giving themselves those burdensome taxes, considering the brutish things they inflicted on each other. “And they call me heartless!” he grumbled as he tore into his meat, his anger wavering as it always did when his gaze rested on Godwyn’s lips. Normally delectable on their own, a sheen of grease now enhanced them, and, by God, Lorineus loved how they shimmered in the candle’s light. *** Godwyn might love the people of Coventry, but he loved forgiveness even more. For all his unsurpassed virtue, he was still a man, after all. That evening, he was forgiven with his naked body gleaming with sweat, his kiss-marked face pressing against pillows as Lorineus demonstrated his appreciation for pretty posteriors by holding Godwyn’s hips up and thrusting three well-oiled fingers into his hole. Godwyn moaned as he moved against his lover’s fingers, pleasure and pain weaving themselves in tight strands. His cock was thick and hard, a velvet ribbon wrapped around it, for Lorineus adored Godwyn’s prick and always thought to embellish it whenever he felt the need for a playful handling of his lover. The ribbon’s softness and ticklish rubbing against heated, excited flesh as Godwyn’s body moved continued to feed the fires, and he ached for release. “Your hand,” Godwyn stammered, and those fingers were pulled out. His body trembled in anticipation as he listened to Lorineus pouring oil over his hand again. Then came the firm nudge against his hole, and he relaxed. Fingers pushed past the tight ring of muscle, drawing a low groan from him. The pressure deepened, intensified, swirled high into familiar pain as knuckles followed fingers, burrowing, burrowing, till that tight ring of muscle encircled Lorineus’ wrist. Power, security, trust, and ownership—all commingled in an unending thread of lust and love. Godwyn writhed around his lover’s fist, body shuddering as he came in long, hot spurts, plump pillows muffling his cries.

142

Book the Third In which a great truth is given more substantive proof:

virtue, though its own reward, is also greatly rewarded in the most unexpected ways.

Chetwyn, good man, saw his children to bed. They were adequately fed, thanks to Godwyn’s remarkable generosity, and the potter even had some money left. He swore to return it, though he expected his benefactor to argue with him and insist that he keep it. All the same, he’d try to see Godwyn and thank him humbly. His wife also fast asleep, Chetwyn took to the privacy of his tiny workshop, which stood a bit of a distance from his house. And there, amid pots, dust, weathered pails, and other familiar accoutrements of his craft, he sat and indulged himself with fantasies of Godwyn and the hundred and one different ways Chetwyn would demonstrate his secret and guilt-ridden worship of the man. He held his swollen prick in his hand as he imagined Godwyn lying face up on a bed, his head hanging down off the side, his mouth filled with Chetwyn’s length while he stroked his own erection to the rhythm of Chetwyn’s furious thrusts. The potter would watch his prick move silkily in and out of Godwyn’s mouth, the young man’s position allowing a deeper and more thorough tunneling. That white throat would move as it was forced open, sounds of pleasure muffled, for Chetwyn would be too deep inside Godwyn’s throat to allow proper release. Chetwyn bit back a groan as his strokes grew faster, the vision of Godwyn held fast by his cock, muffled and made helpless, tore fire out of his body, and he came. *** Talon was drunk as always. He was also with a whore as always. That evening’s debauchery, however, was blessed with a different and refreshing turn. The whore he chose had hair similar to Godwyn’s, and with her lying face down and silent (for she’d been ordered not to breathe a single word), Talon was allowed all sorts of freedom in his own imaginings, and he fancied himself in bed with Lorineus’ lover. Though the point of entry was quite different, it was close enough to where Talon fantasized burying himself in Godwyn’s body. His hiccuping weight stretched out above the prone body he was furiously pressing against the bed, he moved his hips with relentless force, relishing the feel of Godwyn’s velvety heat welcoming every inch of his length (which he’d always thought to be quite impressive). That pretty posterior was his, he told himself again and again, and, by God, he’d show that overly virtuous youth a thing or two about being human. He kissed a pale neck damp with sweat, ran his tongue over the curve of a naked shoulder. Yes, Godwyn would taste utterly wonderful, his not-quite-virginal yielding a delightful match for Talon’s appetite and needs. Talon cursed and groaned, kissed and bit, as he imagined all the different places all over Coventry he could take Godwyn, beloved of God, and bugger him senseless. He thought he heard Godwyn whimper, “Yes, yes…God, yes…” through kiss-swollen lips, and Talon came with a drunken roar, half-frightening his hired bedmate. ***

143

Torqued Tales

In his dream, Lorineus was in agony, which was a fairly common occurrence. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could take any more of those before he’d be driven mad by something that was strictly in his mind. For that evening, he found himself at the market, lost in a sea of devastation. He walked amid piles of destroyed wares and upturned carts and tables, his ears filled with a cacophony of voices raised in dismay. He blinked. Suddenly Godwyn was walking several paces ahead, moving from one distraught merchant to another. Lorineus watched as his lover offered comfort as well as coins. Godwyn was painfully generous with his gifts, and he ran out even before he reached the middle of the market. Lorineus thought that it would be the end, but he found himself corrected when Godwyn, short of money, began to shed his clothes, piece by piece, to give people. “Here,” he was overheard as saying. “Sell this, and buy your family supper tonight.” Little by little, he stripped naked, and once his clothes were all gone, Godwyn offered alternative methods of solace for the stricken merchants. Lorineus watched, stunned, as his lover was taken by just about every man who’d lost something, and Godwyn submitted to their lust readily. He was on his back. On his knees. On all fours. He left every beneficiary smiling his most beatific, beautiful body surprisingly unmarked. Lorineus groaned, his face buried in his hands as he ignored his own hardness. *** Godwyn crept out of the bedroom and paced up and down the lavish gardens as he brooded. Surely Lorineus didn’t mean anything when he let slip a plan for another tax he was going to impose on Coventry. What could he possibly gain from forcing more money out of poor, honest people? Nothing, surely! They weren’t at war. The sheriff and his men looked properly compensated. Lorineus lived in palatial grandeur. No one in the household was hungry, and no one was dressed poorly. In truth, most of the servants lived far better than many of the people outside. Godwyn scowled at the night sky. “What’s the use of going to church when one won’t live as taught?” he sighed. He eventually returned to bed, but he could barely sleep, his anxiety forcing his mind to race in spite of his exhausted state (for Lorineus demanded quite a bit from him that night). In a fit of mild rebellion, for he loved Lorineus in spite of the man’s callousness, he ignored Lorineus’ all-too-obvious erection as it poked Godwyn’s hip when the sleeping man turned and instinctively pulled his lover close. Godwyn stared at the darkened ceiling as he listened to his bedfellow’s light breathing. He decided to go out the following morning and to check the market, see how those poor merchants fared with their losses. “Perhaps I can convince him when I return,” he muttered into the night. “Surely he wouldn’t be that cruel.” Lorineus shifted, erection hot, demanding.

144

Book the Fourth Tragic events bear down on the poor people of Coventry.

Godwyn intervenes, and Lorineus resorts to drastic measures.

Chetwyn had only a few of his wares to sell, for replenishing his inventory was always slow-going, the poor potter not having enough materials to begin with. Money naturally went to his family’s day-to-day subsistence, which left not much for his occupation, and the recent disaster at the marketplace only served to worsen his situation. “I can spend a few hours washing,” his wife, Maitane, offered one morning. “It might not earn me much, but it will help.” “I can’t expect you to break your back that way. The children…” “The children will be with me, of course. I won’t be going anywhere. If anyone needs something cleaned, he can come here.” Maitane smiled her most charming, and Chetwyn’s heart broke, but what could he do? Subsisting on his earnings, which were pitiful already, was proving to be more and more difficult. He’d gone to bed hungry more times than he cared to admit, having given his meal over to his family during those days when the market wasn’t very promising, and he’d sold far less than he ought to for a decent day’s meals. Then earlier that day, a heavier tax was demanded from the folks of Coventry. They were all warned, and they’d done what they could to persuade Lorineus of their current hardships. Tears, pleas, sick and starving children being paraded before him, threats of a riot—nothing moved the man, and everyone returned home, heartsick. Tearfully, Chetwyn held his wife’s hands and gave his reluctant approval. *** Talon drank away his annoyance over the new taxes. Damn that boy-lusting, money-grubbing, powerhungry Earl, he coughed into his tankard. What did he expect to do with more money earned by people who, unlike him, actually soiled their hands and broke their backs working for what they had? Blast those useless aristocrats. Talon might be far wealthier than the majority of Coventry’s people, but he still stood to lose so much with this new burden. What about his needs, by God? A man most certainly couldn’t live on bread alone! What was bread to him, anyway, but something in loaf form that one ate on the side? No, no, no! His needs— which were more than deserved, he quickly amended—included meat and drink and whores and a good stallion or two. With the new taxes, he’d have to give up one of them—a demeaning prospect and one on which he didn’t care to dwell. He staggered off and crumpled onto his bed—vaguely surprising himself with the fact that he actually reached the confounded thing while drunk. “I shall have to raise my prices,” he gurgled at no one. “That would be the only way for me to recover my losses.” He didn’t consider whether or not anyone would be able to afford his offerings, for everyone, high and low, were now burdened with the Earl’s new demands. He didn’t notice his servant standing, bored, nearby. “I suppose I ought to find you a girl,” the man said.

145

Torqued Tales

***

“It’s for their own good, Godwyn, that they pay these taxes,” Lorineus said wearily as he walked through the hallways, intent on escaping his outraged and persistent lover. “You’ve seen what happened at the market— all that damage caused by their own. These people need protection from themselves.” “I don’t understand how you can put those poor, honest folks and those idle ruffians together as though they had anything in common!” Godwyn protested. He matched Lorineus’ pace and refused to leave the man alone, staying close at Lorineus’ heels as they moved through hallways and rooms in a desperate, directionless way. “I don’t understand why you’d be so attached to these people, considering you’re high-born and not of this town.” “What, do I need to be? Have you seen them, Lorineus? Your own people?” “I see them every day, God help me,” Lorineus sighed, shaking his head. “They pester me with their requests and their bargaining and promises…” “You know very well what I mean!” They reached the garden by now, and Lorineus took note of the lushness that surrounded him. He paused in his tracks, and so did Godwyn, his mind turning things over as he sought to find a way of making his lover stop his incessant chatter. He loved the man more than his life, but he had his limits, and by God, his patience was fast wearing thin. He grinned when an idea struck—an idea that promised silence on Godwyn’s part over those infernal people. *** Godwyn looked pale as he watched the herald ride forth as ordered. The town of Coventry needed to be warned, he knew, if they wished to be freed from their ever-worsening burden. No one should be abroad from that moment on till the noon hour. No one should look in the direction of the street at any time. All should remain within closed doors. All should keep their windows shut against the world. If they wished themselves to be free of these new taxes, they should allow Godwyn what little dignity he had left as he rode through Coventry’s streets on his favorite horse, naked. His fingers were cold as they unclasped and untied, his clothes falling off his body in pieces, while a servant helped him undress. “If you love these people that much, ride through town naked,” Lorineus had said with a triumphant smirk. “Then I’ll grant your request.” Godwyn stood in stunned silence at what he’d heard, disbelief clouding his mind till he realized that Lorineus aimed to silence him on the matter forever, for the man thought that Godwyn would rather be hanged than subject himself to such a humiliating display. That was only a moment, however, and it was soon clear that Lorineus had greatly underestimated his lover’s determination to see justice served. Godwyn’s white horse was brought out, and by the time the herald returned and Coventry was given sufficient time to vanish within doors, Godwyn emerged naked, shivering in the sun but unbowed. 146

Book the Fifth Virtue makes its ultimate sacrifice with

a variety of unsurprising results.

Good triumphs, wickedness is punished, and a legend is created.

Chetwyn’s family, like the simple folk they were, gathered around in a circle to pray for their deliverer. As commanded, their doors and their windows were shut, and they remained inside, waiting for the noon hour to strike. Their cottage was bare and bleak, and closed against the world, it felt as though night had descended upon them. “We ought to pray for him,” Maitane suggested and added, “though I’m not quite sure about the methods he chooses to help us.” She flashed her husband a bewildered smile. “One shouldn’t question the grace of heaven,” Chetwyn said, his cock stirring. Grace of heaven, indeed. What torture it was to know what was happening outside and not be at liberty to enjoy it! He gathered his children and asked his wife to lead the prayers while he took his place in the back (he always prayed beside his wife, but his erection required a change). Within minutes the family was lost in prayer, and Chetwyn was lost in his own imaginings, biting back a groan of pleasure at the delightful image of Godwyn riding through the streets, beautiful, naked, and so, so vulnerable. For once, Chetwyn despised the sun, for it was the only thing that enjoyed the moment. Its rays most likely spilled over firm muscle and skin, that head of loose golden curls, those nipples (which were hardened by exposure to the morning air), those round buttocks, shapely back, and that lovely prick. God, life was too damned unfair. *** Talon loved life. Upon hearing the herald and what was about to happen, he could barely believe his ears. “What luck!” he cried, wide-eyed. Yes, what luck, indeed—to have Godwyn riding through town, stark naked—how many times did a man enjoy such a stroke of fortune in his lifetime? Quickly Talon set about to find the best place in his house for his entertainment. He settled onto a room on the ground floor, naturally, for it was edged with flowering shrubs and was closest to the street. Seeing Godwyn in his full glory from that vantage point was what dreams were made of, and he proceeded to work the shutters to as to be able to see through a large enough gap between them. “Fetch me more wine!” he called out happily, and a good deal more wine was brought to him. Ah, yes, he thought with a delirious little laugh. This would be the best thing he could expect short of bedding Godwyn. His mind ran through all sorts of visions of the young man as he hoped Godwyn would appear—naked and oiled, perhaps bound by his wrists. True, he’d rather be riding astride the horse with a naked Godwyn sitting before him, fixed against his body with Talon’s cock deep inside Godwyn’s backside. Within moments, Talon heard the soft clopping of a horse’s hooves. He quickly leaned forward and peered through the shutters, dizzy with wine and lust. Then a bee flew through the gap. ***

147

Torqued Tales

Lorineus shut himself away in the bedroom, half-mad from jealousy, half-mad from excitement. This was something he didn’t expect—not in a thousand years. He thought that Godwyn would concede and finally bow to his will. He thought that things were finally, irrevocably settled. He was mistaken. Now his lover was somewhere in Coventry, riding alone and exposed, that body Lorineus had worshipped and ravished in so many different ways leaving nothing to anyone’s imagination. Lorineus lay in bed, his clothes half-torn from his body as he stroked himself in time with Godwyn’s unexpected—and most delightful—morning ride. He despised everything to which Godwyn exposed himself. Anything that was now beholding his lover, regardless of its inanimate state, earned his loathing and deepest hate. Only he was entitled to such a view, he roared in his mind. At the same time, what a delicious, perverted turn this had taken. What a wonderful boost for his pride, indeed, to have his lover so exposed, declaring without speaking a single word, “I’m with Lorineus. What you see, only he can enjoy.” “Oh, yes,” Lorineus groaned as his strokes quickened. The sun was now being acquainted with every inch of Godwyn’s body. The warmth, the pliancy, the scent, not just of any man’s body, but Godwyn’s—what a feast the sun enjoyed as its rays cloaked him from head to foot, warm fingers trailing over planes, bulges, and dips. Lorineus hoped that the ride through town wouldn’t take his Godwyn too long. *** There were celebrations throughout Coventry. The taxes were repealed, for Lorineus, in spite of his faults, always honored his promises. Godwyn survived his ride through town and had returned blushing, lightly sunburnt, yet triumphant and was met with zealous kisses and embraces from his lover. “You humbled me,” Lorineus declared. Some in the household didn’t believe him. Godwyn ventured out a few days afterwards (properly dressed) to see how people fared. The market bustled as it always did, and the merchants sold their wares with greater confidence. When Godwyn passed, they bowed before him in thanks, and none spoke of the irregular method with which he’d saved them from starvation. The Earl’s harshness had been overcome, and that was that. Perhaps the only man who said nothing was Talon, but then again, the cloth merchant was at home, nursing an injury to his eye. “Blinded by a bee,” Talon’s servant told Godwyn. “The flowers outside our windows are swarming with those things.” “I’m sorry.” “I’m not.” The potter and his wife expressed their gratitude with a gift—a goblet specially designed for Godwyn and made with the utmost care.

148

“It’s the least we can do,” Maitane said as she gave it to him. “Truly, my husband was like a man transformed that day. I can only think that Chetwyn was touched by angels.” She paused, glancing at her husband, who coughed violently nearby. Then she added, “He’s a very devout man, as you know.” Godwyn smiled. “I’m glad he is.”

149

Torqued Tales

The T hre e Little Twinks By Vic Winte r They call me Wolf. Yeah, as in the big bad. It's the predator thing; the hunting and stalking and pouncing on my prey thing, rather than a hairy or toothy thing. Not that I don't have hair because I do - dark brown, down to my shoulder blades. I couldn't carry off the bald thing. And I have teeth, the standard number, good and sharp, and I know when to use them and when to keep them to myself. But they call me Wolf because I hunt for partners. Like the three little twinks. But I'm getting ahead of myself because it all started with just the one little twink at the Straw Barn. The Straw Barn is a dance club cum pick up joint. And I like it because I get to show off my dancing skills, and then I get to show off my other skills. I was looking good that day: tight jeans that hugged my legs, my ass, and showed my package off to great advantage, and a tighter t-shirt that left none of my cut upper body to the imagination, along with a pair of stompy work boots. I was in full on stud mode - the big bad Wolf coming to blow you down. I looked good and I knew it. It’s part of my charm. So I’m at the Straw Barn, dancing up a storm and getting noticed. I like being noticed. It’s why I work out, why I wear the tight clothes. Why I hang out at places with a well-lit dance floor and a well-unlit back room. I’ll dance with anyone, and I do. I love the way the music thumps up from the floor and through my boots into my body. I love the way I feel, moving to it, hips sliding, torso twisting. I love the way everyone on the dance floor is moving to the same beat. You don’t even have to be touching anyone to feel connected, to feel that you’re a part of something more. Sometimes I’ll dance with guys who are bigger than me – more built or taller, sometimes both – but I don’t leave the floor with them, they aren’t to my taste. I like the slender, pretty ones. The twinks who want nothing more than to rub up against me, the ones who have to roll their heads back and expose the delicate, fragile skin of their necks in order to look at me. Pretty and sweet, they taste divine. Okay, I’m getting hard just thinking about it and I’m home alone just at the moment, so back to the story. So there I was, dancing up a storm with whoever wanted to rub and bump and grind with me, when I saw him. The prettiest guy I’d seen in a long time. He had red hair that curled in a riot around his face like a crazy frame, and big green eyes and about five million freckles on his cheeks. It made me want to see if he

150

was freckled all over and if he was, I wanted to count them. And double check to make sure my count was right. He was standing at the bar, swaying and watching the dancers, that look on his face that said he wanted to be a part of the crowd out there moving, but he didn’t have the courage to just walk on out and do his thing without a partner. Well, I couldn’t just leave him standing there nursing his beer, now, could I? Of course not. So I went on over, boogying the whole way, and I didn’t say anything, not one word. I just looked him up and down, smiled and held out my hand. He looked me up and down in return, and his eyes went really wide and he put down his beer and wiped his hands on his jeans before putting one in mine. Oh yeah. Back out to the dance floor we went. He wasn’t tiny or anything, just slender and smooth, and yeah, freckled, and he could move. He might have been too shy to come out onto the dance floor by himself, but he could move. He had a natural grace that almost made me feel big and clumsy. Almost. Every now and then he’d slide his hand over my pecs, admiration obvious in his eyes. We danced through a half dozen songs before the music slowed and I pulled him in close, tucked him right in next to my body. We fit well together and I could feel his erection against my thigh. Mine was there against his belly, letting him know I was hungry for him. The one slow dance flowed into a second, the way they do, and I tilted his face up and brought our mouths together. His lips were soft and warm and he tasted fresh and clean. "Come with me,” I told him when the music morphed back into something fast and noisy. His hand slipped into mine and I led him off the dance floor and past the bar. Down the hall we went and I found us a piece of wall in the back room. It was dark and shadowy and I knew we weren’t alone more from the sounds than from what I could see. I pressed him up against the wall, tilting his face again. “What’s your name?” “Piggie,” he answered, eyes huge in the near dark. “I haven’t ever...” his words faded away into a silence that was populated with moans and groans, bodies shifting, flesh slapping, sucking. “I’m Wolf. And you’ve never what? Come to a back room like this?” “No. Well, yes, I’ve never done this either, but I mean... well, whatever it is we’re going to do. I haven’t done that either.” “You mean anything?” Piggie nodded, those big green eyes looking up into mine. “Cool,” I told him, bringing our mouths back together again. This time I opened his lips with my tongue and pushed in to taste. His teeth were hard and smooth, his tongue fluttering as it met mine. Shy, but eager – I

151

Torqued Tales

loved that. Leaving his mouth, I slid my lips along his jaw to his ear, nibbling and licking his skin and then his earlobe. “I’m going to go to my knees now, Piggie.” I nibbled some more, his skin sweet. He gasped. “And I’m going to huff.” I bit at the fleshy part of Piggie’s lobe, making him jerk and shake his head. “And I’m going to puff.” I dragged my tongue along Piggie’s neck, and his head dropped back, a low moan coming from him. “And I’m going to blow you.” “Oh!” Piggie’s hips jerked eagerly. He watched me as I dropped to my knees, eyes looking sexy and heavy-lidded as I settled in front of him. He was wearing a pair of tight jeans with three belts on them – chain, studded leather and rope. Instead of fighting with the belts, I just left them and his top button be, concentrating instead on getting his zipper down without hurting the delicate flesh that was currently trying to push its way out of the denim. Zipper dealt with, I reached in and tugged his prick through the appropriate hole in his jockeys and, without further ado, I licked his prick from top to bottom. I blew on it, too, watching it jerk in my hand as the air wafted over his wet, heated flesh. He moaned and shifted, need obvious. I took my time. He tasted clean here, too, and salty with a hint of musk. And the smell was all male. I love that. I love a mouth full of silk-covered steel that’s all man. I love the feeling of flesh growing even harder in my mouth, the heat of it threatening to burn my tongue. His hands dropped to my shoulders, fingers digging in as I blew his mind. His hips moved restlessly and I had to grin around his length; it might be his first blow job, but his body knew exactly what it wanted. I grabbed his hips and tugged, encouraging him to let go and take it. After a stuttering thrust or two, he found it, a rhythm that wound its way along my spine and hit my cock and set it to throbbing. It’s better than any music. So he was thrusting and I was sucking, tongue working hard to add an extra zip. It didn’t take long, not at all, not with the sensation of lips and tongue and mouth on his cock for the very first time. My little Piggie screamed as he came, spunk pouring down my throat. He collapsed, his legs no longer holding him up, and I licked my lips, watching him sit there in a heap, tongue sliding out as he moaned softly. It was as good an image to jerk off to as anything I’d imagined in a long while, so I tugged my own sizeable, okay, very large, cock out of my jeans and leaned over him, jacking off. His eyes went wide again and for a half a second I thought he was going to return the favor, and then he was gone; popped up like a jack-in-a-box, tucked his happy cock away and fled. Well. Imagine my disappointment. I finished myself off with Piggie’s taste still in my mouth and the memory of the sweet, freckled face behind my eyes. I’d been hoping to take him home and play connect the dots with my tongue and his skin, but you can’t win them all. It counted as a good night and I went home happy. 152

A few weeks went by and I thought of Piggie on and off. It wasn’t like I’d been looking for a long term relationship or anything, I just like getting off with other guys. But Piggie’d gotten under my skin and I wanted to know if he’d enjoyed it – of course he had – if he’d gone out and done it again. If he wanted to do it again with me. See that was good, but what’s coming next is better and you’ll have to excuse me as I take myself in hand and deal with what’s popped up before I go on. Okay, better. Not that this next won’t have me hard again, but at least I’m starting fresh. So what could be better than Piggie at the Straw Barn? How about two for the price of one at the Blue Woods pub? So it had been a few weeks and I was at the Blue Woods pub, just having some suds and grub. Not technically on the prowl, but at the same time, I’m Wolf – I’m never not on the prowl. I’m eating nachos and drinking a pint of draft beer when who do I see coming in but my oft thought of twink Piggie. And he wasn’t not alone this time. No, he had a friend with him. This guy was all blond hair and blue eyes, skin tanned and smooth. Very nice. Even nicer was the fact that Piggie’s eyes widened when he saw me and, after a complete stop that had his friend looking at him weird, they made their way over to me. “Hey there, Piggie,” I said, smiling at him and then his friend. I gave them both a slow once-over, feeing my prick just perk right up. “You’re looking good. You both are.” “Wolf. Hi.” Piggie grinned and reached out to shake my hand. “I uh... I never said thank you before.” “Sure you did – you came, didn’t you?” I gave him a wink, hearing his friend gasp softly. “Oh, this is my friend Porky.” I held my hand out to Porky, and we shook. Of course I didn’t give his hand back after, I kept holding it instead. I had a wicked idea forming and if Piggie’s needy look and Porky’s more than a little curious one were anything to go by, this was going to work out nicely. I let my legs fall apart, let them see my interest. Piggie licked his lips, and Porky just stared and I knew I had me two little twinks, all ready to eat up. “Bathrooms here are pretty clean,” I said casually. Piggie picked up what I meant right away, though he didn’t have the whole picture yet. “Porky, can you order me a beer? I need to use the facilities.” The facilities and my mouth. I grinned and shook my head. “Wait on that beer – you should both see the groovy decorations they’ve got in there. And while you’re looking I’ll huff and puff and...” Big eyed and gasping, they would have looked like fish if they hadn’t also looked so turned on. Grinning, I got up off my stool and casually strolled toward the back of the bar where the bathrooms were. The men’s room was nothing special, very much lacking in decorations, groovy or otherwise, but I figured I’d be forgiven my little white lie, because it was also empty and there was a lock on the door, which I shot home as soon as they were both in. 153

Torqued Tales

“Who first?” Piggie asked. “Porky, he’s never either.” I wasn’t sure if that was an offer to let Porky go first or not, but it didn’t matter. “Both. Together.” They looked at me in shock for a moment, and then suddenly they were both tugging at their pants, getting them undone. Let me tell you, there’s not much prettier than two long, hard cocks side by side, all for me. Well, I can think of one thing, but I’m getting ahead of myself. At the time I had never seen anything prettier than the two of them, standing their arm in arm, hips pressed close, cocks jutting out from their pants. I went happily to my knees. I gave them each a little individual action first, sucking on one cock and then the other, finding out how they tasted different – both with that underlying flavor of salt, but Piggie was sweeter than Porky, who had a slightly smoky flavor to him. But I didn’t spend a lot of time working them individually – I wanted the two for one. I shifted them, turning them into each other a little and that brought their cocks closer together, giving me the chance to wrap my mouth around the heads of both and start sucking. The sounds they made were the best music, gasps of pleasure and moans of need. And then the sounds grew muffled and when I looked up, I found them kissing each other. Hot damn. My cock was pushing so hard against my zipper I figured it was going to leave marks. I went to town then, sucking hard, head bobbing, tongue lashing at any flesh it could. I had a handful of ass in each hand and I encouraged them to move. Piggie, having done this before, caught on quicker, but Porky wasn’t much behind him and they were soon working together, shoving deep and taking my mouth. It was a beautiful thing. A tasty thing. A far too quickly over thing. Porky spilled first, smoke and salt filling my mouth as his cock throbbed and seed pulsed out of him. That brought on Piggie’s climax and his cock bumped the back of my throat and then spilled his sweet salt down my throat. I swallowed it all down, ate them both up like a man starving. Their knees buckled and they collapsed together, a pair of debauched hotties. And I was in love. And if I hadn’t been, the kiss they shared would have done it for me. It was sloppy and lazy, and sweeter than sugar. I rubbed myself through my jeans, not even needing more than a few strokes before I bought myself off. Sweet. I was just considering leaning in to join them in a three way kiss when they both scrambled up and put themselves back together again lickity split. “We have to go.” “Porcin’s expecting us.” And with that they were gone, although Piggie did give me a lingering look, and he reached his hand out for a half a second and then they were gone like the hounds of hell were chasing them. Or maybe it was just Wolf they thought was going to chase them. 154

Imagine my disappointment squared. I’ve got to tell you, I play the field. I suck a lot of cock. I don’t ever worry if I see a guy again or not. But those two... I wanted to see them again. They stayed on my mind, the taste of them in my mouth - though that was probably just my imagination – for a long time. I wasn’t interested in blowing any more random strangers, and everywhere I went, I kept looking for my two little twinks. I haunted the Straw Barn and the Blue Woods pub, but I didn’t find Piggie or Porky again. At least not until I gave them a miss one night and went to Stonecutter’s Restaurant for a nice thick steak meal. A treat to cheer myself up and make me forget all about Piggie and Porky. I knew it was a good idea the minute my waiter came with a glass of water and a bowl of warm buns. He had black hair and pale cheeks with dark red lips. His eyes were dark grey and he had the longest lashes... He was just my type, too, the dress shirt accentuating the slender belly. I gave him my best smile – Wolf was back. He was very attentive throughout the meal and we flirted madly. I even invited him to sit with me, but he couldn’t, he had other tables to deal with. It was maddening, my cock growing harder and harder as the evening progressed – I ate very very slowly. When my dessert came, I offered him a forkful, watching as I slowly pulled the silverware from his mouth. I nearly came right then and there. Then he was gone again, serving more customers, his little ass framed by his apron. There was no back room in the Stonecutters, no empty bathroom to have a quickie in. I was going to have to resort to asking him to meet me in the parking lot as there wasn’t even a back alley. And then my hopes were dashed when my bill was brought to me by another waiter. “Where’s my guy?” I growled. “Sorry, Porcin’s finished his shift. Take your time with the bill.” “No, I’ll pay you now.” I handed over some bills and told him to keep the change, and idea forming in my head. I got up and headed casually toward the bathrooms, continuing on past them and slipping into the door marked ‘staff only’ instead, figuring it was the most likely place my waiter Porcin – and where had I heard that name before – would have gone. What I saw when I walked into the staff area stopped me in my tracks. I discovered why Piggie and Porky weren’t to be found at the Straw Barn or the Blue Woods pub anymore. They were right here at the Stonecutters making out with my waiter. I must have made a noise, probably a groan or maybe even a whimper – because even Wolf whimpers when he sees three lovely twinks busy blowing each other - because they all looked up at me at the same time. Then they were scrambling and tucking themselves away, looking presentable in seconds flat. “You don’t need to do that on my account,” I told them. In fact I was hoping they’d strip back down again and let me at them. 155

Torqued Tales

“This isn’t the Straw Barn. No more backroom blow jobs, Wolf,” said Piggie, chin raising stubbornly.

