Date: Wed, 21 Aug 2013 05:07:22 +0000
From: Michael Offutt <kavrik@hotmail.com>
Subject: Black Dragon Rising Chapter Eleven - Gay Science Fiction

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                                    *****

                               Chapter Eleven

      "Disappoint the mind lords and you die," Shar says to me, his breath
heavy on my ear. It reeks of garlic and meat. "They admire only this:
strength and power. Give them a show and there's nothing they'll refuse
you. Give Master Kierak blood and violence, and you elevate his status in
the eyes of the others."

      I digest what Shar has said, but three words lodge in my thoughts:
the mind lords....

      Angelaria once said that the mind lords manufactured the drug Eros,
the same drug that once enslaved my mind. Are these the same creatures? As
my eyes search the dark for answers that aren't there, a voice inside me
says yes.

      And what of Angelaria? Will she be expected to fight as a thrall, or
will they make her a common slave? I pray for her even though I know she
has no love for my god. I've to remind myself that even this form of
temporary imprisonment is better than the slow death we faced in the
corridor trap. I will bide my time, and try to keep my feelings for my two
friends buried deep inside me. Is there a place where the mind lords can't
reach? I can't give them any more ammunition to use against me than they
already possess.

      I know I can manage to keep Angelaria from most of my thoughts. I'm
less attached to her, but she's still someone I'd like to fuck badly. But
Talen? Tethyr's teeth how do I not think of my boyfriend? How do I not long
for him with every breath? They'll find out about him as soon as they
search even the shallowest thought. I need to come clean about him at the
earliest opportunity. My only chance is to hope they'll find as much value
in him as they do in me. Then maybe we can be together and plan our escape
outside the attention of our terrible masters.

      "What if I refuse to kill?" I ask.

      "Don't do that," Shar says.

      The finality of his statement sinks in. This is kill or be killed. If
I refuse, they'll just execute the other gladiator and then punish me. And
there are probably worse things the mind lords can call upon in their
arsenal of evil. Eros-addiction might only scratch the surface. But if they
invented the drug, maybe they also have a cure. Maybe if I do as Shar says,
I can convince Master Kierak to make me dead seed live again so that I can
have children of my own.

      At least this dark cloud has one silver lining.

      Shar hauls me to my feet. A moment later, he pushes me into the
central arena. The light illuminates the sand which is now spattered with
large swaths of red. No features belonging to any of the mind lords are
visible, but the silhouettes of their enormous squid-shaped heads occupy
every recess and alcove that overlooks the pit. Shar grunts and drags me
roughshod to the center where he shackles me to a blood-soaked rock; my
boots leave furrows in my wake.

      "He's just a child!" someone shouts, obviously taken aback by my
youthful face.

      "We came to watch men fight, not a teenaged boy still wet behind the
ears!" Another yells.

      I hear the tinkle of coin, the snap of purses. The voices are
Sulasian, but the dialect's unfamiliar. As my eyes adjust I see the shapes
of the gamblers in the crowds. They are nothing but shadows to me, but each
has something off about it...something that says, "I'm not entirely human."
I spot pointed ears, huge luminous eyes, and even furry tails. Who are
these people? Are they friends of the mind lords? Are they slave owners
too? Or are they merely spectators paying admission to see men die?

      I've never known men that actually use violence as a form of
entertainment. So part of me wonders if any that see me now are repulsed by
the thought of what may happen. Do they not realize that money will only
heighten the carnage? Perhaps that's the point. It's a universal truth that
the love of money is the root of all evil. We can think we are superior,
but in the end we're no better than animals.

      I stare up and there's balcony over balcony as far as my eyes can
see, literally thousands of gamblers and speculators waging on today's
games. I see some of them eating from pewter dishes; others drink from
matching flagons. Slaves cater to them all, walking up and down the aisles
between their chairs.

      "Boo!" several voices call out. "The boy's a trophy at most. He's
pretty, and men should not be pretty. He's not a warrior. Let's see him
naked instead!"

      Guffaws fill the stands.

      "He's not a man. Strip him naked and you'll see his balls haven't
even dropped! Give us a fight damn you! Not some kid that has peas to fill
his sac."

