Anthology Flipped Fables

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

Torquere Press

www.torquerepress.com

First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2008

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Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

CONTENTS

Foreword
The Man Who Cried Werewolf
A Sheepherder in Fabulous Clothing
Shifter 2.0
Bad Hair Day
Wild Fox Chase
Sweet Persuasion
The Nature of Love
Court and Country
The Cock and the Jewel
Contributors

* * * *

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

Foreword

Somewhere in Central Texas lived an editor...
A great urge to read fables with a gay tone assaulted the

editor one day. The editor gave in to the need, and called
upon the authors to take a fable and flip it into something a
modern reader could love.

The moral of this fable has to be, "If you want good, hot

gay romance, you have to ask for it."

Fables speak to the same part of us that loves fairy tales

or spooky stories. There's magic in them, and morals, and
humor with a wicked side. Fables also give us plenty of
opportunity for sly wit and a little back-stabbing and some
amazing chewing of the scenery.

Flipped Fables offers nine tales from some of Torquere

Press' favorite authors as well as some new faces in gay
fiction. From shape shifters to businessmen and piercers,
Flipped Fables turns the world of Aesop on its end, which is
the best way to enjoy a story, one way or the other.

Come with me, oh reader, and delve into the world of

Flipped Fables today!

SA Clements—September 2008

[Back to Table of Contents]

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

The Man Who Cried Werewolf

By Kiernan Kelly
Even when liars tell the truth, they are never believed.
The liar will lie once, twice, and then perish when he tells

the truth.

—Aesop
It was nearly noon by the time Dylan Shepherd slipped

into his cubicle, slung his backpack into its usual corner
between the short filing cabinet and his desk, and booted up
his computer. He hadn't missed the black look Frank Grimes,
his editor-in-chief, had given him as he'd passed Frank's
office, but chose to ignore it. As far as Dylan was concerned,
as long as he got his stories in before his deadlines, there was
nothing for Frank to gripe about.

He knew he'd have to suffer through the same, tired drill

anyway. Frank would call Dylan into his office later, growling
and grumbling and working himself up into a state, his blood
pressure making the vein in his forehead throb and his jowls
jiggle. He'd jab a stubby finger in Dylan's face and lecture him
on who the boss of the outfit was, and on the importance of
being on time when you were nothing but a lowly employee,
and how there were thousands of other eager young reporters
out there dying for the opportunity to jump into Dylan's
Ferragamo loafers.

Dylan would sit and patiently wait until Frank ran out of

steam—as always—and then go right on doing exactly as he'd
been doing for the last five years. Frank would cool off, and

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

leave Dylan alone until the next time Frank felt the need to
assert his authority.

Dylan was The Inquiring Star's ace reporter, and Frank

damn well knew it. Dylan's stories were the bread and butter
of the tabloid, the reason people bought the damn paper. As
long as his stories sold copies, Frank wasn't going to fire his
ass no matter how late Dylan was getting to the office.

He pushed Frank from his mind and turned his attention to

his desk. There was a thin stack of bright pink While You
Were Out messages on his blotter, along with an angry
interoffice memo from the art department about last minute
submissions for layout, and an especially colorful one from
Wilma, the office manager, explaining in graphic detail exactly
where she planned to stuff Dylan's moldy sandwiches if he
didn't clean them out of the office refrigerator immediately.

Not a bad Monday morning, all things considered.
He tossed both memos into the trash and riffled through

the pink messages. A woman named Margaret Hemp wanted
to tell Dylan about her cat, Maurice, and the hairball he'd
coughed up that looked just like the Virgin Mary. Jerry
Watkins, who claimed to be a representative of a superior
alien race, wanted to take Dylan aboard his mothership.
Someone named Skeeter—or Scooter, Dylan couldn't quite
make out the receptionist's handwriting on that one—had a
cow possessed by the spirit of Elvis Presley. Frieda Kline was
convinced that her local cable company was broadcasting
messages from Satan embedded in reruns of Gilligan's Island,
and a farmer by the name of Claude Riff had a hired hand
who moonlighted as a werewolf.

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by SA Clements

Dylan deposited the Hemp and Skeeter/Scooter messages

into a basket on his desk labeled "Possible—Follow Up," and
the notes from Watkins and Kline into his trash can. Holy cat
puke and celebrity-possessed livestock might be something
he could work with, but aliens and televised messages from
Hell were so overdone that he'd never waste his time on
them.

Leaning back in his chair as his ancient Macintosh clicked

and beeped and continued trying to boot up, he fingered the
message from the farmer named Riff. A potential headline
was already formulating in Dylan's brain. Werewolf Handyman
Terrorizes Rural Community! He could just see the artist's
rendering on the front page—a hairy beast dressed in
overalls, snarling at the full moon overhead, fangs dripping
blood. Better yet, he could pull an old photo from the morgue,
one of the grainy, slightly out of focus shots that showed a
man who was a little hairier than usual, touch it up in
Photoshop, and use that. It would be sensational.

He smirked, and glanced at the framed prints that hung on

the walls of his cubicle. All were front pages of the tabloid
featuring headlines for stories he'd penned. Scientist Finds
Proof Werewolves Exist! Aide Claims Senator Is A Werewolf!
Wolfman Loose in Beverly Hills! Werewolf Runs Amok in Wal-
Mart!

His smirk stretched into a cocky grin. Werewolves were

Dylan's forte. He was never happier than when writing a
werewolf story, and nothing sold more copies than a good,
old-fashioned shapeshifter scare. There was something about
the thought of a man turning into a hairy, snarling, fanged

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

creature questing for human flesh during a full moon that
captured the imagination of the public. Given a headline like
that, the papers virtually flew off the supermarket shelves.

Dylan took out a pen and legal pad, picked up the

telephone and dialed Riff's number. He had several days
before his current story was due. He'd finish it, get it to
Frank, and then fly out to Riff's farm for the weekend. He'd
inspect the carcass of Riff's goat or sheep or whatever that
had no doubt been killed by coyotes, fly back, and write
another piece of lycanthropic genius in time for next week's
deadline.

"Hello?"
"Is this Claude Riff?" Dylan asked, tapping the point of his

pen on the paper, scattering a swath of blue dots across the
yellow sheet.

"Depends on who's asking." The voice was brittle with age,

smoke-ravaged.

"This is Dylan Shepherd from the Inquiring Star. Mr. Riff

called and left a message for me about a rather dire situation
he's found himself in. Something to do with his handyman, I
believe."

"Oh, hell yes! I've been waiting on your call, Mr. Shepherd.

My sister, Susie, she's done read everything you ever wrote.
Says you're a bona fide expert on werewolves. That right?"

"Yes, sir, I suppose you could say that I am," Dylan

answered, rolling his eyes.

Riff's voice lowered to a whisper. "Well, I got me one.

Now, he ain't done no wrong that I know of, but still and all it
ain't natural to have powers like that. I don't know what to do

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by SA Clements

about him, neither. Being a God-fearing man, I can't shoot
the poor bastard. Thought maybe you knew somebody who'd
want to take him off my hands. One of them secret scientists
you're always writing about, maybe."

Oh, this guy is good, Dylan thought. Either he had a

fantastic imagination or was completely off his rocker—or
maybe he was just on serious meds. A rescue mission by
animal control for werewolves would make a great story. "I'd
like to come out to your farm and talk about it with you.
What's your address?"

Riff's farm was located somewhere out in the heart of

Pissant-ville, where Dylan was certain the most interesting
things that ever happened were beetle infestations and the
occasional thresher accident.

"Excellent, Mr. Riff. I'll fly out there Friday night, just

before the weekend, and swing by the farm," Dylan said. He
hung up and immediately dialed the airline, booking a seat
out to The Middle of Nowhere, USA. He'd need to rent a car
and drive nearly two hundred miles to Riff's farm, but knew it
would be worth his time, particularly if he could get an
interview with the handyman/werewolf. A couple of photos of
the guy—expertly Photo-shopped, of course—and an
accompanying, appropriately grisly story might just garner
Dylan another front page headline.

Tucking Riff's phone number and address into his shirt

pocket, Dylan smiled, stood and stretched, spine crackling
with the effort, then walked over to Frank's office. He might
as well get the lecture over with—he had things to do before
Friday.

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by SA Clements

* * * *

The Riff farm was exactly how Dylan had pictured it in his

mind. Weather-beaten farmhouse, complete with rooster
weathervane and faded red barn, a corral with a couple of
swaybacked horses and slat-ribbed cows, a pen of squealing
hogs, one or two goats, and a few acres of corn. All it needed
was Dorothy, Toto, and a twister in the backdrop, and he
could be standing in front of the Gale farm in the Wizard of
Oz.

It was fabulously middle-American—readers would eat it

up.

He pulled the Lincoln Navigator up the dirt road that led to

the front yard of the farmhouse, and parked it next to a blue
pick-up truck. Dylan noticed the pick-up's fender was dented,
and it had four deep gouges that had split the skin wide open
along the driver's side panel.

Perfect! He dug his Nikon out of his backpack, and

snapped a few photos of the damage on the side of the truck,
and a couple of the farmhouse, too, for good measure. If he
could make the story sensational enough, it might warrant a
two-page spread, and he could use the extra photos. Hanging
the camera around his neck by its strap, he skirted the truck
and climbed the two cracked steps to the porch. There was no
doorbell, so he rapped sharply on the door instead.

He waited several minutes, feeling sweat trickle down his

spine and collect at the small of his back. He hadn't realized
how hot it was while driving the air-conditioned Navigator. It
had to be at least ninety degrees in the shade, without the

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

slightest hint of a breeze. He drew his sleeve over his brow,
and walked the length of the porch to the window, framed by
faded blue gingham curtains. Cupping his hands on either
side of his eyes, he peered through the dingy glass.

The window looked into a tiny kitchen. A narrow gas

range, white and chipped, sat next to short counter and sink.
An ancient Frigidaire, the kind with the freezer on top, its
door spotted with magnets, stood on the opposite side of the
room, along with a small wooden table and two spindle-
backed chairs.

No one was in the kitchen, but he rapped on the window

anyway. He waited again, but there was still no sign of life.
Dylan sighed and stepped off the porch, looking toward the
barn. Maybe Farmer John ... er, Claude, was in there, pitching
hay or milking Bessie, or doing whatever it was farmers did in
barns these days. Wiping his forehead again, he trudged in
that direction.

The barn door was cracked open. He slipped inside,

immediately noticing the difference in temperature. Why, it
had to be a least two or three degrees cooler in the shade of
the barn than out in the yard. He snorted wryly to himself,
and pulled at the material of his shirt where it stuck to his
chest, damp with perspiration.

"Hello? Mr. Riff? Are you in here? I'm Dylan Shepherd from

the Inquiring Star. We spoke on the phone last week," he
called out. Again, there seemed to be no one of human origin
anywhere to be seen. A line of four stalls ran along the right-
hand side of the barn. In each one, he could see the brown-
and-white spotted backs of cows. The left-hand side of the

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

barn was strewn with farm equipment—pitchforks, shovels,
hammers, saws, and hoes, along with an impressive collection
of machetes and scythes. "Hello?"

"Claude ain't here." The disembodied voice startled Dylan,

until he realized it was coming from the loft. A hand-crafted
ladder leaned against the edge of the barn's second floor, so
he walked toward it. Looking up, he could see a shadow
looming against mounds of dark yellow hay.

"Hi, I'm Dylan Shepherd from—"
"I heard you afore. Newspaper fella."
"That's right. I thought I saw Claude's truck out front."
"Told you, Claude ain't here. Truck's mine."
"Oh, that's too bad," Dylan said, mentally cursing his luck.

Hadn't he told Riff he'd be here today? Why had the man left?
"What time do you expect him back?"

"Ain't likely to be any time soon."
"What do you mean? We had an appointment!"
"Don't think he's gonna make it. He's dead."
"Dead! I just talked to him Monday!" Fuck! Isn't it just my

luck to fly all the way out to the middle of God's Puckered
Asshole, and have my source drop dead just before I get
here? A thought suddenly hit him. Maybe he didn't need Riff
to get the story. Maybe this guy knew what the deal was with
the handyman/werewolf. Hell, maybe he was the hairy
bugger. If Riff wasn't around to dispute them, Dylan could
make up the details of the story on his own. He'd done it
before. "Well, who are you?"

"Name's Zach."
"Mind if I come up, Zach?"

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

"Suit yourself."
Dylan put a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, and

tested it to see if it would hold his weight. The damnable
thing didn't look all that sturdy. It seemed to be nothing but
rough-hewn pieces of wood nailed together. It held, though,
and he began to climb up toward the loft, trying not to look
down.

He hated heights with a passion that bordered on dread,

and tried not to think about how he was supposed to get
down out of the loft when he'd completed his interview.
Nevertheless, he made it to the top, climbed onto the
platform and stood up, taking a moment to futilely try to
brush the dirt from his khakis and shirt.

The loft was just that—a half-floor built to store hay. Piles

of the stuff were scattered in haphazard mounds, stray pieces
strewn an inch-thick across the wooden plank floor. Dylan
sneezed, feeling his eyes already beginning to itch and water.
He forgot all about his allergies, though, when he got his first
good look at the man who'd called himself "Zach."

Bare-chested and wielding a wicked-looking pitchfork,

Zach stood at least six-foot two. Thick black hair fell in damp
ringlets to brush his broad, muscular shoulders, his cheeks
dark with a heavy shadow. Dylan was mesmerized for a few
seconds, hypnotized by the fluid movement of muscle under
tanned, sweat-beaded skin as Zach plunged the pitchfork into
a mound of hay, scooped up a wad, and chucked it through
the opening on the far side of the loft.

Brilliant green eyes flashed at Dylan as Zach realized he

had an audience. He rested the pitchfork tines down, leaning

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

on the handle. "So, what's a newspaper fella doing all the way
out here in the sticks?"

Zach's voice was deep and melodic with a Texas drawl

instead of the mid-western twang Dylan would have
expected. He's not from around here, he realized. "Mr. Riff
called me. He said he had a werewolf as an employee. I came
here to check out his story."

"Did he now?"
Dylan almost didn't answer. He couldn't take his eyes off

Zach's chest, heavily muscled and dusted liberally with black
hair. His nipples were the color of amber, a warm, golden
brown; a clearly defined eight-pack ridged his stomach. Deep
crevices marked his hips, revealed by low-slung jeans worn
thin enough to be nearly transparent. A substantial bulge
filled out the crotch, clearly outlined by the soft material.

A hard-on was the last thing Dylan expected to suffer while

on an expedition to Hooterville, but damned if he didn't feel
one starting anyway, growing stiff and uncomfortable and
distending the front of his pants. Dylan wrenched his eyes
away from Zach's body, meeting his eyes.

That only made Dylan's problem worse. Zach's eyes were

sea-green and startling in both their color and intensity. He
felt them boring into him, probing, like a predator sizing up
possible prey. It was only with a great deal of effort that
Dylan found his voice again.

"Y-yes. Do you know anything about it?"
"Maybe. Depends on why you want to know. Gonna write a

story on him, are you?"

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by SA Clements

Dylan licked his lips, which had gone incredibly dry. He

tried to swallow, but couldn't find a drop of saliva to spare. "I
told you, I'm with the Inquiring Star. Reporting the facts is
what I do. If it's true, it would make a great story."

Zach's lips curled into a heated smile that sent a bolt of

need shooting through Dylan's balls, exacerbating the
problem pressing against his fly. "That so? Seems to me
you've already wrote a bunch of stories like that. I've seen
your paper from time to time. Werewolves Loose in Wal-Mart.
Sound familiar?"

Dylan finally tore his gaze from Zach's. He spotted a

horseshoe hanging on the wall behind Zach, ends turned up
for good luck, and stared at that instead. It was safer than
looking into those mesmerizing eyes any longer. "You read
that one? It was a good piece. I had it on a reliable source
that—"

"Bullshit."
"Pardon?" Dylan's head snapped toward Zach, and once

again he found himself captivated by Zach's penetrating
green gaze.

"I said it was bullshit."
"I guess you don't believe in werewolves, then?" Neither

did Dylan, but as the author, he couldn't very well admit that
his story was a total work of fiction. After all, he had his
principles—such as they were. "Well, as a reporter, all I can
do is present the facts and—"

"Didn't say I don't believe in them," Zach interrupted.

Dylan felt his intense gaze rake him from head to foot and

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by SA Clements

back again. "Just don't believe they tore up the lingerie
department in Wal-Mart."

Dylan managed a snort. "I suppose you think werewolves

are too high class for discount stores? Figure they'd be more
at home in Victoria's Secret, huh?" Sarcasm, the best last
defense, he thought.

Unfortunately, Zach didn't seem to understand Dylan was

mocking him. "I didn't say that, either. Truth is, most just
don't cotton to crowded places like the mall. It can make
things ... difficult, when there are a lot of people around."