My breath huffed from me at that.

“And it isn’t the Blue Woods pub,” said Porky, linking his arm with Piggie’s. “No more bathroom blow

jobs, Wolf.”

I puffed out my chest, ready to protest.

And then didn’t Porcin link his arm with Porky’s. “This is a family restaurant, man. You can huff and you

can puff all you like, but you can’t blow us here.”

I opened my mouth, ready to protest, when I really heard what he’d said. I couldn’t blow them here. “My

place is three blocks north.”

And didn’t Piggie, Porky and Porcin just follow me home.

And that is how I came to be living with the three little twinks. My tight-assed, slender-bellied, delicious

tasting guys.

No one ever has been blown at the Stonecutters, no matter how much I huff and puff over it. Porcin’s the

only one with will-power, but he’s got enough for all of us.

And here I am hard again – this story always does it to me, so just give me another moment to take myself

in hand and... well, well, on the other hand, my three little twinks have just come home and eight hands are

far better than two.

Come back later and I’ll tell you all about how happily ever after we’re living.

Oh. Damn, that Piggie’s got the most amazing mouth – better even than mine. Make that a lot later.

156

Jac k and the Bi g Ole Pinto Be an By Julia T alb ot “Goddamned dried up old cow,” Jack muttered under his breath, kicking a clod of caliche dust out from under his boot. He spit a little, just because he could, because he was so damned mad. “Time to take you off to auction, lady.” “She’s not giving at all, huh?” his lover Dane asked, coming over to rub a hand up and down his back. “She’s the last one we got, Jack. We’re gonna dry up and blow away.” “No we ain’t.” Jack wasn’t no quitter, and he wasn’t gonna let Dane get all down in the mouth. He spit again, drawing up to his full height. “I’ll take her in tomorrow, sell her off. We’ll have us a feast.” “A feast? I’d settle for some flour and sugar and maybe some lemon candy.” Dane’s blue eyes twinkled. “Some coffee.” “You don’t want much, buddy, but I’ll do my best. Now come on, let’s leave her alone to enjoy her last days on this earth.” Both Jack and Dane took their hats off and held them over their hearts, having a moment for Bessie, who had served them well. Bless her. Even if she was a dried up old bitch. Then they headed back to their little cabin, sitting in the middle of the dustiest piece of homestead a man ever did see. They was going native these days, growing corn, beans and squash, and even that was wilting in the heat of the drought. They got back to the house and used a bit of their precious water to wipe down their faces. Wasn’t much but some biscuit and jerky for supper before they slid into bed, wrapping around each other, hands on places men usually didn’t touch. “Night, Jack,” Dane murmured, and Jack kissed the corner of that sweet mouth. “Night, honey. You’ll see. I’ll fix us up right.” “You always do, Jack. You always do.” *** Jack was up before the sun, heading off to town to sell old Bessie at the market. She didn’t want to go, naturally, and it was a hellacious walk. They only had one horse between them, and Dane would need her for trying to plow up the back forty. By the time Jack got to the tiny town, Bessie was in a foam, he was lathered with is own sweat, and things were going from bad to worse. “I sure am sorry, Jack,” old man Brodie told him. “I got no use for her. She’s too skinny by half.” Mrs. Rose said the same, and old Skeeter Showman just spit a long stream of tobacco between his boots and hooted.

157

Torqued Tales

Lanie Proust fed him out of the kindness of her heart, gave him a bacon sandwich and a cup of cold milk before sending him off with a, “That cow is gonna be your supper for weeks, honey. Take her home.” Pulling his hat down over his eyes, Jack headed on out of town. He’d almost made it, too, when some tinker feller stopped him, snake-oil salesman voice booming out. “I say, there, man. Are you selling that cow?”

“What’s it to you?” he growled. “You ain’t gonna drag her after your wagon.”

“Perhaps not. I should still like to have her.”

“Well, if you got five dollars, she’s yours.”

“I haven’t. I have something far better.”

Jack tilted his head, looking at the man like a goat looking at a new fence. “Better than five dollars?”

“Indeed. I have magic beans.”

Magic. Beans. Jack bit back his rage, his hands clenching on Bessie’s lead as he tried to be nice. “Well, ain’t

that something? Magic beans. You just might ought to keep those to yerself there. Mister. You might need

them someday.”

“Oh, now. I can tell you do not believe me,” the little round feller said, all but wiggling. “But I promise you,

if you take them home and plant them tonight, by tomorrow you’ll have more riches than you can imagine.

And the best part is that you need not even waste any water on them…”

For a crazy moment, Jack wanted to believe the man. He really did. Riches like he’d never dreamed… Well,

he could take care of Dane in style. Not that Dane ever asked for nothing.

“You got any lemon candy in that wagon o’ yourn?” he asked, thinking how he’d never be able to bash

Bessie in the brain and eat her anyway.

“Why, I do indeed! I shall throw in a bag of that, as well.” There was something off about that smile,

something that stirred something slithery in Jack’s belly, but he held out his hand to shake on it anyway.

“You got yourself a deal, Mister.”

*** By the time Jack got back to the homestead, he was figuring he’d done an awful bad thing. Dried up or not, Bessie had to be better than some candy and a sack of beans. Still, he held his head up high when Dane came out of the dugout, smiling at him. “You sold her!” Dane said, giving him a big old hug.

“Well…” Jack sighed. “I traded her. Wasn’t no one gonna take her. But there was a tinker man…”

Blond brows snapped together over light gray eyes, Dane staring a hole right through him. “What did you

trade for?”

158

“I got you a bag of lemon candy,” Jack offered, holding it out.

“That’s it?” But at least Dane smiled a little, reaching for the candy.

“And, uh. Well. I got some beans.”

“Beans!” That frown came back in spades, Dane’s hands plonking into his pockets, leaving the candy

dangling from Jack’s fingers. “We got beans.”

“Well, the tinker feller said they was special. They need less water.” There. That was far better than saying they were magic beans. “Have you lost your mind?” Growling, Dane turned right around and headed inside just as the sun started to go down. “You’re sleeping in the lean-to tonight, buddy. You and your damned beans.”

The door slammed right in his face, and Jack sighed again, a big bellow right in his chest. He sure did

deserve it, but it hurt, no matter what. He walked around to their one little window and knocked, flinching

when Dane flung it open.

“At least take your candy, darlin’.”

Dane snatched the bag out of his hand, glaring, and damned near slammed the window shut on his fingers.

Shitfire! That hurt.

His steps dragging, Jack went to the lean-to, his shoulders slumped, the damned beans seeming to weigh a

ton in his pocket. In a fit of rage, he threw them out the lean-to door, clomping to the pallet they kept in the

corner for passing travelers. His stomach growled, but Jack ignored it, trying not to mourn the loss of his

usual supper with Dane.

He’d figure something to keep them going tomorrow. He surely would.

It just wasn’t gonna be beans.

*** “Jesus H Christ!” The words woke Jack up, which was usually the job of their old rooster, who would crow just before dawn. Jack sat up, blinking, dappled sunlight shining on his toes. Lord, he usually woke up well before now. What was keeping it so dark out there that the sun barely came through?

“Is it coming up a storm, lover?” he asked, trying to unkink his neck.

“No! Jack, you got to come look!”

Well, at least Dane didn’t sound mad no more. So Jack went out, stumbling over some sort of root as he

walked into the chicken yard.

“Lord Almighty!” he exclaimed, looking up at the giant beanpole that had appeared overnight. “What in

tarnation is that?”

159

Torqued Tales

“Well, it’s a great big ‘ole pinto bean, Jack. Did you plant them beans?”

“I threw them right outside…” Well, Hell. They was magic.

“They grew right up to the sky!”

Indeed, the glossy green leaves and giant pea pods went on as far as the eye could see. “And without no

water, even.”

Dane scratched a foot in the dirt. “I’m sorry, honey. I surely am. I shoulda believed you. Though what we’ll

do with beans that big…”

“Did you at least like the candy?” he asked, moving close, his hand on Dane’s cheek.

“I did.” He got a smile, a kiss on the palm. “I had one piece and saved the rest. You want some coffee?”

They had a bit left, and Dane had been hoarding it. He must feel bad, iff’n he was willing to boil some up. “I do,” Jack said, just happy to be back in Dane’s good graces. The beanstalk could wait. *** They lay in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs, both of them panting and smiling for the first time in what

seemed like weeks. Jack took a lazy, sloppy kiss, his body feeling like it had been run over by the plow.

“You sure tore me up, Dane,” he said, watching his hand as it slid up Dane’s ribs.

“You brought me candy,” Dane said, kissing him right back. “I’m sorry I made you sleep in the lean-to.”

“I ain’t, if it gets me this.” He sighed, though, knowing it was time to get up. “We should see where that

stalk goes.”

“What?” Dane pulled back to stare at him, just like the night before. “Why?”

“Well, that tinker feller said there was riches involved. Now, you know I ain’t inclined to flights of fancy,

but it did grow to the sky without no water.”

“Huh. Well, get yer clothes on, then, and let’s go ‘fore it gets too hot.”

They got dressed without any more argument, and started climbing, both of them huffing and puffing long

before they reached the top. They had to be crazy. They ought to be out plowing. But they climbed on, both

of them resting a bit on one big bean shell.

When they finally popped up at the top of one big ‘ole bean that had split out of the shell, they gaped in

amazement.

“Dane. Do you see?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you believe?”

“No.”

160

There was a whole ranch up there. Hell, the cows was as big as their little house, no lie. Giant cows. Giant everything. And a ranch house sat back along the line of the bean, looking like a fortress to a pair of rag dolls. “Should we?”

“Hell, yes.” Dane took off like a shot, dodging cow flops bigger than their whole bodies.

“Well, shit. Now who’s a believer?”

Jack followed, struggling through the tall grass. Lord almighty. The smell of bacon frying had him drooling

when they got close to the house. Oh, that smelled good. Like a birthday or Christmas.

“Just smell, honey.”

Nodding, he caught up with Dane and they crept right up to the back door of the house, peering in the

screen. There was a little hole right there, right at the bottom where they could slip in.

“Good Lord and butter, would you look at the size of that woman!” Dane exclaimed, and sure enough, there

was a big ‘ole lady in an apron, cooking up bacon and eggs at a stove that made dwarves out of them.

“What was that?” the lady said, whirling around, spatula in hand. “Well, I’ll be dipped. What on earth are

y’all doing here, little men?”

Jack wiped sweaty hands on his dungarees and stepped forward. “We’re hunting some of your fine

breakfast, ma’am.”

The lady blushed and fluttered, but she nodded finally, filling up a plate with eggs and bacon, cut up to their

size. “Well, you go on and eat then, before my husband comes. He’s a cattle baron, and he sure don’t like

the little man. He might just eat you for breakfast.’

Well, shit. Jack and Dane looked at each other, wide eyed, but they was so hungry that they just set to eating

until they looked like they’d swallowed a couple of watermelons.

“Thank you, ma’am. That sure was…”

A booming voice broke in, making the floor shake under their boots. “Fee, fi, fo, fedder! I smell the blood of

a homesteader!”

“Oh, now look what you done!” the lady said, scooping them up and plunking them in her flour pot. “You

stay there ‘til he’s done eating and I’ll give you a gold piece.”

“Gold…” Dane mouthed at him, and Jack nodded. For that he could be white as a ghost for days.

The giant cattleman clomped in, boots just a’shinin' in the light. “Woman! I smell homesteaders!”

“You’ve lost your mind, old man. Ain’t no one here but me. Now sit and eat your breakfast.”

Glaring around the kitchen, the big man finally sat and ate, and lo and behold, the old feller fell asleep right

after, just sitting right there at the table. He snored so hard that the floors shook, and the flour bin nigh fell right off the counter. 161

Torqued Tales

“Go on, now. Both of you.” The lady plucked them right out of the bin and put them on the floor, picking up

a coin so large they was gonna have to roll it and handing it over. “Git.”

So they got, creeping back the way they came, staring in awe at a humongous banjo that sang a jaunty tune

so softly and sweetly that it brought tears to their eyes.

And that had nothing on the buffalo out in the back pen that kept dropping golden cow patties.

“We could…” Dane began, but Jack shook his head.

“No, sir. We ain’t no thieves. And ‘sides, this will hold us for years.”

He got a flash of gray eyes and a solemn nod. “You’re right. And this was a gift, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

So they rolled their gold piece down the hill, both of them grunting and groaning, and dropped it right off

the edge of the pinto bean. Scampering down after it, Jack felt like he could take on the world. *** They didn’t say nothing when they got home. They just put the gold in the dugout and went to work on the

corn.

That night, though. Oh, that night. Now, Dane was sometimes still a little shy about some things. Things like

where his fingers were allowed to go, where he could put his prick. But that night, Dane let him in, opening

up for him and just letting him go to town.

Hot, tight, and so sweet he was like honey on biscuits, Dane gave it up for him. Jack gave back, his hands on

Dane’s prick, his lips on the back of Dane’s neck, and they moved together like they were made just for

each other. Which he always had figured they were.

Jack damned well felt like he was flying.

And when they shared their final kiss before they drifted off to bed, he knew that things were gonna be all

right.

Of course, waking up in the morning to a thundering shout kinda made him wonder if he was wrong all the

time, or if had just been since he’d given the damned cow away.

“Fee, fi, fo, fedder! I smell the blood of a homesteader!” came the shout, and Jack sprang out of bed, naked

as a jaybird.

“Wake up, Dane. Get me the damned axe!”

“Oh, Hell with that. I’ll get the saw!”

They had a big old double saw. That would do the trick. He hoped. If they could cut that beanstalk down

before the big cattleman came down and smooshed their house, it would work.

162

He and Dane both took time to put on pants and suspenders before running out, Dane dragging the saw over. All the while that big, booming voice shook the ground, and damned if the leaves on the beanstalk didn’t shake mightily. The saw started whooshing away, breaking through the tough stalk, both him and Dane breathing hard.

Lord, lord. That man could yell.

“I know you took my gold! I’m coming, boys. Get ready for a whooping.”

“Faster, Dane!”

“Shut up and saw!” Rocking, really putting their backs into it, he and Dane sawed and sawed, seeing the

stalk fixing to break just about the time a too big pair of hand-tooled boots appeared above them.

“Timber!” Jack shouted, tossing the saw aside when the plant cracked and started to fold in on itself. “Run!”

Hand in hand, Jack and Dane ran as fast as they could, away from the shadow of the falling plant.

Lord almighty, that thing made a great big noise. It just missed the house, which they had to be grateful for,

and when they looked up, they could see those boots dangling, the giant cattle baron hanging on to the big

ole pinto bean floating in the sky.

Dane looked over at Jack, smiling a little, his face a mask of dust and sweat. “You reckon that gold is

enough for us to move on and find us a farm? I think we might want to just head on. Just in case.”

Jack nodded, slinging an arm around his man and kissing his gritty cheek. “I think so.” He chuckled, the sound merry as all get out. “Hell, I bet we can even afford another cow.”

163

Torqued Tales

Outf oxed By Angeli a Sp arrow So, there he sat, rubbing his blisters at the crossroads. Hopefully this one would be smarter than his half-wit brother. That one had thrown a rock at me; but since it was only the second prince, I didn’t have much hope. I shook out my coat, swished my tail a time or two to fluff it and trotted over. “Tell me your troubles, o Prince,” I said. Now your average man, faced with a talking animal, tends to bolt and run. Our prince wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but oh, he was good looking, in that delicate sort of way that only the carefully controlled inbreeding of royal cousins produces. Older brother had been muscle-bound and good looking in a brutish sort of way. I’d only given him bad directions after he chucked that rock at me. His first act, upon hearing words from me, had been to cross himself and mumble a prayer. I’d approached him, hoping to evade the whole long sequence of brothers and tests and such-like that always went with these spells. He’d listened to the first part, that I was an ensorcelled prince and that I knew where the bird was, and then he threw the rock. It had taken me in the left hind leg, bruising me. I had told him to take the left fork, knowing he would lose himself in the forest by taking the right. Naturally, he had taken the right. That one had a skull all bone-with no brains. He had been handsome, though. On closer inspection, I could see this Prince was considered the runt, but had more brains than the older one. But, I scratched my ear thoughtfully and asked of no one in particular, where was the second son? This one should have come along in three days’ time, not right now. “Nice fox,” he said and set out a bit of cheese. Okay, maybe he wasn’t all that much brighter, but he had a good heart and... cheese! I hadn’t had cheese since I was human. I ate it up as neatly as I could and licked the crumbs from my jaws. Here’s where the story gets complicated. You see, I have a sister. Rena is beautiful, amazing, smart and I love her more than anything. She’s also a sorceress, very skilled. When our folks started rumbling about marriages, hers and my own, we didn’t take it too well. Why would we? Her husband was to be an old greybeard, with no teeth, no hair and no wits who had one foot in the grave beside the five wives he had already buried. His only virtue was a nicely prosperous kingdom that abutted ours to the north. My parents were hoping Rena would hasten his slide into the grave so I could have the pair of kingdoms. My bride was a simpering blonde brood-mare without a thought in her head that hadn’t been coached into her. Pretty, if you like the type. I don’t. My type was sitting on the rock, offering me more cheese. I ate it and licked his fingers. Not just to get the cheese off, either. “Instant domestic,” he chuckled. “No, o Prince, but very fond of cheese.” I licked his fingers again. Being a fox did have some real advantages. In human shape, it might have been days or weeks, if ever, before I got to do that.

164

He poured out his story then: Daddy’s golden apples - descendants of the ones Hercules stole from the Hesperides - had gone missing. His brother had been unable to find the culprit, because he fell asleep on watch. My prince had caught a golden bird at the apples. His brother had disappeared on the quest for the bird. “I’m seeking the bird,” he explained. “And my brother,” he added as an afterthought. My heart sang within me. O my sister, you are brilliant. She had, on the eve of our betrothals, promised me we would wed only those we chose, and not the insipid choices of our parents. The next morning the hue and cry had gone forth that she had vanished, and as Father had tasked me to find her, everything changed. Or rather, I had changed into a fox - in the middle of morning court. In front of a hundred people, which was very embarrassing for all involved. At least it was painless. I made it out of the castle and into the parkland before they could pop me in a box or anything wretched like that. I had to find Rena. I understand Father outlawed all fox-hunting. He’s a good man, but not much for love-matches. The bird was Rena’s and if she had him stealing apples, it meant she had found mates for us. I smiled and looked my pretty prince over again; she knew my type very well. She’d given me supernatural speed and strength in this shape. I’d seen her once since the change and she’d explained everything, including my new gifts, and while changing into a fox had been painless, changing back wasn’t going to be, not for me or my prince. “Hop up on my tail, o Prince.” As I said it, I realized how filthy it sounded and yipped laughter. “I will aid you in your search.” And we raced. Over hill and down dale. Past forest stock and stone, Cove of Cork, Bay of Biscay and Old Tom Fox with his bugle horn. Let’s just say I got him where we needed to be and Sis isn’t the only one in the family who has a spell or two up her sleeve. “Now, o Prince, in yonder castle is a room. In that room, the golden bird you seek sits on a perch and pours forth a silver melody. Tomorrow, when you enter the castle, follow the song to the bird. When you arrive, you will see two cages. Put the bird in the mean wooden cage and not the bejeweled one of gold and ivory, not if you value your head.” He nodded carefully and spread his blanket for the night. I curled up right next to him and he petted me. Yes, there were definite advantages. Like I said, Rena is the real sorceress. Me, I just have a few spells, travel mostly, but I could manage a Shared Dream. He rose from bathing in the spring, the sun golden on his hair, the rivulets of water highlighting the shapes of his body. I came toward him, as naked as he was, already feeling freckles exploding on my back, and missing the fur and tail I had worn for seven years. “Come swim,” he smiled. I slipped into the water and dove deep. Odd to swim as a man and not a fox, with arms to stroke and no tail for a rudder. We swam in silence for a while and then I surfaced, very close to him. He swiped my red hair - the same color as my pelt - out of my face and looked at me. Perfect. Rena had 165

Torqued Tales

chosen well. The water was cool and his body was warm within it. I pressed close for his warmth and felt his hardness against my thigh, and my matching hardness against his belly. Then he kissed me. With his hands on each side of my face, his cock pressed to mine in the clear water, and my arms around his waist, he kissed me deep and sweet and slow, until I couldn’t tell if the sparkles were sun on the water or behind my own eyelids. He tasted of bread and cheese and wine, of hope and desire. One hand left my face and stroked our cocks together there in the water. He was hot and hard, beautifully built in all particulars. I moaned around his tongue and brought one of my hands down to help him. We rubbed like naughty pages behind a tapestry, the kind who couldn’t get a scullion to look twice at them. He spent over our hands, a warmer spot in the sun-warmed water, and I peaked only moments afterward. Our mouths had never parted. “Ren,” he whispered when we did manage to part. My name had come to him as a part of the shared dreamknowledge, as his had to me. “Aye, Iain, my prince, my love.” I vanished like a water sprite from his dream. He woke up and toasted the last of his bread and cheese for breakfast, sharing it with me. I licked his fingers again, a little too long this time, and he looked at me. Confusion and desire were at war on his face, and not a little revulsion at the idea of falling for an animal. If he did this right, which of course, he wouldn’t, I’d be human by tonight and we could take up where we’d left off. But, I comforted myself with the thought that if he messed it up, I’d be human within a week and Rena would be free as well. “You remember your instructions, o prince?’ I asked, the formality feeling silly in my mouth after last night. He nodded and I settled in to wait as he strode toward the castle gates. Once he was out of sight, I went dim to follow him. I wasn’t really invisible, but no one would see me unless they were looking for me. Or stepped on me, as a girl balancing a load of washing nearly did. I hugged the wall tightly after that. I followed him to the chamber of the golden bird and watched him stare at it, rapt with dumbstruck wonder at its song, its golden feathers, everything. He stared at the cages for a long time. Then, naturally, the idiot picked up the golden cage with the jewels. He thrust the bird into the cage. The bird, for its part, screeched and squawked to raise the dead, or at least the palace guard. I slipped out the main door in the confusion and waited. He might be an idiot, but he was my faithful idiot. He came out of the castle an hour later, disheveled and wan. His food pouch bulged but his head hung low. “Fox, please. I was a fool. It was such a shame to put a magnificent creature into that mean cage that I could not. Now, unless I return in three days with the golden mare, my life is forfeit.” I nuzzled his hand. Looked like we were doing this the hard way. “I know the place, o Prince. Be not downcast, but hop upon my tail and we shall be there before nightfall.” He did, and we were. We made camp near the castle, and he fed us both. This cheese was better than his, 166

and there was cooked meat as well. I curled up at his feet and he petted me as if I were a dog. “Dear fox, please, how do I get the horse? Your advice was perfect for the bird, but I did not follow it.” He had the grace to look ashamed. I nipped his finger just lightly. “Then attend me this time, o Prince, or worse shall befall us both. In the stable, you will find the golden mare. She gleams like a new minted coin and her mane is silver. In the stall, there are two bridles: one of iron and leather, one of gold cord with jewels. Use the iron and leather, o Prince. Do not fail or both our lives will be forfeit.” “I won’t,” he said. But I knew he would. He had to. If he didn’t, all the spells would stay in place and Rena and I would remain trapped by her own cleverness. He petted me a little longer before banking the fire and spreading his blanket. I curled into his side, with my tail over my nose. He snored, just a little. It was adorable; he was adorable. I couldn’t wait to be free. I started Sending again. He lay on his back amid the grass of the meadow, dry now, taking in the sunshine. I laid beside him, on my side, propped on one elbow. I tickled his ear with a bit of timothy grass. He laughed and rolled me atop him for a kiss. I plunged into his mouth as I had into last night’s pool, immersing myself, tasting all the things he had told no one, ever. “My prince,” I whispered as I came up for air. “Why only one brother?” “The other died on Crusade,” he answered. “He was a great warrior and a man of faith, but a crossbow took him in Prague.” I kissed away his tears. “It is perfect. Your brother will have the princess and your kingdom. You will be a prince forever and free to love as you will.” I kissed him again. “Perhaps even me.” “Aye, even you. Always you.” He sprawled in the sun, the hair of his chest and the hair of his head and the hair of his loins all the same shade of gold. I kissed his head, and then his face. I kissed his chest and tasted the pale little nipples hiding under the golden curls. I kissed the edge of his loins, and then ran my tongue along the staff that stood so proudly between his legs. “Ren?” he asked. “Is it right?” “Does it feel as though it is?” I asked. I kissed the little bald head of the friar, just peeking out from its cassock of skin. “Aye.” I smiled up at him and took him in my mouth completely, and he moaned as loudly as I. He was sweet on my tongue, filling my mouth. Intimate, aye, so close we were that we could be mistaken for Prester John’s men who have a head on their shoulders and one in their belly as well. His stones drew close to my lips and I tasted them. He spilled forth and I tasted the essence of him. I drank his life into me as we lay there, his hands in my hair, my head upon his thighs.

167

Torqued Tales

“Ren,” he sighed and gave a small jerk. He snorted. I stole a last kiss of his mouth and faded as he woke. He walked quietly into the castle, making his way into the stables. I stayed in his heels, dim. The mare, Rena’s mare, gleamed like a new minted coin. He looked at her, stroked her neck and she whickered at him. Then, he looked at the bridles. As I had said, there was golden cord all hung with jewels and silver bells, and a shabby one of iron and leather. He stared too long and I knew he was going to foul it up again. Or do it properly, depending on your point of view. I held my breath and he grabbed the jeweled bridle. I made myself scarce as the mare started rearing and trying to kick down her stall. He wore the same hangdog expression as he shuffled out of this castle, and he flopped to the ground where I was sitting. “Oh fox,” he moaned. “Why didn’t I listen to you?” “Because, my prince, you are an idiot,” I snapped. “But you are my idiot and I will see this thing through to the end.” I decided to disquiet his mind a bit. “However it ends. What is your task now?” I knew what it would be. “Far away, over mountains and valleys, through rivers and forests, lies a great castle. In the depths of that castle is a hidden room, and, in it, is the most beautiful woman in the world. I am to go fetch her here, for the King of the golden mare to wed. Then, I may have the mare.” I nodded. “I will aid you again. This time, the trip will be long, but we shall make it all in good time. Upon my tail once again, o Prince, and I will take you to the princess you seek.” He hopped on my tail and the rushing wind, howling its magic around us, stole the words from his mouth. But I thought I heard him say, “Not the princess I seek, the one I am sent to seek.” I smiled and we traveled all the faster. Over mountains and down valleys, skipping over rivers as lightly as a stone and ducking through forests as though they were no more than wind-rows, we traveled all the night through and the next day as well. Rena, the wind sang to me. Rena and my prince and freedom. I would be a man again soon. We stopped at sunset at the foot of a great mountain. High up its peak , beyond the trees, black against the field of snow, stood the castle. A leap took us up to the treeline. A second to the snow field. A third, and the most powerful of all, brought us to the door of the castle. I coughed, sputtered and hacked. Then I spat. And a ball of golden thread lay on the ground. The prince looked at me. “Take the clue, o Prince, and cast it before you as though you were Theseus. It will lead you to the princess and back out again.” I nudged it over to him with my nose. He bent and scratched behind my ears. “Thank you, dear fox. We shall return soon.” He picked up the thread and tossed it. It unrolled before him, leading into the castle. I waited, curled up in a ball atop a rock. Even with a fur coat, I wasn’t going to sleep in the snow. The night passed, and day came, the sun giving little warmth here. I lapped at some snow to ease my thirst. At sunset, the prince emerged with Rena in his arms. I ran to them.