      I'll show you peas, I think to no one in particular. If anything,
they're the size of small oranges and capable of producing a river of cum.

      More heckling follows, a few scraps of fruit pelt the sand.

      Shar walks to the edge of the floor and returns with two other men. I
instantly recognize one as Piggy. The other's a tall black warrior. He
towers over me by almost a foot. Both of these men bristle with muscle and
unlike me, wear no armor. However, they do have weapons. The black man is
handed an axe; Piggy a spiked club. Both shift their weapons from one hand
to the other, approaching me and each other with caution.

      I yank on the chain but it's firmly attached to my slender ankle.

      "Don't worry boy," the black man says, "I'll end you quick. You won't
even feel it when I cut off your head."

      "My head's staying right where it is," I say to him.

      More laughter from the stands.

      I hear someone say, "The boy has spirit, I'll give him that. Still
not enough to bet on him.  What are the odds again?"

      "A hundred to one that he lives through this," another bettor says.

      Laughter. The clink of money. A voice raised to a shout yells,
"Enough dancing! Finish him!"

      Piggy sneers and then leaps at me, swinging his spiked club down at
my back. "Piggy destroy pretty lad!"

      I roll backward, delayed a moment by the weight of the chain. The
club smashes against the rock. Splinters fill the air and Piggy is
momentarily stunned, gazing at the ruin of his club as if unable to
contemplate what just happened. In the meantime, the Nubian grabs a hold of
my chain and wrenches me toward him, brandishing his axe like a butcher
holding a gargantuan cleaver.

      I'm lobbed like a ragdoll from off the sand. He aims the axe at my
middle, and I fling myself into a tumble (using the momentum the yank on
the chain provides) to come up short, missing the blade and taking the haft
of the axe across my solar plexus and left arm. Just to my right, the blade
gets wedged in sand so deep it threatens to pull my leg in with it. Pain,
which is then followed by shock and numbness, creeps down from my left
shoulder to my fingers.  With my right, I ball my corobidian-wrapped fist
and strike him as hard as I can to the tender between his legs.

      He drops instantly, clutching himself and howling in agony.

      I fish for my thieves' picks I've secreted in my collar. I dig one
out and slide it into the lock and move each of the tumblers into
place. With a pop, it comes open, and I pull my ankle out. I hear that all
too familiar slithering noise emanating from the crowd: this time, it's the
mind lords that are howling in laughter. I'm giving them their show, and
they like it.

      By now, Piggy recovers and whirls away from the rock. He tosses the
remains of the club to the sand and charges me. He swings one massive arm,
and I parry with my right, hitting him under the armpit with a well-placed
kick. I think to myself how nice it would be to have a weapon for just a
moment, and blades appear on the toes of my magical boots. Piggy gurgles
once, and I withdraw my foot; blood gushes from under his arm where I
struck him. The blades retract, and I set my foot down in the sand.

      The black man regains his footing, holding his nuts with his left
hand and taking hold of the axe. "You die now, runt!"

      I step away from him, my feet hardly leaving any indentations in the
sand while the black man sinks up to his calves in it. I keep my limp left
shoulder away from him, flexing my fingers, trying to work feeling back
into my limb. All the while I refuse to take my eyes from my assailant.  He
screams and swipes at me; I dodge and weave, moving fast and backpedaling
all the same.

      "Stand and fight like a man!" he yells.

      I scale the side of the massive boulder in the center of the
arena. The black man shouts in rage and swings at my feet with the axe. I
leap over the blade, land, and wait. He swings again and again; each time I
avoid his axe with a lithe jump and spring to the balls of my feet. On the
last occasion, I perform a front flip over his head and smash him in the
back of the skull with my left foot. My boot grows a sharp nail that I'm
able to pound into his head with one blow and leave in place as I land. A
quarter inch or so sticks out and drips blood.

      The black man falls paralyzed over the center stone. A moment later,
Shar runs out over the sand and retrieves the black warrior to drag him to
the table where Master Kierak awaits to eat his brain.