"Oh, so you're an expert on werewolves, Mr. Zach?"
Zach chuckled. "It's just 'Zach.' No last name needed, and

yeah. I'm about as expert as they come."

"And how, may I ask, did you acquire your expertise?"

Dylan surprised himself. Considering the size of the boner he
was sporting, and the pull of the magnetism that Zach
seemed to exude from every pore, Dylan still managed to
pour a considerable amount of derision into his voice. "What
did you do? Earn a degree in crypto-zoology between harvest
and planting seasons?"

Zach must have finally caught the sarcasm—or decided

enough was enough. He moved so fast that Dylan had no
time to react or regret his flippant question. One moment
Zach was standing five or six feet away, and the next he had
Dylan backed up flush against the wall, one large hand
planted across Dylan's chest, pinning him in place. His other
hand snatched the camera from around Dylan's throat and
ripped it off, tossing it carelessly onto the hay.

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by SA Clements

Zach was making a noise low in his throat that sounded

suspiciously like a growl, and he leaned in, sniffing at the skin
on Dylan's throat in an odd manner.

It was an almost ... lupine, Dylan realized. He had no more

time to ponder the oddness of Zach's behavior, or the fact
that the man had managed to pin Dylan in place with one
hand, because in the next instant, Zach licked him.

Warm and wet, Zach's tongue slid over the delicate skin of

Dylan's throat, slowly tracing the contour of his jaw. Dylan's
hard-on, which had softened when Zach rushed him, came
roaring back, stiffening under his fly as if his dick were trying
to reach up to meet Zach's tongue.

"You smell good. Taste better. Salt and sweat and need,"

Zach said. His tongue made another lap, this time tracing the
skin over Dylan's jugular vein.

"I-I'm not afraid of you," Dylan sputtered, although his

heart was beating wildly in his chest. The sweat that soaked
his shirt suddenly felt icy cold, and he shivered.

"No? Good. You shouldn't be. I wouldn't hurt you." Zach's

hand slid lower, leaving Dylan's chest and smoothing over his
stomach. Dylan mewled, a half-strangulated sound, when
Zach's fingers brushed even lower, over his erection. "You're
wanting. I could smell it from the minute you stepped onto
the loft." His big hand cupped Dylan's crotch fully.

"Hey! Oh..." Dylan didn't know whether to scream or

moan. He settled for something in between, a long, hoarse
cry that was cut off abruptly when Zach kissed him.

Hard and hungry, Zach's kiss was devouring, the kind that

could melt a man's bones right inside his skin. The short

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whiskers that dusted his jaw scraped Dylan's cheeks; his
tongue was hot and demanding as it pushed past Dylan's lips
into his mouth.

This was not a clumsy kiss, not awkward or sloppy. It was

both masterful and animalistic at the same time, unleashing a
torrent of need that sang through Dylan's veins. He forgot his
fear, forgot even the purpose for him being in the barn.
Instead, he opened himself to it, surrendering his very being
to Zach's almost brutal kiss. He pressed against Zach's hard
body, hands sliding over his sweat-soaked skin, feeling the
muscles working beneath it. He breathed in deeply through
his nose, filling his senses with the scent of hard work,
leather, hay, and male.

Zach was right—Dylan did need, more than he ever could

remember needing before. There was no room for self-
consciousness, for wondering what Zach might think of him.
There was only Need, only Want, and an irresistible urge to
fuck that Dylan couldn't have denied even had he been
rational enough to try. Hips rocking, he humped Zach's leg,
aching for contact.

Dylan was dimly aware of a ripping sound as Zach tore his

shirt open and pulled it off. Big hands, rough with calluses,
mauled him, twisting his nipples, kneading his flesh.

"More, need more," Dylan rasped, sinking his teeth into

the firm muscle of Zach's shoulder hard enough to leave
marks. Zach growled and released him, stepping back,
fumbling with the fly of his jeans.

Dylan did the same, popping the button on his khakis in

his haste. It flew off, landing in the hay, although he barely

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noticed. All he knew, all he wanted, was to get naked fast. His
zipper stuck; he forced it open, separating it from the
material of his pants. Toeing off his loafers, he shoved his
pants and underwear down and kicked them away.

Zach's cock was engorged, dark red and glistening with

precome at the head. Dylan never wanted to taste anything
so badly in his entire life. It was overpowering, unbearable.
His mouth filled with saliva, his body acting on pure instinct.
Without a word, or the slightest encouragement from Zach,
Dylan dropped to his knees and took Zach into his mouth.

He tasted man, sea salt, and earthy loam. He tasted life in

its edgiest, most primal form, thick and heady, and his own
cock twitched with jealousy. Zach's taste was addictive; he
sucked hard, greedily trying to get more, get it all, every drop
he could possibly drain.

Above him, Zach grunted before forcibly pulling away. No!

Dylan thought wildly. Not yet! He clawed at Zach, desperate
to taste him again.

Zach seemed undeterred. He pushed Dylan down into the

crunchy hay, pushing him over onto his stomach and pulling
at his hips. Dylan panted, eager now for what he realized
Zach wanted to give him. He scooted to his hands and knees,
ass wiggling impatiently.

Spit-slicked fingers probed at his asshole. A thought flitted

through his mind, barely acknowledged—condom? "Should
have something ... protection ... something," he murmured.

Zach chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. "Don't need

'em. Trust me."

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Dylan did. He trusted Zach implicitly, although why, he

couldn't fathom. He didn't even know the man, but the fact
that Dylan trusted him remained unchanged, and he easily
pushed his worry from his mind. Truth be told, Zach had him
so keyed up, so painfully aroused that he didn't care, and in
another moment he forgot what he'd been worried about
altogether.

All Dylan could think about, as Zach pressed the head of

his cock against Dylan's hole, was that if Zach didn't fuck him
soon, now, he would die. His heart couldn't possibly keep
beating, his lungs breathing, if he didn't have Zach inside
him. "Please," he moaned, begging, pleading. In a dim corner
of his mind he worried that he sounded pathetic, then that
too, was gone.

He wanted. Now.
Zach groaned behind him. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't. Fuck me!"
Another groan, then a long hiss as Zach's cock pushed

deeply inside Dylan's body.

Yes! Dylan's head snapped backward on his neck, back

arching, ass lifting to receive every inch of Zach's thick
length. Zach began to move, and Dylan reared back to meet
him thrust for thrust, the sound of their flesh slapping
together filling the quiet of the loft.

He felt his balls fill, his belly tighten. Reaching beneath

him, Dylan stroked his cock, torn between wanting to come
and wanting to wait, to draw it out for as long as possible.

Then the choice was no longer his as his body forcibly took

over, his orgasm barreling though him like a runaway freight

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train. He cried out, not in words but in pure joy, pumping his
seed into the hay below him.

He was still shuddering when Zach pulled out of his ass

and Dylan felt hot spurts across the small of his back, Zach's
triumphant howl ringing in his ears. Exhausted, Dylan plopped
belly down into the scratchy hay, breathing hard.

It wasn't until he'd floated back into himself, after the very

last vestiges of his orgasm had left him, that his mind clicked
back on to full power.

Howl.
Zach hadn't screamed when he'd come. He hadn't shouted.

He hadn't yelled. He hadn't grunted or groaned.

He'd howled.
Like a wolf.
"You fear me, now," Zach said, one large hand smoothing

over the skin of Dylan's back. "But you shouldn't. I wouldn't
harm you."

"Riff ... did you ... oh, my God!" Dylan gasped, scuttling

away from under Zach's hand. Zach was smiling at him, but
there was something wrong with his teeth. They were longer,
sharper...

Dylan's eyes went wide, fear chilling his blood but giving

wings to his feet. He scrambled for his clothing, balling his
shirt and pants up and holding them in front of him as if they
could shield him. "You're ... you're a..."

"Werewolf. Yes, but I didn't hurt you, and I didn't kill Riff.

He was a good man, for all that he was frightened of me."

Dylan continued to back toward the ladder, his fear of

heights vastly overpowered by the terror that was clawing at

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his heart. Zach is an honest-to-Christ werewolf! They actually
exist! Fuck! His mind raced, trying to absorb it all.

"Please, don't run. I only wanted to warn you. I'm not the

only one of my kind. There are others, many others, and they
don't find humans as attractive as I do. They don't much like
me, either. That's how I got the damage to my truck. I—"

"No! I have to get out of here!" Dylan shouted as his foot

felt behind him for the top rung of the ladder. "You stay away
from me!"

"Go on," Zach said sadly, "I won't stop you. I only tried to

warn you."

"Warn me, huh? Did you warn Riff, too?"
"Riff died of a heart attack. He was seventy-eight!"
"Sure, that's what you want me to believe!" Dylan began

to descend the rickety ladder, trying to keep his eyes on Zach
and hoping he didn't fall and break his neck. "I suppose you'll
try to tell me that deforestation is pissing your kind off, huh?"

"That's part of it. Please, Dylan, don't go."
There was misery in Zach's voice, an echo of loneliness

that almost succeeded in breaking through Dylan's terror—
almost, but not quite. He reached the ground and took off
running, not caring that he was still naked.

Out of the barn, he raced across the yard to his Navigator.

There was a moment of heart-stopping panic as he fumbled in
the pocket of his pants for the keys, suddenly petrified that
he'd dropped them in the loft. Then his fingers found cool
metal, and he pulled them out, jumping into the driver's seat
and revving the motor.

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

As he pulled away, he spotted Zach's dark silhouette

standing framed in the loft window. It almost looked as if he
were waving goodbye.

* * * *

"Damn it! I'm telling you, Frank, this is for real!" Dylan

paced in front of Frank's desk, hands balled into tight fists.
"We have to do something! Warn people!"

"If you don't calm your ass down, I'm calling for the guys

in the white coats. For God's sake, Dylan, what the hell were
you smoking over the weekend? I send you out on
assignment, and you come home telling me the boogey man's
real? Are you telling me you need a month or so at rehab?"

"I'm not fucking high! I'm telling you, I—"
"Saw a real life werewolf who fucked your brains out? Do

you have any idea of how crazy that sounds? Honestly, the
least you could do would be to come up with something I can
print. Not even our readers would believe this horseshit!"

"Frank, I—"
Frank slammed his hands palms down on the desk. "That's

it, Dylan. You look like shit and smell twice as bad. When was
the last time you showered? Thursday? Friday? You're reeking
up my office. Get out. Go home, sober up, and don't come
back until you can talk some sense!"

Dylan glared at Frank, even as he moved to leave the

office. As upset as he was, he knew he'd pushed Frank past
his limits. "Mark my words, Frank. I tried to tell you. You're
kissing the story of the century goodbye. I'll take it to
someone else, someone who'll believe me."

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by SA Clements

"Get out!"
Dylan did, pausing at his cubicle only long enough to throw

his personal belongings and notes into the trash can. Picking
up the can, he cradled it under his arm as he stalked out of
the Inquiring Star offices. Fucking Frank wouldn't know a
great story if it bit him in ass, he thought, muttering under
his breath as he jabbed the button for the elevator. Any
werewolf story would be good, but this is the real deal, damn
it! It's Pulitzer material!

He knew just where to take the story—to the Inquiring

Star's chief competitor, the Daily Mind. Hailing a cab, he went
directly to their offices across town.

"I don't care if he's in a meeting! I have to speak with

Perry immediately!" Dylan snarled at the receptionist. He was
still carrying his trashcan, and shifted it to the other arm. "I
happen to have one of the greatest stories of all time! For
God's sake, woman, I slept with a fucking werewolf! There
are more of them out there! Don't you get it? I'm talking
about real, live, sprouting hair and fangs, werewolves!"

He was still screaming it as a beefy security guard hauled

his ass back out to the curb.

It began to rain, the drops beating a steady tattoo on his

head and trashcan. Undaunted, he hailed another cab, and
took it to the Post, one of several "legitimate" newspapers in
town. What was I thinking? I've been trying to sell the story
to wrong papers anyway. This is big time news, not tabloid
fodder!

"Who did you say you slept with?" the female reporter

asked, blinking.

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by SA Clements

"A werewolf. Well, he looked more like a handyman at the

time. A really sexy handyman. You might want to write that
down," Dylan said, tapping her pad of paper. "He was a
werewolf, though. He warned me that there were more like
him, and that they aren't happy about all the deforestation—"

"O-kay ... well, I think have all I need, Mr. Shepherd. We'll

call if we need any more information," she said, signaling to
someone behind him.

In the next instant, another security guard, equal in girth

to the last one who'd manhandled him, grabbed Dylan's elbow
and dragged him out of the building.

It was the same story at the next five papers Dylan tried.
No one would believe him. After five years of spinning the

best werewolf stories in the tabloids, now that he finally had
proof they actually existed, had indeed met one up close and
personal, not a damn soul in town would believe him.

Finally, drenched from the rain, his trashcan of personal

effects half-full with water, he sat down dejectedly on a bench
at the bus stop. What was he supposed to do now? Where
was he going to go? He was out of a job—there was no way
would Frank take him back. He'd pushed him too far this
time. No one else would hire him either—they all thought he
was either high or nuts.

There was only one person on the face of the planet who

knew the truth as Dylan knew it. Zach's handsome face swam
in Dylan's memory. He tried to remember the fear, the terror
when he'd discovered what Zach was; instead, his body
recollected how Zach had made him feel, and hardened
instantly with fresh need.

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by SA Clements

Had he really been afraid of Zach, or was Dylan just so

brainwashed by the stories he'd written that he'd chosen to
believe fiction over fact? Sure, Zach had told him there were
others of his kind who weren't so kindly disposed, but Zach
hadn't hurt him. All Zach had done was make Dylan see
Heaven.

Idiot. You're an idiot, he thought, blinking rainwater out of

his eyes. A small smile tilted his lips.

Suddenly, he knew exactly where he was going to go.

* * * *

Dylan drove up the dirt road that led to the Riff farm. He'd

noticed there was a For Sale sign planted at the end of the
driveway. Providing Zach was still there—Dylan didn't want to
think about the possibility that Zach had moved on, because
he wouldn't even know where to begin to look for him—he
might just put in an offer for the place. Dylan had always
entertained the thought of writing a novel one day. He
smiled, thinking how great it would be to spend his days
writing, and his nights sweating under Zach's magic fingers
and body. There was lots of land here, lots of privacy.

Zach could howl to his heart's content and there wouldn't

be anyone around to hear him, except for Dylan.

Parking the Navigator in almost the same spot he had the

week before, Dylan jumped out. Zach's truck was nowhere to
be seen. Maybe he'd parked it somewhere else. He glanced at
the house—no, Zach wouldn't be in there. Instead, he headed
toward the barn, calling for Zach as he ran.

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by SA Clements

Inside, he scanned the stalls, but saw no sign of Zach, only

the same tired cows that had been there the week before.
Scurrying to the ladder, he quickly climbed it to the loft, all
fear of heights swept away by the desperation he felt. He had
to find Zach. He had to!

"Zach? Zach, are you up here?" Dylan called, climbing up

onto the platform. There was no one there, just clumps of hay
and a discarded pitchfork. He slumped down into the hay,
feeling lost, and far sadder than he would have thought he'd
be. Zach was gone. He'd probably taken off shortly after
Dylan left. After all, he knew Dylan was a reporter. He would
have known Dylan would take his story to the papers.

Too bad he didn't know no one had believed Dylan, that

his secret was still safe.

Flopping back into the hay, Dylan stared miserably at the

ceiling, wondering what he should do now. He had no idea
how one went about hunting down a werewolf. Bloodhounds?
Detective agencies? Ads in the personal columns?

He suddenly became aware of a hard lump underneath his

butt, and fished out his camera, left behind, forgotten, the
last time he'd been in the loft. He sighed, and let it roll to the
side.

"Came back, huh? I hoped you would," a familiar, deep,

growly voice said.

Dylan popped up from the hay, his wide eyes searching

the loft for the owner of the voice. Zach stood by the ladder,
grinning down at him.

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by SA Clements

A slow smile of relief creased Dylan's cheeks, as he felt his

tension drain out, propelled by his rapidly beating heart. "I
thought you'd gone."

"Nah. I was waiting for you," Zach said. He was stripping

out of his shirt as he walked toward Dylan, sending a ripple of
anticipation directly into Dylan's groin. "I've been hanging
around, taking care of the livestock until they sell the farm.
Hoping you'd come back."

"I-I have to be honest with you, Zach. I tried to warn

people. I tried to get the paper to print my story, but they
wouldn't believe me," Dylan whispered, watching as Zach
discarded his shirt and knelt down next to him. Zach's fingers
tugged at Dylan's belt and succeeded in unbuckling it, then
went to work on the zipper of his jeans.