168

Rena scooped me into her arms and bundled me into her fur-lined surcoat. “Poor Ren. You’re so frozen. Let us repair to better climates.” She cast her great traveling cloak over the three of us, sang and we were back at the castle of the King of the golden mare before I’d finished licking the ice from my paws. Outside the gate, Rena sat down and gathered me into her lap, stroking me, and giving the prince his instructions. “They will lead the mare out, and you will mount her. But, before you ride out, bend to kiss me farewell. When you cannot bend far enough, implore me to put my foot in the stirrup and come to you. Then we ride, fast and let none hinder us.” The prince took it all in. “Aye, Princess. Your fox never guided me wrongly. Nor will you.” She petted my neck. “The mare and bird are mine, o Prince. And I know what your heart desires.” He looked at her, a stricken look on his face. “You know of the youth who comes to my dreams?” She nodded and set me down. “Ren, wait for us. Follow when we leave.” I followed them in, anyway, dim. I just had to see if he could take directions from her. He took the princess before the king: an older man, all beard and bad teeth, who clapped with delight and announced a royal wedding. “And in payment for bringing me this most beautiful of all brides, you shall have my prize golden mare,” the king announced. They saddled the mare with the diamonds and gold, and led her out to where my prince stood. So far, so good. Rena worked her way to the front of the crowd. The prince swung up on the horse, and then bent to kiss her. He could not bend far enough, for the mare was a great beast of twenty-two hands. “Sweet princess, my wise companion, I would not leave you without a kiss. Place your foot in the stirrup and come up to me.” Oh perfect. Wise boy. I nipped out the front gate. Moments later, the mare came charging out, her long legs leaving behind all pursuit. I followed closely at her heels, fuming a bit that Sis got a ride and I had to run. Ah well, I’d ride soon enough, and his arms would go around my waist to steady me. I smiled at the thought of what else we could get up to in a saddle on a beast whose back was almost as broad as a bed. They rode all the night and half the next day, the mare never flagging. When we reached the castle of the King of the golden bird, I was flagging. The enchantment was wearing down, and I had no more speed nor strength than a normal fox. I had no spells, for the energies interfered with each other. I sat, each panted breath a fire in my lungs. Rena gave the prince his instructions. This time, I did not follow to watch him carry them out. She wrapped me in a cloak and carried me with them on the mare. What a sight we must have made: the enormous mare, the prince with Rena riding pillion, the bird strapped behind the saddle, and me bundled in a cloak alternately cuddled by them both. I could not stop shaking and my breath came no easier after all the hours. “Dear fox.” The prince stroked my head and back. “Dear one, what is wrong?” “He’s dying,” Rena said. “Haste to your lands, and then you must do one last task. It will be the hardest of all, o Prince, but it will give you all you truly desire.”

169

Torqued Tales

He looked at her as if she had two heads. I snuggled deeper into her cloak, unable to get warm. Rena leaned forward and spoke a word into the mare’s ear and we were off and racing. I lay limp in the prince’s arms. He petted my ears and told me it was all going to be all right. I managed to flick out my tongue to lick his fingers. “We’ll get you better. And there will be all the cheese you can eat,” he promised. “In fact, if you get well, we’ll make all the fairs in the kingdom next year, and you can judge all the cheese-making competitions.” I yipped weak laughter and licked his fingers again. “Holding you to that promise, o Prince.” “I love you and I’ll always take care of you. No fox-hunting in my realm, no, indeed.” I fell asleep as he was planning out our life, with me as his pet. The ride ended at the same crossroad where I’d found him. Rena reined the mare in, and dismounted. She took me from his arms and set me on the ground. “Now,” I wheezed, “if you love me as much as you say, dear prince, cut off my head and paws.” He looked horrified as he slid off the horse. “What?” He turned to Rena. “No, I can’t.” “If you love him, you will do it. I did say this would be hardest of all.” She touched his sword. “One clean stroke, and you will have what you truly desire.” “It isn’t you I want, Princess. It’s him. I want my fox with me. I want the young man I keep dreaming of, but I know he’s not real.” He pulled the sword. “I’d sooner take your head or my own.” She shook her head. “Do you really think Ren is no more than an animal? That form is dying around him, as my spells all unravel. Set him free. I promise you all your desires and I do not lie. By the bird and the mare and my own braids, I tell the truth.” She laid her hands on her waist-length braids, the color of new copper or the rising sun. He walked to me, his face wet with tears. He lifted the sword, and lowered it again. “I cannot.” “Do it,” Rena ordered, and his sword came up almost of its own accord. He looked at me and I closed my eyes. This would hurt, but it would be worth the pain. Nothing happened. I opened my eyes again and looked at him. The sword was down. I stood with the end of my strength and licked his hand. “Please, my prince. I cannot tell you what will happen. You must do this out of trust in me alone.” I nipped his thumb and snapped irritably, “Do one damned thing right on this quest, you idiot.” He laughed, although tears streamed from his eyes as blood trickled from his hand. “That is, indeed, my fox. I trust you, Ren.” He raised the sword and brought it down on me. Pain, pain beyond all belief as the blow struck, and then the pain of change, of bones lengthening, of skin changing, of tail vanishing. Finally, I lay, panting on the grass, staring at my own freckled arms; arms I had not seen outside of dreams for seven years. I looked up at Iain. “Hello, my prince.” He simply stared, dumbfounded at me, and who could blame him? He’d just seen a fox become a man. And 170

not any man, but the man he dreamed of and desired. He dropped the gory sword and knelt beside me on the grass, touching me, my hair, my face, my skin. “Ren?” His voice was soft and incredulous. He sat down. “Prince Ren,” I said, rolling onto my back. This had the salutary effect of putting my head in his lap. “My own sweet fox.” He stroked my hair, red as the fox’s brush. When his fingers came to my cheeks, I licked them. He laughed for pure joy. Rena watched us, smiling. “I hope there are extra clothes in your pack, o Prince. It would do my brother no service if you made your beloved walk naked through the streets of your capitol. All eyes would glut themselves on your prize and some disreputable one would steal him from your train, as you looked the other way.” Iain’s arms tightened around me. “Never. I have him and will never let him go. I have clothing, Princess. Unbundle it, if you would please? Else we could dress him in your over-kirtle and pass him for your sister, and my parents would be pleased I had found wives for both my brother and me.” I just laughed, still hearing the yipping sound in my voice. It was going to take a while to learn to be human again. Rena brought a pair of trousers and a shirt to me. They were a little large, since Iain was taller than I, and broader-shouldered. He helped me sit up and popped the shirt over my head. I struggled with the sleeves, but he sorted me out of the tangle of cloth, and kissed me in apology. Adjusting to clothing was just going to take a while. I suspected many more adjustments awaited me as well. We got the trousers on and he helped me stand. My legs were weak from the shift. I held onto him, and he pulled the trousers up, pulling the waist-string tight. His hand brushed over my sex as he did and that part revealed it was left unaffected by all the changes. He gave me a smile that promised much more in private and helped me onto the mare. Rena swung up behind me and wrapped her cloak over me. I kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Sissy,” I whispered, reverting to child-like address. “How’s his brother?” she asked, as Iain led us toward the city. “Not bad looking. Didn’t take too well to a talking fox. He threw a rock at me. All muscle, no brain. Perfect for what you were wanting.” She nodded. Rena was the most clever sorceress around, but wanted no competition from her man. She’d said often enough that her husband should be young, vital and all body, like an ox. She would run the kingdom and he could defend it. I, however, liked my men with some brains. Iain laughed at my description of his brother. “Aye, that is William to a jot.” “Splendid,” Rena said. The people had noticed the mare and were starting to throng the streets. The bird sang, its melody more beautiful than I remembered. Iain led us through the streets to the castle. I could feel my strength returning. I took little notice of the crowd. I was too busy being amazed at my own fingers. I hadn’t seen them in seven years. When we stopped in the courtyard, Iain helped Rena down, although she did not need it. I slid down on my own, my legs finally deciding to hold me. 171

Torqued Tales

William came out, his crown gleaming in the sun and his red brocade almost bloody. An older man, all irongrey hair and beard, and muscle gone to slack followed, a jeweled crown of his own gleaming. I beamed proudly as Iain began his tale. “Here, Father, is the bird which steals the golden apples, sprung direct from the garden of the Hesperides. Here too, is the golden mare, and the Princess Rena, to whom both belong.” He handed her forward and her hair gleamed like red gold in the sun. “I know my brother must wed first, and the princess is amenable to his suit.” He laid Rena’s hand in William’s. The prince smiled at her and she returned it. Only I saw the small hand gesture that began his ensorcelling. Rena would make him very happy, very comfortable and completely docile. “May the match prove long and fruitful and may the kingdom flourish under your reign,” Iain finished, handing the reins of the mare and the bird’s cage to Rena. “But what of you, son?” the King asked. How is it you give your prizes so easily to your brother?” Iain laughed and came to me, throwing his arm around my shoulder. “William wants to be king. I do not. I’d rather stay a prince. And in Rena’s brother, I have found the wandering companion of my bosom, the man who will go with me. Two are better than one, as the priests say the Bible reads, and we shall bear each other up when we stumble and keep each other warm at night and prevail over all who stand against us.” The King nodded. “Even so.” He proclaimed the royal wedding in three weeks’ time and everyone went in. The senior groom took charge of the mare and led her away to be stabled. Iain and I were as alone as it was possible to be in a castle courtyard. “No provisions for me?” I asked, having heard the bustle of serving women shouting orders to prepare rooms for the Princess. “Come, you’ll just have to stay with me,” said Iain, his smile broadening. Somehow, I managed to wait until he got the door shut to kiss him. It was better than any dream we had shared, deeper than any kiss had dared be for the whole of my life. And when we parted there were no words said, we simply walked to the bed. Rena might marry in three weeks’ time. But today, I was married.

172

Little Cowboy Ri ding Rig By Se an Mic hae l Once upon a time, near a certain army base, lived a little redneck slut - the prettiest redneck slut you ever saw, boys and girls, with a heinie you could bounce quarters off of and a belly that was flat as a board. He was known the South over for having the quickest temper, the sharpest wit, and the best mouth on two knees. His mother doted upon him, as did his sister - who was arguably as big a slut as her brother, but straight as a ruler and apt to spouting babies at a moment's notice. They adored him with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns and, when he announced his intention to share his wares with the Granny of all Armed Forces, the 82nd Airborne Division, they plopped a red bandana on his curly white head, handed him a basket filled with Wolf Brand chili and lace cookies, handed him a road map and his dog and sent him on his way. In a 1978, Jeep CJ-7.

With a cowboy hat-shaped air freshener and the complete collection of Merle Haggard CDs.

So, this sweet little cowboy slut - who for convention's sake (but not the sake of brevity) we'll call Little

Cowboy Red Riding Rig - headed east, singing at the top of his lungs and imagining unimaginable acts of

depravity with paratroopers.

As he was going through Fayetteville, he stopped in a local club, skipping merrily up to the bar and ordering

a longneck so that he could keep his skills up.

"Well, well, well," said one of the patrons, a great big rock of a man, with muscles that made the seams of

his shirt pop open. "What's a nice Southern boy like you doing in a place like this?"

Cowboy Red blinked up.

And up.

And up.

Then he looked down.

And down.

And oh.

Fuck him raw.

"I'm. Uh. Fuck. I'm going down on. Wait. To. Uh. What was the question?"

The big man, let's call him the big bad Rock, smiled a wicked smile and leaned against the bar. "The

question is, do you want to go out back and see the sights?"

173

Torqued Tales

Little Red, who didn't know it was dangerous to go out back with a Marine (or didn't care, given the way

said Marine packed those jeans with a grenade launcher the likes of which he'd only jacked off to), said, "I'm

all about sight-seeing, Blue Eyes. Fuck knows I'm new to town."

"Well then finish your beer, Cowboy," because a marine never met a beer he didn't like, "and I'll show you

the best thing this town has."

"Works for me, Blue Eyes. Say, you don't happen to know the way to the 82nd Airborne Division, do you? I

hear they're in need of a bit o' Texas and I need a bed to warm when I've..." Little Cowboy Red took another

gawk, knees going weak. "Finished sightseeing."

"I do, Cowboy Red, and when you're done seeing what there is to see, I can show you the way."

The Big Bad crooked a finger and turned to lead the way out back, giving Little Red a double-whammy hard

butt cheek show.

Now, Cowboy Red knew he shouldn't dawdle, because there were cookies and the dog in the Jeep, but the

cookies weren't chocolate, so the dog could eat them, and it wasn't hot so the dog was safe and...

Hello. Double. Whammy. Hard. Butt cheek. Show.

So, he followed, his own too-tight jeans becoming damn near painful as his prick decided to point its way to

true north.

That double whammy hard butt cheek show led him out the side door and around to the back, past other Marines, none of who had the assets the Big Bad had. Big Bad pulled into a tiny little alley, leaning up against the brick wall, licking his lips like he wanted to eat Cowboy Red right up in two bites. Cowboy Red wasn't completely opposed to this idea, in theory anyway. "Damn, honey, what big eyes you have." "All the better to see you with, my little red cowboy."

Cowboy Red reached out, hands tracing those broad pecs, thumbs brushing over hard nipples. "Damn,

Marine, what big muscles you have."

Big Bad wrapped those long arms around him. "All the better to hold you with."

Cowboy Red moaned, leaned back into Big Bad's arms and pinched those little nipples nice and hard before

letting his fingers head south.

Way south.

Yeah. Still fucking impressive.

"Fucking hell, Marine, what an amazing motherfucking cock you have."

"All the better to fuck that pretty little mouth with, Cowboy Red."

"You fucking know it, Marine." And, saying those words, Cowboy Red fell upon Big Bad and ate him all

up. We're talking down to the root, cheeks scraped by the zipper, fingers wrapped around the most muscled hips that Fort Bragg and Camp LeJeune put together had ever seen. 174

Big Bad groaned.

Big Bad moaned.

Big Bad fucked his mouth like he was the last cocksucker in the land.

Cowboy Red opened wide, using that mouth to the best of his well-practiced and well-vaunted expertise.

Big Bad's big hands slid into his curls, holding on as that big cock slid in and out between his lips. Those

Big Bad big blue eyes stared down, wiping out thoughts of paratroopers like a sniper with an AK47 or a nun with a blackboard eraser. Six of one, half-dozen of the other. He sucked and he sucked, and Big Bad's moans got louder, and his hips moved faster.

That fat fucking prick pushed deep and, I have to tell you as the voice of reason, both Big Bad and Cowboy

Red made the same noise of pure bliss (even if Red's was a hell of a lot more... muffled).

"Gonna," Big Bad warned, obviously reduced to little more than grunts and clicks and ungrammatical warnings. Which, given that Red was a card-carrying member of the Honkytonk Bar Association, was immediately understood and responded to with a groan and a swallow and this great little tongue thing that was more genetic than learned. Big Bad gave a loud "hoo ah" and nearly drowned Little Red with his come.

A lesser fairy tale hero would have gagged.

Or suffocated.

But our Red was a hero of note, a man of skill, and a cocksucker extraordinaire, so Big Bad got sucked dry,

not a drop of spunk lost to the ground.

Big Bad slumped against the wall, knees almost buckling.'

"You're the best I've ever had, Cowboy Red. And I've had a lot."

"No shit?" Cowboy Red's hands slid up Big Bad's thighs, lips leaving soft, sucking kisses to the swollen tip

of Big Bad's prick.

"I would not lie about a thing like that." Big Bad's big hands slid over his face and the blue eyes held a

gleam in them. "Where did you say you were headed, Cowboy Red?"

"I was going to see the Granny of all armed forces, the 82nd Airborne division, and see what I could see."

"Well, the 82nd Airborne don't have the sense God gave them, jumping out of perfectly good airplanes, and

they won't miss you for a moment. You're coming home with me, Cowboy Red."

Now, Cowboy Red, who was a patriot of the highest degree and a genuine all-American cockhound who

knew the benefits of playing hard to get, fluttered his eyelashes, pulled out a smoke, and said, "Are you

gonna make it worth my while?"

175

Torqued Tales

Big Bad took a look at his ass, checked it out real good and grinned. "I imagine I am. You see I know what

to do with a mouth and an ass like yours, and your cookies will find a much better home in my quarters."

Cowboy Red reached up and traced that smile, caught up in those blue-blue eyes (whether it was because

they were the color of bluebonnets or because they were the color of a North Texas summer sky or because

they promised a fucking unlike any other, no one would ever know). "Big Bad, what a big smile you have."

That smile got wider. "All the better to get you into my bed with."

Big Bad turned his head, and kissed the palm of Cowboy Red's palm. "All the better to get you into my bed

with, dear."

"Lead the way, stud. I've got a yen to ride you like a three-dollar mule."

Big Bad tucked his big bad cock back into his jeans, making Cowboy Red pout for a moment or two, and

zipped himself up.

"My truck's in the parking lot. You'll follow me through the woods and to my little house?"

"Me, the Jeep, the dog and the chili are right behind you."

"Good. Just keep your eye on my ass, and you won't get lost."

And then that double whammy ass was ahead of him again, giving him a fine show, and a promise.

Big Bad climbed into a big bad truck, and gunned the engine.

Now, Cowboy Red was a connoisseur of all things pick-up truck, and that Dodge duallie did it for him, Hell

yeah. A man could respect himself, riding that gearshift.

Over hill and over dale he followed the Big Bad Rock. Through the woods and across the river, and then the

truck turned into a driveway to a little house and they were there.

Now, a careful and wise hero would have checked his surroundings, assured himself he wasn't going to get

himself in trouble. However a wise hero wouldn't be as hard as Chinese algebra and so desperate for an

orgasm that he'd jack off with a copy of the International Male catalog.

So, Cowboy Red let the dog out to run (what? I said he was horny not a bad dog owner), grabbed his hat and

headed in.

Big Bad closed the door behind him, and locked the door. "Now I've got you, my pretty little Cowboy Red.

I'm taking you to my bed and eating you right up."

"Promises, fucking promises. Your mouth best be writing checks your fine ass can cash, Blue Eyes."

"You've seen the size of my pen, Cowboy Red. You don't have to worry on that account."

He was drawn down a hall, the living room a jumble of beer bottles and pizza boxes, the kitchen clean and

empty. The bedroom... well there right in the middle of it was the biggest bed Little Red had ever seen.

176

"Dude, you need a fairy godmother or a little twink or an obsessive-compulsive Texan with impulse-control issues to take care of your house." He stripped down to his skivvies, hoping that the tightest ass in the continent appealed. "Yeah, whatever. Don't stop there." Big Bad's eyes were glued to his cotton covered ass, the man practically drooling over what he saw. "You like what you see?" Cowboy Red shimmied and shook and peeled his tighty-whities off so that Big Bad could take a gander at his goods. "Why Cowboy Red, you have the tightest little ass I have ever seen." Big Bad started stripping, too. "I need a piece of it." "Only a piece?" Cowboy Red waggled that taut tushie at him and, let me tell you, ass-men all over the southeast moaned and creamed their jeans, just from the echoes of that butt wiggle. "A piece tonight. Another piece tomorrow. Ah, fuck it, Cowboy Red, you might as well know, you're not going anywhere ever again, that ass is mine." Big Bad puffed up, the impressive muscles just flexing. "And to prove it, I'm going to nail it to my mattress." Now, Red figured that ass-nailing had to be way more entertaining than it sounded, so he bent and spread 'em, offering himself like the horndog he was. Big Bad Rock was big and bad all over, and his fingers were no exception, and as much of a slut as Cowboy Red was, he was very happy the two big fingers that pushed into him just as nice as you please were good and lubed. "Sweet fucking Christ, Blue Eyes, what big fingers you have!" "All the better to stretch you with, Cowboy Red. All the better to stretch you with." And stretch him Big Bad did, those two fingers sliding in and out and spreading inside him. And when Big Bad turned two fingers into three, they hit that magical little button inside him, the one that made every nerve in his body stand up at attention and say 'howdy'. A better man would have come up with a witty rejoinder, but Cowboy Red's brain was suffering from a lack of blood flow (given that it was all rushing to his prick, pell-mell), so all he said was, "There. Fuck. More." "You know it." Big Bad stretched and stretched him, making sure to peg that magic spot over and over, keeping him happy. Cowboy Red was in redneck slut heaven, bedsprings creaking under him, huge marine stud fingerfucking him from behind. Yep. Redneck bliss, y'all. Red. Neck. Bliss.

177

Torqued Tales

"Okay, me now," said Big Bad, fingers sliding away. "Are you ready for it to be me?" That big bad cock rubbed along his crack, just has big and as hot and as hard as you please. Fortunately for you, me, Big Bad and any psychic friends in range who were moving beyond getting their jollies to sheer fucking desperation, Big Bad recognized the pattern of shudders, moans and frantic nodding as a way for Red to say, "Uh-huh." "Good." Big Bad lined right up and pushed that big fat cock right on in, stretching him much wider than those fingers had, filling him right up. Big Bad groaned. "Oh, fuck. Tight." Now, y'all, there are beautiful sights in the world. Lightning. Newborn babies. A bride in the afternoon sun. Orchids. An icy cold longneck. A coonhound. All of them paled at the sight of Big Bad's face as he sank balls deep like he was meant to be there. "Oh, fuck." It obviously bore repeating, because Big Bad said it a couple of times before he began to move. In and out, like a magic all its own, Big Bad's cock slid and pushed and filled him up over and over. Cowboy Red groaned, stretching deeper and deeper, taking the big, bad cock in. Big Bad made one happy noise after another, fucking him good and hard, that thick cock hitting his magic button like a ground to gland missile. "Fucking hell." Cowboy Red pushed up, hand wrapping around his cock and pulling in time with the prick inside him. Big Bad's fingers wrapped around his hips, tugging him into each thrust, pounding into him like there was no fucking tomorrow. There have been a few perfect orgasms in the world since the beginning of time. I have managed to witness all but three of them. This one blew them all out of the water. Cowboy Red went first, his body squeezing and milking Big Bad's big cock, making Big Bad shout and scream and fill him all the way up with cream. Cowboy Red groaned, slumped down onto the mattress with a mighty FLOOMP. "Damn, honey, what an amazing fucking talent you have." "You know it," said Big Bad Rock. Big Bad collapsed on top of him with a happy moan. And Cowboy Red, who had taken a chill the second he crossed the Red River, was finally warm, balls to bones. Big Bad Rock, being a typical man and marine in disposition, even if he was gifted in other sizeable areas, promptly fell asleep, snores ringing out through the room. And, while it was neither twin fiddles nor steel guitars, it worked well enough to put Cowboy Red right to sleep for the night. Early in the morning, the sun had just barely come up, and a banging at the front door woke them up. Likely woke up the neighbors, too, possibly even people in the next county over.

178

Cowboy Red groaned, squeezed the massive cock still inside him, and murmured. "Fucking hell. You'd better not fucking be married." "Fuck, no. Just ignore it, they'll go away." Big Bad started moving, happily ignoring the loud knocking. "You sure, man? Sounds like the Marines have... uh... landed." Cowboy Red couldn't help but wonder if it was reasonable to make terrible puns during the fucking process. In fact it sounded like they'd more than landed; the door was kicked in and someone came running down the hall, their boots loud on the hardwood floors. "I'm big Dick Woodsman and I'm here to save you from the Big Bad Rock!"

"Uh, did I call for the cavalry?" Cowboy Red looked confused as all fuck; he hadn't requested backup.

Honest. His ass was happy.

"We had a report from the 82nd Airborne that Big Bad Rock intercepted a package and was going to eat him

all up."

He had to admit, the cavalry looked pretty damn hot himself. Not as big as Big Bad Rock, but with muscles

in all the right places and a sizeable bulge in his workpants, a bulge that was growing as Dick Woodsman

watched Big Bad fuck him good and hard.

"Hey, Woody. I've been... rerouted." Red grinned over, licked his lips. "You wanna play post office?"

Woodsman grinned and put down the axe he'd used to break down the door. "You got a message you want

delivered, Cowboy Red?"

"Uh-huh. Dear Stud, Fuck my mouth. And oh, yeah. You in the back. Harder. Sincerely, Little Cowboy Red

Riding Rig."

The stud in question grinned and undid his pants, long, hard cock pushing out of the fly. "You got the

message, Big Bad? Little Red needs it harder."

"I got the message, kid." Big Bad growled and grabbed his hips, pounding into him.

"He got the fucking message, Woody. Get your ass over here." Never let it be said that Red didn't know

what he wanted.

Woodsman grinned and climbed onto the bed, kneeling close, that long cock waving in his face.

"That is a nice bit of handle, man." Red grinned and sucked it down, proving that he could handle girth and

length like a champ.

Woodsman shouted happily, hands landing in his curls. "Damn, Cowboy Red, I haven't been sucked like this

since... well ever."

And of course he hadn't. After all, it's well established that Cowboy Red was the horniest, suckingest,

wantonest cowboy in the land, right? And he was enjoying two-for-one night.

"That's a mighty fine axe you've got there, Big Dick," said Big Bad Rock. "Almost as big as my club."

179

Torqued Tales

"There's nobody bigger than you, Big Bad," said Woodsman.

As romance went, it was a good thing they had big cocks and knew how to use them.

Not only that, but Cowboy Red was fully aware how to take advantage of them, sucking one and squeezing

the other and basically reminding them both what they'd been wanting. A moan met his squeeze and a groan met his suck, and four hands held him, two cocks fucked him, Little Red Riding Rig in fucking bliss between them. In the history of fucking and sucking, there have been five perfect rhythms: Winifred Lawson and the duo of Frick and Frack; the contortionists Salami; Gina, Larry and Bob the prostitute; Dwayne and his incredibly friendly pair of dildos; and Sir Percival, Sir Roger and Frank the Wonder Horse (don't ask). This was number six. Everyone knows that perfection couldn't last, but Little Red, Big Bad, and Woodsman were sure going to try, the three of them moving together like one. At least they did until Woodsman's eyes went wide, his breath escaping him in a low moan. "Oh, shit, I'm gonna come."

Red swallowed and Bad thrust and Woody jerked and boom.

Tri-fold orgasm.

Ta-da.

He was filled both ends by come, salty and all male, the scent of his own spunk filling the room as it hit the

bed.

"Oh, fuck." Big Bad and the Woodsman said it together, voices thick with pleasure.

Red would have echoed the sentiment, but his mouth was, quite handily, full.

Big Bad Rock pulled out of his ass, and Big Dick Woodsman pulled out of his mouth and they settled Little

Red Riding Rig between them. And there he was caught between a rock and a hard place, no chance of

escape.

Which was, my dearies, exactly where a Little Red Riding Rig needed to be.

Just ask his momma.

180

The Natu re of the Be ast By Kara Lars on In the beginning, there was Te Kore, the Nothing. From this Great Nothing, there came darkness and from the darkness came light. Eh, even Ranginui, Father Sky, and Papatuanuku, Mother Earth, were birthed from Te Kore. But you know that. Just as you know that Aotearoa, all of New Zealand and beyond in this world we know, was born in the cradle of Raninui and Papatuanuku's bodies. It was their children, the Gods and Fathers of men, tired of being trapped between, who forced Father Sky and Mother Earth apart, creating this earth below and this arching sky above. Thus, our world was born out of strife and hardship, and something can always come from nothing. This is what the lore tells us, this is what the karakia reminds us of, when we lose our way. You remember Pai, eh? Handsome Pai Poharama they called him, down near Westport town. He lived there with his sisters, his own mother and father died long since. Not many dreams Pai had, not of university, not of marriage. Pai loved his plants best, his bush reserves and gardens and any green living thing that he could coax out of the fragile topsoil. Though he hadn't many cares or worries, leaving those to his eldest sister Marika, he still felt stagnant in his life. For several years, he sent out no new tendrils to try and grow. Until his sister forced her hand and broke Pai apart from his comfortable life… *** Pai gawked up at the fence. He could vaguely hear the sound of his sister's ute as she pulled a three point turn and headed back into town, but that wasn't what caught his attention. It was the fence. And the gate. They weren't wire and wood, like at home. This place was stone-porous limestone, the pinkish granite they had up Karamea-way. And the gate. Black wrought-iron, no rust… They had to be pretty far outta town for him not to notice something like this before. "Mister Kararehe's crib, and this garden that needs your help," Marika'd told him as she shoved him out of the car this morning. Some JAFA most likely, or a rich Pakeha from Wellington or Christchurch who thought it was fun to have hols with the Coasters. "And this is just his crib," he muttered, thin fingers tracing the loops and spirals of the gate. Bright greenery curled over the walls, beckoning him inward. "He's not strapped for cash, eh?" Before he could bring up his hand to ring the bell, the gate opened in front of him. "Fancy too." The gate even clanked shut behind him, which meant that Mister Kararehe never had to worry about the cows or sheep getting out. If he had any. A wide drive (sealed even) led him through a yard that was more bush than garden. The air smelled heavy and damp, like one of the old rimu forests out by Lake Kaniere. No wonder this Mister Kararehe bloke needed someone to take care of the place, since he really did go bush. It wasn't Pai's old dream job with the Department of Conservation by any means, helping to take care of the local reserves and tracks. But it was close enough that he might not resent it-too much. He just wished Marika had asked him about it first before 'volunteering' him for the job-especially one that required him getting up at the sparrow fart. Nothing was worth getting up before dawn. Not that Marika wasn't familiar with hard work. The self-proclaimed matriarch of their family, his oldest sister was trying to single-handedly restore their marae, one of the few actually built on the South Island. And this was after she'd raised her four sibs and got them all through secondary. The woman had to be tired by now, with some of the double shifts and odd jobs she'd taken over those sixteen years. And while he admired her spirit, Marika's plans seemed a little dodgy sometimes. Pai was glad that she sent Kura, the

181

Torqued Tales

brightest of his sisters, off to university in Dunedin. Aroha and Reka, the pretty ones, were married off as soon as they left school, both to good Pakeha men. Pai was pretty sure that their husbands had probably paid a bride price of some kind to Marika. But both were happy, so he couldn't whinge too much. Even if she did have a habit of selling sibs off to the highest bidder in the name of honoring their tipuna. Sometimes she thought too hard with her capital-loving Pakeha half. Which was probably why he was beating down Mister Kararehe's door on his first day as the new gardener. The bush gradually faded into a wide field surrounding Mister Kararehe's crib. The crib-more of a house than the usual rundown holiday shacks he was used to-looked old. Not fairytale old, but not like some of the soulless wood-paneled boxes going up in the new subdivisions. It was stone, for one. The corrugated iron roof was pitched steep to keep the snow from piling up too high-if there was snow-and a pair of gabled windows popped out of the second story, giving the house the look of watching eyes. It reminded him of that little church down in Tekapo, the one dedicated to the lonely Shepard or the lonely dog or whatever mate it was named after. Knowing his sister and her current sympathies, he'd almost expected something less Pakeha and more Maori, but there were no signs of intricately carved dark-stained wood that usually marked a marae. No one in town talked about Mister Karerehe or whoever he was. In fact, Pai couldn't even remember hearing anything about the bloke until Marika mentioned he'd been sentenced there for hard labor. The land was just some old fenced off station up Karamea-way that no one talked about-or cared about, since it wasn't like the land was valuable or historically significant in any sort of way. Pai wasn't even really sure how far from town they were, since he'd slept most of the way here. Pai wasn't sure where to go in, or how to enter, really. The front door didn't magically open by itself, nor did he notice a side path off towards the back of the crib. If it was home, or any of the neighbors' places, he would've just gone in the back door. But here… Brushing his dark hair out of his eyes, he made his way up the narrow steps to the front door. "Act presentable, no snark, no piking out," he repeated to himself, the very words Marika had muttered to him before pushing him out the car door this morning. And with a deep breath, he pushed what looked like the doorbell. He could hear the rusty echo of a disused bell ringing throughout the depths of the house. There was a lumbering tread that approached the door, and the door itself opened. "Enter," a deep voice rumbled, a voice that seemed to go straight to Pai's groin. That was all he needed now-to have an employer with a voice that wiggled his insides like jelly. Pai entered the house, not surprised by the gloom that awaited him. The windows were all covered in heavy drapes that kept the light out, the kind Nandy and Nana Campbell had. There was a vague impression of furniture-heavy, deep chairs; sturdy tables; bookshelves lined with something. He looked around for the man with the voice, but it was hard to see in the dim room. He was vaguely aware of a tall, broad-shouldered shape by the door, but he couldn't make out much more detail than that. "Mister Karerehe?" he asked, setting his bag on the floor. He held out a hand blindly. "I'm Pai Poharama. My sister Marika talked to you about-" He half-expected a strange face to be pressed against his in hongi, but instead, a large, hairy hand, almost a paw, gripped his for a moment. "Haere mai. The garden's out back." Bag back in hand, Pai was shoved through the dark house, into what looked like an old-fashioned kitchen and out into the sunlight once more. He blinked, his eyes almost blinded by the brightness of the rare sunshine. "What-" "Take care of it," Mister Karerehe's voice called from the doorway. And the door slammed behind him, punctuating the abruptness of Mister Karerehe's dismissal.