      "The boy won?!" someone yells. The tone is filled with incredulity
and disbelief.

      "Impossible!"

      A roar sounds from the crowd. I hear huge amounts of money changing
hands.

      Angry slithering comes from the bleachers, and Shar escorts me from
the arena to sit near the mind lord as he finishes off his second bloody
meal. This is the fate that awaits me when I fail.  But because I'm
victorious, I'm given a flask of cool fresh water to drink and a delicious
meal to eat.  It consists of the finest meat and cheese, steamed
vegetables, and a fresh loaf of bread. All of it is drowning in gravy. I
mop it up ravenously. Slowly, the feeling in my left arm returns.

      Following my meal, Shar approaches carrying a flask and a roll of
linen that he stretches out on a table.

      "Take off your armor and lie upon this. I will inspect you for wounds
while we wait on the next match."

      I swallow uncomfortably, but see that other slaves are also
naked. What makes me most uncomfortable though are the stares from
strangers who turn to observe me instead of watching from their plush seats
around the arena. There are men and women both. One man waddles forward on
legs too small to adequately support his girth. He reminds me of a merchant
who once raped me; I stabbed him in the belly seventeen times.

      "The boy got lucky," the man says, sipping wine from a cup. He
slovenly wipes his chin with the back of his hand. "You'll see how much of
a boy he is soon enough. I doubt he even has a twig and berries worth
looking at."

      "Strip!" Shar utters again.

      I do as I'm told and disrobe quickly. When Shar and the others see me
naked for the first time, there are a few stunned looks. I lie down on my
back and the master steps over me and fingers my gargantuan sweaty
manhood. Then he moves his tentacles over the muscles and ribs of my lean
body. My impulse is to recoil in horror, and I struggle to suppress it.

      The fat gambler staggers backward and licks his lips. "By Chagidiel's
pussy; I've never seen one so...thick."

      I try to cover it with my hand but I know before I begin that one
hand is inadequate. I know that my low hanging balls are attracting
attention because they're enlarged, glistening with fresh sweat, and pasted
with long strands of blond hair.

      I haven't been milked for days.

      My whole body drips; the cavern of the mind lords is as hot as any
jungle in summer.

      "Extremely thick, veined, and slightly curved at the end," a woman
with blond dreadlocks observes. "It's lovely...especially the way it gleams
in the light. And the head is as big as a small apple. Is he for sale? I
wonder how it tastes."

      A bead of sweat dislodges from matted pubes and trails down the foot
long length of it to dangle from my glans. When it falls, a slave catches
it in her palm and offers it to the woman who spoke. However, the fat man
is faster. He grabs the slave girl by the wrist and licks it from her palm.

      "Delicious," the man says. "It tastes of salt and smells of the sea."

      Shar gestures and some guards with furry tails thrust the slight
crowd that's gathered at Master Kierak's booth back into the
corridor. "Mind your business," one of them says. "The thrall is being
oiled."

      "Master Kierak," Shar says to me, "believes he's made a great
investment in you." He grabs a bottle and pours a clear liquid over his
fingers. "Your body is perfect, and he is greatly pleased with the beauty
of your genitals. Should you fail him, he can have them removed and sold to
recuperate your expense. That or he could breed you and sire many fine male
slaves to replace you when you've outgrown your usefulness."

      I gulp nervously, and desperately try to hide the fact that I'm
afraid. I look to the left and right and see other humanoid prisoners,
servants, and slaves eyeing me. Many look on with lasciviousness. Some are
not secret with their lust.

      "I do not breed women," I say.

      Master Kierak dons the voice box and speaks. "Why not?" he asks.  "I
would think human women would find you pleasing to the eye. I know many
here already do, but I shall not sell you.  They are jealous of my find
within the winter keep. And I like my enemies to be jealous for it gives me
power over them."

      I lower my eyes respectfully.  "I like boys. There's one in
particular, my lord. He's the one I would choose over any woman."

      "I see. Is he the one I found you with?"

      I nod.