"Nobody believed you, huh?" Zach asked with a grin as he

pulled Dylan's pants and underwear down to his knees.
Dylan's cock was already hard, the rounded head wet with
precome. "Didn't think they would. Would've told you afore,
but figured you wouldn't listen."

"No. Not a soul."
"I guess you wrote all those werewolf stories for so long,

this sounded like just another whopper." Zach chuckled. His
rough hand wrapped around Dylan's length, squeezing gently.
"You know what they say about the boy who cried wolf,
right?"

"What?" Dylan asked in a small voice, his hips pumping his

prick upward into Zach's fist. He watched Zach lower his
head, lips hovering only an inch away from the head of

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by SA Clements

Dylan's cock. His warm breath ghosted over it, sending
ripples of anticipation dancing up Dylan's spine.

"The wolf ate him all up." Zach laughed, and proceeded to

prove the fable true.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

A Sheepherder in Fabulous Clothing

By Rob Rosen
In an emerald green field, the sun dappling over the soft

blades of grass, a young man lay on his back, staring up at
the sky, forming images with the clouds as they slowly drifted
overhead. He sighed, more bored than contented; lonely, in
fact. His callused hand roamed his naked chest, an index
finger running rings around a thick nipple. He pinched it,
sending an eddy of pleasure through his torso and down his
loins as a faint groan escaped his lips.

Within the clouds an amorphous form took shape,

elongating, branching out, becoming less monster, more
human. An eye blinked open and stared down; a nose jutted
out, followed by a pair of lips, thick and white and parted ever
so slightly. Oh, to taste those lips, thought the man,
longingly. His hand wandered ever southward, disappearing
into the coarse material that covered him, grabbing on to the
steely rod within. The moan deepened and stretched out to
infinity, reverberating all around him.

The echo, when it returned, however, had strangely

altered. Like the clouds above, it too had changed and
become something different. One lonely moan became a
chorus of sounds, a symphony of laughter, filling the once-
silent field with the unmistakable sounds of joy.

The man sat up and stared into the distance. Amidst the

endless green, new colors emerged; like the wildflowers that
surrounded him, they blossomed, growing in intensity as they

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

came into focus, bursting forth in surprising variety and
vividness.

Am I dreaming? A dream of pure color and sound?
He stood up and shielded his eyes like a visor. The noise

grew, became distinct. This was the sound of people, and the
color came from their strange garb, the likes of which the
man had never seen before.

If this truly is a dream, oh, how beautiful a dream it is.
The group approached, perhaps twenty in the fold, five in

the center, fifteen or more running dizzying rings around the
core, clapping and shouting as they did so. A caravan, of
sorts. And completely out of place. This, after all, was a
grazing field. Sheep and goats and cattle passed through, not
people, and certainly not people such as this.

It was then that the man understood the colors he was

witnessing. The five central players were in some sort of
costume, clad in richly adorned gowns, sparkling with beads
and baubles of every hue imaginable. Like wild birds, they
flittered and fluttered past, their arms held up high, covered
in magnificent jewelry, in feathers, in various adornments, all
saturated in wondrous shades of blue and red and orange and
green and yellow, striped with gold, reflecting the intense
light that bounced off of them.

Slack-jawed, the man stared, scratching his head and then

twisting the hairs that ran long from his chin. The odd group
spotted him and drew near, dancing in an ecstatic display.
The five skipped circles around him, surrounding him in a
swirling halo of color, their gloved hands reaching out to
caress his cheeks, his shoulders, his chiseled chest and

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

brawny arms and clenched belly. The outer loop of spectators
orbited the scene like moons to a planet, shouting their
obvious approval.

His soul rose in exultation, in euphoria, in sheer delight. It

was as if the gray of his world had suddenly and inexplicably
lifted, replaced by this incredible, colorful, outrageous palette.
And it was, at that very moment of out-and-out bliss, that he
spotted the man on the very periphery of the group, shining
like the brightest star in the heavens.

His eyes locked on to the stranger's blue orbs, brilliant as

sapphires, sparkling like wildfire. A blond mane of hair
traveled down two wide shoulders, draping over exposed,
perfect, bronzed flesh, framing the handsome face that stared
in rapt delight at the five that traveled ever forward. And then
the stranger spotted him and moved in close, their breath
mingling, his lips, pink and lush, now mere inches away. So
close, the young man felt their warmth.

"Are they not amazing?" the stranger asked, his voice

deep and throaty.

The man exhaled, sharply. "That they are, friend." He

paused and stared deeply into the stranger's eyes, transfixed,
willing himself inside the magnificent pools of blue. "But, but
who exactly are they?"

The stranger smiled, inadvertently brushing his lips against

the man's. "The five we follow?" he asked.

The man nodded. "Yes, the five. They are like nothing I've

ever seen before. Dazzling."

"A good word for it, my friend. Indeed, they dazzle. And

like a flame, we moths follow, unable to part from their

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

brilliance; for they imbue us with something each of us had
once been missing. Once broken vessels, we are now
complete."

"Ah," the man said, seeming to understand, and now

running his hands through the stranger's golden locks. "And
what are these five called, then?"

The stranger smiled, revealing a brilliant white grin. In

reverence, he uttered, "Drag queens."

"Royalty?" the man asked in obvious awe.
Again the stranger smiled. "In a way, friend, yes. And we,

those that trail in their light, are devoted subjects." He turned
and saw that the group had again begun to travel on. "And
now I must go, friend. The show continues and I am
compelled to follow along with it."

The man grabbed the stranger's shoulders and held him

momentarily in place. "Wait, your name; what are you
called?"

Again the stranger stared with eyes electric into the man's.

"I, friend?" he asked, his smile bright as the moon's. "I am
known simply as Blondelle."

The man raked his hand through the golden mane once

more. "Befitting," he uttered. "And I am Len."

Len tried to kiss the handsome Blondelle, but was suddenly

rebuffed. "No," he was told, with a slight push to his chest. "I
must go. My love is only for the five. For now and forever
more."

And with that he was off and running, his hair aglow as he

bounded through the field, traipsing after the strange party as

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by SA Clements

it made its way to points unknown, trailing like the tail of a
fiery comet.

Len watched, his heart breaking as its one true desire

disappeared in the distance, until the brilliant colors once
again melded into green. "My love," he sighed, groaning as he
slumped down on the grass. "Somehow, I swear, you will be
mine."

But how? he thought. As he is tied to the five, I am tied to

this field. My life, my livelihood. How do these drag queens
survive? And as for their subjects, how do they subsist? On
beauty and spectacle alone? Is this possible? My field, too, is
beautiful, but my sheep cannot survive merely by viewing it.

His question was suddenly answered in the breeze. On it,

he saw floating a sheet of paper, silver with black cursive
letters printed across it. Len reached his arm up and made a
mad grab. Grasping on to it for dear life, he held it to his face
and read where his future lay. "A drag queen show," he said
aloud. "And in the village nearby." A smile once again spread
across his handsome, stubbled face. "And that is where I will
find Blondelle and make him mine. Somehow."

The day stretched endlessly along, until finally Len penned

his sheep in for the evening and got dressed in his best
clothes, meager though they were, and drove his wagon into
the town square. From far and wide people began to gather,
drawn to this troupe just as Len had been.

A stage had been erected, fire torches set within holders

all around, lighting the floorboards and casting an ethereal
orange glow across the faces pressed in tight, waiting
expectantly. Len pushed his way through the throng,

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by SA Clements

managing a ringside vantage point. Eagerly he stared up, the
flames dancing in his irises.

One of the five emerged, glorious as before, resplendent in

deep red, shoes on thinly spiked platforms, and jewelry
trailing up both arms. The queen wore a thick array of
makeup, with lips a vivid crimson and hair piled up on high. It
was obvious to Len that the crowd had never witnessed
anything such as this before, for he certainly had not.

The queen bowed and then raised a satiny gloved hand.

"Welcome, one and all, to the extravaganza." The word hung
thickly above them, rolling out of the queen's mouth like
thunder through a valley. "I am your hostess, the lovely and
capable, of anything, Venus deMale-oh."

The crowd clapped appreciatively, and again Venus bowed,

sending two bags of sand spilling out of the top of the dress.
A faint lascivious smile appeared across the queen's face.
"And you should see what I keep in my lower
unmentionables." A viral blush spread from cheek to cheek to
cheek all around. "And if you're lucky, maybe you will." Venus
pointed to a man in front, who feigned embarrassment but
stared up with a lewd wink. Squinting down, the queen
amended the words with, "Then again, maybe not, sir."

A laugh went up just as the queens' court emerged from

behind the stage, each with an instrument held in hand. Len
spotted Blondelle, now dressed in a regal purple robe, and his
heart throbbed in his chest, the noise quickly drowned out by
the sound of the band striking up. The crowd went silent as
Venus belted out a note so pure, so pitch-perfect, that a glass
held by one of the spectators shattered. And then the song

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by SA Clements

began, as bawdy as it was simple, and as beautiful as a
nightingale's. The throng was transfixed. Surely the heavens
had split open and an angel had landed on the stage in front
of them. Then again, considering the song told of a randy
goat herder and a not so fortunate goat, perhaps not.

When the song ended, the mob broke out into a booming

applause. It was then the band set their instruments down
and collected the coinage thrown to the stage in appreciation.
Ah, realized Len, so this is how they survive.

He fished a lone coin from his purse and flung it onto the

stage, aiming for and hitting the splendid Blondelle in his
equally splendid belly. Blondelle looked up and found its
source. With a smile, he waved at Len and then hopped into
the crowd.

"Was Venus not stupendous?" he asked, nearly in a pant.
Len nodded. "But not nearly as stupendous as yourself,"

he replied, achingly, running his hand through silken hair.

A red flush rose up the blond man's neck. "You say that to

entice me, friend."

"And do I succeed?" Len asked, bending in to kiss a lobe, a

neck, a clavicle.

The blush reddened further. Blondelle inched slightly away.

"You do not play fair, friend. But in the end, fair or not, the
queens shall win the game. Beauty over brawn."

Len stared down. "By the tent in your robe, dear Blondelle,

I'd say it's more of an even match than you think."

It was then that the second drag queen came on, a

statuesque blonde, towering nearly seven feet in mammoth
heels. The mob pushed forward, pressing the two men up

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by SA Clements

together, face to glorious face. "I must go back on stage,"
Blondelle nervously told him, meeting Len eye to eye,
stunning blue on muddy brown.

Len reached out and held on to him. "Yes, I will let you go,

for I realize I have but little choice. But first, may I have a
look inside your robe, as a mind's keepsake of what I am
supposedly never to have?"

Blondelle craned his neck around as the queen,

Goldifrocks, began to juggle an array of razor-sharp knives in
the air, three quickly turning to four and then five and six, all
the while applying even more makeup to overly-rouged
cheeks and thickly painted lips, sending the crowd into a state
of near pandemonium. "Well?" asked Len, staring from the
stage to his heart's desire.

Blondelle turned back around, his obvious state of arousal

undiminished. "Yes, friend, I will give you this much. As the
queens have taught me, always leave them wanting more;
though more than this you shall never have."

Len took the token gesture, nonetheless; a glimpse being

better than none at all. The crowd, staring enraptured at the
stage, did not notice when the man leaned forward and pulled
the robe out. Nor did they notice when Len stuck his head
within.

Inside, the fair Blondelle wore nary an undergarment,

revealing his magnificent body in its entirety: a golden chest,
sprinkled with dirty blond hair that trailed down an etched
stomach, one that was now breathing in and out in apparent
excitement, and ending in a patch just above a thickly
engorged member, tipped in a plumb-sized head that

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by SA Clements

glistened wetly. Adonis, Len was certain, would have been
jealous.

"You are as beautiful below as you are above, Blondelle,"

the enthralled Len announced.

"As are you, dear Len. But my heart belongs on the stage,

with the five; to them I must return, as my flock calls to me
with their reeds and their drums."

Len released the sinewy arms as promised. "Then like a

wolf, I will stalk this flock."

Blondelle turned and pushed his way up, yelling over his

shoulder, "Stalk if you must, friend, but you will never
capture the prey. We are too fast, too sly."

Oh, I shall, Len mused as he turned from the stage and

pushed his way back through the crowd. I most surely shall,
or else I fear I will perish.

The question, of course, remained how. He, after all, was

no queen. There was no mistaking that. He looked down at
his meager garb and then back to the stage, witnessing the
encore: the fabulous Goldifrocks now juggling flaming
torches. It was then his mind remembered the image of the
naked Blondelle, and it was as if all the wheels and cogs
within locked in place, forming a new thought in his head.

Below the surface we are all the same. It is but the clothes

that make these queens different, enticing. The Siren, after
all, is nothing without her call.

He turned to a man standing next to him. "These queens,"

he began to ask, "do you know if they lodge nearby?"

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by SA Clements

The man turned, and replied, "I hear they travel from town

to town to earn their keep, staying at whichever inn is the
most fair."

"There is but one inn in this town."
The man smiled. "Then I assume that is where you will find

these queens, if you seek to locate them after the show."

Len returned the smile and nodded. "Thank you, friend,"

he said, turning and walking away from the crowd. But I do
not seek to find them after the show. It is during the show
that their place of residence is of interest to me.

Len, normally honest beyond reproach, was suddenly faced

with a new dilemma. The solution to his problem lay a mile
down the road, but in order to come by this, he would need to
employ dishonest practices. Did the means justify the ends?
Again he remembered the nude Blondelle, and he knew in an
instant that any means necessary were worth attaining his
life's one desire. After all, living with a broken heart truly was
not living at all. He would just need to find some way to
balance the wrong, to make it somehow right.

And so, with a spring to his step, he began the journey

down the dirt road through town. A short while later, he
arrived at the inn. As expected, the place was deserted; the
entirety of the staff, of the village for that matter, was at the
show. Fortune, it seemed, was smiling down on him. Still, he
ducked in quickly, his heart racing as a lone bead of sweat
trickled down his furrowed brow. He took the stairs two at a
time, silent as a church mouse. The inn, having but six
rooms, still proved problematic.

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by SA Clements

"Damn," he cursed, just under his breath. "The doors are

secured." He shoved on them and tried to force the locks, but
they would not budge. "Perhaps Fortune merely grins at my
folly."

But then, out of the corner of his eye, his noticed the small

window down the hall. Barely wide enough for a man to
squeeze through—but barely being just enough—and he slid
the shutters open and poked his head outside. A slight ledge
jutted below the opening, running across the building's side
before disappearing around the corner. With little option, he
forced his limber body through and out. Grasping on to the
wooden shingles, he inched his way, tiny sidestep by tiny
sidestep, to the rear of the structure, praying that the ledge
would support his weight, and praying even more so that it
would lead him to what he so eagerly sought.

He reached the first window and gave a sharp tug on the

wooden frame. "Damn," he groaned. "Latched." He made his
way to the next window. He shut his eyes and inhaled,
deeply. With another push, this window popped open.
"Hallelujah," he nearly shouted, and then hopped inside,
never so happy to be on solid, albeit wooden, ground.

He looked around. The room was strewn with clothes, vivid

in color, in shape and in pattern. Clearly, he'd entered the
correct window. Without hesitation, he chose one of each of
the most stunning pieces, from shoes to leggings, from gowns
to glittering, gossamer-thin wraps, from golden jewelry to
impossibly styled wigs. If he was going to make an
impression, this, and this alone, was how he was going to do
it. All or nothing, he reasoned.

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by SA Clements

And nothing is clearly not an option.
Taking the case from the pillow, he stuffed the ill-gotten

goods deep within and heaved the sack over his shoulder, and
then headed for the door. Just as he reached for the handle, a
pang twitched in his gut and spread from his belly to his legs,
locking him place. Guilt had firmly rooted him to the
floorboards.

"How?" he asked himself. "How do I make this wrong into

a right?" Monetarily, he could not pay for what he was taking.
He searched his pockets and came up, as predicted, empty-
handed, but, of course, not empty-hearted. He saw a pad of
paper on an oaken dresser. An ink blotter and stylus sat
beside it. Quickly, he scribbled the message, All this and more
I will repay you, I swear.

With that, he was gone, out the door, down the stairs, and

home in no time flat. Panting, more from excitement than
exertion, he reverently laid out his new belongings before
him. They glittered and sparkled, shimmering in the light that
poured in through his small bedroom window. He gulped,
unsure of what to do next. After all, he was clearly in
uncharted territory here. Then again, love had no maps, no
set course, only instinct and impulse.