182

"Stroppy bastard," Pai muttered as he pulled his gumboots and gear out of his pack. Once he got himself situated, he took a look around the garden. Or a gawk, for that matter. It wasn't the kitchen garden he expected, but more bush like the front yard. There was garden, yeah, but it looked as if it hadn't been properly looked after in… "Decades," Pai moaned. Marika would be pleased at least. She'd been moaning about his lack of 'proper' employment for months now. And his other sisters always said they thought she spoiled him rotten anyway. Further exploration of the immediate yard revealed a tipsy old wooden shed, complete with rusting gardening equipment, and what looked like a silted-up ornamental pond of some kind. He could see the remains of what had been an English garden, like the ones in Christchurch that Mum used to tell him about. Beyond that were fallow fields dotted with what looked like a few cows and sheep and more bush…bush as far as the eye could see. Untouched bush, with what looked like rimu and wheki and even kahikatea. It was the same temperate rainforest that he'd grown up with, but here it seemed more…alive. As if the Pakeha had never arrived. As if the Maori themselves had never arrived. He almost expected a moa to come running at him. Almost. Dreams of giant birds aside, Pai took a deep breath. The garden at least looked manageable, since bush was something best left alone. And fields… If Mister Karerehe wanted someone to revive those dying fields, he should've hired one of the young farmers at Westport secondary. Marika hadn't said anything about how long this job was supposed to last, or what he'd (she'd) get paid, but it wasn't really worth worrying over. His sister always got her money's worth, and usually made it right in the end. And worse came to worse, he could always quit. Wouldn't be the first time. With a shrug and a grin, Pai pulled on his giant gardening hat, grabbed a spade, and went to work on bringing the garden back to life. *** Humming to himself, Pai took off his hat and wiped the sweat that dripped down his tanned forehead. He glanced up at the sun, not surprised to find it pretty near straight overhead. He hadn't made much progress in the garden, since there were still meters and meters of weeding to be done before he could even see what might've been planted there, long ago. But there was a difference-or, so he told himself. He walked back toward the house, careful to leave his gumboots sitting on the stone steps. When there was no answer to his knock, he slowly opened the door. "Mister Karerehe? It looked about lunchtime and I-" Marika hadn't exactly packed any food for him before she bundled him out the door. He was lucky he remembered his gumboots. The thought of mud (or worse) between his toes if he had to wear his jandals… Pai shuddered. But there was no response. Leaving the door open to let a little light in, Pai puttered around the oldfashioned kitchen, fumbling until he finally found the fridge. A part of him knew it was wrong to go looking in someone else's fridge, but he was so hungry, and the water in his water bottle was all warm now… There wasn't much in there: bottle of milk, a couple pots of yoghurt, what looked like some beef ribs that Pai would've normally fed to the dog… He was about to reach for a half-buried bottle of some fizzy drink when he felt a large hand clamp down on his shoulder.

183

Torqued Tales

"Can I ask what you might be doing?" a voice rumbled in his ear. The grip on his shoulder squeezed a little tighter. Pai looked at the hand, surprised at how hairy it seemed. How long and claw-like the fingernails seemed… Pai looked over his shoulder, following the furred arm up to the long white shirtsleeve, the thick shoulder, the white-tipped brown mane of hair that seemed to stick up in every direction… …the white-tipped brown ears that sat erect on top of Mister Karerehe's head… Yellow eyes glared at him in the dim light of the kitchen, the muzzle-like mouth of the fierce face drawn tight into a snarl. "I asked what you were doing in here," Mister Karerehe growled again, softer this time. "Kopuwai," Pai breathed, struggling in Mister Karerehe's grip. "You and your pack of dogs are gonna eat me!" He tried to break free, straining against Mister Karerehe's hands on his shoulders. He thought about screaming for his life, but wondered if there was even anyone nearby who would hear him. To his surprise, Mister Karerehe sighed and loosened his grip on Pai's shoulders. "Sit down," the man said, pointing at the table in the half-light of the kitchen. He shut the door before Pai could bolt outdoors, but opened the cracked blinds on the kitchen windows. When Pai made no move toward the kitchen table, Mister Karerehe sighed again. "I won't eat you. I promise. Maori's too gamey for my taste anyway." "Hey!" Pai protested, slumping down in the chair furthest from Mister Karerehe. "My Maori half is just as tasty as my Pakeha half." He eyed Mister Karerehe's rather pointy canine teeth. "Or so I've been told," he smirked. Mister Karerehe's eyebrows (eye ridges?) arched in disbelief. "Oh, really?" he asked, an actual hint of amusement in his voice. "Ephram Colbert thought so," Pai answered in self-defense, wondering why he let those laughing yellow eyes get to him. "And Amiri Campbell and…" And then Mister Karerehe actually laughed. Eyes closed, fur around his eyelids wet, leaning against the door of the fridge hyperventilating dying of laughter. He had a nice laugh, Pai decided. At least he didn't howl like a dog or nothing… "Is that why your sister sent you here? To keep you from hounding the boys of the neighborhood?" Mister Karerehe finally asked, taking a seat across from Pai at the table. He laid out a plate of cheese and cut fruit from the fridge as a peace offering. "Sent me here?" Pai repeated, taking a slice of apple and topping it with a slice of cheese. "Marika said you sent for me-needed me for your garden, eh?" Mister Karerehe didn't answer for a while. Longer than Pai liked, actually. His eyes seemed focused on the plate in between them, his fingernails tip-tapping on the tabletop idly. "Mister Karerehe? Mate?" "There's tinned salmon in the pantry and a loaf of bread in the fridge if you're still hungry," the man said, pushing back from the table. "I'll call you for supper when it's ready." And Pai found himself alone in the dim kitchen, not sure if he fell down a rabbit hole, or a taniwha's den. ***

184

Hard work drove all thought from Pai's mind that afternoon. That included any theories about why Marika had rushed him out to Mister Karerehe's this morning, and if his sister really did know about Ephram or Amiri (or Ephram and Amiri). His sister never said anything about her brother, the authentic Kiwi fruit, or if she even knew he looked at the boys more than he looked at the girls. He'd never mentioned anything to any of his relatives except Joseph, but Joseph was his cuzzy-bro, and that was different. And his bugalugs Joe wouldn't squeal, especially since Pai knew exactly what his cousin got up to each Friday night with Mairi Kane from across town… But he tried not to think about it. He tried to concentrate on the withered remains of the plants that still lay beneath the layers of weeds out in the tangled heart of the garden. There could be kaka beak or rengarenga lilies. Chatham Island forget-me-nots were too much to hope for in the soggy West Coast soil. But still…Pai couldn't even begin to guess what treasures the garden might hold. Just like he couldn't figure out Marika's reason for sending him here. She'd get an earful on the way back home tonight… "C'mon, whaiaapo," he crooned to the stalks as he cleared the weeds around them. "I know you're there, sexy thing. 'S just me, Pai, calling you back to life…" He'd always been good with green things. Didn't like to eat them at all, but touching them, stroking them, loving them… Plants were uncomplicated. It took precision and a certain amount of effort to care from them just right. And if you sweet-talked them a little…you never knew what results you were gonna get. Ephram might've taught him the art and the play of dirty-talk five years ago, but Pai perfected it on his babies-his plants. Before Pai knew it, it was almost dusk. Marika hadn't said anything about when she'd pick him up. Mister Karerehe at least assumed that he'd be there for supper-hopefully not as supper though. The bloke could just have one of those deformity things. There'd been a kid in primary whose left leg came in all stumpy and short, so he had to wear a prosthetic to even him out. Maybe Mister Karerehe was the same way. There was no such thing as dog-headed monsters who hunted with two-headed dog packs anyway, no matter what Kuia Rangi said… "Pai? Supper's on, boy!" Mister Karerehe called out from the kitchen door. "Coming!" Pai replied, gathering up his tools. He dumped everything on the back steps, kicking off his gumboots again before going in. Wonderful smells were coming from the kitchen. At least that meant that Mister Karerehe could cook (food, not people). Mister Karerehe pointed him down a hallway off the kitchen toward the toilet so that he could wash up. Pai was surprised at the presence of the mirror in the bathroom. He'd thought that Mister Karerehe wouldn't want to be reminded of how he looked, since he was a hermit and all that. Maybe he just didn't care. He did have that voice, after all… "Sweet as," Pai breathed as he sat down at the table. He was surrounded by steamed kumara, roasted lamb, pumpkin… Even the veges smelled appetizing. Pai didn't usually eat green things, unless it was lime jelly. "This-you didn't have to do this, Mister Karerehe. Marika could've just bought me takeaways…" Mister Karerehe sat across from Pai, folding his hands in his lap. He looked down briefly, mouth moving as he muttered something under his breath. It sounded almost like some kind of blessing over the food, something Pai vaguely remembered from when Mum and Dad were still alive. Vaguely. Pai fidgeted uncomfortably with his fork and serviette until Mister Karerehe was done, not sure of what else to do with himself. By the time the man was done, Pai's stomach was rumbling loudly in protest at its

185

Torqued Tales

emptiness and the abundance of food in near proximity. When Mister Karerehe began to serve himself, Pai took that as a sign that supper had begun. "You did good work today," Mister Karerehe said as he spooned kumara onto Pai's plate. "Yeah, it was hard yakka," Pai replied around a mouthful of pumpkin. At Mister Karerehe's pointed look, Pai swallowed before speaking again. "That is…" To his surprise, Mister Karerehe looked like he was trying to hide a grin. "I haven't been out of the world that long, tama." Pai bristled at being called 'son', something Mister Karerehe seemed to notice. "I'm sorry. Pai," he corrected. "You have a first name, eh?" Pai spoke up, feeling daring. "I can't keep calling you 'Mister Karerehe' the whole time." A smile flashed across Mister Karerehe's hairy (furry) face. Wasn't so much hair, really, as the short stiff fur that his dog had. "James," he said finally. "Or Hemi, if you prefer." Pai leaned closer in interest. "So you're tangata whenua." He peered at Hemi. "You don't-" He stopped, not wanting his fat mouth to get him in trouble. Again. "Aae, I was born tangata whenua." Hemi closed his eyes and recited in near perfect Maori: Ko Uruao te waka.

Ko Hokitika te awa.

Ko Ngai Tahu te iwi.

Ko Ngati Waewae te hapū.

Ko Hemi Karerehe ahau.

"I wasn't always-I-" The man trailed off. "Eat your supper." Pai tried to concentrate on the food in front of him, but his eyes kept drifting back to Mister Karerehe-Hemi. "If you want to say something, tama-" Hemi half-growled. "I won't bite." The unspoken 'yet' curbed Pai's curiosity a bit more. "Pardon, Mister-Hemi," Pai muttered to his plate. "Did Marika say when she was coming to get me? It's kinda late to start walking back, and…" Hemi's yellow eyes met his, deep and sorrowful. "I’m sorry, Pai," Hemi said softly. "You're staying here now." *** Pai stared up at the ceiling, one arm behind his head as he lay on the bed, the other resting on his stomach. This was his room now, or so Mister Karerehe said. No more 'Hemi' now, not when the arsehole went from 'decent kinda backlands bloke' to 'I am your lord and master until eternity' in one meal. Wasn't a bad roombed, wardrobe, wee little desk thing with a bookshelf attached. Even a window looking out over the garden, just big enough for him to squeeze through if he had to escape. And Marika'd apparently dropped his gear off at some point, traitorous sister that she was. Knowing Marika, Mr. Hemi Karerehe probably had something she wanted, and she'd offered him up in exchange for it. Couldn't offer Mister Karerehe one of

186

the girls, since they're all married off or occupied, but why not offer up the pretty brother in exchange? Randy bugger might not notice the difference, eh? And he might not've minded-so much-if Marika had told him. She'd always been honest with him before (more or less). Mister Karerehe hadn't revealed anything else at supper, just that they'd talk in the morning. When they were thinking clearly. Supper was pretty much over after that. Mister Karerehe had shown him the rest of the house (toilet which he’d already seen, lounge with some books if he ever died of boredom and wanted to read, Mister Karerehe's room) and then pretty much locked him inside. Except the door wasn't locked. Not to his room, at least. To the front and back door, yeah, since Pai'd already rattled those. At least Mister Karerehe looked a bit remorseful about the whole thing. His eyes had almost become puppy like as he showed Pai to his room. His ears had even drooped a little. Almost made Pai want to pat his head and tell him, good dog, yeah, have a biscuit… Almost. Except that the wally was still holding him hostage for the next few days (weeks, months…). Pai flopped on his side, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape. He was twenty years old, for Chrissake. He finished secondary school, might've gone to one of the polytechnics in biology or botany or something if he'd really tried. Might've scored a job at one of the florists or nurseries in town-that one off the main road in Fairdown actually asked Marika about him, or so one of his sisters said. But no, he had to stay in his comfortable life in his comfortable room in their little town out in the wops, no prospects, no ambitions. At least he had freedom then. "Stupid garden," he muttered, throwing his pillow at the wall. At least that was enough to keep him occupied. For years, if he needed. *** Black hair shiny and smooth, tied back in a tight pony tail. Wide cheek bones from his dad's side, long, thin nose from his mum's. At least he hadn't inherited Dad's stick-out ears. Hazel-brown eyes-not too bad. Pai puckered his thin lips at his reflection, blinking his long black eyelashes. His sisters wanted to kill him for his eyelashes. His act was a little rusty now, especially after two years of just working on plants. That didn't mean that it wasn't worth a shot. Except Mister Karerehe gave him a wary look as Pai came down for breakfast a while later. He was ready for work, even if his bush shirt actually looked pressed and his hair was neatly tied back for once. His gumboots were hopefully still on the back steps, proof to Mister Karerehe that he hadn't run off in the night. "I-" Mister Karerehe started as he put corn flakes, muesli and toast out on the table. Pai held up his hand. "Please." Grabbing a bowl, he fixed himself some cereal, dumping some tinned peaches over the top. His cow of a sister must've squealed to Mister Karerehe about what he liked to eat. Maybe that's why there was kumara and pumpkin at supper last night. Breakfast passed in silence. At least this morning, some windows had been opened, so there was actual light in the room. Pai sneaked a peak at his jailer every now and then, and the man looked miserable. More than miserable, actually.

187

Torqued Tales

"You could let me go," Pai muttered to his bowl. "You don't have to keep me here. Or at least let me go home to sleep. I promise I'll come back every morning." Mister Karerehe sighed. "It doesn't work like that, tama. It can't work like that. It's not-" He trailed off, sounding frustrated. "It isn't a deal I made with your sister, eh? It's…complicated." Pai snorted. "They always say it's complicated when they don't want to tell you." "Pai, it's not-" Mister Karerehe-Hemi-groaned. "You won't believe me." "Try me," Pai challenged, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "Spin me a nice bullshit yarn, just like Marika did." "Dammit, Pai, you have no idea!" Mister Karerehe roared, his yellow eyes dangerous. "No idea what I messed with, and what you're involved in now! Damn your sister for the same curiosity that got me." Hemi pushed back from the table, slamming his chair against the kitchen wall. He banged the dishes together as he rinsed them in the sink, slopping water all over the worn tile floor. Pai could feel the tension rising in the small room even as he watched the tension in Hemi's broad shoulders and the tight muscles of his back. "I wasn't born like this," Hemi muttered to Pai, or to no one in particular. "I was born like you." "Toingo?" Pai asked out of curiosity. Hemi barked out a laugh. "Maybe not as obvious as you nowdays, but yes, toingo too." The sound of water from the faucet filled the silence again as Hemi washed the dishes. "You know the story. Never knew my dad. Know he was Maori, and in jail, not much more than that. Mum was Pakeha-hooked up with Dad rebelling against Gran, but when Dad spent most of his time in jail and not taking care of his own kid..." Hemi shrugged. "She died young. My grannie raised me, hating me the whole time. She was too British to be Pakeha, even though she came here with my grandfather years ago. Too…" "Foreign?" Pai suggested. Hemi looked at Pai, giving him a slight smile. "Foreign, eh? Condescending, maybe. Not just to her little brown grandson. To anyone living here, in the Commonwealth, and not from Mother England." "Nandy Campbell," Pai said with a grin. "My gramps is just like that, 'cept he's never even been barking close to his Old Country." Hemi picked up a tea towel, tossing it at Pai. "Here, make yourself useful." Pai dutifully took up the towel and began to dry the dishes that sat in the drainer by the sink. "As I was saying, I was never about the tangata whenua-not like you did. Never learned the language, never knew my whakapapa." He shot Pai a look. "You can probably recite yours to fifteen generations." "Further," Pai admitted, blushing. "Marika's…obsessed like that." There was a snort from Hemi before he continued. "So I went to university. And studied. And spoke to people. People who knew, eh? Got a job as an archeologist, studying Maori sites on the South Island here. An old lady-a maakutu, I think-hinted at something powerful being buried around here. She didn't tell me it was tapu land."

188

Pai's eyes widened. Tapu meant- "So Papa cursed you," he said slowly, not sure if he believed it. Then again, he was also having a conversation with a man who looked like a dog. Hemi shrugged. "Papatuanuku, Rongo, Tangaroa. Could've been the spirit of Pele, brought over in the original waka for all I know." At Pai's blank look, he just shook his head. "I went caving. I fell in where I wasn't supposed to. Broke my leg, thought I was going to die. Found what I wasn't supposed to. Except I managed to find my way out, and I looked like-" He stared down at his huge hand, furred and clawed as a lion's or a bear's. Pai wasn't sure what to say. Part of him couldn't believe it, as much as Marika had schooled him in respect for the ancestors and the spirits of Aotearoa. But part of him… "Karerehe-is that supposed to be a joke?" Another bark of laughter from Hemi. "If it was, tama… The spirits have a sense of irony, eh? Kaao, my father's surname was 'Beast'. From a long line of beasts." Hemi's face looked pained. "So that's my story, Pai. God’s truth as I know it." *** It was the fifth day before Pai finally realized that the food in the fridge had been replenished. "You've been to town!" Pai accused at lunch that day. Hemi blinked his great yellow eyes at Pai in surprise. "Pardon?" "The food. In the fridge. There's more of it," Pai said, pointing to the new jug of milk and fresh eggs. "You were born in the twentieth century, tama. Haven't you heard of home delivery?" Hemi asked mildly, turning the pages of the paper. It was a week-old Dominion, straight down from Wellington. "Foodtown in Westport delivers on Wednesdays up this way for an extra $15.00. Worth it, if it means I can have my peace and quiet." Pai restrained himself from sticking his tongue out, but he came close. "So you don't go into town then?" Hemi gave Pai a pained look. "Because everyone would welcome me in town, of course," he answered sarcastically. "They might even grant me a key to the town, as if I was some celebrity instead of a freak of nature." "Not a freak," Pai said softly. Hemi looked at him in surprise. In spite of his numerous thoughts of escape, he did have a soft feeling in his heart for Mr. Beast, jailer that he was. Stockholm syndrome, he thought it was called. "Milk comes from the cows. Most of 'em are for beef, but a few are milked every morning." Hemi waved vaguely toward the fields out beyond the bush. "Eggs from the chickens-you've seen them scattered about, almost as witless as you are." Pai made a face. "Orchard's been dying for years-that's what you're here for, Pai. And everything else-that's what the internet is for." Pai considered that for a little while as he chewed on a bite of toastie. "That how Marika found you?" he asked, his mouth full. Hemi gave him a pointed look. Pai swallowed and started again. "Marika's always on the internet, except when the connection goes down in town." Hemi shifted uncomfortably-kind of funny to watch in a man of his size. "I consult sometimes on the message boards: history, archeology, traditions. Your sister had a question about that project of hers…" 189

Torqued Tales

"The marae," Pai groaned. "Her sole love in life." "Your sister sacrificed a lot for you," Hemi chided gently. "Did you know she gave up university to look after you and your sisters?" Pai stared at Hemi. "What do you mean?" "I wasn't quite at university yet, your parents' accident made all the papers down here. Even in down in Hokitika," Hemi said quietly. "The articles mentioned the five children they left behind-Marika, on her way to Otago to study archeology, three little girls, and a toddler named Pai." Pai fidgeted with his toastie, suddenly not hungry anymore. He looked up at Hemi, not sure if he could handle the amount of sorrow he could read in the yellow eyes and down-turned ears. "So you've been here a while then," Pai said, trying to keep his tone light. "Fifteen years," the Beast sighed. "Fifteen years…" *** It wasn't a bad life. Now that he knew that Hemi was on the Web, he could at least keep in touch with his family. Marika seemed to be doing fine, badgering councils and government officials left and right, even applying to the Lottery Grants Board to get the money she needed for the restoration and research. His other sisters, sweet as they were, never had much to say. But they were all proud of him, finally moving out on his own. "Too bad it wasn't voluntary," Pai muttered as he replied to one of Aroha's emails. He couldn't help missing them, though. Even though Kura was away at Otago, his other sisters often stopped by the house to keep him and Marika company. He wasn't used to the silence of Hemi's house. He never thought he'd miss the ceaseless chatter of his sisters' voices. Kura at least had something interesting to say. She'd heard of Hemi Karerehe-promising Maori scholar, became a bit of a recluse after some kind of an accident out near Oparara years back. Which at least pinpointed where he was, since Hemi didn't exactly allow him out of the wall. If he was up as high as the Karamea bluff, then there was no way he could tramp back to town-not unless he wanted to spend a couple days doing it, and at that point, his friendly Beast would have undoubtedly caught up with him. Not that he wanted to leave, exactly. The gardens were flourishing now. In the past month, he'd cleared out almost all of the weeds, sweet-talking the few plants that were left back into life. They were coming into autumn, so he wouldn't see the best results of his work until spring, but there were still valiant little signs of life. It wasn't all gardening. Hemi, seeing a supposed lack in Pai's education, decided to give Pai his own version of a university course. Apparently in his youth, Hemi'd done quite a bit of work for DOC, something Pai still dreamed of. The bush that bordered on Hemi's land had quite a few forgotten tracks, some tapu, that Pai was forbidden to go anywhere near, but heaps and heaps of short walks. Part of the broadening of Pai's Aotearoa education included identifying birds that he'd always taken for granted: the agile little fantail, the family of stodgy brown weka that liked to fight with each other, even the odd kiwi when they went tramping at night. The animals, bird and mammal alike, didn't seem frightened of Hemi at all. Hemi, for all his size, seemed pretty gentle with them, using his capable hands to feed them and smooth their feathers as he did to cook in the kitchen at night. 190

That was one lesson that Pai always failed-cooking. Luckily, since he proved to be decent at dishwashing, Hemi didn't seem to care. His Beast seemed glad of the company-glad for someone to talk to after all these years. Which made Pai wonder how long it had been since Hemi heard a voice other than his own. "Why don't you ring people?" Pai asked one evening as they headed inside for supper. "You've got a phone line here. 'S not like you can't just pick up the phone and dial out." "You lose your anonymity when you ring someone," Hemi said after a while, staring out at the setting sun. "It's easier, online. Easier to pretend that you're someone you're not. That you're-" "Normal?" Pai supplied. Hemi didn't say anything, just gave kind of a reluctant shrug in reply. "Can't youy'know, break the curse? If you found a maakutu once, someone should know one now. Maybe Marika-" "The curse can't be broken," Hemi growled, a low warning rumble that Pai hadn't heard in weeks. "Leave it be." And he stormed off. "Well, don't throw a wobbly about it," Pai muttered to Hemi's retreating back. "I was just trying to help." *** There were times when Pai wondered why he didn't just call someone: his sisters, any of his cousins, even the police back in Westport. Hemi didn't have a car, but that didn't mean that Pai couldn't walk back to town, if he planned it carefully enough. The wall around the property wasn't that high, even if the bush out back seemed to go on forever. All it took was one email to his sisters, one hint that he was in any kind of danger… Except he wasn't. Hemi, for all his claws and fangs, was as big a sook as they came. He never named his cows or sheep so that he'd never associate them with pets. The animals themselves were hauled out by the butcher at some hidden gate when it came time, and the meat itself was delivered to Hemi's front step in a neat package. The wild birds, who should've been fending for themselves according to DOC, all ate out of the palm of Hemi's thick paws. And when Hemi occasionally read to Pai in the evenings (gardening essays, tramping memoirs, Maori history), there were times when Pai swore he saw Hemi's great yellow eyes shine with tears. Yeah, Hemi could strop with the best of them, but all Pai could see was this lonely bloke who'd been cheated of half his life-no lovers, no loved ones, no companionship. "Ever had a partner?" Pai asked one night as he lay in front of the fire in the lounge. It was cold now that winter was setting in, which meant that most of their evenings were spent together, like this. "A partner?" Hemi looked at Pai over the edge of his book. "Long ago, yeah. Since this-" Hemi waved vaguely at his face "no. Not in a long time." Hemi'd admitted (or lied once) about being gay. It wasn't something that people had a huge problem with anymore, even if they did assume that when you said 'partner', you meant 'long-time girlfriend and hey, maybe we'll get married someday'. It felt like ages since Pai'd bonked anyone. He didn't miss the casualness of it-hadn't really felt like a good fuck since Ephram, even if his best friend was his own hand now. But he could understand the loneliness, the lack of connection, the "Companionship," Pai said suddenly, staring at the ceiling. "It's not even giving your ferret a run. It's touching someone. And being touched…" He looked over at Hemi, who was examining his claws. "Can't touch too many people with these, eh?" Hemi said, holding his hand out in the firelight. 191

Torqued Tales

Pai scooted closer to Hemi's armchair, reaching up until he caught one of Hemi's hands in his. Palm to palm, Hemi's fingers extended a good seven centimeters passed Pai's. And Hemi's palm alone could almost cradle Pai's whole hand. He touched the claw gently, feeling the tip with his finger. Hemi kept them blunted, just in case he tore a page in a book or shred the sheets on accident. Pai guessed there'd been a lot of that, in the beginning. Not that Hemi ever talked about the beginning. "Your hand feels like anyone else's," Pai said softly, turning Hemi's palm over in his hand. Through the short, fine hairs on the palm, Pai could still trace Hemi's lifeline. The lines of the palm themselves could almost be seen in the grain of the hair. Pai cupped Hemi's hand against his cheek, looking up at his Beast . "You feel human. Like a man." Still holding Hemi's hand to his face with one hand, Pai used the other to trace a path up Hemi's clothed thigh. He could feel the corded muscles, tense and tight, shudder under his touch. "I'm sorry it's been this long, Hemi. I'm sorry-" His fingers reached the junction of thigh and hip, tracing lightly over the obvious swell of Hemi's cock, just as sizeable as the rest of him. "I-" Hemi pushed Pai away, wildness in his yellow eyes. "You don't understand," Hemi growled, cowering on the other side of the room. "You can't-" Hemi shook his head. "You're leaving tomorrow." And with that, the door to the lounge slammed behind him, leaving Pai to stare at the door, absolutely clueless about whatever had happened. *** Pai lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. In just hours, Marika would be on her way to pick him up. She'd yelled into the phone when Hemi rung earlier, accusing Pai of ruining her plans, arsing up as he always did, and couldn't he just do something right for once? It made Pai wonder exactly what Hemi's side of the exchange was-how much Marika was risking for her little brother's life. But Hemi couldn't send him away if Pai couldn't be found… It was a stupid idea, since Hemi'd proven time and time again that his sense of smell was just as good as a dog's. And Hemi knew the bush far better than anyone else did. But if Pai could stall for just a few hours, at least long enough for Marika to get fed up and go home… He packed his backpack quickly, tossing his hat and jersey on top of some buns and fruit he'd pinched from the kitchen. He filled his water bottle up at the sink before heading out. It was black as bloody hell outside, but Pai knew the garden well enough that he could get across it without using his torch too soon. It was in the bush where it would get tricky. He hadn't made it far when he heard the first sounds of footsteps behind him. If Hemi was that close, there was no point in trying to be stealthy. Pai picked up his pace, moving through the bush at a quick trot. His torch wasn't much use, barely giving him warning of trees in his way. He'd given up following the track, figuring that would only make it easier for Hemi to follow him. Even if it wasn't so much running as stumbling now, ducking branches, ferns slapping him in the face. One branch clonked him in the head, but Pai kept going. He wasn't sure how far he'd gone, or if it was even far enough. The crashing sounds behind him seemed like they'd stopped, but all he could hear was the buzzing in his ears of bugs, or crickets, or his own wheezing.

