Monday, September 7, 2015

Steel Dog--1


Son of a Hero

Quentin Maurus couldn’t be drafted.  Sons of a Hero were exempt from the usual ten years of military service.  But that one blessing had consequences:  In college, the boy was surrounded by thirty year-old men who had seen the world.  Pretty women often liked to dream about nobility, maturity, and fading dicks, and that’s what a balding fat veteran brought to the table.  But of course men were relatively scarce in the West.  Baby men got aborted.  The army killed plenty, sometimes heroically but usually by accident.  Prison and factory jobs kept others out of school.  For generations, a college lady had to accept what was available, and so she slept with other girls or shared the best men.  And sometimes she might win a boy by paying for dinner and his ticket to the movies.

Quentin enjoyed food and movies, and to some eyes he seemed like reasonable company.  But that blessing had its consequences too.  The finest lady was still human, and humans were apes.  Apes relished power.  Power allowed expectations and shaped anticipations.  And if the girl’s roommate was gone overnight, she found herself with a bought boy and an empty room, including a narrow dorm bed that didn’t squeak too badly when she squirmed out of her tight trousers.

Saturday night; Saturn’s night.  Save for socks and a gold-clad necklace, the girl was naked, on her back with knees held high.  Quentin was licking.  He had been licking at her for a little while, using two fingers along with his tongue.  Then he added a third finger, pushing deep, which was the moment when she said, “Wait.”

One more wet shove, and he stopped.

“Stand up,” she ordered.

Quentin’s shirt was gone, but this trousers were still zipped.  Bothered, she called him a prude.  Laughing, she said his name twice, softly and then less softly.  Urgent hands removed the prudish trousers and dropped the underwear.  Swollen testicles needed to be cupped with one hand, lifted and lowered as if being weighed.  Then the other hand encircled his penis, starting at the base and ending at the tip, catching that thin drop of clear fluid with the thumb and rubbing it around the head, giving the flesh a high purple shine.

He pushed his penis at her mouth.

Rolling her mouth safely out of reach, she said, “No more weird stuff.”

“Weird stuff,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” she said.  “I just want to fuck.”

She was two years older than Quentin.  Not plain, not pretty.  Long blonde hair had been chemically whitened.  Large breasts and a broad pale belly led down to an oversized vulva--the sort you might see in an alien field guide to humanity, illuminating the delicate, contrived structure of the female genitalia.

Quentin stared at the vulva inside its forest of yellow hair.

Because it was important, she repeated her words.

“I want to fuck.”

“What kind of birth control?” Quentin asked.  “Implants or the cocktail?”

Staring at the ceiling, she said, “The cocktail.”.

“You're lying,” he guessed.

“It doesn’t matter.”  Sitting up, both hands grabbed his aching penis.  “Trust fate.  Trust God.  Just do it.”

Electricity couldn’t have withered him faster.

Embarrassed and then angry, she laughed harshly, calling him, “Coward.

Insults, praise.  Lust and loneliness.  Those were tricks leading to an enormous trap.  Quentin didn’t care what she said or did.  Assume a one-in-fifty chance of pregnancy--a soldier’s odds of dying in an ordinary battle.  And that’s what this moment was.  A battle.  Fierce resistance would define his future, but Quentin was determined to keep his life as his own.  Refuse and one-fiftieth of a child would never be born.

Except the battle shifted unexpectedly.  The girl whimpered, closing her eyes before saying, “What if?”

“What if what?”

“I paid you,” she said.  “Paid you to screw me.”

That shook the hero to his soul.

And in her next breath, she mentioned a rather substantial sum.

The universe was defined by the endless.  Infinite histories lived as math and semen, words and silence.  Everything that could happen was unbearably inevitable, and in its bones, every reality was deeply unlikely.  Earths without number saw the boy say, “Yes.”  Other realms watched him barter for more money and a blowjob too.  Multitudes of Quentins said, “No,” and meant it, while others tried to earn their pay and failed, suffering a collapse of will or an indifference of blood.  And there had to be those sad histories that ended moments later.  Sirens in the background. Mongolian missiles raining down. The world incinerated before that slick purple head could merge with extravagant vulva:  All earthly life extinguished before one boy’s precious character could be tested in full.

But that multiplicity of existence counted for nothing.

In one world, other events mattered.  Tired of his silence, the prospective client resumed negotiations.  She opened her eyes and lifted a meaty breast, kissing the pale nipple, and with a bitter, impatient tone said, “We’ve had three dates.  I bought your food and fun, and I drove, and you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you,” he said, in reflex.

“Oh, Quentin,” she said, laughing despite her loathing.  “Everybody owes; everybody buys.  It’s only little boys who think otherwise.”

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