He decided to start from the ground up, sitting on the bed

to pull the muted yellow leggings onto his feet and then up,
up, up his legs, shimmying into the tight fabric that clung
tightly to his densely muscled frame. Like a second layer of
flesh they clung to him, hiding the fine layer of hairs that ran
around his calves and thighs. The gown came next, sliding
over his head and down his body, gripping him tightly like the

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by SA Clements

skin of a snake, the beadwork glinting in the dim light like
radiant scales, bewitching, beguiling. The wig, white as
winter's snow, blanketed his scalp; while the gloves slid
sensuously up his arms and the jewels adorned his long
fingers and thick wrists. He slid into the sparkling shoes last,
wobbling on the heels as he tried in earnest to walk. This, he
realized, would take some practice; and time, he knew, was
not on his side. The fair Blondelle would soon be leaving,
taking Len's heart right along with him.

Wobbling, he stood before a polished tray and appraised

his work. The warped image appeared passable, save for one
finishing touch: makeup. Clothes were one thing, after all he
knew how to get dressed, but applying the mask to his face
was something else entirely. The queens employed an artist's
touch to make them so ravishing. He, on the other hand, was
a mere sheepherder, and clearly no artist. Still, he had to try;
he'd come this far, after all.

He'd stolen the utensils and paints, now all he had to do

was apply them. Lips a rosy red, cheeks a crimson flush, and
eyes an azure blue, bright as the sky above. His hands shook,
but at last he stood there, complete, a mere sheepherder no
longer. In fact, the image before him appeared profoundly
different; beguiling, even.

"A queen," he proclaimed proudly, lifting his robe to prove

he was still a man beneath it all. He stared down at his
appendage, which was already arcing up and out, gleaming
slickly in the light. "Later, friend," he said, dropping the gown.
"There'll be time for that later." Oh, how he prayed as much.

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

Slowly, for that was the only way to walk now, he made

his way back to the center of town. The show, he was
delighted to find, was still going on, though clearly nearly at
its end. He watched from the rear of the crowd, eyeing the
assemblage on stage. And there, in the center of it all, stood
Blondelle, sweat trickling from his tanned visage, a look of
ecstasy spread across his face as he plucked his lute, as if an
angel with a harp. Len's heart leapt from his pulsing chest as
an intense hunger spread from his belly and extended out
through his limbs.

It was then that the crowd spotted him, standing there as

he was, the proverbial sore thumb, pulsing red. They parted
and he stood there, alone. The queens and their retinue all at
once stopped their performance, shocked to see one of their
own, and yet not one of their own.

The queen in front, the drag leader Staximus Maximus, a

towering brunette, bathed in chiffon, pointed to Len, and
bellowed, "You there, you look familiar. Do we know you?"

If he looked familiar, of course it was because he was

wearing pieces of each of their ensembles. Still, he knew
better than to admit as such. "I think not," he replied as the
crowd watched in silence, unsure if this was part of the show
or not.

"Strange," Staximus replied. "I never forget a face." There

was a pause, and then a stroking of a smooth chin. "Even one
such as yours. What happened, dear, did you fall on it once
too many times?"

The crowd laughed. "Yes," came the sly response, "while I

was fleeing from your act."

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by SA Clements

The laughter turned to a roar, much to the queen's lament.

"And your name?" Staximus asked, haughtily. "When the
constables are not calling you whore or strumpet?"

"Len ... Lenora," Len shouted, his knees now trembling

beneath the gown. "Lenora Splendora. Pleased to make your
acquaintance."

"Yes," Staximus said. "I'm sure you are. But am I pleased

to make yours?"

A leer spread wickedly across Lenora's face. "Well, your

father was, at any rate."

The spectators went dead silent, and then, one by one,

broke into hysterics, chanting Lenora's name as they coaxed
the newest queen onto the stage. Staximus, the red showing
through all that thick makeup, made room, with the rest of
the performers backing up in uncertainty.

And then, at last, Lenora was on the stage—the wolf, it

seemed, now part of the flock.

"Well," Staximus said. "It would appear our quintet has

become a sextet. Strangely, that doesn't sound too
unappealing. Now, um, fair Lenora. What is it exactly that you
do?"

Lenora gulped. After all, it seemed pretty far fetched that

sheepherding could be considered an act, much less one that
was amenable to the stage. Maybe one or two sheep,
anyway, but certainly not the whole lot of them. "Do?" Lenora
asked.

"Yes, do. Other than half the drunks in this town,

apparently."

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

The drunks in question booed at the comment and once

more took up shouting Lenora's name. Newly bolstered, the
reply which came to mind yet again was, "I can ... I can ... I
can sing the Siren's song."

Staximus smiled. "You mean your singing is so bad that

ships come to wreckage at the sound of it?"

"No," Lenora responded. "I can make men fall in love with

me."

And the men in the audience began to whistle and roar, "I

love you, Lenora."

The smile flickered and flattened on the queen's face.
"See," Lenora said, retrieving the coins that had already

been thrown. "And I have yet to strike a note."

Staximus, now arms akimbo, and clearly fighting to retain

a semblance of control, uttered, "Fine, if you can make one
man, just one, truly and madly fall in love with you, then I
will gladly allow you to join our little troupe. Otherwise, we
throw you to the hounds." And with that, the queen pointed
from Lenora to the crowd. Then she and her group moved to
the rear of the stage, watching, waiting for what was to come
next.

Lenora coughed, straightened the gown and then the wig,

and then, lowly and deeply, began to sing a love song, staring
now not at the crowd, but at Blondelle. The notes, jumbled as
they were and fairly out of tune, still fell on eagerly listening
ears. The sentiment, after all, rang true, and, like Cupid's
arrow, shot straight through the heart.

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by SA Clements

The audience, rapt in wonder, watching love unfold as the

song bleated out, said nary a word. Instead, they stared at
Lenora as Lenora gazed longingly at Blondelle.

The crooning continued, melodic perhaps only to the tone-

deaf, as Lenora stealthily moved in closer, until eyes were
separated by a hair's breadth, blue staring into brown and
brown staring into blue, locked and unblinking. And when the
song was finished, the final note choked out in a gasp of
breath, Lenora managed four more whispered words, "I love
you, Blondelle."

Blondelle, mesmerized, blinked at long last. "And I, I love

you, too, Lenora Splendora." With the words now spoken, two
sets of lips melded as one, pressed hard, harder still, aching
to devour.

The mob pressed in tight, shouting their approval as they

threw their hats high up in the air and broke out into a
deafening applause. Never had such an awful act gone over
so amazingly well.

Sadly, not everyone was as happy.
It was Venus who first spotted the trickery. "Wait," the

queen shouted, trying to be heard above the din of the crowd.
"This imposter's jewels, they are my own. I'm certain of it."
The queen burst forth and grabbed Lenora by the wrist,
wrenching said jewels away. "You, you stole these somehow!"

Lenora, eyes now cast from side to side, had no time to

argue. Goldifrocks, now rushing to the fore, shouted, "And
those are my shoes. Thief! Give them back at once or the
cleavers I juggle will find their way through your belly."

Lenora, gulping and ashamed, timidly kicked off the shoes.

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

The third queen, Mandrella, fists now flying, ran upstage,

tearing the gloves right off of Lenora's arms, hissing,
"Bandit!" all the while.

"My gown," crowed the fourth, Glenda Bender. "My own

mother made that for me. Hand it over!"

With a red flush running across Lenora's nape, the gown

slowly came off. Hands quickly covered certain body parts;
for under that gown Lenora wore no other article of clothing,
not a stitch. The crowd, watching in stunned surprise, fell
suddenly silent.

And still, the humiliation was not complete.
"My wig," said Staximus, with a satisfied smile, yanking off

the last of the stolen articles and then backing away. "A liar, a
cheat, a thief is always uncovered eventually, not-so-fair
Lenora. In your case, uncovered both figuratively and
literally."

Not a sound could be heard, save for the breathing of all

those in attendance that day. And then, from the center of
the crowd, a lone voice shouted out, "Still, he did make one
man, just one, truly and madly fall in love with him. Even if
only for a moment. And I'd say that was the most spectacular
thing I've seen all day."

To which another seconded with, "Ever!"
And a third with, "I'd pay to see that again, dress or no

dress, thief or no thief."

And then, one by one, the crowd once again began to

chant, "Lenora. Lenora. Lenora."

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

But it wasn't to the crowd that Lenora was looking; it was

to Blondelle. "Could you love the man beneath the fabulous
clothing?" he asked. "Could you love a mere sheepherder?"

Blondelle smiled. "There is nothing mere about you, Len.

And it wasn't the clothing I was looking at when I said I loved
you. I was looking at you; perhaps not as I should have the
first time we met, but most certainly this time around."

At hearing this, the crowd once again erupted in applause,

the sound echoing from one end of the valley to the other,
exploding like thunder, and like rain from a storm cloud,
money came pouring down, flung from every purse and
pocket, lighting up the sky in a lightening flash of silver and
gold.

Len, the rightful owner, collected every piece, kicking the

pile to the center of the stage as he continued to cover his
privates. With the stack at his feet, he stared at Staximus and
proclaimed, "When you return to your rooms, you will find a
note from me. It says, All this and more I will repay you, I
swear. Should this then cover the price of what was stolen?"

The queens stared in shock, and Staximus replied, "You,

you wish to give us all of this?"

"I would give you more if you'd take it, if it meant your

forgiveness."

The queens moved to the side to converse, huddled in a

circle that shimmered like a rainbow. When they returned,
Maximus offered, "Consider this a down payment against your
sins, Lenora."

"A, um, down payment? How will I repay the rest, then?"

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

The queen, at long last, smiled. "Well, by performing with

us, of course. If that is what you wish."

Len looked from the queens to Blondelle. "I wish to be with

you, Blondelle, if you'll have me."

Blondelle grinned wide and kissed Len softly, tenderly on

his waiting lips. "Welcome at last to the flock, dear Len."

Len beamed, the smile stretching from ear to ear.

"Beautiful words from a beautiful man." He paused and then
added, "And truthfully, I can't wait for my own fabulous
clothes."

To which Blondelle amended, "Clothes, I've discovered, do

not make the man, Len. Besides, I think you look pretty
fabulous already. Both inside and out." He looked hungrily at
what was barely kept hidden. "Especially out."

And with the crowd cheering wildly, and with their hands

raised up high in exultation, Len leaned in and gave Blondelle
the most perfect kiss anyone had ever seen, before or since.
"Still," he eventually whispered in his love's ear, biting down
softly on a lobe, "the clothes would be nice. Let us just call
them icing on the cake, then. Rich, thick, dazzling icing, of
course."

"Oh, of course, my love. Of course."
And Len thought, yet again, If this truly is a dream, oh,

how beautiful a dream it is.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

Shifter 2.0

By Winnie Jerome
Daniel bounced up the stairs with his luggage, ignoring the

old woman who glared at him as he passed by. Her dirty
looks didn't faze him, but he was sure that they would have
made his mom instantly paranoid.

He sighed at the thought of his mother's knee-jerk

reaction—that "stay hidden under any circumstances" rule for
shifters was so old school. Most people never believed Daniel
could change anyway, because his human form was about as
far from the classical shifter type as possible. He had delicate
features, a lean athletic build, and not a single strand of body
hair.

Even though Daniel didn't look the part, he could still

perceive things that normal human beings couldn't. This
complex was modest in appearance to most people, but to
Daniel's keen senses it was rich in character. As he wove
through the hallway, he could hear the beat of a popular
Egyptian song from behind one of the doors. He could also
smell various spices drifting from the kitchens, and his sharp
eyes picked up the glint of a lost earring.

He stopped in front of number 536, and paused to take a

deep breath before he knocked. "Steve, it's me."

The door swung open to reveal Daniel's older brother.

Unlike Daniel, Steve fit the shifter bill in spades. He stood at
six foot seven, and he was so muscular that he resembled a

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

walking wall. His arms, legs, chest, and even the backs of his
hands were covered in a thick mat of black hair.

"Hi," Daniel said, while he put his suitcases onto the floor.

"I'm kinda without a place to sleep. Can I crash on your
couch?"

Steve responded by giving him the Glare. Daniel knew that

look; it was the one that he received whenever he had done
something bad—like the time Daniel had climbed a fence so
that he could sneak into his neighbor's kitchen to munch on
their ice cream. He had been thirteen, and Steve had blown a
gasket because Daniel had been caught while he was in his
lion form.

It was an unspoken rule that a shifter never changed

unless his or her life was in danger, something that Daniel
had always thought was bullshit. Both Steve and Mom always
clashed with Daniel on that point, as well as others, leading to
many heated arguments.

Getting the Glare again reminded Daniel of why he only

talked to Steve via e-mail. Daniel felt his hackles rising and
he growled deep in his throat. Just to piss Steve off, he didn't
bother to disguise the non-human sound of it.

Steve responded by intensifying the Glare. "What

happened?"

"What's with the third degree? I know that you're a cop,

but I'm not one of your perps. I just need a place to crash,
for fuck's sake!"

Steve drew himself up to his full height and said, "Daniel

Ryan Tyler, answer the damn question."

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

It looked like Steve wasn't going to let up until he got the

whole story. Daniel took a deep breath before he began
talking. "I couldn't make my rent again, so my landlord
evicted me."

"I thought you had a steady job."
"I..." he hesitated, but another Glare forced him to blurt

out the answer. "Igotfired."

"You what? You're twenty-five now, when in hell are you

going to stop being a flake?"

"I'm not a flake! I just haven't figured out what I want to

do for a career! And the boss had it out for me anyway, he
canned me for yelling at a customer."

Steve's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Yelled? Or growled

like you did just now? You never act like a real shifter!"

Those biting words caused Daniel to let out a full-throated

roar before he willed himself to change into his half-lion form.
His clothes ripped as he grew in height to seven feet; his lean
body thickened with muscle, and tawny fur sprouted all over
his skin. Claws formed on the ends of his hands, and he could
feel his shoulder-length hair flaring out into a long, fluffy
mane. He charged toward Steve, but his brother
somersaulted out of the way, causing Daniel to barrel into the
apartment.

Steve kicked the door closed with his foot. "I'm sure the

neighbors heard that! It's going to be your fault if there's
fallout!"

"Fuck you!" Daniel yelled before he leaped at Steve again.

He lashed out with a punch, hoping that he could move fast
enough to get at least one good hit in.

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

Steve's muscular arm whipped up and a meaty smack

echoed through the room as he blocked Daniel's fist. Daniel
realized too late that he had left himself open to attack, and a
split second later, his legs were swept out from underneath
him. He managed to tumble to his feet, but Steve seized him
in a judo hold.

Daniel struggled, but it was no use, he couldn't break the

iron grip holding him captive. He knew that Steve would keep
them like this all day unless he cooled down.

With reluctance, he shifted back to his human form. "This

is so not fair. I should be able to take you when I've
changed."

"You haven't spent time as a SEAL," Steve replied as he let

Daniel go. "Why didn't you ask me for a loan?"

Daniel glanced up and saw that the large bruise he had left

on Steve's arm had already faded. "And have you treat me
even more like a baby who can't take care of himself? Fuck
that shit."

"Maybe if you stopped sleeping around so much..."
It took all of Daniel's willpower to avoid whacking Steve

again. He was having too much fun right now, and settling
down seemed like a waste. "Get a clue! I don't do the
boyfriend thing!"

"No, you'll just do anything that has a dick," Steve replied

dryly.

"And you're a complete bitch for your work. At least I don't

have my hand for company."

"You can borrow my t-shirt so that you can get your

luggage without flashing the neighbors," Steve said in a

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

clipped voice before he turned on his heel and left the room.
Daniel muttered an obscenity under his breath and wondered
for the millionth time if he had somehow been adopted.

* * * *

Daniel huffed and put away the magazine he was reading.

It was around 1 a.m., but he didn't feel the least bit tired.
Steve had turned in several hours ago, and had made it clear
that he didn't want to be disturbed. Unfortunately, he was
hyper-sensitive to noises from the TV, so entertainment was
scarce.

At least Steve wasn't bitching about Daniel's tendency to

hog the bathroom any longer. Daniel always wanted to make
sure he looked good at all times, and liked to spend time
preening. Steve always thought it was a waste; Daniel could
never figure out why his brother was so out of touch with his
catlike tendencies. The guy was a total slob, which made
Daniel wonder if it was a reaction to the way the shifters
behaved in the Bad Old Days.

Back then, no one had understood that the ability to shift

was caused by a genetic mutation. People panicked and
attributed it to supernatural causes, even though magic didn't
exist.

Many things were blamed on 'magic' in those days—a

certain disease that caused people to drink blood started the
tales of vampires, hair and nails growing after death
happened because the corpses had turned into zombies—all
of these legends had scientific explanations.

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

But that knowledge didn't exist early on, and it didn't help

that the first shifters were savage. Their animal natures would
dominate if they didn't actively bring themselves under
control, and that made them quite dangerous. In addition to
their enhanced physical capabilities, every shifter had an
enhanced lifespan, was immune to disease, and could heal
from most poisons and wounds.