      "You choose pleasure over procreation. So be it. If you continue to
please me, you shall be reunited with the boy of your heart. In fact you
may have other boys as you desire if I can afford them. However, let us
hope that the one you like survives the arena for he's scheduled to fight
soon.  There's nothing I can do about this now. Know that there are many of
your kind here in the pits, but they prefer to be bred and not to be the
breeder. Which are you?"

      "I'm a breeder," I say.

      Master Kierak nods. "A rarity indeed. You could have your choice of
holes for they all hunger for someone of your...size. I tell you what. If
you promise to win in your next bout, I will prepare the boy you desire in
a way with which you are not familiar.  We have a flesh crafter here and
can seal his anus with a translucent piece of skin prior to your
copulation. This will effectively make him a virgin. Do not fret for it
will be so thin it can cause only momentary discomfort when you break it,
but he shall bleed the same as a girl whose hymen has been freshly
sundered.  Furthermore, there's another here that can teach you proper anal
sex to take advantage of your endowment. Once you receive the blessing of
Chagidiel, your experience shall be unlike anything that you've engaged in
before. Is this to your liking?"

      I stare at the Master and then ask, "Can you promise he won't be
harmed in any way?"

      "Yes. If you win, he shall not be harmed. Provided he's capable of
holding his own in the arena, we shall simply tell him that he is to be
reunited with you and even tell him what he can expect. I assure you, I
treat my winning thralls with great respect. But if you lose, things will
go badly for both him and you. I keep no losers in my stable."

      "I agree then. Keep your word, and I will win for you."

      The master slithers his tentacles together in pleasure and then
returns to his seat.

      Shar rubs oil into my flesh; it causes the sensation to return
rapidly to my muscles and bones. Whatever is contained within the unguent
heals me so that I can fight again. Even the open wounds on my back caused
by the nettle flog vanish.

      That's all they care about. That's all that matters. Shar gives me a
full body massage, kneading my ropy sinew and muscle, and when he's done, I
no longer feel weariness of any kind.

      In this time, seven more men die in the arena. Shar washes me with
several pitchers of scented water and towels me dry. Then I re-don all of
my armor including my boots. There are a few sighs and disappointed looks
when I hide my penis once more behind a form-fitted codpiece.

      It's interesting how many people in this world love to gaze upon my
cock.

      I don't know whether I should be pleased or disturbed; perhaps a
little of both.

      Out in the arena, Talen appears. Like me, he's shackled to the center
rock. My mouth drains of all spit, and I utter a silent prayer to Tethyr. I
believe in Talen...I really do...but he doesn't have my training. If I have
to watch him die here today, I know I won't be long for this world. I'd
rather be castrated whole than to witness even a single hair on his lovely
head put to harm.

      I can't live without you buddy, I think to myself.

      Talen looks like he's been struck in the eye because the flesh on one
side of his face is a little swollen and puffy. A thrall grapples him down
onto the sand and places the manacle around his left ankle and secures this
to the rock with a special tool. Then the thrall swats him with his hand,
laughs, and leaves the field.

      "I'll kill you, thrall," I promise, clenching my fist. No one strikes
my Talen and lives.

      Talen rises from the sand and searches the surrounding darkness with
his good eye. Soon, his first opponent appears, climbing up the narrow
steps to the left and then out onto the playing field. The guy's a giant:
eight feet tall with a girdle wrapped about his waist. It makes the warrior
look so stout that it's like I'm staring at a pork sausage, plump and
bulging, bound in a blanket of flakey dough.

      "Not the goddamned cadel," I swear.

      Sure enough, he's got one in his right fist. "Bison cleaver" and this
guy looks for all the world like he can follow through with that ominous
moniker. The thing must weigh four hundred pounds and he hefts it easily.

      I watch in horror as the giant slogs through the sand toward my slim,
gentle lover of 135- pounds.  This titan's weight is so massive that he
literally sinks to his knees. In contrast, Talen barely leaves an
indentation in the sand.

