One man. The edge of the world. Knees sandy, scraped. Throat rough. And silhouetted against a garish dawn, one infamous cock – forgotten.
Tybalt Onan-Stahl could scarce draw breath. Mewsy – shell to his snail; nest to his bird; cask to his precious ointment – Mewsy was no more.
His mountainous form buckled in an anguished roar, but only a strangled rasp escaped; his latterly repurposed throat had been fucked silent.
The Sister’s shattering news had found him up to his ears in beef, in which condition, in the ensuing melee, he was rendered quite helpless.
Purchase, forgetting himself in his rage, had unwittingly white-knuckled his reluctant frenemy. This resulted in some head-givin’ hardships.
When at last he’d sprung up (the nun, having stashed a motorbike nearby, was absconding, with Regatta riding b*tch), Our Hero was nigh KO’d.
He had wheezed precum-flavoured air while Collier shouted for Mewsy. ‘Time he’d unclogged, Purchase was back and gearing up to give chase.
“I’m going after them,” Purchase stated, fiddling with his fly, “That nun needs to be Punished.” Tybalt tried to shout but nothing came out.
He leapt from the car gesticulating. Were they to abandon Mewsy? But Purchase, looking up from his own junk, only said, “Staying or Coming?”
Tybs fell back on his heels in mute amazement. Without a word Purchase jerked the stick. The Bonemobile spun dust and was gone. It was dawn.
Alone. Naked. Used. Abandoned. A countenance his rival’d rogered. A sense of pride done similarly by a faithless bi-sex-ual. A heart broken.
Tybalt bellowed in whisper over the cliff edge for some hours until at last he collapsed in a heap of exhaustion, tears and masculine shame.
Many dark, heavy, and possibly scandalous dreams visited Tyb Stahl under the baking sun. We omit them for brevity’s sake. Time passed.
He awoke in dappled shade to find a kneeling figure gently bathing him with a sponge scented with spiced oil. “Lie still,” its voice cooed.
He tried to lift his head, but his tremendous muscles seemed made of air. The voice soothed, “You’re safe, Rich. Rest. Release Your Toxins.”
How did he know that voice? He couldn’t make sense of it. The heat was too thick, his tonsils still too stained with the dreaded Aftertaste.
“Hush,” it said, as if it could hear the groggy clamour in his mind. “Lay back and let yourself be emptied.” A hand slid across him.
Rich’s eyes rolled back into his head as the strong, supple touch snaked over his helplessly exposed male body. “Daaannnnngggg,” he thought.
He felt like a penis all over. Like his whole bod was gettin’ a ripe juicy beej and oh boy was it just the tick. This gal knew what was up.
He felt her inside him, pumping him like teats aplenty, and him moaning to shame a pornist. It was all too much! Gurgle, splat, splat, sigh.
“Well!” she said in her husky low voice, “That was over rather quickly.” “I’ve been producing industrial quantities,” he rasped, “For my…”
Regatta! Mewsy! The nun, and… Oh Gawd. He suddenly remembered. He shot upright. And there beside him, there – oh dear – was the stranger.
“YOU!” – Rich and the stranger beheld one another, the former with confused, heterosexual horror, the lat wearing a calm, assertive erexion.
“You’d’ve fried to a muscly cracklin’ in the sun,” the stranger said, “Without aid of my workman’s strength and my nursemaid’s wet succour.”
“I dragged you to this shady grove, I salved your steaming flesh and, yes, with my extracts and tinctures I drew your sticky anguish out.”
Rich was reminded uncomfortably by his still-throbbing halfsy how true the lad spoke. How could he’ve mistaken those caresses for a woman’s?
“You’re worn out,” said the stranger, delicately placing his hand on Rich’s armbeef. “Just rest now.” That touch was so soft… but no – NO!
Rich tried to pull away, but the sudden movement had made him woozy and weak. He allowed himself to be cradled and lain prostrate once more.
“Mewsy…” he managed wanly, “Can it be true? I must find her.” But he coughed piteously, and the stranger drew in with fondles of comfort.
The taut young form, covered only in the vague suggestion of a linen kaftan, pressed alongside him, and the boy’s voice slid into his ear.
“I can’t swear to Mewsy’s fate,” came the sinuous whispers, “But I do know that Mumcu, her Gay Deceiver, is the soul of Wickedness itself.”
“Direct she appeared that night, the image of Lucifer, I was struck with unholy dread. When we stopped I fled to the underbrush unnoticed.”
“From there I watched her reveal herself a basilisk – she whose scent I had worn as a gas mask. She passed near me and I shook in terror.”
“It was as if flames leapt from her when she boarded her Sapphic hog and roared off with her prey, my -” the stranger gulped, “My Mother.”
“Mother?” gaped Rich, “Not -” “Yes,” said the lad, “I was the Bastard Surprise that wilted that teenaged posey.” “Impossible! That baby…!”
(The two men had been spooning quite naturally until now, but, as Rich fell silent, things suddenly began to feel somehow… different.)
Rich disentangled, enfeebled though he was, and in a hoarse confessional stage whisper he uttered it aloud: “I was that baby’s father!”
The stranger melted into his monumental hindquarter. “Who’s to say? You know better than I what an appetite Mother has for a good breeding.”
“NO!” Rich barked, bucking like a medicated seal, “She’d never been with anyone else. We stuck together like a pair o’ wet plungerheads.”
The stranger waited for Rich to thrash himself breathless before speaking. When he did, his tone was ripe to oozing with liberated thought.
“One hears what is to be heard, walking as I do from town to town. Unlike Heaven’s Queen my mum was no virj when she got knocked o’er.”
“Your chances of being my sire are narrower than -” here he fumbled for the analogy before whispering, “Well, than something awf’ly narrow.”
He went on, as he felt the man growing limp and suggestible, “A fellow can’t be trucking with could-bes, not when he’s seen what I’ve seen.”
Rich felt helpless and dopey, and yet – acquiescent? “I lie here compromised,” he groaned with laboured breath, “Being seduced by my own…”
“Hush,” the youth admonished him. And, stroking the hair on that damp heaving chest, he rocked Rich sweetly and murmured, “There, there.”