Bands of mercenaries were hired to hunt shifters down,

thinning out the population so much that the smarter shape
changers learned out of necessity to tame their bestial side.
They tried to blend in with humans as much as possible, tried
to keep their true natures hidden. Soon they flourished again,
especially once human beings realized that all shifters taught
their children to sublimate their animal impulses.

The attitude toward shifters became more positive once

the armed forces used them as soldiers, and as generations
passed, the prejudice toward them all but faded. Daniel was
viewed as "cool" and always had men swarming over him.

Steve had never adjusted to this new thinking, but that

was typical for shifters who had been born in the Forties. Try
as Daniel might, he could never drum it into Steve's head that
things had changed.

So here he was now, wide awake and bored out of his

skull. He couldn't slip out to the clubs, because money was
tight; but, short of enduring Steve's wrath by turning on the
TV, he wasn't sure what he could do.

Suddenly, a peculiar scent tickled his nostrils. After a few

more inhales, Daniel realized that it came from a mouse.
Something not good to have with the mess Steve left around.

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

Daniel rose slowly to his feet, but the mouse must have

seen him, because he heard tiny paws scampering toward the
far corner of the room. He cursed under his breath—he
needed to shift to his half-form if he wanted to have a prayer
of catching the rodent. As silently as he could manage, Daniel
removed his clothes, and changed after he wrestled his jeans
off.

He saw a flash of black fur out of the corner of his eye.

Moving in a blur of speed, he pounced on the little rodent,
grabbing it by the base of the tail. He was about to kill it with
a blow from his other hand, but the mouse turned its head
and squeaked pitifully.

Daniel winced. He had a soft spot for animals, but this

mouse was a pest. It was going to poop all over Steve's
cereal if he let it free. On the other hand, maybe that wasn't
such a bad thing...

While Daniel was thinking, he caught a whiff of a human

being; something that could only happen if the rodent was
someone's pet.

He picked up the mouse and placed it in his palm, leaning

as close as possible so that he could zero in on the faint
smell. The scent was recent and male, which meant that the
mouse couldn't have come from that far away. If Daniel had
to hazard a guess, its owner probably lived on this floor.

Daniel changed back, and he put the mouse on the coffee

table so that it wouldn't escape while he dressed. He scooped
the mouse up in his hand once he was decent, and then left
Steve's apartment with as little noise as possible.

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

"Let's see if I can figure out where you live," Daniel said in

a soft voice. The mouse responded by washing his face and
tail, looking so cute that Daniel had to pet its head.

He sniffed the air, but the myriad smells confused him.

How was he going to track where this little guy came from?

After wracking his brain, Daniel put his face closer to the

ground. He caught wind of that same woodsy scent as soon
as he dropped lower, and he hoped that the guy looked as
good as he smelled.

The trail ended at an apartment at the end of the hallway.

Daniel knocked and said, "Hello? This is going to sound weird,
but I think your mouse got out. I wanted to return him."

He could hear some shuffling before the door opened. The

blond who answered was tall, muscled without being bulky,
and drop-dead gorgeous. His face was the perfect balance
between pretty and masculine—angular, but with just a touch
of softness to his features.

"Does he belong to you?" Daniel asked, holding the mouse

up. It took all of his self-control to not pounce on the guy.

"You found Isaac?" the man replied. He spoke in a low

rumble that made Daniel wonder what that voice would sound
like screaming out his name. Maybe getting kicked out of his
apartment wasn't such a shitty thing after all.

The blond stretched his hand toward Daniel's and Isaac

promptly hopped onto his owner's palm. He ran up the length
of the man's arm and then climbed onto his shoulder,
vibrating his whiskers as he tried to get his bearings.

"Yeah, he's yours," Daniel said. "His name's Isaac?"

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

"Uh-huh. And I'm Alexander Colton, but you can call me

Alex." Alex was wearing a small hoop earring, which Isaac
decided to use as a plaything. He batted it between his small
paws before he grabbed it and swung from the metal loop.
Alex chuckled at Isaac's antics and said, "You shouldn't run
away like that, you silly mouse."

"I'm Daniel. Daniel Tyler." Alex reached up to stroke

Isaac's head while Daniel introduced himself. There was pure
affection in Alex's gaze and it just melted Daniel inside. The
guy couldn't be more perfect—sexy, hot, into animals. There
was no way he was going to just drop off Isaac and leave.

"You want to come in for a cup of coffee? It's the least I

could do for you," Alex offered.

Daniel wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Sure."

Alex opened the door wider, allowing Daniel to come it.

The apartment was neat as a pin, and its design was the
same as Steve's—a small, carpeted living room opened into a
combined dining nook and kitchen. There were no walls
between these two areas, and a door at the end of a short
hallway was the only thing that separated the common space
from the bedroom.

Alex had decorated his apartment with a variety of knick-

knacks from around the world, and there was no one unifying
theme to his decor. Daniel noticed that Alex lacked any
modern electronic toys, but he made up for it with a
staggering amount of kitchen equipment. He was no expert,
but everything Alex owned looked expensive and top of the
line.

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

Daniel was still looking around when Alex asked, "What

would you like? A latte, cappuccino, or just espresso?"

"Can you do a Major Heart Attack?" Daniel said as he sat

on the couch. He needed an ice breaker and this was always a
good one.

"What's that?"
Now that he had Alex's attention, reeling him in shouldn't

be hard. "My own invention. It's coffee with five shots of
espresso."

He smiled when Alex's blue eyes went as wide as saucers.

"You're not going to get any sleep at all if you drink that."

"Don't worry, my metabolism can handle it. Takes a lot to

affect me." He decided to emphasize his point by letting his
eyes shift from their usual color to yellow cat eyes.

"So, I actually have a shifter as a neighbor," Alex said as

he measured out the espresso beans into a grinder.

Daniel was disappointed with Alex's reaction. Alex looked

like he was Daniel's age, and he should have been falling all
over himself because there was an honest-to-God real life
shifter in the room. On the other hand, maybe Alex was one
of those guys who wanted to be different from everyone else.

Daniel decided for now to keep playing along. "Well, I'm

not really a neighbor. I'm staying here with Steve."

The whir of the grinder interrupted the conversation

temporarily. Daniel noticed that Isaac was still on Alex's
shoulder, content with perching there. He was well-trained,
which spoke volumes about his owner.

Once the noise subsided, Alex said, "Who's Steve?"

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

"My older brother. You know, the guy who's built like a

brick shit house? Lives at the end of the hallway?"

Alex's brow furrowed as he tamped the espresso grounds

into the filter basket. "Oh. I've seen him. He's imposing
looking, but he seems like he's a decent enough fellow."

"He's a royal pain in the ass," Daniel snorted. "If I could

crash somewhere else, I would."

"None of your friends can put you up?"
Daniel's lips curled in a rueful smile. "More like I don't

want to inflict my special needs on them. The soap my friends
use smells like a cheap perfume factory to me. When I get
dirty in my other forms, the mess stays there until I clean it
up. And I can't use soap when I'm furry, only bath gel
reaches where I need it to. I could go on and on..."

"Really? All I know is that shifters have amazing

regenerative abilities, but they can be killed either by
decapitation or a large enough weapon."

"Yeah, it's kind of hard to heal if you've been blown into

tiny pieces by a rocket launcher; and I'm not going to go
there with the missing head thing. So what about you? I've
told you a lot about me; it's your turn to spill."

Alex laughed as he banged out the espresso grounds and

tamped in more for another shot. "Not so fast. All I have is
your name and that you're a shifter. Where do you work?"

Under normal circumstances, Daniel would have replied

with a smartass remark about being an employed bum, but
he paused because, for some reason, he felt like he should be
making a good impression. He couldn't figure out what to say,
and the silence grew increasingly awkward.

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

There was no way out of this, so he decided to go for

broke. "I'm between jobs. I was doing retail and I got canned
because of 'inappropriate aggressive behavior toward a
difficult customer.'"

To his relief, Alex didn't frown or make any sort of

expression that would indicate disgust. "Meaning?"

"I was having a shit day. In the middle of this huge line

that I had to deal with, some woman wanted to return a
designer bag without a receipt or tags. I told her no, and she
started throwing a shit fit. I tried to calm her down, but she
just worked herself up into a frenzy—screaming at the top of
her lungs about how unreasonable we were. I was going to
get my boss when she screeched out that I was an
incompetent and that she could get better service at a drive-
through."

"What happened after that?"
"I blew my top and yelled back. I don't remember

everything I ranted on about, but I remember calling her a
'stupid fucking lame-ass bitch' at least once. She complained
to the boss, and I got shown the door."

He tensed up again, waiting for Alex to have a negative

reaction. Instead, the other man continued to rattle around
the kitchen. "If your boss was willing to dump you that fast, it
sounds like that job wasn't worth it."

Daniel resisted the urge to pounce on Alex and kiss him

senseless. "Thanks. Now give—I kept my part of the deal."

"For starters, I'm a chef at Jasmine—it's a gourmet

vegetarian restaurant."

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At the mention of 'gourmet vegetarian,' Daniel's ears

perked up. "Oh, my God, seriously? Ever since I went veggie,
I've been dying to try something fancy. Not that I could afford
it right now..."

Right after the words had left his mouth, Daniel wondered

what he had said. Alex was looking at him like he had just
announced that his favorite hobby was to shave all of his fur
off and paint himself green.

"Something the matter?" Daniel asked.
"I don't mean to be insulting, but shouldn't cat shifters

prefer meat?"

"I would if I wasn't such a big softie with animals."
Alex came back with their drinks at that point. "I can see

that. Not many people would bother to return a lost mouse to
his owner."

He put the cups of coffee down on the table, then reached

over and pulled the lid off a small candy dish that was sitting
at the other end. It was full of various types of nuts, and Alex
selected a peanut out of the assortment. He placed it on the
wooden surface next to his saucer, and Isaac scuttled down
Alex's arm seconds later to claim his prize.

While Isaac was nibbling on his peanut, Alex sat down

right next to Daniel. Their thighs brushed against each other,
and Daniel caught Alex glancing sideways at him. Daniel
decided to stir things up some more by stretching upward,
which caused his t-shirt to ride up and expose a strip of his
tawny skin.

Although Alex was trying to be subtle, Daniel could detect

his interest with ease. He could hear the quickening of Alex's

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by SA Clements

breath in reaction to his movement, and smell his arousal. For
all intents and purposes, Alex may as well have been wearing
a sign that said, "Fuck me now!"

However, he seemed to be having trouble switching gears.

Daniel decided to give him a push. "It wasn't a hard decision
to return him. Not many mouse owners are as hot as you
are."

"Really?" Alex replied in a playful tone. "You know a lot of

men who own rodents?"

"No, but I know what I like."
"So do I," Alex replied as he raked his eyes over Daniel's

body. Taking the hint, Daniel reached over and squeezed
Alex's firm thigh.

"How about we stop with the small talk and go to your

bedroom?" he purred. His tongue darted out and he ran it
over his lips while he gazed deep into Alex's eyes.

Alex responded by cupping Daniel's chin and using his

thumb to follow the trail left by Daniel's tongue. "Shouldn't
you finish your coffee first?"

That sexy voice of Alex's had dropped another octave, and

Daniel felt his blood go south to fill his cock. He closed his
mouth around Alex's thumb and began to suck it, letting his
tongue dart against the pad. Alex's eyes fluttered with each
small lick, and he sucked in a sharp breath when Daniel
pressed his tongue against the salty flesh.

"I think they need to cool down. Maybe we should do

something else while we wait?" He gazed at Alex from
underneath his eyelashes as he released Alex's thumb.

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Alex moaned at the loss of contact. Seconds later, he

stood up and tugged Daniel to his feet. "Bedroom's this way."

Daniel let Alex lead, staring at what must be the most

perfect ass in the world as he crossed the floor. Alex had just
barely opened the door when Daniel grabbed him and spun
him around, yanking Alex's firm body against his own.

Daniel kissed Alex hard, and a jolt of electricity shot

through his body as he plundered that soft mouth. He pressed
closer, his hands never still as they stroked and caressed
every inch of flesh he could reach. Alex seized Daniel by the
hips and rocked forward, grinding their steel-hard erections
together.

That contact caused Daniel's head to spin and he let a little

bit of his bestial side out. With a snarl, he grabbed Alex's shirt
and ripped it off, revealing a toned chest with a light
sprinkling of hair. Alex opened his mouth to protest, but
Daniel smashed their lips together, silencing any objections
while he popped open the button of Alex's slacks and reached
in.

He closed his hand around Alex's dick and squeezed. Alex

thrust into Daniel's fist and let out a deep growl before he
tore at what remained of their clothing, stripping them both
as Daniel walked him backward toward the bed.

They fell down onto the bed cover in a tangle of limbs

when Alex bumped against the mattress, adrenaline pulsing
through their veins as they wrestled, each trying to get the
upper hand. Alex managed to come out on top, and he
ground downward, pressing their hard shafts together. That
first intimate touch sent a dizzying wave of lust crashing over

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by SA Clements

Daniel, and he pushed against Alex, his hunger building with
each pass of his heated flesh.

Musk hung thickly in the air between them, unraveling

Daniel's control. He found himself beginning to shift into his
intermediate form, and he watched Alex's face for any signs
of panic. He was pleased when Alex didn't freak out at all.
Instead, he smiled and caressed Daniel's sprouting fur,
ruffling his fingers through the downy hair as he completed
his transformation.

"Wow," Alex said, craning his neck so that he could look at

Daniel's entire body. "You're a hell of a lot bigger than I
expected."

Daniel laughed huskily and rolled them both to their sides.

He wrapped his clawed hand around his cock, which had
expanded along with the rest of him, and pumped it. He
asked in a teasing voice, "Is this bigger than you expected?"

"Oh yeah," Alex breathed. He slid down until his face was

level with Daniel's groin and his tongue flickered out, licking
his sensitive flesh.

"Fuck!" Daniel said as his claws dug in so deep that he

punctured the surface of the mattress.

He was about to make a note to himself to repay Alex for

the damage, but he forgot about that when Alex opened his
mouth and sucked in the head of his fat erection. His claws
continued to gouge a furrow in the bed as Alex swallowed his
entire ten-inch length, not stopping until it was nestled in the
back of his throat.

Daniel was in heaven, and just when he thought it couldn't

get any better, Alex hollowed his cheeks, which sent bolts of

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by SA Clements

pure pleasure racing through his veins. He burned with need,
and he wanted to sink into Alex right now.

Even though his head was spinning, he forced himself to

sift through the heavy scents in the room. When he found
what he was looking for, he reached over Alex's head and
yanked open a drawer in the nightstand. Seconds later, he
fished out a small bottle with a flourish.

Alex pulled off his cock and he gazed at Daniel in utter

surprise. "How did you know..."

"Party trick," Daniel said while he pulled back the bed

sheets. "I'll tell you later. You'll have to do the honors."

"Sit back and enjoy the show," Alex said with a grin before

he held out his hand.

Daniel squirted some of the thick gel onto Alex's fingers

and watched as he parted his legs. Alex teased his entrance
before he pushed a finger in, sucking in a sharp breath as he
breached the tiny hole. His body trembled while he stroked
himself inside, touching the areas that gave him the most
pleasure.

"That's enough," Daniel barked before he grabbed the

lube. He plucked it out of Alex's hands and slicked up his
shaft as fast as he could. While he was applying the gel, Alex
pulled his finger out and rolled over onto his back.

Daniel positioned himself between Alex's sprawled legs and

then eased in, gasping as he was surrounded by volcanic
heat. Alex cried out in response, his fingers digging furrows
into Daniel's back as he was slowly impaled.

Once Daniel touched bottom, he leaned forward and sealed

their mouths together before he began to thrust. He

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by SA Clements

swallowed Alex's passionate cries before breathing his own
back in, pressing as close as he could so that he could feel
every inch of Alex's sweat-slicked flesh.

Daniel continued to rock forward, groaning as Alex ruffled

his tawny fur. By now, he normally would be pounding away,
trying to get whoever was under him off as fast as possible.
All of his encounters were hard and fast, but something was
different with Alex. He just couldn't get enough—the more he
touched, the more he hungered. He had never burned like
this, where he craved with each push to get even deeper, to
bury himself in Alex until they were melded into one.

He tried to prolong things as much as possible, drinking in

all of Alex's enthusiastic responses. He had no idea how much
time had passed before Alex started quivering and tensing up
beneath him. Taking the hint, Daniel sped up his rhythm,
plunging in as deep as he could with each snap of his pelvis.

Alex cried out and writhed, arching toward Daniel's body

with each thrust, his muscles straining as Daniel slammed
into him. Daniel's sensitive ears caught every puff, every
hitch in Alex's breathing as he rolled his hips, bringing them
both closer to the peak.

When he felt himself getting close, he put his large hands

under Alex's butt and shifted positions without separating
them—sitting back on his heels and dragging Alex onto his
large thighs. Alex's momentary hiss of displeasure was
replaced by a loud keen as Daniel began driving forward
again, his toned body quaking as Daniel sunk in with
measured strokes.