      The giant and the mouse stare each other down. The giant tries to
skirt to Talen's blind side, but my friend pivots to keep him front and
center. The giant reaches out with his cadel and taps the oily black
chain. With surprising speed he lunges, grabs a hold of it with his free
hand, and yanks on it. Talen doesn't stand a chance. I see the giant leap
back to get room to swing his weapon. Talen slides to a stop, shock and
fear in his face. The big man laughs and smites at Talen with the cadel; I
look aside knowing that the blow will cut my boyfriend into two
pieces. Tears stream down my cheeks.

      But I don't hear a scream!

      Instead there's a hissing from the crowd, and I open them to see that
the cadel has missed Talen and instead slammed into the chain, cutting it
in two. Talen peeks upward from a few feet to the left where he rolled to
dodge the blow. The giant is in disbelief.

      "Talen...pick the lock!" I call out to him.

      He hears me! Talen rips the picks from the collar of his killsuit and
in a moment he's worked himself free. Without the weight holding him down,
he's able to hop away like an acrobat. The giant swipes at him again with
the cadel. This time Talen jumps and kicks down on the flat of the blade
with his magical boots. There's a thunderous clap and the axe shatters!

      My jaw drops. Many others around the arena share in my surprise.

      As for the giant? He's in shock, holding only the haft of his weapon
and blinking with incomprehension at the metal shards of the cadel that
plop heavily into the sand on all sides of the central boulder.

      Talen gains the top of the rock behind the giant, grabs hold of the
chain that once held him, and swings it round to capture the giant's
attention.

      "Over here you ass pirate!" he yells.

      The giant roars and gnashes his teeth. "I'll grab hold of your legs
and rip you in two!" Then he flexes his fingers in anger. In the next
instant, he leans into a punch with one meaty fist, but my boyfriend is too
quick for him. Talen dodges the blow, leaps up, and lands on the giant's
shoulders.  It's a matter of heartbeats before Talen has the giant's neck
completely wrapped in chains.

      With all his strength, he tightens the noose.

      Talen's biceps bulge and his glutes stiffen. Every muscle in his lean
body goes into the effort, and the giant plunges to his knees, grasping
with futility at the oily black garrote of doom.

      But Talen's got it wrapped too taut, and try as he might, the giant
can't get his fingers behind it for all the clawing and scraping in the
world. He opens his mouth, trying to suck air into his lungs, but is denied
even a single breath. Blue in the face, he topples over, tongue lolling
between his massive lips.

      Talen wipes the sweat vigorously from his brow.

      All around the arena, the hissing and slathering of mucous-covered
tentacles ensues. The mind-lords are enjoying this immensely.  Talen, like
I before him, has provided a great show. A moment later, the thrall that
struck Talen walks out onto the sand, looks up at my boyfriend atop the
giant, and motions for slaves stationed around the arena to come and drag
the giant body away for disposal. Then the thrall motions for Talen to
follow him off the sandy floor.

      "He is your equal," a voice box intones behind me.

      I turn to see Master Kierak standing at his seat. His purple robes
flow about his body like liquid smoke; I realize at once that the scrap of
cloth Talen found in the keep belonged to robes like his. That's one
mystery solved.

      "He's good, yes," I say. "But not my equal, sir. I've no equal in
this world."

      "Your boots...they are special garments given to only the most
trusted of thralls. They are a gift from the elder brain and are only
twenty in number. I would like to possess them for my own, or have them in
the service of one of my thralls. What is the name of your boy? I shall
purchase him this afternoon for his master owes me a debt and may be
amenable to a transaction of this magnitude. I know he seeks a youth for
ceremorphosis and perhaps I can make a trade for these purposes."

      I don't know what ceremorphosis is, but the very mention of it makes
my blood freeze in my veins. It has to be ghastly.

      "He and I need to be together," I say. "If you like what you saw
here, try us as a team. You won't regret it."

      The monster looks down at me, its bloated head slick with slimy
mucous, and its long tentacles writhing in a mass over its serrated and
circular mouth. I think that he's listening.

      "We...when we're fighting...we're better than any thralls. Trust me
on this. If this bashing about is entertaining...or if it's profitable,
then we're the best. We won't ever lose. And we'll make you rich, and
you'll be the envy of all the other...hmm...purple guys." I say at last. I
don't know if my own name for his species (that of mind lord) would be
insulting so I dare not risk it.