192

Then his foot caught on a rock, and he was falling, and the rocks were coming up to meet him. He rolled and rolled down the incline, coming up to face the glowing stars of the night sky. Their light was greenish and faint, seeming not far above his head. But the stars themselves started swimming, and then they faded… *** "Whaiaipo," the voice murmured, a hand gently stroking his hair back. "Come back to me, taane. Beauty.

Sunshine and bringer of joy into my life again…"

"Wha-" Pai started, struggling to sit up. An arm restrained him against a warm, solid chest. His head was

pounding, his left leg on fire. "Hemi?"

"Here, love," Hemi murmured. Pai felt a mouth touch the tender part of his head. "Here." And his neck.

Pai tried to curl into Hemi, getting closer to the warmth, but it hurt too much. "Don't send me away," he

muttered into Hemi's arm, all he could reach of his Beast. "Don't-"

Hemi laughed, that harsh bark of laughter. "I can't send you away, Pai. We're stuck."

It took Pai a moment to realize what Hemi meant. Somehow, he'd fallen in one of those limestone caves that

ran below so much of the west coast. It wasn't the stars he'd fallen into, it was a colony of glowworms, dangling their phosphorescent droppings as bait for flies and other bugs in the caverns. Hemi'd taken him in one, shown him some of the moa bones and remains of other animals that'd fallen in over the years. Pai began to panic. "We're gonna die down here, aren't we? Like the moa-" Hemi's hand stroked his hair, his cheek. "Shh, Pai. We aren't. We'll find our way out of here. I swear. Somehow." There was a dry chuckle. "I know this cave, taane. This is the tapu one. The one I fell in. Then." Pai fumbled for his torch, relieved to find that it hadn't broken. He shone the beam of light on the walls, surprised to find them covered in faded glyphs, drawings that looked like "Waka!" He could trace the outline of a prow painted on the wall, intricate swirls like the carvings outside Marika's whare. Hemi's hand guided Pai's torch beam to the left, where it fell upon something else entirely. The waka itself. Pai inhaled sharply. "Hemi, is that-" he whispered, afraid to say it too loudly. If this place was tapu, then… "Aae," Hemi replied, his voice just as hushed. "One of the waka that brought our people here from Hawaiiki." Pai traced the outline of the double-hulled canoe with his torch, still relatively well-preserved in the damp of the cave. It had to be at least a thousand years old, if the dates on any of the whakapapa were right. But even if they weren't… "That's what Marika wants, isn't it?" Pai asked, a shiver running down his spine. "That's what she traded me

for. The waka."

"The knowledge of it," Hemi corrected. "I told her it was tapu, told her the circumstances of the curse-"

Pai winced in pain, turning back toward Hemi. "What circumstances? What did the spirits curse you with?"

193

Torqued Tales

"Guardianship," Hemi said finally. "I was too curious, and I found what I wasn't supposed to find. Instead of trusting in my elders, I shunned my hapu and my iwi to further my own ends. Alone. So they shaped me into a guardian, to keep it safe until the knowledge died with me." Pai shone the torch beam on his legs, not surprised to see the large rocks he was pinned under. "So it dies here with us," he muttered. "Because I decided to make a run for it like the sprog I am." He nudged Hemi with his shoulder. "You can still get out. You got out before." In the light of the torch, Hemi shook his head. "Didn't work that way last time. One minute, I was in the same position as you. The next, I was back up top, at the back of the house, and voices were talking to me…" "You didn't build the house?" Pai asked, gritting his teeth as the fierce pain in his legs returned. "Some other guardian did." Hemi's canine teeth shone white in the darkness. "Somehow I feel like the tuupuna have pulled this trick before." A cackle echoed throughout the cavern, startling Pai. "You always knew too much, Hemi Karerehe," a voice hissed. "But you aren't the first. And you won't be the last." Hemi groaned. "Did I mention the voice? Pai, love, meet the voice…" Pai had a sudden panic about how to hongi a bodiless voice when the voice cackled again. "He's a pretty one, Hemi Karerehe. I will give you that." The voice sounded more and more like an old woman-almost like Pai's dodgy old Kuia Rangi. "Would you give me something else, then?" Hemi challenged. "The boy wasn't looking for this. Not like I was. He stumbled on what he didn't understand. At least release him." "This place is tapu. You knew it was tapu. You told him it was tapu. That excuses nothing," the old woman replied in a chastising tone. Just like Kuia Rangi when she scolded. Pai thought a moment. "Eh, Kuia, Hemi's the guardian of this place, yeah?" The old woman's voice was cautious as it answered. "Aae, tama. He was the moment he first broke the sacredness of this land." "So it was already broken by the time I got here, eh? Unless Hemi did some magic ritual to bless it sacred again," Pai continued, hoping the ploy worked. "We could do it now, if you want. He's got this great manuka honey wine that he just bottled-" "Ritual?" The voice sounded puzzled. "The children of the tribes have touched this place for generations. How can one man make it sacred again?" "Cleanse the wahi tapu of the impurities," Pai answered matter-of-factly. Marika'd studied this for months a few winters back. He hoped he remembered the right phrase. "Toitu he kianga; whatungarongaro he tangata." "People are transient things but the land endures?" Hemi repeated. "What-" Pai elbowed him in the gut. "My sister Marika specializes in this knowledge, Kuia," he added. "We don't have a full circle of kaumatua, but my sister Marika likes to think she's the elder for the whole iwi." 194

There was a pause, as if the old woman spirit was considering it. "Tell me about this sister of yours…" ***

"I can't believe you're dragging me down here," Marika muttered as she and Hemi made their way into the cavern. Hemi cradled Pai in his arms, Pai's battered legs still not quite up to the journey. "There's someone we have to introduce you to," Pai said, grinning up at Hemi. Hemi grinned back. This descent was a lot easier than Pai or Hemi's first attempt. Pai didn't mind Hemi's arms around him either, but that might've been the painkillers Hemi and Marika shoveled down his throat once Hemi got him back to the house. His sister'd almost been beside herself, not to mention how pissed-off she'd been at having to wait on the two of them. ("I thought you were going to keep my brother in one piece!" she'd shrieked from the front steps, as soon as she saw Hemi carrying Pai through the bush. And it had gone downhill from there.) Once they got to the bottom, Marika turned to them expectantly. "So? Who's this great person that I'm supposed to meet?" "Kia ora, Kuia!" Pai called out into the cavern with a grin. "Allow me to present my sister. Her canoe is Uruao. Her river is the Buller. Her tribe is the Ngāti Māmoe, her sub-tribe the Ngati Huirapa. Her name is Marika Poharama. Marika, this is Kuia Papatuanuku. She has a little ritual she needs you to do…" *** Pai sat in Hemi's lap in the large chair by the fire. He stroked the fine hairs around Hemi's face with one hand, the other tightly laced in both of Hemi's. "Why'd you push me away last night?" Pai asked, yawning. Hemi's hands squeezed Pai's. "Because you're a pup and I'm an old dog-too old for your tricks," Hemi replied, his voice rumbling in his chest. "And I'm the only other man you've seen for months now." "Not ugly," Pai said, his hand running through Hemi's stiff brown mane of hair. "Unique. Different." The great yellow eyes focused on his, especially as Pai brought his face closer and closer to Hemi's. "Beautiful. In and out." His hand trailed down Hemi's chest and lap, squeezing the hardening cock. "Especially out." He laughed as Hemi groaned. Except the groaning didn't sound randy, it sounded…painful. "Hemi?" Hemi's eyes rolled back in his head, his body beginning to shake. "Hemi!" Pai slid to the floor, his hands clutching Hemi's seizing legs. "Don't you do this to me now. Don't you do this to me!" And there was more light, and someone screaming in pain, and Pai's hands and battered legs were on fire again until the darkness -faded away, leaving the soft light of the fire, Pai in his heap on the floor, and the large body collapsed in the chair. Pai crawled to the chair, clamboring up on his knees. "Hemi?" He shook Hemi's arm, thankful that the limb was warm. At Hemi's smooth wrist, he could feel the faint beat of a pulse, getting stronger and stronger andSmooth?

195

Torqued Tales

Pai straddled Hemi's lap, ripping open Hemi's shirt to reveal a hairy chest-as hairy as any normal man's, dark tufts of hair gathering in a trail down Hemi's brown skin, leading to a wiry patch of… "Pai?" His voice was softer now, still rumbling from deep in his chest, but…human. "Whaiaipo, what-" Pai ran his fingers over the broad planes of Hemi's smooth face: the wide, flat cheeks, the full mouth, the up turned nose. Smoothed Hemi's thick brown hair back-brown as a white-tipped mane had once been, framing his face. "Beauty," Pai whispered. "Beauty in her Beast." Hemi's hand came up to follow Pai's, tracing over his face as if he hadn't felt it before. Not in fifteen years. Hemi's eyes, still the same fierce yellow, spilled over with tears, Hemi's huge hands clasping Pai to his chest. "Oh, love," he whispered over and over again. "Oh, love." Hemi's hands, gentle as they had always been, wiped the wetness around Pai's eyes away. Traced the path of tears down to Pai's lips, covering them with his own. They kissed, breathing each other’s breath, broke apart. Hongied, forehead and nose pressed to forehead and nose. "Something we should've done a long time ago," Hemi croaked. "Hongi?" Pai asked, his voice breaking. Hemi laughed, no longer a bark or a soft roar. "Aae, hongi," he answered, through laughter and tears. "And more of this…" And his mouth found Pai's again, tasting as if he'd never get tired of it. As if he'd never tasted before. Or hadn't, in fifteen years… Hemi's large hands fumbled at Pai's shorts, tugging at the button fly. "Why isn't-" Hemi muttered, staring at his hands. "Yesterday…" Pai grinned, leaning back in Hemi's lap to help his Beast out with Pai's fly. "Yesterday, your claws could've shredded them apart?" he finished, making quick work of Hemi's trousers. Dropping to his knees on the floor (and wincing all the way), his hands found Hemi's cock soon enough. "No underdugers? Mister Karerehe, I'm impressed." He took Hemi's erection in one hand, leaning over to give it a quick taste. "Very impressed," he growled, doing his best impression of Hemi's low, throaty voice. Hemi rumbled back in response, the moan beginning deep in his chest. "Pai, please," he gasped, thrusting forward to meet Pai's mouth again. Pai bobbed his head up and down, scraping his teeth gently over Hemi's cock. He teased the foreskin with his tongue, tracing the veins that stood out against the sensitive brown skin. "Aae, love," he said, tracing Hemi's foreskin lightly with one finger. "Let me show you why Ephram and Amiri had such wonderful things to say about Pai Poharama…" And then Pai swallowed Hemi cock-first, Hemi howling his love to the ancestors like the Beast he was. *** "So you really are a Kiwi fruit," Pai said later as they stretched out in front of the fire, enjoying the heat on their bare bodies. Hemi's laughter rumbled out from his deep chest. "I'd forgotten how much of a fruit I was," he answered, a sly grin turning up the corners of his mouth. "Maybe you can remind me." Hemi's hand found Pai's already hardening cock, stroking it as gently as if it had been one of his weka. 196

Pai moaned into Hemi's neck. "For as long as you want," he said softly. "For as long as you want.

197

Torqued Tales

Happy Wheneve r Afte r By Dallas Colem an Once upon a time is how those stories start, isn’t it?

Once upon a time in a land, far, far away?

Fuck, yes, that’s how they start, and we all know how they fucking end, don’t we?

You bet your bippy we do.

Of course, I don’t fucking know what once upon a time means, so how the hell am I supposed to start with

it? How the fuck am I supposed to make this motherfucker make sense?

Okay, look. Let’s just do this the easy way.

I’m ugly.

No, no. Don’t go there. I’m not a little off. I’m not interesting or fascinating or any shit like that.

I’m fucking ugly.

I got the whole package – my momma? She was one of them handsome city broads, and my daddy? Well,

don’t even momma know about him for sure. All we know is that I’m a big ole boy with one brown eye and one blue one. I got a Roman nose and hair like a mop when there’s hair there, which there ain’t ‘cause I might be ugly, but I was raised right, you know? Anyway, so I’m ugly and I ain’t gonna say I never cared about it, because I ain’t a liar, but I sorta got used to it, really, the way folks would stop and stare.

When I finished all the schoolin’ I reckoned I’d need, I headed uptown, figuring there was a lot of them

educated fellers up there and they had lots of shit to stare at, so’s I’d be damn near normal.

Boy, howdy, lemme tell you what. I was so fuckin’ wrong it wasn’t funny. You see, I started hanging at the docks, but them boyos? They weren’t wantin’ no fag to be casting eyes on their heinies. Then I headed to the Bowery, which… well. No. Just no. See this here scar? Trust me on this one. It’s bad ju-ju.

Then I headed uptown, to the hustlers and the twinks and, Lord, Lord, I tried me a little of this and a little of

that and a whole lot of this one pair of sweet boys that loved my wallet and didn’t mind climbing me like a

jungle gym on Wednesday night.

Frick and Frack were just about as pretty as a Sunday pie supper and, from the get-go, seemed twice as

sweet.

But honey, lemme tell you, under them flaky crusts and shiny pie plates? There was salt hiding in them

berries ‘stead of sugar.

198

It took a while – longer than you’d think because even a fairly smart man can get real lonesome. Still, I knew which way that old wind blew and it didn’t take but one or two times of someone ‘borrowin’’ my wallet or ‘needin’’ something and forgetting to ask this good ole boy that I started thinking about giving up on flying with the pretty-pretties. One Wednesday night I came up to the bar to see Frick and Frack huddled about with a few of their twink friends – I tell you what, the eyeliner and hairspray alone was enough to give a man the willies. I scooted up, intending to give my boys a surprise. What I heard… well, I wasn’t surprised, really, but I wasn’t fucking tickled pink, either. “…you two making enough money with Mr. Tall, Dark and Hideous to make it worth your while?” “Yeah, aren’t you two scared that the ugly’ll rub off?” “And he’s so coarse and big and…” Frick grinned, the look sorta like a jack o’ pumpkin in the club’s light. “Look, guys, he may be ugly, but he’s loaded.” Frack nodded. “And he’ll do until the other guy we’re grooming comes alone. The new one’s much more presentable.” “Mmhmm. A doctor.” The bevy of twinks sort of fluttered and flailed. Assholes. Hell, if I’m gonna be honest? I give up on the whole big-city thing. It didn’t take me long afore I was toodling south. I wandered through the Carolinas, got drunk with some moonshiners and wound up nekkid and tattooed with a pair of fuzzy dice on my belly. We had a real good time, them and me, but I couldn’t get used to that poison in a jug, and there’s only so many times a man can be called a lightweight. Hell, there’s only so much skin even a guy my size has. South Carolina had them beaches and a bunch of preppy little boys in Polo shirts and khaki pants and, I gotta say, none of them looked on me with favor, good ink or not. I did get an alley blow job from a little twink who’d been crying over some football player gone straight and I spent an evening on his sofa, covered in a blanket that cost more than I make in a month, looking at chunks of glass called art that seemed real good at gathering dust. Then I hit Alabama, drank some brown sugar water they called iced tea with a pair of sweet, sweet lovers, both of them tanned and pressed and perfect. Steve and Rob, they were – both of a size and just as prissy as you please. Steve dusted more in a week than my momma had in twenty years and Rob? Shit, that son of a bitch shit roses and bled champagne, complete with cork and bubbles.

199

Torqued Tales

It was enough to make a man feel damned rough around the edges, like a water buffalo in Miss Daisy’s china shop. Still, I spent the autumn there, rubbing between their two perfect bodies, listening to the way my skin rasped against men that were waxed and buffed, moisturized and sculpted. Sculpted. It was a long, long way from the lump of coal I was. You know, don’t you? I couldn’t no more stay than I could turn into a tie-wearing, loafer-buying man who had a charge account at Williams-Sonoma. Soon as the weather turned, I hit the motherfucking road. Headed west through Kentucky. Tennesee. Illinois. Iowa. You know how fucking cold it is in Iowa? You have any fucking idea what it feels like? Riding your Harley in the middle of a fucking blizzard? I do. Shit. So, there I was, frozen, gray, shivering under a bridge and waiting for the snow to let up a second when a semi truck passed me, knocking me damned near out of my boots. Bastard. Asshole. I landed on the shoulder, got myself a face-full of blown snow when the semi pulled to a stop, yards ahead of me. Pissed as I was, I got to my feet, fucking determined to either kill the fuckhead or be killed. Either way, it’d warm my happy ass up. The son of a bitch that headed my way was build like a brick shit house, broad as he was tall, muddy green eyes and wild black hair that went everywhichways. “Dude! Shit! You okay?” I stared, blinking through the snow (that was still fucking falling, big fat flakes that stuck to my eyelashes and made me blink and I know I must’ve looked like a big fucking girl). “Do I look fucking okay?” Them mossy eyes looked over me, over my leathers and my face, my package and my boots, then the asshole nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you do. You look fucking okay, son.” If this was a fucking buddy movie (or one of them wicked-assed Kung Fu movies), me and Walter (his name is Walter, you know, Walter Dalton, certified to drive haz-mat and employed by Walton Industries out of Waco) would have kicked the living shit out of each other, ended up with bruises and broken noses and then got ourselves shitfaced and shared shit about our feelings. If this was one of them girlie movies, we’d have pushed and blustered and some chick with big boobies would have come to distract us. If it was a damn art film, we’d’ve learned shit about ourselves. As it was, Walt helped me get my bike into his empty trailer, offered me a cigarette and a thermos of coffee and we headed south. By Kansas, we’d worked out that whole ‘we’re both queer’ thing. By Oklahoma, I was sucking his dick like I was a Hoover and he was singing my praises like Mahalia Jackson at a tent revival.

200

By Texas, we were pretty sure I wasn’t really gonna get off and ride away for a long while and he was introducing me to his buddies at the truck stop. Walt searched each and every square inch of my body, licking tattoos and scars and shit like I was a map and he was hunting buried treasure. The stupid son of a bitch says he likes the way I’m put together – from the muscles to the mis-matched eyes. Bastard even likes shaving my head. There’s a group of us that hangs – me and Walt, Hershell, little Rick, Pablo, them hairy little Greek twins – and don’t nobody worry about whether my shirt matches my jeans or any of that shit. Walt sure as shit don’t care, so long as my jeans is tight. Walt says there ain’t a sight finer than my ass in Levis. Hell, in Dallas? Walt actually puffed up and snarled at a big-assed leather daddy for looking too close. At me. Me. So, now we got ourselves a little trailer and I go on the road and drive double with him. We got a comfy, ratty assed sofa, a collection of John Wayne movies and a year subscription to satellite radio. We’re thinking of welding a smoker to the front of the rig next spring. I reckon that works for me. Reckon it works for Walt, too. Once upon a time is how these goddamn stories start, you know, and I still ain’t sure what the fuck that means, but I do know about that last bit. You know the part, the good part. That happy whenever after part. That part, me and Walt, that part we know.

201

Torqued Tales

Loc ks of Love By Jordan C astillo Price My pager buzzed at my hip, and the readout showed its usual three digits, 911. That’s the ‘emergency’ code used by my employer, A-1 Lockout. It’s melodramatic, if you ask me. I don’t actually deal with any life or death emergencies, but I figured I’d just generate a lot of hostility in the workplace by pointing that out. If someone standing on their doorstep an extra few minutes because they’d slammed the door shut with their keys on the coffee table was A-1’s idea of an emergency, then fine. I’d call it an emergency. Fireman. Trauma surgeon. Police officer. Locksmith. Nope. I still wasn’t convinced that my line of work dealt with any actual emergencies. The page routed me to an overpriced shopping district, and I found the customer: a thirty-something woman in a cotton candy pink running suit, doing a rain dance around her minivan. I pulled up behind her, got out of the car, and greeted her professionally. Meaning, with as little disgust as I could manage to convey. “Name’s Hal. You needed a locksmith?” “Finally! I called over an hour ago. My baby’s locked in the car and she’s dying of carbon monoxide poisoning.” The car was running with her kid strapped in the car seat, wailing away, red-faced. I would’ve been a little more concerned about the carbon monoxide poisoning if the baby had been asleep. Oh. And it had only been about twenty-five minutes, half an hour, tops. I’d come as soon as the office paged me, and they’re always on top of these things. If I were able to teleport, I wouldn’t be working for A-1 Lockout, I can tell you that much. I ignored the frantic woman and focused on her car door instead. I kept a couple of tools with me because I’ve figured out that people get spooked when they realize that I’m not using mechanical means to open their doors, but when they think I’ve done it with the aid of a screwdriver, they’re all smiles. Not that I’m a threatening guy or anything. Sure, I’m big, but it’s more the idea that I could use my talent to maybe break into their houses that makes people nervous. So I play the part of the handyman to the hilt in the navy workpants and the matching jacket with ‘Hal’ embroidered over the pocket. And being an average guy with an average talent, wearing a uniform suited me just fine. Most people also don’t suspect that we mechanical types might be gay, and that also suited me just fine. I’m a very private person. Pink Running Suit Mom had a top-of-the-line minivan, and its alarm system could rattle four city blocks. That’s what the driver’s side door told me, anyway. I stuck the pneumatic wedge into the seal of the door and gave it a few pumps. I stroked the door as I fiddled, persuading it to open. I used to argue with doors-not out loud, but in my head. Do you want to listen to that brat screaming all day? Do you want the crazy lady in pink to keep yanking on your handle? But doors, they don’t have the same kind of logic as people. And over the years, I’ve figured out that all you’ve gotta do is ask ‘em nice.

202

The driver’s side door popped the lock with an inaudible click. I slid the jimmy in and fished around a little, just for show, while I praised the door with my mind. I think most everything enjoys a little stroking. “Taylor!” the mom cried as the door opened, squeezing her arm past me to pop the locks on the whole van. She ran around the car to the rear passenger side and heaved the door open. “Look, Taylor-look, sweetielook at Mommy.” She pulled flowers from the air as she spoke, daisies mostly, long white petals with tints of pink, blue and violet surrounding spongy yellow middles. One second her hand was empty, the next it held a flowerhead-which she’d immediately drop in search of another, though apparently her talent had become so old-hat to both her and her kid that none of the flowers, no matter how pretty, were able to satisfy either of them. I peeked between the seats and saw the floor of the van was littered with flowers-daisies, marigolds, a sunflower the size of my hand. I wondered where they’d come from. There was no sleight of hand involved. She was teleporting actual flowers. She probably didn’t know where they actually originated. I’d wager that it never occurred to her to wonder. But someone, somewhere, couldn’t figure out why her garden always looked so sparse. Stupid talent. That was the only time I appreciated my own ability: when I saw someone worse off than me. I guess if she ever needed to support herself, she could work in a bridal shop. And...that was about it. At least I had the option of being either a locksmith or a criminal genius. I’d chosen the job with all the money, glamour and perks, obviously. I phoned in to the office and found another job waiting for me. A warehouse district was adjacent to the high-priced shopping area where Taylor’s mommy continued to make flowers appear in hopes of distracting her screaming child. Someone had managed to lock his whole set of keys inside a brick warehouse with a two-inch thick steel security door. I don’t usually talk to many industrial doors. Their owners tend to have automated security systems that can be tripped with a simple phone call and an authorization code. I hopped into the company car, a little white Hyundai with a magnetic sign on either side that said ‘A-1’, and made my way to the call. The block with the warehouses wasn’t covered with drifting trash or anything, but it seemed cheaper and sootier than the neighborhood where people could buy three dollar cups of coffee and three hundred dollar handbags. Not that I was worried about anyone making off with the Hyundai. First of all, it was a company car anyway. And second, the driver’s side door was kind of protective of me. It wouldn’t give it up very easily to a would-be car thief. And the passenger side door always agreed with the driver’s side; it didn’t like making waves. I found the locked warehouse in question down a narrow side street that I would’ve taken for an alley if I hadn’t been looking really hard. The old brick facades of the properties on that winding lane were turn of the century, maybe older, some of them with newish glass block replacing their original windows, others with the spots where windows had once been bricked up with masonry that didn’t exactly match. The real windows started three stories up, where most criminals were too lazy to climb. I recognized the door I’d been sent to open by the flustered Chinese guy hovering to one side. He was short and chunky, and his brown suit didn’t quite fit him right. “A-1 locksmith,” I told him, as if the car parked across the street and the embroidered jacket didn’t make that plain enough. “Are you Mr. Wu?” He nodded. “O-pen,” he told me, pointing at the door. Blunt, but effective. I preferred him to Running Suit Mom and her bitching and her stupid flowers.

203

Torqued Tales

I set my toolbox down beside the door and ran my hand down its cool metal surface. There was an old webwork of scratches around the keyhole, and the enamel was worn off at the door’s edge. It’d been there a long, long time. The steel door told me I didn’t belong there. Not in a standoffish way-and believe me, there are plenty of high and mighty doors out there. It didn’t like the way the neighborhood had turned out over the past few decades. And it didn’t think I was tough enough to handle it. I told the door that if Mr. Wu could cut it, so could I.

It told me that he had a semiautomatic in his coat pocket.

Huh. And here I’d thought he looked harmless. I guess I should know better.

As doors go, it wasn’t all that chatty, the way residential doors can sometimes be. It was a working man’s

door, and it had a job to do. Go, it told me. Just leave this place.

Asking it nicely to open wasn’t gonna cut it. I made a big show of fishing around in the lock.

Look, I reasoned with it. Half the time, your job is to keep people out, and that’s the glory part of it, for sure.

But what about the rest of the time? When you’re supposed to be letting people in?

The door didn’t have much to say about that. Most of them don’t.

This guy, here, I thought, glancing toward Mr. Wu. He’s the one you always let in. Right?

True.

Well, then?

But...the key. The key’s inside somewhere, isn’t it? It never left the building.

More silence. I clattered a couple of thin picks around inside the lock while the door mulled things over.

You don’t get many chances to show off, I wondered idly.

Of course not. He brings the key, I let him in. Must be pretty boring.

The tumblers stiffened under my pick. I’d hit a nerve.

Smart door like you, I added. Such a shame.

I am what I am. A pin moved, very slightly, inside the lock. A subtle shift.

Those doors at the mall, swinging open and shut all day long, what do they know?

204

They do that? I stroked the second pin with the side of my pick. They have help, of course. Sensors. Electronics. The lock quivered. But you, I went on, you’re here all by your lonesome. You’re the important one. You’re in charge. You’ve got to make these decisions yourself. I considered pulling some other tools out for the sake of show, but I didn’t want to risk the lock tumbling without my hands somewhere in its vicinity. So I kept on pretending to tinker. You can’t rush big steel doors. I thought for a minute that it might not pop. I’d been trying to appeal to a mixture of its work ethic, its intelligence, and its sense of self-importance. But maybe I’d read it wrong. Maybe there was some vanity there, or gullibility. Or greed. Just because it was a scarred slab of steel, it didn’t mean it had the same sensibilities as the people who trudged in to work there each day before sunup. I’d paused to consider another line of persuasion when I felt the tumbler begin to slide. I made a big show out of twisting my tools around as the lock clicked open with a satisfying thunk. Mr. Wu seemed pretty relieved to get back into his shop, but he didn’t go all out for a big show of gratitude, which I find is par for the course. I like to think people are just embarrassed that they’ve locked themselves out and they want to get back to their routines as soon as possible. Either that, or people are basically ingrates. I haven’t decided which. The Hyundai unlocked itself as I crossed the street, and I went around to the passenger side door to collect the paperwork that Mr. Wu would need to sign. While my head was inside the car, something pinged against the windshield. It bounced off and landed on the hood. I picked it up and twirled it between my fingers: a small silver hoop earring. It could’ve been a stray effect of someone’s talent gone awry-unexplained things usually are-but it wouldn’t hurt to check. I looked up and saw a tumble of auburn hair hanging out a fifth floor window. That’s what he looked like at first, anyway. His hair was silhouetted against a bright white sky that made the edges glow like flame and cast his face in shadow. “Hey,” he said. I shaded my eyes and squinted to try and get a look at him and read his expression, but it didn’t much help. “You just opened that door.” “Uh huh.” “What are you? A handyman or something?” He had some kind of Eastern European accent so slight that I couldn’t quite place it. “Locksmith.” He settled back into the window, crossed his arms over the sill and rested his chin on his forearms. I felt a little pang in my chest as the backlighting receded and I could make out his features. He had a narrow,

205

Torqued Tales

delicate face with pale skin and high cheekbones. His eyes were huge, round and pale in a Slavic sort of

way, and he had an easy smile.

“My name’s Andre,” said the young man who could easily slice out my heart and do a tap dance on it, if I let

him. “What’s yours?”

“Hal.” It came out pretty curt, since I assumed he was either fucking with me, trying to sell me drugs, or

attempting to turn a trick.

“You got a ladder, Hal?”

I pointed at the Hyundai. “Nope. Just that.”

Andre looked down at the tiny white car and scowled. He even had a pretty scowl. “Can you get a ladder?”

“What for?”