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by SA Clements

"Looks like I got your sweet spot," Daniel purred. He gazed

at Alex's flushed face and said, "I have another surprise for
you."

"Wha..." was all Alex managed to get out before Daniel

bent down and inhaled Alex's cock while he was still moving
inside of him.

Alex screamed at the top of his lungs and jerked upward.

Salty liquid filled Daniel's mouth and his dick was clamped at
the same time in an iron grip. Stars filled his vision as he
slammed forward one last time and orgasmed with a loud
groan.

Daniel lost track of where he was, floating in bliss until he

came back down to earth after who knows how long. He felt
warm when he gazed down at Alex's dreamy face, and he
reached down to brush aside a lock of sweat-dampened hair.

"Hey, there," he said.
It took a few moments before the glazed look left Alex's

eyes. He tried to reach up and ruffle Daniel's fur, but his arm
just flopped down. "I'm dead."

Daniel noticed a stray drop of white liquid welling out of

Alex's dick, so he bent down and licked it up.

"I didn't notice before, but your tongue is pointed," Alex

said with a laugh.

Daniel continued to lap at Alex's half-hard shaft, and he

chuckled when he noticed it stirring back to life. "Mmm, so
much for being dead. Wanna see what else I can do with a
pointy tongue?"

"I want to see everything a shifter can do," Alex said

before he reached for Daniel again.

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by SA Clements

* * * *

Most of the guys Daniel slept with lasted two rounds at

best, but Alex surprised him. He was able to keep up with
Daniel until they both collapsed in a sweaty heap at the crack
of dawn.

Daniel's fur was a mess after their marathon session of

sex, but he was in a tight spot. If he went back to Steve's to
clean up, he was sure that his brother would wake up and
grill him. On the other hand, if he used Alex's shower, he was
probably going to clog the drain.

Alex must have noticed his expression, because he said,

"You're frowning."

"Yeah." Daniel mentioned his dilemma and shrugged.

"Guess I'll have to deal with Steve glaring at me."

"It's okay, you can use mine. I'll just pour some lye down

the pipes after you're done."

"Seriously?" Daniel asked. He wondered if he should ask

the next question that popped into his head. After all, Alex
didn't have to offer anything up.

"It's not a problem," Alex said before he let out a loud

yawn. "You lucked out and managed to sleep with someone
who uses unscented bath gel."

Daniel gave Alex a wet, sloppy kiss. "You rock. I'll make it

as fast as I can, but I have to blow dry my fur after I'm done.
I also have to remember to text Steve and tell him that I'm
here, or else he'll go apeshit when he finds me missing."

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by SA Clements

"Go ahead. I don't think I'll be awake when you come

back, though," Alex said before he yawned again for
emphasis.

"Sleep?" Daniel said, gazing at the wreckage he had left. "I

clawed the hell out of the mattress. You can't even move
without getting a spring up your ass, and I munged your
blankets."

"I have a spare one in the closet and extra linens. I'll

change everything before you come back."

"I owe you one," Daniel replied before he disappeared into

the bathroom. It took him a while to finish with his cleaning
regimen, so when he returned to bed, he was so tired that he
fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillows.

It seemed like only a few minutes had passed before an

annoying tickling sensation kept disturbing him. He finally
struggled awake to see a large pointed nose and eyes blotting
out his vision on one side.

"Ack!" he yelled out, sending Isaac scuttling for cover

under a fold of blanket. "Sorry! You just startled me!"

He noticed that daylight was pouring into the room. His

ears perked up and his stomach rumbled when he heard a
small clang from the kitchen. He tended to be sluggish when
he first got up, but food was a great motivator. He sprung out
of the bed, shifting back into his human form as he padded
toward the kitchen.

Alex was still naked, and he had just pulled out a skillet. "I

know it's mid-afternoon, but I feel like having breakfast. And
don't worry—I can make you a tofu scramble."

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by SA Clements

"Sounds good to me. I'll eat any vegetation." He noticed

Isaac scuttling over the carpet and felt guilty for earlier. "I
scared Isaac when I woke up. Can I give him a peanut to
make up for it?"

Alex pulled a carrot out of the fridge and expertly sliced off

the top. "He's getting chubby, give him this," he said as he
flicked it in Daniel's direction.

Daniel caught it and sunk down to his knees. He waved the

carrot close to the ground and sing-songed, "I have food."

Isaac's whiskers twitched and then he darted up to

Daniel's fingers. He plucked the carrot out and then held the
orange slice between his forepaws as he munched on it,
rotating the piece while he ate.

"He's really cute," Daniel said. "Does he run free?"
"Pretty much. He never escapes, except for last night."
"I don't mind. It brought me here." A strange, contented

feeling settled over Daniel. He normally didn't do breakfast,
since all of the guys he had sex with left after they cleaned
up. The only post-sex talk he had indulged in up to now had
consisted of two sentences—"That was great," or "No, I'm not
going to fuck you in full lion form."

But things were different with Alex. Daniel felt comfortable

around him, and he had this strange urge to hang around.
"So, guessing by your accent, you aren't a native?"

"I was born in New York, but I spent a lot of time moving

from place to place. I didn't really settle down until I moved
out here."

"Yeah, I'm kind of restless myself. Haven't traveled,

though. I never seem to have enough money."

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by SA Clements

"There's always creative ways to finance things."
"Nah, my mom would freak. Never knew my dad, so she

nags me enough for two. What about you, do your parents
drive you crazy?"

"If I was still speaking to them, they would," Alex said.
Daniel winced at the fact that he had put his foot into his

mouth. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about. While I was abroad, I

fell in love with someone they didn't approve of. I moved out
here to California settle down with him."

"And then what happened?"
"He soured me on boyfriends." Alex didn't say any more,

so it was obviously an uncomfortable subject for him.

"You lucked out, I don't do the boyfriend thing, either,"

Daniel blurted out. Alex didn't reply, so he took the hint and
changed subjects. Alex appeared more comfortable once any
discussion about boyfriends was tabled, and he finished
prepping and cooking breakfast in record time.

"God, that was great," Daniel purred after he was done. "I

ate so much that I'm stuffed."

Alex leaned over and ran a finger down Daniel's bare

chest. "I'm still hungry."

"Mmm, now that I think about it, I am too," Daniel said

before he pushed the dishes aside. "Let's see how tough your
table is."

* * * *

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by SA Clements

"Well, look who finally dragged his furry butt home," Steve

said when Daniel let himself in. "You left Saturday night and
it's now, what, almost ten on a Wednesday?"

"Screw you."
"Don't think I didn't hear you sneaking in after midnight on

Monday to grab some clothes."

"Whatever. I'm not going to stay long, anyway. I just

came by to collect the rest of my crap, and then I'm going to
pick Alex up from work. We're going out for a late night
dinner at some place he wanted to try."

Steve's eyebrow shot up. "All right, where did you hide my

little brother? You know, the person who never sticks with
one man for more than a night?"

"None of your fucking business." Daniel grabbed his

overnight bag before he made his way out. It was about a
ten-minute drive to Jasmine, and Alex was already waiting
out front when Daniel pulled up to the curb.

Daniel tried to ignore the little flutter he felt when Alex slid

into the passenger seat. Instead, he focused on navigating his
way to a small eatery on the outskirts of downtown.

Once they entered, they were greeted warmly by the

hostess, and she led the two of them to a narrow stairway
located in the back of the restaurant. The staircase opened
into a large dining room, and a pair of large stained glass
doors stood at one of the corners.

The doors opened onto a cozy balcony that had been built

outside. There was only a single table on the terrace. A small
fountain and a string of lights decorating the balcony provided
a soft, intimate feeling.

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by SA Clements

"Holy fuck," Daniel said as he took his seat. "This was

more than I expected for a late night food run."

"There's more—I already ordered dinner."
Just after Daniel had finished processing Alex's statement,

a waiter appeared with a small dish. "Walnut mushroom
pate."

The pate was beautifully presented, with a delicate spray

of garnishes arranged in an asymmetrical pattern on one
edge. Thin crackers were arranged on the other edge,
complementing the overall look of the dish. Daniel pinched
himself; he couldn't believe that Alex had ordered something
this fancy just for him.

Alex cleared his throat and said, "I have a small confession

to make."

Daniel was so distracted by the idea that someone would

go to this much trouble for him that he didn't hear Alex at
first. "Huh? What?"

"I made everything you're going to be eating tonight."
If Daniel was gaping before, his mouth opened so wide

that he could have caught flies with it. "Say what?"

Alex chuckled and slid a finger under Daniel's jaw so that

he could ease it shut. "You said that you never could afford
gourmet food. It was pretty dead at Jasmine, so I came over
here and cooked up dinner for you."

"How in hell did you manage that?"
A gentle smile touched Alex's lips. "It's easy when you own

the restaurant."

"Y-you ... you do?"

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by SA Clements

"I hate the business side of things. I pay the bills and my

friend Dave runs everything."

Daniel couldn't believe his eyes. He had to be dreaming.

"But you came here just to arrange this? For me? Why?"

"I wanted to."
Daniel's brain short-circuited. No one had ever gone

through so much effort for him, ever. He wondered why Alex
would do this, but the hopeful look in the other man's eyes
told him more than any words could.

Something in the back of Daniel's head told him that he

was heading into dangerous territory.

"Well, well, who do we have here?" a sarcastic voice said

from behind him, interrupting his train of thought.

Alex stiffened and looked uncomfortable. Curious, Daniel

turned around and saw a man in his early fifties sneering at
them. He was still in remarkable shape, but there was
something about the cold glitter in his eyes that made
Daniel's skin crawl.

"Gary," Alex said. "I didn't think this was your kind of

place."

Gary replied, "It is when I find out through the grapevine

that you own this joint. This is low class for you, and so is the
empty-headed pretty boy."

That was it. Daniel got in Gary's face, held up his hand,

and extended his claws. "Who's a pretty boy now, dipshit?"

Gary didn't seem fazed by Daniel's show of power. "A

shifter? I've been replaced with an animal? What's next, Alex?
Fucking a dog?"

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by SA Clements

Daniel let out a full-throated roar, and he was about to

change when he felt a gentle touch to his shoulder.

Alex murmured in a soft voice, "He's not worth it."
Daniel didn't give a shit, no one called him an animal and

got away with it. He felt Alex's hand rubbing his shoulder. "If
you start brawling, you'll prove to him that he's right. Let it
go."

He curled his hand into a fist, but he knew deep down that

Alex was right. He sat down with a loud snarl.

Before Gary could open his mouth again, Alex said, "You're

causing a scene. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Fine," Gary replied. He turned on his heel to exit, but he

had a parting shot. "Hey, Kitty Kat? You're not going to last
long; Alex prefers men with class."

"Go fuck yourself," Daniel hissed back. He folded his arms

and tried to get his temper under control.

Alex looked embarrassed and reached over to touch

Daniel's hand. "I'm sorry, I never thought Gary would show
up here. He didn't take it well when we broke up."

"Is that the guy you fell for?"
"Yes. I'm sorry I brought you here—I didn't mean to ruin

our evening."

Daniel leaned over and gave Alex a breath-stealing kiss.

"I'm not going to let him get in the way of the best evening
ever. Let's eat."

The smile that lit up Alex's face made Daniel forget about

anything else. It turned out to be a wonderful dinner, and
Daniel showed Alex how much he enjoyed it when they
arrived back at the apartment. They wound up with yet

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by SA Clements

another shredded mattress and a broken bed frame, but Alex
didn't seem to care one bit.

* * * *

After that incident, Daniel somehow found himself living in

Alex's apartment. He squashed the doubting voice in his head
by convincing himself that he and Alex weren't really a
couple. He also wasn't cruising the bars, but he told himself
that it was because he wanted a break from the scene.
Eventually, they'd get tired of each other, and they'd move
on.

Another couple of weeks passed by, and Daniel finally

decided that he needed to get off his ass and look for a job.
He was about to grab the morning's paper when he heard a
knock at the door.

He whipped the door open, figuring that if it was someone

selling something, flexing his claws would make them think
twice. He made a noise of surprise when he saw Gary
standing in front of him.

"Gary?" he said. "What the fuck?"
"God, you animals have no sense of caution. That's why I

was able to track you back to here."

"Come in here and say that, asshole."
Gary swaggered in, looking at Daniel like he was a piece of

garbage. Once the door was shut, he said, "What are you
going to do? Change into a little kitty and frighten me?"

That was the last straw. Daniel's mane flared out and he

made himself get heavier, dropping down to all fours after he

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by SA Clements

ripped the last of his clothes away. Once he was in full animal
form, he roared at the top of his lungs.

Gary was not fazed in the least. "The problem I have with

you beasts is that you assume you are the superior life forms.
You're not the only one with special abilities."

He gestured, and Daniel was surrounded by a cocoon of

energy. Try as he might, he couldn't move.

"You're wondering why this is happening. It looks like

magic, but magic doesn't exist, right?"

Daniel couldn't talk while he was a lion, so he snarled

again. Gary just smirked at him and continued the
conversation. "What you're seeing is not mystical—my
ancestors and Alex's were psionic. And they realized that it
would be smarter to keep any knowledge of their existence
from getting out. If they had to use their powers around any
non-psis, those unfortunate souls were killed and disposed
of."

Gary paused in his tirade for a second to grab Daniel by

the back of his mane. "It's too bad that humans can record
our every move within seconds; that forced us to learn how to
do things invisibly. But I can take my time now and watch
every single minute."

As he finished his sentence, Gary made a cutting gesture.

An arc of energy sliced through the air and across Daniel's
ribcage. He roared in agony and outrage, but then realized
that something felt wrong. He looked down and screeched in
alarm when he saw that he was still bleeding.

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"I just turned your quick healing off. Once I'm done

playing, I'm going to cut your heart out. That should teach
you to put your disgusting paws on Alex."

Gary chopped his hand through the air several more times

and Daniel howled as he was sliced to the bone. Gary drew it
out, inflicting just enough damage to keep Daniel from
fainting.

Eventually, the room began to spin and Daniel knew that

this was it. As his vision faded, he saw the window swing
open of its own accord. A blinding light filled the room, and
when it cleared, Alex was hovering above the carpet. He
heard a scream in the distance before everything faded to
black.

As he floated in the darkness, he could feel Alex's

comforting presence beside him. He couldn't touch him, but
he knew that Alex was there, soothing him and telling him
that it wasn't his time to die yet. He somehow knew that Alex
needed him, more than any other person.

He could see Alex now, hovering next to him. He reached

for Alex's hands, and when they touched, heat flared through
every inch of his being. He started drifting upward, and the
darkness gradually became lighter...

Daniel's eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he saw was

Alex's pale and drawn face. He had been moved to the
bedroom, and he didn't hurt at all anymore. "I'm still here?"

"It was tough, but I managed to reverse what Gary did to

you."

Daniel growled out, "Where is the bastard?'

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The expression on Alex's face became so cold that Daniel

shivered. "He's been dealt with. I'm just sorry that I couldn't
fly any faster."

"What I don't get is how you knew that Gary was here."
A high-pitched voice beside Daniel's ear squeaked out,

"Because I told him."

Daniel snapped his head to the side, but all he saw was

Isaac sitting next to him. "Who said that?"

"I did," Isaac replied.
Right. A mouse was talking.
"Oookay," Daniel said, "Whatever drugs you gave me must

be damn good, because I'm seeing and hearing some really
weird shit."

Isaac batted Daniel's ear. "And I'm really talking, you

stupid cat-ape. I have no idea why Alex asked me to keep an
eye on you."

Before Daniel could make a comment, Alex cut in. "There's

peanuts in the kitchen. Why don't you help yourself to one?"

"Peanuts?" Isaac disappeared in a flash, climbing down the

bedspread and scampering across the carpet before Daniel
could blink.

Alex rubbed the back of his head and chuckled. "If I let

him start, he'll talk your ear off. Humans aren't the only ones
who can be psionic. Psi animals are as smart as humans, and
they can form a low-level mental bond with their owners."

"Oh," Daniel replied. The haze was clearing from his brain,

and he remembered his experiences while he was in the dark.
"Speaking of mental stuff, I think I heard your thoughts while
you were fixing me."

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"You did?" Alex looked worried, as if he had confessed too

much. He was about to pull away when Daniel grabbed his
arm.

"Hey, I didn't say that I didn't like it. I know I don't

normally do the boyfriend thing ... but, like, I could try, you
know, with you."