      "I see. I am a Quastor...a different clan than the one that possesses
your male companion.  He is an Ocralanth and of a higher caste. He will not
want to part with your male companion now that he's proven himself so
resourceful. Of course, I could offer my only three thralls for him. As a
Quastor, I'm only allowed the use of three thralls so this is a grave
sacrifice to me, and I'm loathe to do so. Do not associate slaves with
thralls. They are entirely different. One has respect...the other is food."

      "With Talen and I, there's no need for anyone else."

      Master Kierak moves his slick tentacles about, touching the air
somewhat suggestively. "I sense within you much ambition. By the elder
brain, you are unlike any other of your species that I've encountered. At
first, I was certain that I must snuff this ambition within you. But I'm
beginning to see things as you would see them. With you by my side, I could
attain honor and wealth that I thought entirely out of my reach. But if you
are to be my thrall, you must prove to me what you say, and you must prove
that you can beat Shar for he is my best. I would not readily give him up
for he is responsible for my attaining the rank of Quastor only this last
year."

      The mind lord turns away from me and then indicates to Shar that he's
to take me back to my pen. Shar grunts and cuffs me round the neck with an
iron collar. Then he grabs a sword and prods me to move. At the top of the
stair to the master's personal slave pit, he half-pushes, half- shoves me
down the steps. Deftly, I catch myself from falling.  Near the bottom,
however, Shar kicks my legs out from under me, gibbering like a hyena, and
I collapse into the stinking mud. I push my body up on my hands and make to
strike, but he levels his sword at me. Other armed men emerge. Are these
then free men? I ask to myself. How does one become a guard to the slave
pits?

      I keep my silence though and am soon thrust into my cell where Shar
locks me once again into the cold iron cuffs. This time, I'm allowed to
keep my armor on, so the cuffs don't hurt my circulation or cause
discomfort. He does turn me round though so that my only view is the wall
of rock. I hang there for several long hours, sometimes drifting into and
out of sleep, and my muscles and bones growing sore. If only I had my
helmet, then I could escape.

      Shar rubs his hand on my shoulder and wakes me from my doze.

      He offers me a cup of cool water, and I drink it trying to quench my
burning thirst. He loosens my bonds and once I work feeling back into my
limbs, I relieve myself in a bucket while he watches. But he isn't the only
one...plenty of slaves watch too. I get the impression they like what they
see as the breadth of my meat slaps against my own palm and what's left
dangles to just below my knee.

      That's when I notice that Shar holds a folded bull whip in his left
hand. I put my dick away, and he points at the exit to my cell. Beyond,
Kierak waits for me. As if to hasten my movement, I feel the brief scratch
in my mind again. It turns instantly to pain. I grimace and stagger forward
to prostrate myself before him. I stare at the edge of his purple robe,
which floats slightly above the mud. It is the only color in this dreary
place.

      Then the master returns my mind to freedom.

      Shar uncoils his bullwhip, and I look up at him standing confident in
his leather armor. He unleashed the whip at my back; I turn my face at the
last moment and feel it lash the armor. It's a warning. He's trying to cow
me and establish himself as my superior. To add further insult, Shar laughs
in my face and then makes to kick me with his toe. However, I've had enough
of his abuse.

      I grab a hold of his foot, hook it upward, and drop the big man into
the mud. In a split second I have MY boot pressed against HIS jugular,
immobilizing him face down in fresh slave excrement.

      "Don't kill him," the voice box intones. "You've passed my test. I've
considered your request and shall offer my thralls for the teenager that
was captured along with you and the girl.  Master Zang has already agreed
to the transfer. I only wanted to make sure that I was making the best
choice. You've now proven this to me."

      Shar is horrified; I release him.

      "Master," he begs, falling to his knees. "Have I not served you
well?"

      The mind lord stops and writhes its tentacles. "It's not a matter of
service, but a matter of wealth. Your time is over, Shar. This teenager has
talents that you do not possess. I would be a fool not to capitalize on
them. And I'm no one's fool."

                                    *****

      I shall post Chapter Twelve next week.