“Let’s just say I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Hold on a second,” I told him. I went back to the scarred metal door I’d been working on, which was now

wide open. It led directly to a work floor, no vestibule, no niceties, with a Plexiglas-enclosed office where

Mr. Wu ranted on the telephone in Chinese. Rows upon rows of industrial sewing machines lay dormant in

the gloomy light that streaked in through a few glass-block widows on the far wall. I crept toward the office

and got Mr. Wu’s attention, pointing to a line at the bottom of the work order for him to sign.

Wu pointed at the form, and his name appeared at the bottom. At least, I assume it was his name, though it looked more like a squiggly line. I wondered how it was that he hadn’t ended up as a stenographer or an artist, being able to mark paper with his mind. Maybe the language barrier had something to do with it. Or maybe the only mark he could make was his signature. Not that I’d be rude enough to ask. After all, he didn’t ask me how I opened doors. I was supposed to call A-1 and see if they had another assignment for me, but I figured it could wait until I got back to the car. I half-expected Andre to be gone by the time I made my way back through the dingy sewing machine maze, but there he was, slumped artfully across the windowsill. “How tall of a ladder do you need?” I asked him. I didn’t own one personally since I lived in a studio

apartment, but I figured I could maybe borrow a twelve-footer from one of the other locksmiths.

“How high up would you say I am?”

“Sixty feet?”

Andre laughed. It was like music, accompanied by a smile that could bring a weaker man to his knees.

“Then that is how big it needs to be.”

Okay, so he was fucking with me. But since men like Andre had no reason to even give me the time of day,

I was willing to play along with him and see where it was all going. “Sorry. My firetruck’s in the shop.”

“Come on,” he said. “Really. I need a ladder.”

“Even if I knew where to get a ladder that big, I’d have no way....”

206

“Look,” he said, and the smile was gone. “I’ve got to get out of here.” “And?” “You wouldn’t believe me.” “Try me.” He stared down at me, considering. “Okay. I’ll show you. Come back and watch what happens at midnight. Make sure that you’re hidden.” “If this is some elaborate plan to roll me, I’ll tell you right now, I haven’t got anything worth stealing.” He’d already drawn back by the time I’d gotten the sentence out, and he and his magnificent hair were gone. The window slammed shut. *** It wasn’t as if I had anything to look forward to other than a frozen Salisbury steak and a game show rerun on TV. I wasn’t a sucker. I knew it was a setup of some kind. Even so, I was curious to the point where my curiosity overrode my sense of self-preservation. I could take care of myself, and I didn’t have anything better to do, so I might as well check it out. That’s what I told myself. The narrow, winding street looked twice as stark by the sodium vapor streetlamps as it had during the day. Suddenly it seemed like my Hyundai shone like a trashy white beacon and there was nowhere to hide. I parked the Hyundai around the corner and I skimmed along the side of the building, looking for a niche where I could hide myself. But there was nowhere. I checked my watch. I’d wasted precious time trying to tuck the car away, and now I was a sitting duck. Great, just great. My shoulder brushed metal, and there was a faint echo of recognition: the door to the Chinese sweatshop that I’d opened earlier that day. “Let me in,” I told it. “I won’t steal anything, I promise. I just don’t want to be seen.” The door popped open-thank God-and I eased myself inside, leaving it ajar a fraction of an inch to peer out at the street. There was Andre’s window across the way, dimly lit, pale custard-yellow against the dingy charcoal gray of the rest of the building. My heart pounded against my chest as I told myself there was nothing to be afraid of. Unless there was a Chinese guy with a shotgun waiting for me back among the sewing machines, I was safe. All I’d need to do if I felt even the slightest bit threatened was shut the safety door. But my adrenaline was racing high, and my body trembled from my steel-toed boots to my grungy White Sox cap with the frayed edge. All I could think about was Andre, leaning out of that window like a vision, flawless skin and flame-colored hair. The whine of a distant motorcycle engine brought me back to the present, a sound that deepened as it grew closer, louder, echoing off the brick off the narrow streets and alleyways until it culminated in a low, ominous rumble.

207

Torqued Tales

It pulled up under Andre’s window. The rider stomped the kickstand down, cut the engine, and swung one long leg over the wide black expanse of the bike’s hulking frame. He took off his helmet and shook out his thick, black hair. Black bike, black leather and black hair on pale ivory skin, the rider was just as pretty as Andre, only darker and more sinister, and probably a handful of years older. Andre’s window squeaked open and he threw something over the edge, a knotted rope that unfurled as it fell, coming to a stop a foot from the ground where it swayed in a circle like a pendulum. The black haired rider grabbed hold, set the heel of his motorcycle boot against one of the knots, and started climbing. I watched his lithe body sway carelessly up the rope, hand over hand, growing smaller and farther away, until finally he reached the window and slipped inside. The rope jerked and rose up, reeled into the window by unseen hands, and the window clapped shut. I kept staring. Maybe a shadow flickered inside Andre’s window, or maybe I was imagining it. I turned the situation around in my head, but no matter which end I set it on, it didn’t make sense. Why would someone climb a rope to get into a fifth floor window? Unless there was something wrong with the door. The street was quiet when I slipped back out from the scarred steel door and scuttled across, as if furtive movements would make any difference in my being seen or not. There weren’t any doors facing the road, so I slipped around to the alley, where a truck bay sat on one side of the block, a small single door the other. The truck bay was less likely to be watched, but opening it would make noise, potentially lots of noise. I made my way to the single door. It was old, and wooden, a slab of hard oak probably three inches thick. The front was scarred with nicks and scratches, and graffiti carved in with keys or switchblades-mostly Latin Kings pitchforks and crowns, but other shapes and squiggles too, more obscure hieroglyphics that I didn’t know how to interpret. I tried the handle, but the door didn’t budge. “Let me in,” I murmured, and with barely a moment’s hesitation, it clicked open. My heart hammered even harder at my ribcage. The Chinese sweatshop was one thing; I’d been inside there before. But this building was an entirely different animal, whatever it was. “Are there people inside?” I asked the door, but the feeling it gave off was as difficult to interpret as the shapes carved into its surface. And then I realized, of course there were people inside: Andre and the guy who’d climbed the rope. Stupid question. “Anyone besides them?” I added. The door said nothing, but I felt like it would’ve shrugged, if it’d had shoulders. Though I suspect I was just projecting. I didn’t think there were any guards inside. The building felt too still, too dark. Security cameras? Probably not, given the lack of light. Then why did the other guy have to climb up the side of the building to get to Andre? It’s the only way. I flinched away from the door, taken aback by the completeness of the thought, the humanity, for lack of a better word, that I felt behind it. I hadn’t even realized that I was still touching it. I let it sigh shut behind me. At least it didn’t creak.

208

It took my eyes a good long while to get used to the near darkness in the building. I was at the end of a long hall with a single glass block window at the opposite end letting in scant light, just enough to see the movement on the floor: rats. I tried not to think too hard about them as I crept down the hallway, searching for a stairwell. The lock on the stairwell door had been smashed off with a crowbar years before. I felt the loss as I pushed it open, the bent metal and crushed mechanisms carrying the resonance of an old scar that still throbbed when the barometer dipped. Safety glass windows dotted the stairwell, letting in enough gray light to make out the general shapes of the stairs, but I still placed each foot carefully, feeling for weak spots with my toes while I did my best not to make shuffling noises that would attract anyone’s attention. I had my pocket flashlight on me but I didn’t dare use it for fear of attracting attention with the light. Five stories, ten flights, each step excruciatingly careful, so that by the time I reached the top, a clammy sweat had broken out all over my body, plastering my shirt to my back and slicking my palms, causing me to shiver in the coolness of the stairwell. I’d stopped at each landing and held my breath, brushed the doors and asked them if anybody was home...and nothing. The building was as good as empty. Except for Andre, and except for the other guy. The door that led from the stairwell to the fifth floor was locked from the stairwell side, but it yielded to my request with only a perfunctory complaint. I eased it open carefully, begging it not to make any noises, but all the cloak and dagger on my part wasn’t even necessary. The fifth floor hallway was dark, stale, and empty. Old office spaces littered with broken, rusted, post-war industrial furniture branched off the right side of the corridor. I chanced shining my pocket flashlight into one of the offices, and found the beam bounced back to me on the tendrils of a dozen cobwebs drooping from the ceiling. I pocketed the light, and did my best not to shudder at the thought of whatever I might’ve walked through so far. I returned to the hallway and looked to the end that terminated in a gray window, waiting for my pupils to readjust to the darkness. Nothing. There was nothing at all on the fifth floor. I crept to the far window and looked out on the alleyway opposite the one by which I’d entered. If I strained all the way to the right and looked left, I could see the roof of the Chinese sweatshop. A scattering of rat turds, ashy with age, was cradled in the seal of the window. Nothing. I walked back to the stairwell, making less effort to mask my footsteps as I beat myself up for even bothering to come. It was some kind of scam, had to be. Andre-or whatever his real name was-was probably some sort of con artist. I’d go outside and find a handful of broken glass where I’d parked the Hyundai. God. I was so fucking gullible. A pretty boy bats his eyelashes at me and I turn into a quivering mass of.... A sound filtered through the wall as I placed my hand on the doorknob. Laughter. Male. And not the kind of laugh you give when something’s funny, either. There was no humor in that laugh, none at all. Then I realized that there were no doors or windows on that wall, the one that faced the Chinese sweatshop. It didn’t make sense. I’d seen it from the outside. There were three: the one Andre waved me down from, and one on either side of him. Something wasn’t right. A single bead of sweat prickled down the crease of my spine as I slipped back into the stairwell to go and get another look at the outside of the building. *** 209

Torqued Tales

The bark of the motorcycle’s engine startled me as I opened the alleyway door, and I shrank back into the doorway’s recess while I waited for the sound to recede. The second guy, the one who’d climbed the rope, was gone. He had to be, right? And besides, what if he wasn’t? I was bigger than him. I could take him. Unless he had a gun. Shit. I pulled a worn bandanna out of my pocket and scrubbed the sweat from my forehead. I could get a gun, if I had to. Or a ladder. “Hal?”

It was Andre, calling me. He says my name differently than an American would. The ‘a’ is somehow softer.

It maybe even sounds a little exotic.

I stepped into the street, avoiding the wan puddle of anemic light thrown by the streetlamp. Even so, Andre saw me. And although he was little more than a silhouette, I caught a glint of his teeth as his smiled wide. “It is you,” he said. “You came.” “What the hell is going on?” I asked him. So much for pleasantries.

“I had to show you,” he said. “Otherwise, why would you believe me?”

I put myself right beneath his window and looked straight up. “Believe what?”

“Come up and see the rest.” He ducked back inside for a second and then returned with the knotted rope.

He threw the rope over the windowsill and I stepped back to avoid being smacked in the head by it. It

seemed heavy and stiff, much gnarlier close up than it had looked from afar. It was fibrous, streaked with different shades of brown, woven together so inconsistently, sometimes firmly, sometimes not, so that it hung in kinks and knots. There was something vaguely repulsive about the rope, but I’d come too far to back down. I was even more curious than I’d been before. And I was dying to see Andre up close.

I grabbed hold of the rope like I’d seen the motorcycle guy doing, just above a knot, and began hauling

myself up, hand over hand, pushing against the knots with my feet as I inched higher.

I was nowhere near as graceful as he was, which became quite apparent by the time I was about three yards off the ground. I made progress, though. My grade school gym teacher was vindicated. I might not have been able to move things with my mind, but at least I could climb a rope. Andre looped a hand under my armpit and hauled me through the open window as I neared it, and the rope slackened as he did so. “You’re heavier than him,” he grunted, apparently doing his damnedest to dislocate my arm. “Him. Who is he?”

“David.”

Okay. At least I didn’t have to keep calling him ‘motorcycle guy’.

210

I flopped through the open window on my belly, as gracelessly as humanly possible. I didn’t care, as long as I could have something solid under me again. I’d never fully appreciated how high five stories was until that very moment. Sixty feet. Twenty yards. As high as six basketball hoops stacked end to end. Shit. The windowsill was crusted thick with old paint, and punctured all around with holes from various arrangements of miniblinds and cheap roller shades that were now long gone, leaving a bare, Spartan window. Luckily, my talent didn’t extend to windows. I doubted I’d want to hear what this one had to say. I lumbered to my feet as Andre unwound the knotted rope from around his waist, which seemed like a pretty ridiculous way to anchor the thing, to me. He wore a thin black T-shirt, faded with age, that probably hadn’t offered any protection against the chafing of the rope. His jeans had been washed so many times they were practically white, and threadbare at the knees and seams. They’d probably been a pretty pathetic cushion, too. His feet were bare. I presume that at least gave him some traction. “Why was that rope tied to you?” I said, and not very nicely, either. He smiled to himself. There was as much pleasure in his smile as there had been in the evil laughter I’d heard earlier. “That was a stupid thing to do,” I told him, figuring he was probably cut nearly in two with rope burn. “I’ve got to outweigh you by fifty pounds. Maybe more.” He reeled the rope in calmly, looping it over his shoulder and under his elbow with a practiced flick. “And where else shall I tie it off?” he asked. “Anywhere,” I said, turning to take in the room. “The bedframe. A...doorknob.” I faltered as I started rattling off the obvious places a person could tie off a rope. The bed was a futon on the floor. There wasn’t a stick of furniture that wasn’t a build-in with rounded edges. And doorknobs? Not a one. No doors, for that matter. He’d come up behind me while I was gawking at the place. They were spacious rooms, fifteen feet wide, that spanned the length of the building. Flickering candles and lanterns gave off warm yellow pools of light. But there was an emptiness about the space, a lack of proper furniture, that made him seem more like a squatter than a tenant. “If there were anything I could tie this to, then I could just leave. Couldn’t I?” I turned and stared at him. Up close, my God, he was exquisite. Clear, pale eyes rimmed with thick lashes, high cheekbones and porcelain skin. His mouth-expressive and wide, and I’d bet anything that he could kiss like there was no tomorrow. “Of course, there is the bathroom, over there in the far corner” he went on, his light tone hardly masking his cynicism. “I can tie this around the toilet if I want to drop the last twenty feet. But before I break both of my ankles, I thought I’d see if I could get someone to bring me a ladder.” “How long have you been here?” He sighed, and did a little calculation. “Almost a month, now.” “You’re kidding me. You can’t get anyone’s attention, have ‘em call the cops?” “Who, the Chinese girls who do the sewing across the street? They don’t speak English. And even if they did, they’d be too scared to interfere.” 211

Torqued Tales

I shook my head. “I don’t get it. Why are you here?” “Because David wants me here.” For sex. He didn’t have to say it out loud. I tried not to look at the futon and failed miserably. Andre saw me looking. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s right.” I didn’t know where to look. I found a spot on the far wall and stared at it, hard. “He didn’t even know about my talent when he lured me over here. It was my hair that caught his eye. David’s got a thing for hair.” I felt his fingertips skim along my shoulder blades, and my breath caught. “I turned tricks, you know, before this. I’m sure I could have had a proper job, but never one that paid so much. I was too lazy to go to university and study. Not when my talent made everything so easy.” His talent. His inflection imbued the word with sensual overtones. “Aren’t you going to ask me what it is?” he said. He was right behind me, breathy and suggestive-as if he’d even want someone like me, and yet somehow I believed him. I forced myself to focus on the spot on the wall, hard. “I suppose you’re going to tell me.” He eased his body against my back and I let him, standing there rigidly while he fit himself into the curve of my spine. He was pliable the way pretty young boys all seem to be pliable, his long hair whispering against my neck. “The sex,” he breathed, and a shock of desire made the small hairs on my forearms stand on end, even inside my jacket, “it’s not just sex. Not with me. I know what feels good.” “Plenty of people can figure that out,” I said, and even as I said it I knew it was an empty denial, because plenty of people can open a lock too, but not like me. “I can make you feel like no one else,” Andre said. His hands snaked around my middle, nimble fingers playing over my belt buckle, opening it effortlessly. I thought I should protest. After all, it wasn’t real, this seduction of his. He couldn’t possibly be attracted to me. I was just a guy who happened to be in the right place at the right time, the first one to answer his siren song, and he needed to make sure I’d play along. Before I knew it, my pants were laying across the tops of my steel-toed boots and my boxers stretched between my knees. “Wait,” I said, and it was lame because I was so much bigger and stronger than him that I could have easily pushed him away. Of course, I didn’t. He’d eased around to face me, his fingertips leaving butterfly wing touches on my thighs. “I have to show you,” he said, and it seemed to me that’d been what he’d said about the rope ladder and David’s nocturnal visits, too. Had he really needed to show me? I’d like to think he could’ve just told me that he needed help and I would’ve done what I could. But I probably wouldn’t have believed him. I’m too jaded. His lips brushed against my thigh and the muscles tensed up, rock hard. It wasn’t talent, though. It was just the thought of that luscious mouth closing in on my cock. 212

There was nowhere for me to sit, and I was so turned on that I was starting to feel giddy enough to sway on my feet. I tangled my fingers in his hair, feeling like I was violating his beauty with my plainness by doing so. He didn’t care; he preened into my touch, rubbing his cheek along the crease of my groin, nuzzling his perfect face against my balls. My cock swelled, brushing against his hair as it rose, and even the touch of his hair was enough to wind me up. Maybe it was talent after all, and not just my own desperation that was getting me so turned on, so fast. Hard to say. “That’s right,” he murmured into my groin. My balls shifted in my scrotum, and I swore that I could feel the blood rushing down between my legs, hurrying to render my brain useless for actual thought. “Wait,” I said again, but it came out kind of dreamy, and I had two fists full of his silky hair, my fingertips drawing arcane patterns on his scalp, trying to urge his mouth closer without just grabbing his head and jamming myself down his throat. The wetness of his tongue touched the inside of my thigh, and I had to lock my knees to keep my legs from giving out from under me and leaving me sprawled on the floor. Andre reached around my legs and smoothed his palms up the backs of my bare thighs, gripping me tight as his tongue found the base of my cock and trailed a warm stroke of wetness that he sweetened with the caress of his breath. I was so hard for him that the moment he took me into his mouth was transcendent, the knife-edge of sensation so exquisite it bordered on pain. He knew it, I think, because his mouth was so gentle, folding my aching cock into its welcoming warmth bit by loving bit, until finally he had me there, all the way in, his lips nestled against my pubic hair and his tongue stroking lazily against the underside of my shaft. Still, it wasn’t necessarily talent. He was my type, after all, and I’d never thought of myself as a lucky man. It could easily have been wish fulfillment that was making me so hard. He’d admitted to being a hustler; maybe he was just that good at giving head. He went slowly, gently, allowing me to back off from the precipice that threatened to come too soon. I forced my fingers to unclench from his hair and trailed my fingertips down the alabaster of his cheek, and he gazed up at me through his thick sable lashes and began to move. He just made a rocking motion at first, all the while working me with his tongue. And then he pulled back more, maybe an inch, treating my cock to short strokes that ended deep in his throat. I cupped his jaw with my work-worn hand, unwilling to obscure my line of sight and give up the vision of his face bobbing up and down on my cock. So beautiful, so sincere, his eyes trained on mine the whole time. The strokes got bigger, his mouth moving farther back, plunging down harder, and my arousal whipped back up to a fevered pitch in no time at all. This time he let me hurtle toward that bright white oblivion, clutching the backs of my thighs to hold me up while I came, hard, shuddering and moaning his name. Ingrate that I was, I turned the thought around in my head that there was still nothing about his blowjob that couldn’t have been replicated by another person with sufficient experience and motivation...when it happened. This feeling stole over me, subtle at first, like a drug. It crept up during the moment right after my release. My thinking was shut off, at least as dampened down as it was going to get, and all the happy endorphins were raging through my system. It took hold of me, riding in on my brain chemistry, carried through my body’s own circulatory system. This high. This incredible, indescribable high. 213

Torqued Tales

It was pure bliss. It was what love felt like. Andre eased me to the floor and held me while the whole world blossomed before my eyes. I was safe. I was wanted. And everything, from the scarred hardwood floors to the hole-pocked windowsills to the shabby futon in the corner-everything was perfect just the way it was. I was so relaxed; I would have fallen asleep-except that I was just too excited to drift off. The taint of loneliness had been lifted from the world, and everything was fresh again, and alive with potential. Of course, that feeling couldn’t last forever. It faded, but without the hangover that would follow a night of beer, and shots, and more shots, and everyone in the bar turning into my very best friend. Andre sighed and settled his head more firmly into the crook of my neck. “I don’t give David that much,” he said, once I was more or less myself again. “He doesn’t know it can be that good.” “Damn.” “Even so, with only the small taste I give him, he’s gone through all this, walling me up in this building so that I can’t see anyone but him. At first he just wanted my hair. But now he wants all of me, every last bit.” It seemed too Edgar Allan Poe to be real, but the proof of it was all around me. There were no doors. I almost laughed. Me, the guy who can open any door, the last best hope of someone without a door. The universe has a really screwed up sense of humor. “Why would he want your hair?” “For the rope.” My palms itched at the memory if the feeling of that rope scouring over my calloused skin, and revulsion drove away the fading remnants of Andre’s talent-induced feel-good stupor. I held Andre against me and wondered where the hell I was going to get a sixty-foot ladder on such short notice. *** The Chinese sweatshop closed at seven, and David showed up at midnight on the dot, so I came back the next night at eight like we’d arranged. I didn’t have a sixty-foot ladder on me, but I had a plan. I’d stopped by a hardware store and picked up a few things-three talismans small enough to fit in my pockets, but big enough to do the trick. I parked around the corner and crept up to the warehouse, and the repulsive hair rope dropped right on cue. I’d been worried that Andre would waste time arguing about the ladder, or obvious lack of one, and was relieved that he was going to let me up without quibbling over it. I could’ve bought a nylon rope at hardware store so that I didn’t have to touch the hair rope, but nylon doesn’t burn; it melts. I tried not to focus on it as I climbed, but how could I help it? Hair. Now that I knew what the rope was made of, I could hardly think about anything else. It felt cobbled together, thick at some parts and thin at others, colors shifting all along its length. I could hardly stand to touch it, but I forced myself for Andre’s sake, one hand, then the other.

214

Andre’s rooms were dark. He stood back, keeping the rope taut, and I cleared the window more easily than I had the first time. The shadows were deep, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust. “Are you okay?” I asked him, since I couldn’t read his expression. The hair rope slipped through my grasp as Andre reeled it in, and I released it quickly so I didn’t have to feel the hair sliding against my palms. “Just fantastic,” Andre said, voice low and melodic. Too low. Not Andre’s voice at all. “Now that you’re here.” Shit. Oh shit. He never showed up before midnight. He wasn’t supposed to be there. I patted my pocket, but the stuff I’d brought was all for getting Andre out of the building. Nothing I could use against David. “Where’s Andre?” I demanded, and at least I didn’t sound anywhere near as spooked as I felt. “He’s in the bathroom, making himself pretty.” I looked at the far doorway, but it was too dark to see anything. The last of the rope whispered by me, and David took a step forward so that the streetlight shining through the window illuminated the lower half of his body. The last few inches of the rope shone brilliant auburn. “He’s got a new haircut, and so he’s busy primping. You know how whores are. I don’t suppose you remembered to bring back his earring. He looks a little naked without it.” I stared at Andre’s beautiful hair, horrified at the thought of finding something, a splash of blood, a bit of scalp, that would mean he was already dead. “What have you done?” I could make out David’s features now, handsome despite the cruel twist of his lips. He could have anyone he wanted for the asking. But instead he took them. “This location was perfect,” said David, “and yet, by some dumb luck, you stumbled along and found him. What a waste. I wasn’t through with him yet.” My hands clenched into fists, palms tingling with the memory of all that hair sliding over them. “If you’ve hurt him....” “You’ll...what?” He took another step forward and I shrank back without even thinking about it. I was bigger than him, but a feeling of menace rolled off him in waves. His hands were empty except for the hair rope looped in the crook of his arm. No weapons. And that made him even scarier. “Don’t you want to know what my talent is?” he asked, his voice lilting with mock playfulness. “I don’t give a damn,” I said. All bluster, of course, but I couldn’t let him see how terrified I was. I promptly imagined the worst, though. What if he could paralyze someone with a touch? That would explain how he’d been able to kidnap Andre. David smirked. “I’d ask you what your talent is,” he said, “but I doubt you’d tell me. That’s all right. I’m sure it’s something useful and blue-collar. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be dressed like a mechanic.” He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. I scanned the room while he spoke, searching for something I could hit him with, but there was nothing but a few candle stubs, some pillows, and a scattering of magazines on the floor. “I can guess this,” he went on, “because our talents define us. Andre, for instance, could hardly aspire to be more than a prostitute, given his talent.” 215

Torqued Tales

David was talking about him in the present tense, which I took to mean that Andre was still alive. I sidled toward the bathroom, and David sidestepped to put himself between me and the doorway. “And me? My talent made me,” he said, and though he said it like it was a pity, it sounded more like he was bragging. “I can rip away other people’s abilities, and believe me, that’s no small thing. People value their talents as highly as they do their eyes, their limbs. My talent? To leave people even more crippled than a landmine would, tearing away their very identities.” What I’d taken for a glint of fanaticism in his eyes turned out to be a very real physical thing. His irises had shifted from brown to electric blue. His long fingers flexed, and small arcs of power crackled between them like webbing. He was all hopped up and ready for a fight. But so was I. In fact, I was relieved. He was going to threaten me with taking away my talent? Then he was an ass. He might as well threaten to shine my shoes. “That’s it?” I asked him. I took a step forward, and now he was the one to back away. “That’s all you can do?” He shrank from me as I grew bolder, and it dawned on him that maybe I didn’t give a damn about my talent, and I’d be perfectly happy to kick his ass. “I’m taking Andre,” I said, and we both locked eyes, sized each other up one last time, and lunged for the bathroom doorway. He must have figured that if I wasn’t going to leave without Andre that he’d take my talent in return, whether I valued it or not. I didn’t care. And the two of us converged in that doorway. Andre staggered out, bald except for a few patchy tufts, struggling to free himself from a tangle of rope that I suspected wasn’t rope at all, but a braid of human hair. He made straight for David and the two of them connected before David could get to me. Andre charged him with that angry bald head, and a crackle of blue light flared around them as they went down. David and Andre fell away from each other, Andre rolling on his side, David kneeling, clutching his belly like it hurt to suck up so much power. I had to make sure David stayed down. Maybe it would suck the talent right out of me when I touched him, maybe not, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was saving Andre. There was the sickening crunch of bone on bone buffered by very little flesh. Knuckles aren’t that wellpadded, and neither are cheekbones. My whole arm thrummed with an adrenaline rush, and there was blood, mostly mine where my knuckle had split. I didn’t even feel it. I hauled Andre upright and pulled one of the talismans I’d brought with me-a tin of lighter fluid-out of my pocket. He wobbled on his feet as I thrust it into his hands. “Take this,” I said, and my voice sounded gravelly and low. “Get the braid good and wet.” He focused his dazed eyes on me and then set to work without even questioning. I brought out a second talisman, a sturdy eyehook, and drove it into one of the deep holes in the windowsill. Drops of blood dribbled around it from my split knuckle, smearing like catsup on a diner plate as I twisted it in as deep as it would go. “Give me the rope,” I said, wondering if I’d ever be able to touch another rope again, or if my skin would forever crawl at the thought of something so mundane as a bunch of twisted fibers. The hair rope gave off a damp petroleum stink as I juggled it, searching for the end. It was easy enough to find-bright auburn like a polished penny. Damn it. I tied it to the eyehook, knotting it compulsively four

216

times before I could finally back away, wiping my palms on my jeans. “Go,” I barked at Andre, aiming him toward the windowsill with a shove. He hauled himself over the sill and the hair rope went taut. David had rolled onto his side and started to dry heave. It seemed like I should’ve felt bad for clocking him that hard, but I didn’t. In fact, I was wondering if I should even out his concussion with a kick to the opposite side of his head. “Now you listen to me,” I said. “Andre and I are leaving. If you ever come after either of us again, you’re gonna wish I’d done you the favor of killing you now.” He was up on his elbows, staring down at the floor with his dark hair covering his face, and even though I couldn’t read his expression, I knew he heard me loud and clear. His shoulders rose and fell with the effort of swallowing his dry heaves, and his hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists. I watched him as I backed toward the window to make sure he wasn’t rallying for another attack., but it looked like all the fight had gone out of him. He was a bully, and like any snot-nosed brat on the schoolyard, he’d collapsed the minute someone finally stood up to him. I grabbed the hair rope one final time, my senses sharpened by the sting of the lighter fluid on my split hand, and swung a leg over the windowsill. “We always have a choice,” I told him. Andre could have just bolted the minute his feet hit the ground, but he was there at the bottom of the rope, steadying it for me as I slid down. He was barefoot, wearing nothing but that old T-shirt and those paintedon jeans, but he didn’t cower or shiver. He stood strong and proud, feet planted, the man who’d stood up to the bully with the scariest talent. The hasty shearing that could’ve left him looking like a plucked chicken had ended up having the opposite effect. He looked as if he’d just dropped a guitar and rolled off a stage in a tough nightclub, ready to kick some ass. He looked hot. Time for the final talisman. I pulled a cheap plastic lighter out of my pocket and pressed it into his hand. “You want to do the honors?” I asked him. He looked at me hard, eyes shining with a fierceness they hadn’t had before, not when he’d been all sensuality and languor, a slave to his talent. “Gladly,” he said. The stench of burning hair followed us as we made our way back to the car hand in hand. The Hyundai’s locks popped open as we neared, first the driver’s side, then the passenger’s. We slid into the car and looked at each other. A few tufts of hair stood out on him here and there, but it was nothing a pair of clippers couldn’t remedy. Or not. His eyes were so pretty that the hair just didn’t matter. And the triumphant look on his face didn’t hurt, either. He leaned over the stick shift and brushed his lips over the side of my jaw. Something fluttered deep in my core, a feeling I’d allowed to atrophy over the years. Andre was more talented than he knew if he could awaken that. “Where to?” I asked him. “How much gas do you have?” “Almost a full tank.” 217

Torqued Tales

He took my hand in his, gently kissing the knuckles I’d split open on David’s face, and smiled. “Then drive.”