Alex leaned down and kissed Daniel fiercely, giving him all

the answers he needed. True, this was a different and
unknown territory for him, but he wanted to explore it with
Alex. Together.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Flipped Fables

by SA Clements

Bad Hair Day

By Clare London
Crown Prince Stephan sat high upon a jet black steed, the

magnificent animal champing at its bit, impatient with the
delay as both beast and master waited at the entrance to the
castle. Stephan was a tall, dark and extremely handsome
young man—as was everyone's expectation—dressed in the
armor of a warrior, but with the rich and colorful hat, badges
and cloak of a mission less military. And the unmistakable
bearing of hereditary nobility.

The portcullis rose slowly, creaking. Castle soldiers

appeared in a clatter of ceremonial armor and with their most
attentive expressions, to guide him respectfully in. When
Stephan had gathered his aides around him and smoothed
some of the travel stains from his cloak, he rode into the
castle courtyard.

As he passed, ladies-in-waiting leaned out of the

bedchamber windows, sighing and giggling with delight.
Young man-servants peered around the door of the kitchens
and moaned with slightly lower voices, but with equal delight.
Grooms leaned out of the stable and spat their appreciation,
because no one had ever taught them any better. Then they
turned back to hauling bales of hay around and shoveling
horseshit. The casual memory of the visiting prince made
them stop occasionally and scratch without inhibition at any
itches they felt in their peasant groins, but they knew they'd
never get a look in on anything so noble and so hot.

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Crown Prince Stephan was the most attractive thing any of

them had seen for months.

* * * *

The king and queen also found him attractive. The queen,

because she hadn't felt a man's touch for some years now,
and Stephan seemed to ooze a very tactile—albeit oblivious to
him—sensuality. The king, because he had a major problem,
and here was another candidate to take it off his hands.

The pleasantries were over. The best wishes from the

respective dynasties had been exchanged. The food had been
eaten, the good red wine drunk. The youngest cellar slave—a
tall, spotty boy, illicitly drunk on the dregs of several wine
casks—had been peeled away from their esteemed and
gorgeous guest's leg, where he'd been dribbling with lust
down Stephan's britches like some rutting dog, to be taken
away for a beating.

"Our daughter, the princess—she's been abducted by a

witch," said the king. The queen sniffled in the background. "I
wish that you had met her—you would have been impressed
with her grace and beauty." There was a coughing sound
from a courtier at the back of the room, swiftly stifled when
another courtier viciously kicked his ankle.

"She must be rescued," sighed the queen. She was a thin,

pale woman. It sounded as if she'd been through this routine
many times before, as indeed she had. Stephan was the third
prince to approach the Quest, this month alone. "And then
she will be presented to the successful prince as a devoted
and gracious wife."

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"I think she will find you a worthy husband," mused the

king, his eyes ranging up and down the new prince's athletic
form. "And, of course, she has a sizeable dowry. Do you wish
to take on the Quest?"

"I would be proud to consider this prestigious Quest as my

own," replied Stephan, as he'd been taught to do by his royal
mother. His voice was strong and confident, and the queen
flushed a little. Fantasies danced in her mind and trickled
between her legs at the thought of being made Stephan's
own. "May I ask how and why she was abducted from such a
well-protected castle?"

It was the king's turn to flush, but from embarrassment

rather than sexual heat. "Magic was used, obviously, by a
malicious and ruthless witch. It is a punishment on my
House."

"On you," murmured the queen, not without bitterness.
The king glowered at her. "I was unfortunate enough to

have ... taken ... something that the witch perceived to be
her own. In return, she took our child and imprisoned her in
that tower."

"And is that tower far from here?" Stephan had the sudden

vision of a longer Quest than he'd originally planned for. He
had a prior engagement at a harvest parade later in the
month.

"It is in the forest, not far from our land. You'll be escorted

there tomorrow. We will be eternally grateful for your help
and bravery, good Prince." The king and queen were up and
out of their chairs with indecent haste and passing out of the

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banqueting hall before the court announcer had even reached
for his trumpet.

Crown Prince Stephan stood for a moment in front of the

empty thrones, feeling valiant but confused. He had many
other questions to ask about this Quest, but he didn't seem to
have had any time to put them forward.

He wondered if that was important.

* * * *

The next morning, the crown prince was paraded out of

the castle with many fanfares and streamers and guided into
the nearby forest to set up camp. Or, rather, his manservant
and grooms set up the camp, laid out his personal effects,
and cooked him a meal. Then they were meant to withdraw
and leave him to his work. The grooms tried a few choruses
of a traditional song of praise for the glorious royal family, in
order to rouse his blood for the Quest, but their voices were
flat and the words grated on Stephen's nerves. His
manservant in particular was nervous of leaving his master
alone, but those were the strict terms of the engagement.
The manservant was a devoted young man who was familiar
with all aspects of the prince's schedule during the day—and
even more familiar with the prince's bedchamber at night—
and he was concerned about his employer's ability to cope
with a rural lifestyle. Stephan had rarely been alone like this,
or so ill-equipped with creature comforts, in all his life. The
manservant's retreat was reluctant, leaving the prince in a
relatively comfortable position, though considerably further
than a bugle call away.

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Stephan, however, felt like the best and bravest

adventurer, and possibly on the trail of the love of his life! Of
course, he didn't really know how he felt about love. Or
princesses. Or marriage. The subject had never really
occupied his thoughts, which were mainly concentrated on
hunting and riding and the occasional bout of close wrestling
with his manservant and a few male friends. He was totally
sheltered in his palace and kept ignorant of romantic matters,
except for conversations he could eavesdrop on between the
chambermaids. There had once been an exciting exploration
with the young niece of one of his mother's friends, a girl who
slyly found her way into his rooms and kissed him, quite
brazenly. They'd been discovered by her twin brothers, who
spanked her and sent her back to her bedchamber. Stephan
hadn't actually progressed any further than slipping open her
bodice and finding strange, soft appendages that he
suspected he was meant to find stimulating. But he had
expected to be chastised by the twin brothers and to have to
pay some modest amount in gold by way of compensation.

It had been his royal mother's expectation that he seek out

a princess—preferably one who required a dashing,
testosterone-fueled rescue—and marry. Quickly. That had
been her decree—through pinched lips—after she found him
meeting the terms of the twins' compensation; after she
found him being chastised by them. He didn't think his
mother's distress was so much to do with the fact that the
room was hot and they'd taken off most of their clothing, or
even that Stephan was bent over the bed and enjoying his
turn for some rather enthusiastic spanking from the twins.

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No, the problem seemed to have been Stephan's own happy
cries and his eagerly thrusting ass and his loud complaints
about why did the twins have to leave the castle at once,
when things were going to get twice as exciting?

Anyway, he had been as obedient as ever after that small

indiscretion, and now he was on an appropriate Quest. He
spent the day in the forest, acclimating himself to this rural
life that people talked about, and listening with simple
pleasure to the sound of birds and the gentle rustle of leaves.
By the end of the day—and another couple of good, ready-
prepared meals—it was time for him to settle down gratefully
in his canvas tent, his clothes warm and his belly full of good
food. He was very tired. Four days of traveling, three duels,
two ambushes and a posse of goblins along the way—he'd
been kept busy. And never had his confidence in his purpose
let him down.

He slept that night with a clear and comfortable

conscience.

* * * *

Another day dawned with fine weather and an enjoyable al

fresco breakfast—bread, cold meats and assorted fruits left in
a carefully covered basket by the manservant. For the first
time, Stephan examined the tower that was to be his
destination. He couldn't ignore its dominating presence, even
this near to the forest boundaries. It was taller than the castle
and higher than the oldest trees. Its stark, gray stone walls
reared above the verdant forest like a spike through its heart.
The stone was naturally finished, yet it was deadly smooth all

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around its circumference, and the air that surrounded it was
both cold and somber. It was Stephan's plan to enter the
tower, defeat any guard, face the witch and her minions, and
carry the grateful princess away.

The plan of an unimaginative soldier, some might say.
It took him many hours to hack through the dense foliage

and approach the tower itself; the distance had been
deceptive. It was only when he approached it in the full,
sharp light of mid-morning that he realized the critical flaw to
his plan. There was no door to enter. He circled the building
several times, but never with any more luck. No door; no
hidden entrance among the seams of the stone blocks; no
underground passages. There was a high window, but he
could see nothing through it. There was no evidence of life
anywhere around or in the tower.

Was it all a trick?
He sat for a while, his back propped against a tree,

watching the tower with frustration and dismay. He slipped
off his breastplate and unbuckled his sword, though it always
stayed within a hand's reach. He might be unimaginative still,
but he was far from stupid.

And then, a sudden shock in the still, crisp air, he heard a

voice strike up a song. The words weren't entirely intelligible,
but that didn't seem to matter to the singer, as the song
lapsed into noisy humming for much of the time. Perhaps the
singer had problems remembering the words. And it was a
happy tune; a tuneful voice, the notes running up and down a
wide scale, the volume varying, but always sung with
enthusiasm.

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Stephan wondered if it was the witch or one of her

familiars. But even to his ears, largely naïve in these matters,
it didn't sound like a siren or a demon. Earthy, thought
Stephan to himself. Human. Lusty, even. He wasn't sure
where that word came from; he thought it might have been
one of the words the twins had used during their delicious,
yet brief, educational session. A rather unusual shiver ran up
his spine—far from unpleasant, but surely inappropriate at
this critical moment. He found he was reluctant to move, to
investigate further, just enjoying listening to the singing.
Something about the carefree, cheerful tone appealed to him
in a way that the cracked whining of his obsequious grooms
had not.

Soon, there was no doubt in his mind it was coming from

the tower. He looked up at the high window, seeing it was
now open. His heart beat faster—it might be the princess
herself! He might at last see the woman he sought—well, that
he was meant to be seeking.

Instead, he saw something far stranger. A hank of hair

appeared over the sill and flapped impatiently against the
smooth brick. It was damp, he assumed from washing. And
shortly after that, another hank appeared. The color was
dark; the hair was thick and rich. And there was still more of
it—much more. The original tresses slid over the sill and down
the wall, and just kept on flowing. Stephan watched as the
longest hair he had ever seen poured out of the window,
waving in the chill wind. He knew his mouth had dropped
open, but luckily there was no one to witness the handsome,
noble crown prince gaping like an idiot jester.

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Eventually the hair stopped. It shook as if by itself, but he

realized that its owner was probably shaking it out to dry. He
did the same himself sometimes, when he had no time for his
manservant to comb and fuss over it after washing. He'd stick
his head out the window and shake it dry, running fingers
through it when it felt clean and soft. He wondered what it
would be like to run his fingers through that hair. He felt that
same frisson he had felt when he first heard the voice. It
must be the autumn weather, he reasoned, for he wasn't
accustomed to such fanciful things as frissons.

He had led a very sheltered life.
The hair was waving gently in the air, as if it was being

parted carefully for braiding, and he had a glimpse of thin,
pale fingers on the sill. He imagined the delicate, feminine
hand that possessed them. They looked to be fairly long
digits, even from this distance—but he had no objections to a
girl with hands larger than average, did he? And besides,
what knowledge did he have, to know what was average?

She will play the harp, he thought. And weave. And stroke

my hair in the evening. And those fingers will play deliciously
down the front of my britches ... The answering feelings in his
groin were familiar, but not particularly in the context of the
expectations of his Quest. They were more associated with
the vigorous spankings of the twins, and the gentle, intimate
attentions of his manservant—and his manservant's soft,
supple mouth—when he was being bathed. Or maybe the
dark, painfully delicious dreams of his own, when all the
romantic creatures were broad-shouldered and low-voiced,
with strong, sure hands that guided his fingers around his

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cock, and then joined him in stroking it, harder and faster ...
With a sigh of impatience, Stephan fought off these feelings,
for he thought they might conflict with the discipline of his
military training. Is this love? he thought, abstractedly. Might
I be in love already? Just with a voice—with hair?

His naiveté should be excused. He was a young man who

didn't get out much, except into battle and on official
parades.

But he was bright. He would learn.

* * * *

He had called up to the window three times now, and his

throat hurt. His dignity felt rather sore as well. It was obvious
that she was there, for the hair was still spread out upon the
sill, but he'd had no reply at all. Did she realize that she was
being hailed by nothing less than a crown prince? And then,
when he'd drawn an even larger breath, and had bawled a
rather inelegant shout up the smooth, impenetrable walls,
there was a response.

"Fuck off!"
Stephan paused, halfway through another yell, and re-

thought his approach. His strength in battle was his ability to
plan and strategize, and to anticipate his enemy's moves. He
hadn't anticipated this move in any manner. He questioned,
briefly, what previous experience he had to guide him in a
campaign such as this. The common curse—for such it was,
he believed—was something he had rarely heard outside of
the stables. The voice behind it had been warm, though
obviously angry, and fairly low for a young, virgin princess. It

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was very difficult to make it out clearly, because of the
distance to the high window, and because of the autumn
winds through the forest. However, despite the startlingly
volatile vocabulary, he was sure that the speaker must be
beautiful, if such a sweet singing voice had come from her.
And, when her anger had abated, she would be kind, and
gentle, and maybe very accommodating in bed...

His thoughts had run away with him again, in rather an

unruly and warming direction. He didn't see how the mere
sound of a voice could have that effect on him. That never
happened in battle!

"I am here to see the princess!" he announced. His voice

sounded reedy, and the wind whipped it away against the
unforgiving stone wall. He wished he'd brought the trumpeter
with him, or his manservant. Or even some of the grooms.
Someone, anyway, who would reassure him as to his
importance. He wasn't at all used to presenting himself as a
singular man. "Let me see you, lovely princess! I come from
your dear parents, who have sent me to rescue you from this
cruel imprisonment!"

"Ahhh..." came the low voice. Its tenor had changed: it

sounded suspiciously amused by him. "You're another one of
them, then."

"Them?"
"Those bright young things, who ride in with pomp and

circumstance and new, shining boots, to rescue the princess—
and who then ride away when they fail, with rather less
pomp, and rather more humiliation, and their metaphoric tail
between their legs."

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Stephan stared down at his own boots and felt strangely

uneasy. "I will succeed where others have failed!" he
announced. "I am of a different caliber!"

"Sweet, simple man," came the murmured reply, "you're

going to have to be."

It was an astonishing comment, and with an attitude and

tone that Stephan had personally never heard from a
discreetly raised young girl. The hair was suddenly swept up
from the sill, and back into the room. Stephan swore he could
smell the wafting perfume of spring water as it moved, and
could see the glints of the evening sun on its dazzling dark
coppery color. But there was no further communication from
the window, except for the snap of a shutter.

He stood for a long while, because if he were truthful, he

wasn't quite sure what to do. The afternoon got darker, and
the chill evening breeze blustered against his boots. They
were very new, and a little too tight for him.

Stephan went back to his camp.

* * * *

He was back the next day, earlier in the morning this time,

as if it was truly a military campaign. He searched the tower
for any hint of a weakness, any chink in its implacable armor.
He could find none. He tried to crawl up the walls, but grazed
skin off his hands, and scraped the fine new boots. He tried to
use his sword for purchase, but blunted the edge. He had a
rope, but it would never reach to the window, and there was
no other anchor point to fix it to. He cursed. It was a half-
hearted attempt, using some of the words he'd heard under

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his manservant's breath on a day when he'd been a difficult
master. He didn't think he'd been so frustrated before in all
his life.

"You going to give up now, then?" came the soft voice

from above.

He looked up sharply, but there was no sign of the

speaker. The window had obviously been opened, but it was
too high for him to see inside. And then, as he stared, still
angry with the tower and its stubborn resistance, the hair
started to flow again. He watched, entranced, as it slid softly
down the walls, strands of it lifting in the breeze. If he
stretched right up, all six foot plus of him, he could just touch
the ends.

He did that, very quickly, in case he offended, or in case it

was withdrawn again. It felt very soft, and still damp—it felt
like a warm, viscous liquid between his fingers. "It's
beautiful!" he said, abruptly. "I had to touch it..." His breath
felt tight in his chest, and he didn't think it was from his
physical exertion.

"Thanks," came a murmur. Stephan didn't realize he had

spoken loudly enough to be heard, and he flushed at his
rudeness on first meeting. If this could be called a meeting at
all. The voice gave a tight, heartfelt sigh. "It's a pain to wash
daily, but let's face it, what the hell else do I have to do
here?"

"Will you look out at me, princess? Will you give me a word

of encouragement?"

"Why do you need encouragement?" came the low reply,

the tone very cautious.

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"Because I need to find a way to enter this tower, and to

rescue you. Because ... I would like to know that you
welcome that." Stephan was surprised at his own words,
which appeared to hint at uncertainty of some kind. He didn't
suffer uncertainty. Or at least, he'd never done so before he
encountered this dastardly tower.

There was silence for a while.
Then, suddenly, Stephan caught the glimpse of movement

above his head, and the hair swished heavily to one side. A
face appeared at the window, the head and shoulders leaning
out far enough so that he could see, though it was in shade
from the bright light of the morning sun. It was a long, well-
shaped face, with high cheekbones—it had a wide brow and a
firm chin, and for a second he also saw a glint from a pair of
large, bright, brown eyes. The shoulders seemed quite broad.