218

Roy Le Roy and the Bears of Hangm an's Bluff Kit Zheng Now, here's a tale of Roy's traveling days. Every man, even a man as good and reliable as the sheriff of Whistler's Gulch, gets the urge to wander now and then. And one fine morning, when the sun was shining and the blue sky so clear you could see as far as eternity if you just looked hard enough, Roy LeRoy passed his keys on to Eli Lords and said, "I think I'll take a walk to clear my head. Have a care and mind things while I'm away." Roy put on his hat and his best walking boots, locked up his house, and walked down Molly Princeton's footpath straight out of town. He kept right on walking, until the soles were worn out of his boots and the bottoms of his feet became thick as boot leather from all the calluses. He walked until the dust on him was so thick you couldn't tell what was dirt and what was the raggedy remains of his clothes. It seemed like Roy LeRoy might just keep on walking 'til he hit the end of the earth. If it hadn't been for the hailstorm of all hailstorms, I do believe he would've done it. Now, our good sheriff put up well enough with rain and strolled right through sleet; he even marched right through Silver Needle Valley with a dozen icicles hanging from his hat. But the hail that fell that day on Hangman's Bluff was the size of a man's head and left craters big as bathtubs. Even a man as brave and tough as Roy LeRoy couldn't go unharmed. Forced to look for shelter, Roy musta had the luck, because he found a little cave not so far off. Going inside, Roy found that cave was just about the nicest cave you can imagine. Why, some folks don't have houses as nice as that cave: it was clean and dry and big, and had a little bit of a bottleneck right before the entrance so the wind didn't blow in. And the moss had grown up so thick along one corner that it made Roy the loveliest bed he'd slept on in months, maybe even nice as the one in the tavern with the beer made from genuine sunshine. Our sheriff thanked his lucky stars, hung up his hat on a stalagmite, and lay down for what he expected would be a fine nap. He had walked a year and a day, after all, and after a walk like that a man tends to be clean tuckered out. But quick as Roy'd gone to sleep, he never noticed the three openings in the rear of the cave, and never stuck his nose inside to find out if the smaller caves they opened up on were empty. Well, two of 'em were, at least when Roy found the cave. But the middle cave was host to three men as mean as kicked dogs: a band of vicious outlaws known as the Bears of Hangman's Bluff. They pressed their faces to that crack and watched good old Roy sleep, and they weren't a bit happy, as you might imagine. "'Ell, sumone's gotta go kill 'im," grumbled the tallest, biggest one of the lot, a mean, hairy fella who went by the name of Poppa. He had a great black beard and a fine layer of coarse black hair all over, even on his back, and eyebrows so hairy they almost hid his eyes. The only hairless part of him was the top of his head, which was bald and shiny as the moon reflected on a lake. "Why don't you go out there, Momma, you been wanting to test out your new knife all week." "It's too cold," one of the others complained. He was called Tall Bill, and was downright willowy next to Poppa, but he'd still be a brutal sonuvabitch next to you or me. He had long legs and a pretty face he tried to hide behind a thick handlebar mustache and a wild, tawny mane. Didn't stop the others from sometimes calling him Momma though, because they knew it made him mad, and because he was always falling over himself trying to be

219

Torqued Tales

Poppa's right hand. The smallest of them, who was also Bill, but Small Bill, gave him a disgusted look. "You kidding? I'm hotter than a chili pepper in hell." Small Bill wasn't exactly small next to a normal person either, but he was small enough next to his brothers, though just as hairy. He kept his face as close-shaven as he could, but even shaving twice a day that meant he had stubble in the noon and evening. "You's always hot!" Tall Bill snapped back, and he was right enough, but Small Bill took offense. "And you is always cold!" It was an old fight which turned quick as anything into a squabble. Poppa shook his head and muttered to himself. "Alright, you useless no-good hound dogs, I'll go kill him myself!" "Don't you leave a mess in our foy-yer," Momma shouted after him, shaking his fist. "I'll show you a mess," Poppa muttered as he went out in to the large, central cave where Roy slept. Now, even though the Bears were the meanest outlaws between here and Stony Creek Canyon, something stopped Poppa from just stringing Roy up and bleeding him like a fresh killed deer. It might've been the sweet, guiltless look on Roy's face, the look of a man finally sleeping at the end of a long journey; it might've been Poppa's own fondness for a 'delicate young redheaded thing', as he would've called Roy (though we ourselves would never think of the sheriff as any one of those things, 'cept redheaded). Or it might've been Roy's eyes opening as Poppa leaned over him for a better look. "Why, howdy," Roy said, yawning 'round his words. "Pardon me, this your bed I'm hogging?" "Bed?" Poppa said, looking confused, because there were three mighty fine and firm beds in the rooms beyond, but none here in the main room. Not having walked a year and a day, he was as unlike to view a rock covered in moss as a bed as you or I. "This is a mighty fine cave you've got here, sir. And I thank you for allowing me the use of it. You're most generous." Being one of the most feared outlaws from Rake River to Burr Dawn Mountains, Poppa was not used to being addressed with such confidence-or such courtesy. The combination was enough to throw him entirely off his guard, and he stammered, "Well, I suppose I am." Roy rose, stretching lightly, and extending his hand towards Poppa. "I'm Roy LeRoy." Caught off guard yet again, Poppa managed to say, "Well, they do call me Poppa Bear around these parts." He shook Roy LeRoy's hand, and though he was the sort of man that's rarely ever impressed, he was impressed by the smaller man's grip. "You mighta heard of me," he added, and recalling he was supposed to be one of the most terrifying men in Hangman's Bluff, he leaned forward and gave Roy an intimidating glare. Now, Roy was no fool, and three hundred pounds of muscle glaring down at you from under the bushiest brow seen on any man since Neanderthal was nothing to laugh at, Roy knew that. But he also knew that showing fear in the presence of such a man would be the worst thing to do; so he merely crossed his arms, shrugged, and said, "Can't say I have." Poppa was so thrown off by this that for a moment he said nothing at all, just furrowed his fantastically furry brow and tried to figure out how he ought to react. He hadn't met a single man who didn't at least know of the 220

Bears by reputation. He was spared having to say anything by Momma, who burst out of the middle cave in an outrage. "Now see here! Why ain't he dead yet, Poppa? I got to do 'im myself?" "But-" "But what?" Momma eyeballed Roy, pulling out his spanking new skinning knife. "You ain't heard of the Bears of Hangman's Bluff? Well, let me introduce you! I'll be Tall Bill, and this here is my new pet!" He pulled back his long, lean arm and prepared to gut Roy from groin to gullet. "Pleasant to meetcha," Roy agreed, "But it seems to me that knife is a bit small for a man with such a mighty name." "Small?" shrieked Momma. He'd swindled and intimidated the knife out of the best blade maker in Jessup Crest. "Too small," Roy said, nodding wisely. "Besides, if you gut me now, I can't repay you both for your kindness in allowing me to shelter here." "Payment?" Momma said. His eyes narrowed a bit, but he let his knife arm fall. "You got gold somewhere under that dust?" He leaned forward, peering at the little, dirty cowboy. There wasn't a thing Momma liked more than gold. Roy had no gold, of course, so he had to think fast. What could he, with nothing but the rags on his back and his worn-through boots, offer these two men in repayment? He supposed they hadn't much use for a yarn such as he could tell, even though he could tell a good one. And they didn't look the sort to appreciate a song such as those dark-eyed Indian wizards had taught him down in Thundercloud Canyon. He could whittle a whole army of wood soldiers in under an hour, but he didn't think these outlaws would care much for that, either. He scratched his head a little, which set Momma off again. "Well? Show us what you got, if you don't want to be wearin' your guts for a belt!" "I thought you didn't want no mess-" Poppa began to remind him, but Momma scowled and cut him off. "I's sick a' this little man makin' me stand here in this wind! It's too damn cold an' I'm freezin'!" On hearing this, Roy had a moment of inspiration. He knew he didn't have gold to offer, or food, or any sort of thing he could think of that a man might crave, save one. Since the Black Bull of Whistler's Gulch he'd learned a thing or two about the pleasures a man might give to another man, and he was not too bad at it, he liked to think. He might even have been as good as Sucking Cyclone Steven Darling, though Roy himself would have never made such a claim. So he stuck his thumbs in his belt loops and took a step towards Momma. "Well, I could warm you up the best you ever been warmed up." It was a long time since Momma-or heck, any of the Bears-had felt a tight ass or a hot mouth, so it really didn't matter if he was or wasn't as good as Cyclone Steve. Just the thought of his invitation was enough to make both Momma and Poppa harder than a forged steel pipe. Poppa's reaction to this was a stone-stunned silence. His face slowly turned as lovely red as an apple. Momma took half a heartbeat to recover from his shock and then gave the invitation some real thought. He was suspicious, but he was also mighty interested. He started seeing Roy's dusty body in a new light: hard, sculpted muscles; rags stretched over his broad chest; fine red hair trailing over a hard stomach down to the swell that 221

Torqued Tales

snaked down the man's left leg. He licked his lips and narrowed his eyes. "What'd a skinny, hairless little intruder like you know 'bout warmin' a real man up?" He emphasized his point with his bare knife, tapping it on Roy's broad, smooth chest. Roy gave Momma his most charming smile. He knew it was a gamble, but he reached up and began unbuttoning the shreds of his shirt, which was hanging on by a mere three buttons. "I'm afraid I'm not so finely endowed as you all," he tipped his chin respectfully to Momma's magnificent handlebar mustache, "but I once learned a neat trick from a fellow who could warm a man suffering from the hypothermia with just a few flicks of his tongue. I do think it might solve any troubles the wind is giving you." Momma looked at Roy's sweet mouth and imagined just how that clever tongue might feel. He thought about just how long it'd been since he'd had anything 'sides his own hand on hisself and he wavered a little more. "Well, it is your fault if I catch a chill," he said slowly, lowering his knife a bit. "Then I'd best make it up to you, shouldn't I?" Roy gave Momma a meaningful look and licked his bottom lip. Momma swallowed hard. He never could resist a soft, full mouth like Roy LeRoy had. He dropped his hand entirely and put the shiny new blade away. "All right then! But you'd better be as good as you say," he growled. "And you better not try any funny business." Once he'd made up his mind, Momma's hands found his fly in a hurry. He was beginning to feel like some cruel bastard had roped his Little Bill Junior to his leg and just about smothered the life out of it. As he freed himself, he let out a pleased sigh. He was beginning to think this was the best idea he'd ever had. Well, Roy could charm with the best of them, and as Momma pulled out what Mother Nature had given him, he grinned and said, "Now, that's too big." Momma showed off his teeth, full of pride, and said, "Well, just a bit, maybe." He'd never been so nicely complimented in his entire life, and he pulled at one side of his massive handlebar mustache in pleasure. Poppa, who'd been struck still as a stone, went dumber than an entire mountain as Roy went down on his knees and swallowed Momma's long, lean dick in one smooth motion. Momma’s eyes went wide as dinner plates, and his pants just about split from the rush of blood down into his cock. Poppa and Momma and Small Bill had been to the whorehouses together, but he never saw any one take Momma's massive member so easily as Roy LeRoy did. He couldn't know that Roy had once sucked a cock as long and huge as a man's arm, because his life and the life of everyone in Whistler's Gulch had depended on it. Taking Momma's ten-inch wonder was easy as pie after that. Momma's dick was still large and lovely, and Roy had to appreciate it. It was rooted in a thatch of golden curls and framed by lean, leather-clad thighs dusted with surprisingly fine, but plentiful, pale hair. Roy took his time, stretching out Momma's long, fine foreskin and swiping his tongue along inside it. He took Momma all the way down his throat, then pulled back and lapped just at the head. Roy sucked and swirled, nibbled and licked. His hands reached back and gripped Momma's balls, squeezing them just right, until Momma was rolling his hips and moaning for more. Poppa, for his part, had stumbled back against the rear cave wall, and was rubbing himself through his dusty jeans. The red of his face crept all the way up to his bald pate, and down his thick neck into the leather of his vest. Roy watched Poppa feel himself up as he sucked on Momma's cock, and he thought he might like to say thank you to Poppa next. He doubled his efforts on Momma. 222

Double the effort of Roy LeRoy's talented tongue was nothing to take lightly and Momma was nearly to his exploding point when a voice interrupted. "Now see here," said Small Bill, who'd finally got up the nerve to peek out of the crack and see what all the moaning and groaning was about. "That just ain't fair; it just ain't right. You all leave me to watch the stash in the back room 'n here you are not sharin' the real treasure. Y'all owe me!" And he stomped his foot, as he liked to do when he was real pissed off. "We don't owe you nothin'," Momma said. He was angry as a nest of stirred bees at losing his moment and thought to take it out on Small Bill's hide. "We can't help it if you's too dumb not to come out and enjoy this fine gent-tul-man's offer!" Roy didn't like to stop what he was doing, but he could sense that Momma was about to blow in an entirely different way as he'd been intending; and if the two outlaws got into an argument he was like as not to end up dead by accident if they got to fighting over him. "Seems to me I owe you both for your kindness in letting me stay in your front room," he said, as gentlemanlike as he could manage. "And I have two hands, with which I'd be glad to thank you both at the same time." Now Small Bill might be on occasion not a man of great thought, but even he only considered a moment before he had unbuckled his jeans and kicked them off. He saw what Roy could do with Momma and it heated him up more than the hot-blooded Bear had ever thought possible. Small Bill's blood usually went at a slow simmer as it was; but Roy LeRoy had got it to a full-on boil! "I suppose that'll do," he said as he crossed over to where Roy was now rubbing Momma's cock with one hand. Now, unfortunately, Small Bill's hot blood made him a bit of a jealous man. Eyeballing Momma's pleased smirk, Small Bill decided he wasn't all that happy to get what he considered split attention. He decided he'd make Roy's job as hard as possible. Putting his fists on his hips, he thrust his cock forward, and said, "You'd best thank me at least as well as you thank Momma, if not better, 'cos I'm the one who found this here cave." "You was not," Momma said, but not with his usual fervor; his eyes were too busy rolling back into his skull as Roy tugged his foreskin back and rubbed one thumb against that magical spot just under his cockhead. "Was too!" Small Bill shouted, more determined than ever to not enjoy himself. He was quick to a temper, and the sort of man who let one little flaw in himself get too deep under his skin: he was so much smaller than his two brothers he was sure he was always being ignored. Nobody, he believed, ever thought he was as mean or as scary, and nobody ever took him seriously. And not that you or I would think so, but he was a little underconfident with regards to what Mother Nature'd given him between the legs-he was still well-hung next to the average man, but in his mind and heck, maybe next to Momma, he looked downright small. So you might guess he wasn't too pleased when Roy's rough fingers went 'round his cock and made a sort of loose tube that was just enough to be infuriating. He squirmed and humped Roy's hand, trying to gain more friction. "That's too soft!" Small Bill scowled, reaching down and grabbing Roy's wrist. "You ain't payin' him all the attention, is you? 'Cos I think you is, and if you is, we're gonna have words!" Roy did as he was told, and tightened his grip; he gave Small Bill an extra squeeze as he passed over his swollen tip, and pulled the foreskin back hard in his fist when he stroked back to the root.

223

Torqued Tales

"Now see here!" Small Bill hollered, all but leaping out of Roy's grip. "That's just too hard! Too hard, damn you, you idiot!" Then Roy, who knew just what he was doing, eased up his hold. Our fine sheriff'd worked with stubborn studs before, and knew just how to handle them. He slid his fingers down, and watching Small Bill's face, he rubbed from root to just under Bill's fat, mushroom-y crown, stopping just short of the red cap itself. As he pumped his hand in a regular motion, always never quite reaching Bill's cockhead, the outlaw's face became redder and redder; the man's jaw working continuously as if he wanted to complain but couldn't quite manage. When his cheeks were bright cherry and his knob even redder, Roy twisted his hand and slid his palm all around it. Poor Bill didn't stand a chance-he nearly lost it, stuttering incoherent syllables like the Ululu Singers of the Seventeen White Plains. But Roy didn't let up; he cooled off Small Bill's fiery poker with his mouth, swallowing the slim stick down to the root with one easy motion. Small Bill howled and if Roy didn't seize his balls and give them just the littlest bit of a twist, he would've gone off like a rocket right then and there. Roy wasn't quite ready for Small Bill to blow, so he began to alternate between Bill and Momma, sometimes stroking one and sucking the other, sometimes caressing both, sometimes lapping from cock to cock. He'd cooled off Small Bill's temper and warmed Momma up, and he was enjoying himself so much he almost didn't notice Poppa approaching them. Poppa, looking as shy as a bear of a man with a massive black beard and arms as thick as most men's legs can look, hovered just at the edge of Roy's sight and said, "You all wouldn't have room for one more, would you?" Now, to be fully honest, Roy had developed a sort of soft spot for the first of his hosts, as the man had treated him with the nearest thing to courtesy since his arrival. So without taking his mouth off Momma's balls or lifting his right hand from Small Bill's shaft, he reached back and gave Poppa the best view in the room as he unzipped his fly. Then with a little trick he'd learned from a certain dark-eyed wizard, he shimmied his ass just so, and his pants fell down 'round his knees. He expected Poppa Bear to go right on in and fill him up full, and don't get me wrong, Poppa fully intended to. But looking down at Roy's perfect rear end Poppa felt the urge for something more. He got down on his knees, studied the beautiful sight of Roy's tight hole, of the dark shadow that gave way to his balls draping down between his thighs in a heavy, lovely sac. And bobbing just beyond, dripping pre-come all the way down to the ground, Roy's rather purty cock throbbed. Poppa never saw such a perfect sight before and he knew he just had to have a taste. He kissed the smooth buttocks on either side, and pushed his face between them and devoured. He ran his tongue over the soft, soft pucker and the downy red hairs around it. He licked up and down the tight, dark crack and he sucked each ball into his mouth and rolled it around on his tongue. He sucked and kissed Roy's backdoor entrance, and he tasted Roy real good, until he knew he'd never tasted anything so fine. And indeed, Roy, for his part, thought he'd never felt anything so fine. His dick jerked hard against his belly, and he completely lost his rhythm. As luck would have it, his little fumble was just enough to send both Momma and Small Bill over the limit. Small Bill shouted and shot so hard he was knocked over. Momma was next, vibrating like a string about to snap; he grabbed Roy by the hair and did him the discourtesy of coming straight in the man's face without warning, and then he, too, hit the ground with a thud as ungraceful as a falling sack of grain. I'm ashamed to say Roy hardly noticed; he was moaning and backing up against Poppa's mouth and his whole world had focused to two bright spots between his thighs. Seeing Small Bill and Momma were done, Poppa took his advantage and rolled Roy on his back. He spread Roy's legs and pulled the man's feet up to his ears. Poppa kissed the worn soles of Roy's feet, sucked the broken toes of Roy's boots. He licked his tongue full on the warm leather, tasting bitter polish, dust, and earth. Roy 224

watched him and groaned, reaching over to grip both Poppa's cock and his own in one warm fist. Where Momma was long and lean in a ginger setting, and Small Bill was short and thick and stubby, Poppa's shaft was fat as a beer can and tall as a long-necked bottle. His balls were the size of apples and furry, warm and soft and heavy in Roy's fingers as he gently rolled them. Roy felt that crazy mustang feeling kicking to life inside of him, burning a flush over his bared chest and up into his neck and his face, making his skin nearly as ruddy as his hair. He pushed his own rock-hard rig against Poppa's and rubbed them together, his respectable shaft looking dwarfish next to Poppa's massive redwood. The sight made him so horny he groaned, reaching up and pinching his own nipple just to make sure he wasn't lost in some crazy dream. Poppa grinned down at Roy, and wrapped his massive hand around both the sprawled sheriff's dick and his own. Poppa rubbed and rutted and fisted their cocks together until both men were howling like wolves. The sound carried for miles and lit fires of lust in the loins of every man and beast who heard it. When Roy's howling became begging, Poppa coughed up another surprise: he sprawled on the cave floor, his huge hairy legs loosely crossed, and he pulled Roy into his lap. Then he lifted Roy up and said, "Put your arms around my neck, little man," because Roy was little next to Poppa, though he was big and tough as nails next to normal men. The dark hair on Poppa's chest was warm and soft as a rug against Roy's chest as Poppa lowered him down. And then Poppa's huge cockhead was nudging its way between Roy's thighs, spreading him open, slowly, so slowly that Roy thought he was gonna explode. Roy didn't know if he wanted up or down; he only knew that Poppa was filling him as full as he'd ever been since too long ago. He didn't think he could ever feel anything more fine than that. Then Poppa closed one huge, rough hand over Roy's jutting prick. "Oh lord," Roy said, "That is... just...right." Roy had ridden broncs and beautiful savage princes; he'd bounced in the saddles of nags and even in the lap of a very generous lady once. But he'd never had such a ride as he had from Poppa Bear. Poppa's cock was just wide enough to leave Roy utterly full, just long enough to make his eyes roll completely back as he was lifted up to the tip, just hot enough so that Roy saw stars and seven dancing suns as he slammed back down to the base. Poppa's hand was rough in just the right places and soft in the right places too, and the way he rubbed his thumb against Roy's head made him groan. When Roy came, he came so hard he shot halfway to the roof, and so much it gushed from between Poppa's fingers, filling the channel formed by his hand. He and Poppa Bear came so hard they clean passed out, same as Momma and Small Bill had earlier, and they had the best dreams any man has had since the infamous dream of one hundred heavens. The next morning, Momma made Roy LeRoy coffee, and Poppa made Small Bill give him a new pair of boots. All three tried to get him to stay, but the good sheriff of Whistler's Gulch knew his wandering days were coming to an end. He thanked them kindly, accepted a bit of travel ration, and was on his way. The Bears of Hangman's Bluff never did trouble nobody much since then; in fact, some say they went on to become the rather famously generous owners of Chapman, Chapman and Chapman's House of Hospitality. As for our Roy, he eventually returned to Whistler's Gulch and had a great many adventures, but that's a story for another day.

225

Torqued Tales

A Fucke d-Up Fairytale By Wi lla Okati When the whole thing was said and done and over with, Toby decided he'd best write everything down. People had to be warned. He had something serious for folk to know: Do not, not, not, under any circumstances, fuck around with fairy tales. This was why: For Toby, the day had started out as purely ordinary. He'd woken up to find Chandler's lips wrapped around his cock, making noises fit to convince anyone his dick tasted like Swiss chocolate. He'd pushed Chandler off before he blew his load, flipped the delicate blond man onto his stomach, and used his handily premoistened tool to fuck Chandler blind(er) and stupid(er). God Almighty, Toby loved his man, but Chandler could be downright ditzy, something he'd remember all too keenly later. Nothing too important had happened at work, just a trek through some muddy forest to appraise the cost of repairs on a tumbledown cabin. Couple of Perrier-swilling Generation-whatevers from New York with too damn much money had seen the place on a nature hike and thought it would be the quaintest thing to remodel that crumbling shanty into a weekend home. One of his guys had made a joke about needing one more like this plus a brick shithouse and a Big Bad Wolf, because he'd sure as fuck be able to blow the place down. Toby felt an odd chill when the guys started telling dirty versions of fairy tales, or t-a-i-l-s, more often than not, but shrugged it off. Pretty soon, he forgot the whole thing and the stories stopped. Unable to put it off any longer, Toby and his crew stood out in the mud, cussed New York folk up, down and sideways, then decided to charge about three times what the job would be worth to see what happened. And what had come to pass? The New Yorkers beamed perfect white smiles and signed a contract, that's what happened. Toby would be bringing home his share of the bacon for months. So he was in a fine state of mind when he pulled his truck in the driveway and hopped out. Even had a spring in his step. First thing to do would be knocking the mud off his work boots because if he tromped dirt all over the clean floors Chandler would pitch a shit fit. A neat, tidy fit, because God knew you couldn't splatter the how fucking-much-did-you-pay-for-this? textured wallpaper with anything, but a shit fit all the same. He wondered, as he often did, how the hell a country boy like him had ended up with a spoiled-rotten Vogue twinkie from the city. Far as he could remember, it involved a whole lot of Tequila in a pool hall cum bar, cum being the key word. Snickering with booze buddies about the rich kid come down there to slum. Ending up having a drunken quickie fuck with the rich kid. Things went fuzzy after that point. They probably involved more tequila.

226

Anyway, next thing Toby knew he was waking up in a fancy-ass bed with flowered sheets - flowered! while that way-too-pretty blond strutted around naked like he owned the place, which he did, chattering about omelet pans. Toby had told the man, whose name he didn't recall at the time, that he had no fucking idea what an omelet pan looked like and that he took his eggs scrambled, thanks. The man introduced himself as Chandler and turned out to be ten kinds of helpful, as well as able to give a porno-worthy rim job. That happened in between omelets and going shopping for Toby's very own omelet pan. Toby didn't really recall how he'd ended up with his ass in the air and a tongue in his ass, but he figured a man ought not to look a gift horse in the… Chandler, who'd become "his" Chandler before Toby knew what hit him. Chandler, who was hotter in bed than three devils vacationing in Fiji and four times as wickedly creative. The things that man could do with his tongue… Chandler, who had a Gap fetish, nearly orgasmed when entering Pier 1, and really fucking needed to go ahead and buy himself a fashionable twinset plus a string of pearls. He'd be happier. Chandler, who had Toby wrapped around his manicured pinky and a kept a leash fastened around his dick. Sometimes literally. Cock-whipped, the guys at work liked to call him, so he carried a photo of Chandler's horse-sized fucktool that Chandler did not know Toby had snapped to whip out and shut them up. Some guys went pale, some guys turned green with envy, and some guys dug out rulers and set to calculating models to scale. But they didn't say anything else about being whipped. "Hey, faggot!" Toby looked up from where he'd been about the grab the mud-scraper from its helpful hook by the door. Oh, no they didn't, not those rugrat hellions didn't, not again. Four or five of the neighborhood brats had gathered on the sidewalk, snickering and pointing and trying to wag their micro-weenies. One of them threw a rock. It landed far short of its target, but Toby didn't give a damn. Their parents were too sissy to keep these goblins in line? Fine. He figured he deserved a crack at the little bastards. They froze in place, eyes going wide as all six-foot-six of Toby came marching onwards as to war and stopped just short of the distance he'd need to reach out and slap them upside the heads. "Now, boys," he declaimed, laying on his heaviest accent, "Listen here. No one else you know of dares so much as spank a kid these days, but I don't hold with that and I ain't afraid to go back to prison. That's not what you need to worry on, though. I'd concern myself more with the fact that my partner has a really damn good lawyer and can have your asses in the pen before you fucking blink if you so much as set a toe on our property. You know what happens in jail, right? If you're small, you get to be someone's bitch, and they will knock your fucking teeth out if you sass back." He paused, pretending to think. "Huh. Chandler paying conjugal visits plus getting someone to be my bitch. Going back to the pen don't sound too bad, does it? You boys just stay here while I get my shotgun, and-" They scattered like squirrels who'd just seen a Rottweiler that looked hungry. 227

Torqued Tales

Toby cackled as he watched them go. No doubt he'd have to field a dozen phone calls from pissed-off parents and listen to Chandler ranting about one kind word being worth more than a thousand raised fists. All the same, as he watched the local wanna-be punks run like little girls, Toby decided the explosion was worth the fallout. He critically examined his footgear and decided the shoes were close enough to clean. After hitching up his jeans, then on second thought lowering them and unsnapping the button-fly, he shoved his key in the lock and tried to turn it. That would be his first clue that something wasn't right in the state of Missourah. Toby frowned as he tested the lock and found the deadbolt already open. Damn it, he was not going to pay to replace any of Chandler's crap. Neither would he stand by and watch Chandler throw dollars around like fucking confetti to replace them himself if someone had broken in and made out sweeter than Bonnie and Clyde. If, however, they'd stolen his collection of country CDs, including the one autographed by George Strait, he would take his shotgun down off the wall, load the thing for bear, and go hunting. When Toby swung the door open, nothing looked as if it had been messed with. Same old fucking weird spindly chairs, weirder couch made out of twisty iron, and the beat-up recliner he had fought day and night with Chandler over keeping. A hard-working man had to have something comfortable to park his ass on when he got home. Chandler had offered to let Toby take his ease on Chandler's lap every day at quitting time if he'd just dump the chair. Uh-uh. One, despite his fine, fine cock the man was bony as an underfed colt; two, Toby was not about to curl up like a lovesick lovebird when what he really wanted was a beer; or three, the likelihood of Chandler actually dropping whatever he happened to be doing and providing a seat was likely as snow in July. Score one for the redneck - he'd saved his recliner. And he ignored the way Chandler sighed when he passed it, or gave Toby woeful puppy eyes when he talked about redecorating. Come hell or high water, that chair was staying if he had to nail it through the how-the-fuck-much-did-you-pay-for-this? carpet. So, looked at first glance like no one had broken in. The dogs came lolloping up, tongues hanging out, jumping his legs to be petted. Both were accounted for, his old hound and Chandler's pedigreed miniature something-or-another who insisted on believing he was a rough-and-tumble mutt. Chandler did not approve. Toby did. The dogs were happy as fucking clams, however happy that really was, and nothing seemed out of place. Chandler had probably forgotten to lock the door. Well, now, for that he'd gone and earned himself a spanking. Oh, hell yeah, spanking. Toby's cock started perking up. Chandler looked damn fine with his ass glowing like a stoplight. Even if he did jerk and squeal and threaten to cut Toby's balls off with a pair of pinking shears, the way he usually came like an uncapped hydrant pretty much told Toby the protests were purely for show. Spankings, now, those generally led to sex, and more often than not it was good, good, good sex, the kind he'd write home about if he and his folks were still on speaking terms. Last time he'd seen Momma, the old bitch had had a shotgun in her hands and her finger on the trigger. 228

He'd managed to scramble in the truck fast enough to save his balls. Daddy had sat back on the porch and cackled. See, Momma wasn't so much pissed that he, Toby, was a 'sinful sodomite'. She was just cranky that he'd turned out like Daddy, who spent most of his time off fishing with 'Uncle' Ed. Anybody who wasn't an out-and-out fool knew what the two of them really got up to down by the pond. Daddy wasn't dumb enough to piss Momma off - well, more than he already did with Uncle Ed - but all the same he'd risked sending his son a letter to wish Toby and Chandler well. Chandler had beamed and glowed like they'd just gotten the Pope's blessing, and went out to buy an art deco frame for the note. He insisted on hanging it over Toby's chair, whose worn upholstery Toby caught him patting with a softie's smile after that. And things like that, Toby figured, were why he and the townie were still together. They were different as night and day, true, but besides being smokin' hot between the sheets and a master of dirty talk that would make a professional hooker go pale, Chandler was always there for him. He got his little pom-poms out and gave them a perky shake for Toby when he needed a boost. Plus, despite being a rich city-boy queen, he understood and revered the holy tenet of standing by your man. So despite the odds, or maybe because of them, their relationship always did weather the storms and they kept on truckin' in the same cab, so to speak. Hell, even if they'd hated each other's guts they'd probably still visit one another for regular fucking. Speaking of which, Toby had a powerful urge to hunt Chandler down for that spanking. He'd likely have to drag him away from his latest macramé-and-glitter project - God almighty, one time he'd caught Chandler decorating a toilet seat because Saint Martha had done it on her show - but then he'd fuck him till the sun went down and came back up. Possibly with a break in there somewhere for gulps of cold, sweet tea and then a midnight snack of peanut butter crackers with crispy-fried bacon on the side. Toby had idly planned on some post-work recovery time with Bud Weiser and possibly Jack Daniels plus a hot meal that would-please-God-not-be-nouvelle-cuisine before seeing if Chandler wanted to go bounce the bedsprings. But he sure as shit didn't mind seeing his dick raise up to wave howdy first thing off. Matter of fact, he opened his zipper and took a gander at the not-so-little fella. "Welcome to town, Jesse James. What say we go rob the rich? Point the way, Jess. Find Chandler. Find!" Sure as shootin', Toby's cock led him on a straight path to the bedroom, where he had had more influence than Chandler on its redecoration, hallelujah, and straight to Chandler himself. Chandler, who was lying bare-ass naked flat on his back in the middle of the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, two Sacagawea dollar coins placed atop his closed eyes, and an Easter lily stuck between his hands. The flower bobbed like one of those idiotic wobble-head dolls as it rose and fell with Chandler's slow, steady breathing. And Toby, who had more or less figured this day would surely come, slumped against the doorway, muttering, "Well, shit." *** 229

Torqued Tales

See, it had all started like this, not long after Chandler was born. Chandler's family wasn't just rich by inheritance, they'd gone and gotten even richer off developing a chain of New Age shops full of pretty crystals and sweet-smelling candles and glossy books full of love spell shit and even crystal fucking balls in attractively designed gilt holders. Hokey as hell, but Lordy Lord, the whole mess had skyrocketed into a sinful amount of profit, all of which Chandler was set to inherit. After making so much cash Chandler's parents had decided they might as well pretend they believed in the crap they sold. Public image or something. They built a temple to Gaia and to honor Her Circle of Life popped out a bouncy baby boy who had probably demanded Streisand instead of lullabies. Chandler. And what were they to do then besides host a great big come-all-ye-believers party to celebrate? Chandler's momma apparently thought it would be a scream, darling, absolutely a scream to invite three 'fairy godmothers' to bless their child in its cradle as part of the evening's entertainment. This had all come as a surprise to Toby. Not the insanity of Chandler's family, no. He knew all about them and kept his distance, thank you kindly. The christening party was his big shocker. While flipping through old porn tapes one day in search of 'Wet Dreams May Come' - he'd been in a schmaltzy mood, as Chandler would say before kissing him sweetly - Toby had found a copy of 'To Wong Foo', which he immediately threw away, and an unlabeled cassette, which naturally meant he had to abandon his search and see what was what. The thing had turned out to be a professionally-shot video of Chandler's first party. Toby sat there watching more pomp and circumstance than had ever played at a hundred college graduations until his eyes glazed over and he had to go fetch some Cheetos to make this more bearable. Why he hadn't shut the thing off, he didn't know, but when he came back with his snacks the action picked up something considerable. Enter the three Fairy Godmothers. The first one, even Toby knew s/he needed to work on his/her act. Makeup slathered on with a masonry trowel, badly fitting go-go mini, and boots with heels so high s/he damn near broke his/her neck tottering over to wee Chandler in his designer crib. His/her voice went from bass to soprano as s/he remembered their act and pronounced: "To this child, I give the gift of beauty." Polite applause. Toby got interested, because truth to tell, Chandler surely had turned out to be one fine piece of ass. Next Fairy up had his/her groove on and knew it. S/he was sweet, baby, sweet, hot as hell in his/her leather cat suit as s/he strutted his/her thang up to wave a manicured hand over Chandler and croon: "To this child, I give the gift of song." Golf claps from the crowd. Huh. Toby thought it over and decided Chandler did have a sweet voice, especially if he could be caught crooning John Michael Montgomery when he thought no else one was around. The last Fairy, now, s/he was all that and a bag of Fruity Pebbles. Dress made of glittery golden sequins, blond bouffant wig, size 13 stilettos and still managed to make half the trophy wives there look plain as the side of a mud fence. 230

She had a big, sparkly wand with a star on the end. Waving it over Chandler, she said in a husky whiskey voice, "To this child I give the gift of being gay. Yes, gay as pink ink, sweet thing. But more, I give him the gift of being utterly fabulous. Behold your future Queen!" Very hesitant, smattered applause sounded while Toby whooped and laughed until his sides hurt. That, though, was where things turned bad. A mighty ruckus started at the back of the banquet hall, and as the cameraman had apparently been as bored as Toby before the Fairies showed up, he panned around for a good gander. A red-faced woman wearing a too-tight daisy-sprigged go-to-meeting dress and a look of almighty wrath was fighting her way through the crowd, using a wooden cross the size of a Louisville Slugger and a massive Bible to beat back anyone who dared stand in her way. Someone made the Sun Sign at her and she walloped him so hard the poor guy probably had 'King James Version"'embossed on his skull when he woke up. The woman somehow made her way to the front of the hall, where she puffed up over the Fairies until Toby thought she was like to explode in a flaming ball of holy righteousness. "Gay?" she shrilled. "Gay? And you call this a blessing? How dare you taint this child from his very cradle and point him down the path of sin straight to damnation and the arms of Satan?" "Sweetie, that shade of green really doesn't go with your hair," said the Head Fairy. "Jealous, are we? I see… what do I see? Oh, my. My, my, my. You're good, sugar, you're really good. You almost fooled me." She reached out and plucked off the 'woman's' wig, leaving a bald man in 'her' place, one who looked ugly as a mule in that dress. "My, my again. I thought you looked familiar. You used to preach on Channel 63 before someone caught you and a deacon together with your pants down, didn't you? Both of you recanted your wicked, wicked ways - in public - but the congregation wasn't crazy about welcoming you back. No crowd of faithful means no donations and no offering plates. No wonder you're declaring a jihad. Anything to get back into the Lord's wallet, right?" Puff, puff, puff, huff, huff, huff. Toby guessed Head Fairy had struck close to the truth. Be damned. Maybe she did have some freaky-ass powers. To any rate, upon hearing her speech the ex-preacher tried to swing at Head Fairy, but s/he blocked the blow as if it were no heavier than a feather. Which was, so it seemed, the last straw. The ex-preacher drew back and started to smile. A really, really nasty smile. Kind of like Momma's smile on the day Daddy came home with a poison ivy rash on his wiener. "You declare this child to be gay? Well, fine. I came here to show the light of the Lord to all you faithless pagans, but I see I've got a grander task at hand. Go ahead and raise him gay, sinners, unless sweet Jesus-" he pronounced it JAY-sus "-sees fit to take the child in His arms and set him on the narrow path." "If it's that narrow, who's going to have room to fuck?" the Fairy in leather murmured. The ex-preacher ignored him/her except for an icy glare. He spread his hands. "Sweet merciful Father, help your lowly son in his hour of need! Hallelujah!"

231

Torqued Tales

And damned if a light didn't start to glow and gleam in the man's right palm, all caught on tape. The crowd shouted and babbled in shock, and truth to tell, Toby had his eyes glued to the screen while he absentmindedly shoveled in cheesy puffs with both hands. The light solidified into a glittering purple dildo big enough to make professional bottoms cross their legs. The ex-preacher shouted in triumph and held his prize aloft, although he only used his finger and thumb. "It is a sign! If this child turns out to be gay-" "-fabulously gay," the Head Fairy put in. "-then this shall be the instrument of his doom. On the day he uses one of these accursed tools of the devil, God will strike him down." "What about the first time he takes an actual cock up the ass?" the tacky-fied Fairy wanted to know. "And do butt plugs or candles count?" Hired guards finally got their heads out of their own collective asses and ran up to wrestle the intruder down. He went, beaming with the high holy light of assured publicity, singing some song about Jericho and walls a-tumbling down. Silence reigned for a minute. "Well, when God put teeth in that man's mouth, he ruined a perfectly good asshole," the Head Fairy remarked. Uncertain laughter. Head Fairy didn't take any notice, not to speak of. S/he rolled up his/her sleeves, so to speak, and got to work. "Okay, so he's cursed the poor tyke, but I can do a little creative editing." She waved her wand over Chandler again. "On the day when he is grown and does try a dildo, because he will be fabulously gay and horny and curious, come on, it's going to happen - he will not die, but instead fall asleep until-" Right about then the cameraman's tripod must have broken or something, because after a clatter the screen went dark and there was no more. Toby had finished up his cheesy snacks in thoughtful silence, then hid the tape back where he'd found it. And he never did bring it up with Chandler. But when he found Chandler laid out as if for the grave, but still alive, he put two and two together quick as a whip and shook his head at the shiny new red dildo lying between Chandler's legs, pointing an accusing crimson arrow at his cock. Figured. *** Well. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Toby stood by Chandler's side and stared down at the man he loved, cursing Chandler for being a damn moron and himself for never asking how the whole curse amendment turned out. So, poor little rich boy Chandler started off his fairytale life re-enacting a fairy tale, had he? Looked like Sleeping Beauty, far as Toby could figure from the blessings and the fallout. There'd be a way to break the curse, though. Always was in those stories, as he recalled.

232

If he could remember how the story went, and if that Fairy had stuck to the script. Whatever the script was. Damn, he needed to think, and it was way too fucking creepy to try while looking at your lover all ready for the coffin if he would just stop breathing, thank you kindly. Toby shook his head at Chandler and left him sleeping while he went to get a Coke and a bag of salted peanuts, let the dogs out, take a piss, and head out onto the barbeque deck to put his big head to work. Might as well. The smaller head had shrunk more than somewhat after his surprise. He opened the Coke, the good glass bottled stuff, and poured in the salted peanuts. After swirling them around for a while and watching his sorry old hound trying to chase squirrels who knew damn well he was too old and fat to catch them, he came to a conclusion: he wanted a cigarette to go along with his soda. No, what he really wanted was a chaw, but after his first time with Chandler Toby had had to face two certain facts. One, Chandler would never, ever willingly kiss/make out with/dry hump or much less let Toby fuck him again if Toby had to excuse himself in the middle to spit. Two, after one taste he knew he wanted Chandler's tight, hot ass more than he wanted Skoal. So out went the chewing tobacco, and in came the cancer sticks to keep the addiction satisfied. Chandler moaned and sprayed air freshener and left anti-smoking pamphlets in Toby's boots, but Toby stuck to his guns. He did stop smoking in or around the townhouse, though, saving his unfiltered Camels for work. He figured Chandler would probably understand why he'd needed a smoke right about then. He also figured that if Chandler kicked a fuss, Toby would wave that damn red dildo in his face along with the unlabeled tape, which ought to shut him up. If he woke up. Lordy lord. Toby smoked three cigarettes down to cherries that burned his lips, grinding the dog-ends on the deck under his boots, then picking them up guiltily and burying the evidence at the base of Chandler's prize potted begonias. He took long, cold drinks of his Coke and chewed the peanuts. Then, because he still had no fucking idea what to do, he went back inside and checked on Chandler - still sleeping like a baby, damn him - and popped a action flick into the DVD player. After watching a good few things explode and copping an eyeful of Bruce Willis all sweaty with his shirt off, Toby felt better. With the DVD on freeze-frame of Bruce looking like a god, small 'g', Toby set to meditating. An idea soon came to him, but not one that appealed. Toby glanced over to Chandler's sparkly new laptop computer sitting on an end table and groaned the groan of a man who is about to go into a battle he's dead certain will end up with him getting his ass kicked. But if what Chandler said was true, you really could find anything on the internet. Toby drew in a deep breath. He rolled up his shirt sleeves. He took off his boots. Sometimes a man had to do what a man had to do. He sat gingerly down in front of the laptop and poked various keys until it lit up. A sign-on screen gleamed so cheerfully at him that he wanted to go get an axe and hack it up for being possessed. No. He wouldn't falter. 233

Torqued Tales

Think on Chandler, Toby advised himself. Think on how good it's gonna be to tear a new hole in his damnfool hide for being such a damn fool, and think on how you're going to paddle his ass until he cries uncle, and then think on how you're going to fuck him into corn mush because you will be so fucking relieved the fucking dolt's OK. Working out the kinks as he went, Toby figured out how to use a mouse, and guided the little arrow on to the button that asked him to sign back in. He clicked, sat back, and waited for the wondrous World Wide Web to roll on up. Hopefully with answers. The right ones. Didn't quite work that way. First, the computer let loose with a terrible screeching and squealing, worse than a boar hog being squeezed between the grills of two semi-trucks colliding on a bumpy country road. Toby wondered if he hadn't ought to go fetch that axe after all. When the noise stopped, a voice that demanded to be shot on the sake of pure principle shouted, "Welcome!" "What the fuck?" "You've. Got. Mail!" "Shit!" The voice didn't say anything else, the son of a bitch, because even if it did make his teeth itch Toby would have liked it to say: 'Click This Button To Save The Day'. But since clicking on pictures and such seemed to make the computer do things, Toby went wild and clicked around every which way. It was, he had to admit, a seriously educational experience. After sorting through Chandler's e-mail and snorting at the letters from David Q. Hootenanny telling him how to increase his cock size, he stumbled into something called a chat room where he learned what WTF and LOL and TTYL and :-p meant. Fortunately, 'fuck you' worked just as well online as it did in the outside world. So did country rants full of brimstone about why people didn't take the time to fucking spell things right when his hard-earned tax dollars went to pay for their goddamned educations. Eventually the chat room emptied out minus one brave soul who, after trying to get Toby interested in some quick 'cyber-sex', took pity on him, explained what he'd meant, told him to never mind, and asked if Toby was looking for anything in particular. Toby figured there'd be no harm in telling the whole story. Hell, everyone he'd run into so far was a kook, so no big deal if he came off looking nuttier than G-string night at the club Chandler loved but always pretended to hate. To his credit, the stranger known as "LvsJizz069", while he did call Toby madder than a hatter - whatever that meant - pointed him toward a web site full of fairy tales. While he was asking if Toby and Chandler would be interested in a three-way, or four-way if you counted the ten-inch-cock Lvs claimed to have, Toby ditched the sumbitch and headed off to read up on his fairy tales. Small 'f'. The page had pictures of pudgy, pink cartoon boys and girls kissing each other on the cheeks. Toby like to 234

gagged, but he doggedly set to reading the listing of stories and whooped when he found 'Sleeping Beauty'.

Clicking there led him to a big-ass long page filled with what the introduction said were all the variations of

the Sleeping Beauty story.

Toby read the first one, felt a little queasy, and excused himself to the bedroom where he informed the

peacefully sleeping Chandler, "As much as I love your ass, I am not roasting you with a sauce Robert to get

you to wake up."

Back to the computer.

Back to Chandler.

"What the fuck's a sauce Robert?"

Back to the computer.

Toby read on and found himself genuinely regretting those peanuts and Coke.

Back to Chandler.

"Look, dumbass. One, I am not fucking you in your sleep because I am not that kind of man. Two, I'm in

serious doubt as to whether or not you'd be able to squeeze out a pair of twins. Though heaven only knows

what this curse did. Oh, fuck, I hope you don't have a pussy now."

Toby groped Chandler, found only Chandler's wonderful cock - which didn't seem half as sleepy as its

owner did, waving howdy back to Toby's hand - and sighed in relief.

"Third, even if you did have what it took to birth a litter, I am not watching you sleep for nine-odd months

before my next rim job."

Chandler gave a little snore.

Toby rolled his eyes.

Back to the computer.

Toby read on.

Okay… seemed pretty simple to him. Sleeping Beauty, who struck him as being dumb as dirt, got a piece of

glass and/or a splinter from a spindle in her finger and fell asleep. Along came the prince, pulled out the glass or the splinter, and up she woke. It should follow, then, that if Toby pulled the dildo from Chandler's ass, he'd rise and shine. Problem, though… far as he could tell, the dildo was already out.

Back to Chandler.

Just as he recalled, the only dildo Toby saw lay unmolested between Chandler's legs. "'Scuse me," he

mumbled as he turned Chandler over and parted his cheeks to be sure he hadn't stashed anything else in there.

235

Torqued Tales

Not even a butt plug. Damn.

"You know, this is really screwing with my night. I come home from a hard day's work wanting a beer and a

fuck, especially a fuck, really a fuck, a good hard fuck, and this is what I get. You owe me a half-dozen

blow jobs for putting me through this dog and pony show," Toby informed Chandler before letting him flop

back over. "And what is tarnation is a spindle? Is it part of what goes into sauce Robert?"

He sighed and kissed Chandler's forehead. "Hang in there."

Back to the computer.

One more story to read. Good for the computer, which Toby would have finally given in and axe-murdered

if it hadn't parted its electronic legs, this Sleeping Beauty yarn had a different ending, one which seemed to

match what the Fairy had said on Chandler's tape.

Not dead, but sleeping, and he'd stay asleep until the kiss of true love woke him up.

Toby sat, and thought. He let the dogs back in, gave them some new rawhide chew toys to keep them out of

the way, thought some more, and when he was good and ready went to the bedroom and shut the door

behind him.

He put on a Garth Brooks CD.

He turned the lights down low.

He picked up the red dildo and flung it hard enough against the far wall that it bounced.

And then, he crawled on the bed with Chandler, pinned him on all four quarters with his own arms and legs,

growled, "You stupid son of a bitch, I'd better be your true love," and kissed him hard enough to bruise the

lip he'd burned on his cigarettes.

Worth it, though, because hot damn if Chandler didn't let loose with a shrill scream, toss his head until the

coins went flying, and drop the damn flower.

His eyes were wide and unfocused and terrified at first. Toby stared into them until they cleared.

Chandler went rosy pink. "Um. Hey there. Hi, honey."

"Don't you 'hi, honey' me," Toby warned. "Before you even start, I know exactly what happened and if you

try to deny a single thing I'll shove the tape of your christening party up your ass instead of that dildo."

"Er… sorry, sweetie?" Chandler tried batting his eyelashes.

"Don't you flirt with me, either."

Chandler took that to heart and pouted instead. "A sauce Robert is sort of like simmered brown mustard," he

said in a small voice. "And a spindle is a weighted wooden spike. And you're going to be mad at me forever and ever, aren't you? I am so, so sorry, sweetie, I didn't remember that old curse when I started playing, and I love you, I really do, so please forgive me, please?" Toby sighed over the sound of Garth warbling about how "we shall all be free". "Oh, for the love of… baby, keep your tiara on. Tell you what. The next thing sliding where the sun don't shine is my cock, after you 236

blow me, and I'll forgive you." Chandler perked up to no end, and so did his cock, nice and sweet. "Ooh. Yes, sir. Now?" "Give this child the gift of common sense," Toby said, flopping onto his back and wriggling out of his jeans and BVDs. "But… you haven't showered." "Suck!" Toby roared. Chandler meeped, nodded, stole a kiss from Toby which reminded him again why he loved the man even what with all the shit he put them through, and hunkered between Toby's legs. He sucked Toby's hardening cock into his mouth and went to work like a Hoover, tongue everywhere, good rough suction, and he didn't forget the important job of attending to Toby's balls, either, rolling and squeezing them. His mouth was too full to talk, but as he stared up at Toby, Toby could well imagine the stream of dirty words Chandler wanted to babble and damn if the thought didn't set his heart, soul, and nuts afire. Yes. Oh, yes. Hell, yes. Fuck, yes. Payback, that darling little bitch, made a quick stop in. Right before Toby was about to push Chandler off before he shot, Chandler had to stop and cough up a stray hair. Toby just cackled at him, pounced Chandler once he'd stopped hacking, hauled the man's legs over his shoulders, greased his ass up like an axle and plunged right on in without taking his time about anything, no sir. Chandler had earned himself a good hard plow. Besides, he dearly loved hearing Chandler scream and start begging for more, harder, and faster. Plus now. That was a good one too. He didn't feel a bit guilty about the loose hair Chandler had choked on. Way he figured, Chandler deserved what he got, the shithead sweetheart, and fuck, all things considered they both ought to be glad this hadn't been 'Rapunzel'. Better still, he, Toby, the prince in shining armor craftily disguised as faded flannel, was about to get what he deserved, which was to fuck his sweet queen within an inch of his royal life. Also to call him all manner of honeyed names he'd later swear had never crossed his lips when he sprayed down Chandler's innards with spunk. Chandler, who liked to be a good sport - yet another reason to love him - pretended he hadn't heard a single sappy word and squeezed Toby's cock tight while he striped his chest in sticky come. Would have been one hell of a money shot if anyone had happened to be around videotaping them. Videotaping. Hunh. Toby decided if anyone ever tried to videotape him again, he would go home, find his axe, bring it back, and chop that person's camera into electro-kindling. He also decided he would be very, very gentlemanly to any drag queens he met in the future. And that, he deemed, was a damn good happy ending.

237

Torqued Tales

About t he Authors Mychael Black Mychael has been writing gay erotica for several years. When not writing, Mychael can usually be found researching or brainstorming. Mychael’s favorite subjects of research are: Medieval history, Welsh history, Welsh culture, Welsh language, Swords, Castles, Archaeology, Celtic history, Celtic mythology, Vampires and vampire mythologies, Magick, Christian mysteries, Angels, and other such topics. Mychael welcomes feedback and will gladly answer all messages. Laney Cairo Laney Cairo is a former Londoner who now lives in Australia, preferring a decent climate and an affordable lifestyle, though she still thinks of London as home. Her primary partner is also a writer, which leads to outbreaks of dueling word counts and late-night discussion of the intricacies of controlling point of view. There is never enough printer paper or ink. She’s queer, political and loud. Writing is something she arrived at later in her life, after having several children, relationships and careers. Jordan Castillo Price Jordan Castillo Price grew up in Western New York, spent her formative drinking years in inner city Chicago, and now writes paranormal thrillers from her secret hidey hole in small town rural Wisconsin. She occasionally pries herself from the computer to hang out with her very tolerant and supportive long term partner and two hand-me-down cats. Visit www.PsyCop.com for more interviews, snippets, and free short stories, or email her at [email protected]. Dallas Coleman Dallas Coleman grew up in Deep East Texas. She survived. She escaped. She has, thus far, resisted her daddy’s attempts to reclaim her. She writes because it’s cheaper than therapy. Jane Davitt I am English, married with two daughters, and I emigrated to Canada in 1997. I'm an inveterate reader who began writing in 2002 at the age of 38 and discovered that it's just as much fun being the one putting the words on paper as being the one reading them. Writing is something that's become part of my life and I sometimes wonder just what I did with the hours I now spend tapping away at my computer. It can't have been important I suppose. I'm a fan of detective, fantasy and science fiction and collect vintage children's books too. Our house is filled with over 4,000 boo ks and we all love to read. Apart from the cats. I did have hobbies but now I write mostly. If I wasn't writing, I might be gardening, cross stitching or walking. I do still manage to volunteer at my daughter's school and at the local library. Kiernan Kelly Kiernan Kelly lives in the wilds of the alligator-infested U.S. Southeast, slathered in SPF 45, drinking colorful tropical, hi-octane concoctions served by thong-clad cabana boys. All right, the truth is that she spends her time locked in the dark recesses of her office, writing gay erotica while chained to a 238

temperamental Macintosh, drinking coffee, and dreaming of thong-clad cabana boys. Sigh. Kara Larson A career student and wannabe medievalist, Kara would like to be a bard when she grows up. In case that doesn’t work out, she’ll settle for being J.R.R. Tolkien. Speaker of dead languages and purveyor of useless knowledge, Kara has been living with an epic world in her head since she was eight years old, and might even write about it someday. More inanities can be found at www.synful-musings.com/kara/ Jay Lygon Jay Lygon has published over thirty erotic short stories under various names. They can be found in print in the anthologies Hot Cops and Inside Him, on Clean Sheets and the Erotica Readers and Writers Association websites, and now at Torquere! Chaos Magic is Jay's first novel. Jay's email address is: [email protected] Jay's blog is at: www.JayLygon.Blogspot.Com Renee Manley I was born and raised in the Philippines but moved to the San Francisco Bay Area when I was sixteen. I studied English Literature in college, focusing on the 18th and 19th centuries, and graduated with a Master's Degree. I taught Freshman Composition for seven years at different community colleges and California State University, Hayward, but have since moved on to pursue other things. I write largely historical and gothic gay fiction as well as boarding school gay coming-of-age stories. I'm now married and still live in the Bay Area. Syd McGinley Syd McGinley has lived in the USA since 1989, teaches at a state university in Ohio, writes erotic novellas and novels, has a WWE addiction, and ignores housework until someone else does it. Write to Syd at [email protected]. Sean Michael Often referred to as "Space Cowboy" and "Gangsta of Love" while still striving for the moniker of "Maurice," Sean Michael spends his days surfing, smutting, organizing his vast gourd collection and fantasizing about one day retiring on a small secluded island peopled entirely by horseshoe crabs. His stories have appeared in Bus Stories and Other Tales and in Shifting as well as on Torquere Press' Turn of the Screw. Novels include Three Day Passes, Tempering, Fine as Frog Hair and The Center of Earth and Sky, Where Flows the Water, Second Sight, Catching a Second Wind and Out of the Closet. His novel Tripwire is coming out in May Visit his website at www.seanmichaelwrites.com or email him at [email protected]. Willa Okati Willa Okati lives by the quotation: "When I have a little money, I buy books. If there’s any left over, I buy food and clothes". An avid reader since she was able to pick up a book, she spends just as much time writing stories about men, women, and the fun they get up to together. Physically, she lives in North Carolina, but mentally thrives in a world where each adventure is bigger and brighter than the next. She is also owned by far too many cats, but she insists that they serve as emissaries 239

Torqued Tales

from the Muse and can’t spare a one of them. Please feel free to visit her web page at www.willsheor nillshe.com or e-mail her at [email protected]! CB Potts CB Potts is a full-time writer, who focuses on business ghostwriting by day and hot erotica by night. She lives in the Adirondack mountains, smack in the middle of nowhere -- good motivation to keep her at the computer! Angelia Sparrow Angelia is a regular contributor to Torquere Press and has several Single Shots as well as anthology stories. She’s a truck driver who uses her loading and down time to scribble. Julia Talbot Julia Talbot resides in the Texas and has quit her day job. She has a penchant for blank books, gay porn, and big, ugly hats. She can most often be found in coffee shops and restaurants, scribbling in her notebook and entertaining other diners with her mutterings. Julia cut her reading and writing teeth on purple-prosed romance novels, and as a result decided that boys were much more interesting with boys. Intense study of her subject and as much firsthand research as possible figure heavily in her writing adventures. Historical and fantasy settings are Julia's favorites. Her novels include Manners and Means, Jumping Into Things, and Mysterious Ways. BA Tortuga B. A. Tortuga enjoys indulging in the shallow side of life, with hobbies that include collecting margarita recipes, hot tub dips, and ogling hot guys at the beach. A connoisseur of the perverse and esoteric, BA's days are spent among dusty tomes of ancient knowledge, or, conversely, surfing porn sites in the name of research. Mixing the natural born southern propensity for sarcasm and the environmental western straight-shooting sensibility, BA manages to produce mainstream fiction, literary erotica, and fine works of pure, unadulterated smut. With characters ranging from supernatural demons to modern-day cowboys, alternative illustrated men to Victorian dandies, the addiction to history and atmosphere is everpresent, and laced through with sensual pleasure. Visit her on the web at www.batortuga.com. Elisa Viperas Elisa lives underground and occasionally slithers into the light to attend medical school and write. She likes the ocean, the word 'molecular', and science fiction. Her list of dislikes is long and contradictory. Vic Winter Heat in real life is the bane of Vic’s life, whose favorite season is winter, and Vic’s life is far more mundane than fiction. And when it comes to fiction, the hotter the better is Vic’s motto. Make it romantic, make it sexy, make it erotic, but definitely make it hot. Visit Vic’s in progress website at www.stemsandfeathers.org/vwinter/ 240

Cat Zheng Cat Zheng enjoys basking in the warm light of the computer screen and affecting a look which suggests the planning of artistic masterpieces, great literature, or at the very least, a world takeover.

241