And then it was gone again.
His heart was beating very quickly, and his knees felt a

little unsteady. He couldn't understand why his attempts to
scale the tower might have exhausted him so much.

"I don't suppose that was the sort of encouragement you

were after?" The voice was a little distant: the face was
speaking to him from a way back into the room. As if it had
retreated; as if it were nervous of having shown itself.

"I think it was," said Stephan, quite clearly. And truthfully,

though he had no real idea why.

"Don't you dare laugh at me!" warned the voice.
"I'm not laughing at you," he replied, surprised. "Why

should I do that?"

But there was no further answer for him.

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* * * *

It was another day, and Stephan was getting used to

preparing his own meals, choosing pieces of dried meat from
his provisions, collecting water from a nearby spring. He
found a few fruit trees, and ate well from them. It all tasted
much better than the meals he remembered at the castle.
And then he would make his way to the tower.

He tried each day to climb it, and failed. But he never

stopped trying. He threw the rope a few times,
experimentally, up to the window. It always fell short. One
day, he sought to make a ladder from tree vines, but his
knots were inadequate, and it fell apart on his first step. He
tried many strategies, and none of them worked. But then—
surprisingly undiscouraged—he would settle down at the foot
of the tower and talk to the prisoner within.

He enjoyed that a lot more than the vain battles with

inanimate stone. To be honest—which he always was, in his
secret thoughts—he enjoyed that a lot more than most
anything he could recall from his life at home. There was a
pleasant, relaxing ambience in the air when he sat on the
flattened grass, and the window above was thrown open to
the day. The hair would tumble out across the sill every day:
long, thick, shining with health. It was like silk to the touch;
thick and sensuous. Stephan wished, more than once, that it
would touch more of him than his fingertips. In fact, his
dreams were becoming threaded with such thoughts, such
carnal desires. He never said such a thing aloud, of course.

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His companion was obviously an unusual type of person, but
his own upbringing still dictated that he be respectful.

Every morning, the hair would be divided into strands,

then aimlessly braided. Sometimes the exercise would be
abandoned with a laugh. Sometimes Stephan would sit and
watch the slow, sensual combing of each individual hank.
There would often be a song to accompany it. The singing
started a little self-consciously—but the obvious enjoyment
would overcome that, until notes and snatches of melodies
would race and catch and fall like leaves in the wind. It often
ended with more rich, genuine laughter. Stephan would join
in with that. That was his favorite time.

They talked about anything and everything, for there was

no one to guard their tongues against, or to specify what
matters were acceptable in the court. They talked about
Stephan's kingdom, about his hunting adventures, about the
academic subjects he had enjoyed with tutors yet never been
allowed to pursue, about the musical instruments he had
always wanted to play. And, perhaps surprisingly, the voice
spoke back of things they could both identify with and enjoy:
the wildlife and rich environs of the forest, cooking, singing,
the beauty of the sunset, the paintings the speaker would
create if ever released from the tower. They were amused
with each other, provoked by each other.

Stephan tried to catch further glimpses through the

window, but that never happened again. He tried to imagine
the inmate's bearing, the clothes, the facial features. He tried
various permutations of 'Beautiful Princess in Golden Gown
and Silver Slippers'. It just made him slightly nauseated, the

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same way the strange soft appendages of the wayward niece
had made him feel, all that time ago. And somehow the
delicate, traditionally romantic visions would not connect with
the songs he listened to and the brash, careless speech that
drifted down to him each day. He wondered why. His
imagination was being stretched—and not before time.

"You're not like the other men, you know." The voice was

thoughtful today.

Stephan liked its timbre. It struck a chord in him, strong

and quite deep and definitely bold. It seemed to have the
power to tease at his senses, to touch his nerves as if the
endings were raw. It also made his blood race around
between his legs. It was all very unnerving. "Why am I not
like them? What did they do?"

"They tried to climb, like you have. But rarely more than

once. They threw stones; they shouted more than a few non-
royal obscenities. As if it was my fault that they couldn't
succeed." There was a sigh. "They were all eminently suitable
for the purpose of 'princess rescuing'. All of noble lineage.
Most of them stupid as pig shit. Some of them handsome."

Stephan felt a ridiculous emotion that he believed might be

jealousy.

"You are a handsome man, Prince." The voice was soft and

uncharacteristically gentle.

Stephan felt a strange, warm flush start down between his

toes and start to travel north. He hoped he wasn't taking a
chill, for it would curtail his Quest.

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"They didn't talk to me like this. None of them. Not like

you do..." And then the window was shuttered, rather
abruptly.

Stephan was restless on his bedding that night. The

creature was a mystery to him.

The feeling in his groin was becoming less so.

* * * *

Stephan was looking, by now, a little tousled, after several

days in the forest. He'd torn his silk tunic on one of his
attempts to climb, and he was washing his hair in the spring
each day and leaving it to dry naturally, rather than its usual
formal, slicked style. But his cheeks shone with exposure to
the fresh air, and the sparse food was starting to lend a
leanness to his already fit body. He was thriving on the rural
life that had so worried his trusty manservant.

Today, he found himself whistling. The last couple of

attempts at climbing had been as unsuccessful as ever, but
he didn't really care. He had a new scheme, involving a rope
strung up between two trees, and a form of catapult using his
horse blanket. His military training told him it should be
feasible. His growing commonsense told him he would be a
moron if he even considered trying it out. So he sat on the
grass instead, and played dice quite comfortably for a while.

"I'm not the princess, you know," called his daily

conversationalist.

"I have guessed that by now," he replied, quite calmly.

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100

He was rewarded with a rich, unbridled laugh that made

his toes curl. "You're not as green as you're cabbage looking.
What's your name, Mr. New Prince?"

"Crown Prince of the Third Kingdom, First Born of the

family Goldmaster, Master of Brand and Sword, and—"

"Your name, sweet, simple man," drawled the voice, "not

your job description."

"I am Prince Stephan." There was a period of

companionable silence. These were developing nicely between
the two of them nowadays. Then Stephan cleared his throat.
"If you are not the princess, who are you?"

The voice paused, then spoke more hesitantly. "One of her

other, many relations. My name is ... Aled."

An unusual name—Stephan had never heard of a girl with

that name before, or any person for that matter. Though this
kingdom was very far from his own, and may have unusual
naming customs. Also, most of his acquaintances to date had
been introduced as Lord-or-Lady, and he often switched his
attention off before they elaborated. He'd never had much
interest in names before, but he liked the sound of this one.
"I know nothing about other relations."

"Yes, well, I'm no social success!" sighed the voice. The

hair switched briskly from side to side to demonstrate
impatience with families in general. "I erred one time too
many with my family. They were happy to offer me up to the
witch as general factotum-cum-slave-cum-companion to the
sacrificed princess."

"She is inevitably a caring, just mistress—"

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101

A bitter, loud laugh. "She's a nagging, selfish bitch! Did no

one tell you that at the castle?"

Stephan, despite his newfound tolerance, was shocked.

"You should show respect as a servant to a princess!"

"You can kiss my ass!" came the sharp rebuff. "I'll show

some respect when I'm shown some in return. I've been
banished by my family, mistreated by a frigid, razor-tongued
harpy of a princess, threatened with the painful loss of
genitalia by a manic, miserly witch—and a bird crapped on my
hair last week. Do you think I have any concern for social
niceties at this stage of my less than glorious career?"

Stephan was stunned. "I've never heard anyone speak in

that way before."

"You should get out more," murmured the voice, with

some sympathy. Which is, of course, what anyone would have
said about Prince Stephan.

"But where, then, is the princess?" Stephan asked. He was

trying to cope with a whole new raft of emotions and
experiences.

The voice laughed sharply. "She's not here, for sure."
"What do you mean, she's not here?" Stephan mustered

up some unusual spirit. "Where the hell else could she go?"

"She's gone. She's gone long ago. Shortly after the last of

July's brave fools came to try and scale the tower and carry
her off."

This was too much to absorb! "What? How?" He'd tried to

breach that tower so many times already, and he could see
no way of escape for a prisoner.

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102

"Calm yourself, I-am-Prince-Stephan. Do you know why

the witch snatched her in the first place? Because her father
the king was little better than a thief, and had stolen the
witch's strong box, full of her prize jewels. The abduction of
the princess was a calculated revenge, some might even say
a political strategy. The pair of them tried negotiation for
months, while the princess was imprisoned here. Never came
to any agreement. She'd have rotted here, I daresay, before
her father would've given away an inch of his position or
returned one stone of his loot." The voice made a rather
undignified snorting sound. "But then the princess took
matters into her own hands. Her vicious tongue wasn't
restricted to me alone. She nagged the witch like night
follows day follows night again, to get her out of this tower—
until it was one time too many, and she got her wish."

"She ... the witch released her?"
There were peals of laughter, now. "The witch ate her!

With boiled potatoes, and an apple sauce made from the fruit
of that tree by your camp. You want to pass that message on
to the dear family?"

"No, of course I don't." Stephan felt a chill settle around

his heart. What did this mean for his Quest? He wondered
what he was meant to do about this development, but he
found he couldn't think very clearly about the Quest, or the
unknown princess of his supposed dreams. All he could think
about was the singing from the tower each day. The fabulous
waterfall of hair from the window, and the thin, skilful hands
combing the locks. The sharp, saucy speech that he was

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learning to accept and respond to. "But you escaped the same
fate? You are still here..."

There was a chilly silence from the window. The shutter

creaked, as if the speaker was unsure whether to close it or
keep it open. "Yes. I got forgotten—as always, eh? Forgotten
by family, then equally forgotten by the witch. A non-person.
Well rid of me, they hope."

"What on earth did you do to incur such displeasure?"
The voice's deep sigh was of resignation, the need to share

a confession, perhaps. "I kissed someone. Someone I
shouldn't have kissed, Stephan. A man. Could a family be
more scandalized? No, the best place for me was here,
obviously. Out of sight, out of narrow mind. I was the perfect
candidate to be shuttered away with the royal harpy, in the
vain hope that I might never come back to embarrass them
again with my long hair and my artistic ways and my loving of
fierce lips and strong, sure hands on my body." The laugh
was bitter. "I don't expect you to understand, my sweet,
sheltered prince. You must go back to your camp, now, for
you'll need to rethink your Quest." The shutter closed
abruptly again.

Stephan was very confused. He had a limited knowledge of

love, to say nothing of a love that was obviously unsuitable.
He tried to imagine why a kiss might be so scandalous,
unless, of course, the man had been of the wrong social class.
That he could find understandable. But that—he knew—was
not the issue here.

He went back to camp. He slept badly. His dreams were

vividly erotic, and when he awoke in the morning, his hand

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was clasped tightly to his groin. The bedding was damp and
sticky, and his limbs felt unusually lethargic. He rather wished
he was back in the dream, but he couldn't have explained
why.

* * * *

"What the hell are you doing back here, Prince?" The voice

was sharper than usual this morning. "You're due to return to
the castle."

"I find myself reluctant to leave," Stephan replied gently.

"Do you think the witch will return here soon?"

The voice laughed, sounding relieved. "I doubt it! The

indigestion from eating the royal harpy was enough to
resurrect her hiatal hernia. She'll not want to come back to
this forest for a while yet!"

"Good," Stephan said. He gazed up to the window, and for

a second he thought he saw the pale flash of the hidden face,
glimpsed the glint of shock in the dark eyes.

"Aren't you keen to get back to whatever castle is yours?

There'll be another shortlist of eligible, rescue-able princesses
that you need to start work on."

Stephan heard himself saying, "I'm not that keen on

princesses, in all truth. I have five sisters myself. I find them
a trial."

The voice sounded wary. "You're beginning to sound as

eccentric as me, Stephan. You must watch that. No one wants
a smart-ass crown prince!"

Stephan chose his words as carefully as he could—he, a

prince who had rarely considered any of his words as needing

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to be measured in any way. "It can be tedious, to be a crown
prince. I do not always enjoy it, I think. The pomp, as you
said: the formality, the parades, the duties. And always the
expectation of my royal mother to find a bride. To find my
princess."

The voice was now so low that he had to stand on tiptoes

to catch it. "You need someone to keep you company,
Stephan. You deserve someone to share your life with.
Someone to keep you warm at night."

"You mean—physical intimacy with that bride?" Stephan

remembered his father's disjointed, confused 'talk' about such
matters, when he was a teenaged boy. He winced at the
embarrassing memory. Far better the education he'd received
at the hands of the twins! "I confess, Aled, that I find the
thought of that a trial as well."

The voice chuckled softly, yet a little sadly. "Have you

kissed a girl before, Stephan?"

"Yes, I have." Stephan didn't know what made him say the

next thing, except that he badly wanted to. He was unused to
following such uncontrolled urges. "And I have kissed a man,
too. It was ... far more satisfying to me."

There was a sharp intake of breath from above, sparking

out across the still air. Stephan realized with a shock that he
was always waiting for conversation with this astonishing
person. Looking forward to it. It made him feel warm; no
longer lonely. Heavens, he'd grown up in a court full of
people, yet he knew now he'd always been lonely. He'd never
really thought of it before.

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He was, obviously, bright enough—but he was learning

very rapidly now. "Aled—do you want to be rescued?"

There was a pause before the answer. "A quaint idea,

Stephan, and not unattractive. It seems no one else is
returning for me. And I am so damned bored here!"

Stephan's heart was racing again. "But how am I supposed

to scale the tower?"

"That's your role, Prince," came the reply, laced with

amusement that was slightly nervous. "Don't they issue you
with some kind of instruction booklet on that?"

"I think not," said Stephan, rather too seriously. His early

morning wet dream had come back to him in a flash of what
he saw as inspiration. He had been grasping those thick, soft
tresses—he had been wrapping them around his wrists. He
had been steadily climbing the sheer, smooth walls, and he
had been mere feet from the window sill ... "What about your
hair?"

"What the hell are you thinking, you lunatic prince?"
"Throw down your hair!" Stephan called, as if he was in

some ancient fairy tale of his grandmother's. "Throw it down,
so that I may use it to climb the tower and rescue you!"

The braid came spinning out of the window, and stopped a

foot above his head. It was tightly tied today, and was
therefore shorter and sturdier than its usual, free-falling
guise. Stephan stretched and took hold of the end. He bound
it around his wrist, and he tugged.

"Ouch! Shit!"

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"Be patient, Aled! I'll soon be there!" Stephan held tightly

to the copper-colored rope of hair, braced his foot against the
stone, and launched himself on his first steps up the wall.

There was a yell that sounded suspiciously like, "Get the

fuck off!" though that was another profane phrase that
Stephan had never heard except from his grooms. The braid
was yanked sharply out of his hands and he fell to the ground
with an awkward thump. There was silence from the tower for
a while, Stephan regaining his breath, but—to his chagrin—
not his dignity.

"Guess I'm stuck here, I-am-Prince. Go back to your camp

and pack. I insist on it!" There was a sob of frustration from
the window, and the shutter slammed shut.

Stephan stood up. The waves of a strange and deep

disappointment swamped him.

* * * *

The next day dawned brightly, and the tall, dark and

handsome prince stood patiently at the foot of the tower. The
window shutter opened with a lazy creak.

"Back again, I-am-Prince-Stephan? I'll admit, you have

more stamina than any of the others. I told you she's gone!
There's no princess here to satisfy your Quest."

"But I came to see you," Stephan said, simply.
"Me?"
"I fail to see how your family could forget you, Aled. You

are ... unique. You are unforgettable. You are truly worthy of
rescue!"

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The figure at the window was a shadow behind the shutter.

It held itself very still. "You are a bright young man after all,
aren't you? To look beyond the depths of my disgrace."

Stephan spoke as bravely as he could. He had, after all,

stayed up most of the night practicing what he would say. "I
think that I like you because of your disgrace, Aled. You are
bold and you speak your mind, whether it is socially
acceptable or not. It appears that you have followed the same
honest passion in your actions, too. And you've been a good
companion to me. The best I ever had."

"You're a damned fine listener, Stephan," came the warm

reply.

"And I don't think you are a maidservant," persisted

Stephan. His throat was very dry.

"I think you're getting brighter by the minute..." The tone

was wary again.

"I love you, Aled! I think you're the most beautiful thing

I've ever seen!"

"You've barely seen me!" the voice exclaimed.
"I don't care about that." The words were spilling out of

Stephan as if they had a life of their own, with a poetic grace
that he never knew he possessed. "I have seen your voice,
and your opinions, and your companionship. I have seen your
glorious hair, the touch of which binds me to you and affects
my senses in a way that's frightening and yet totally thrilling!
I've not seen you with my eyes, no, indeed. But I have with
my heart." He paused, almost scared of his own excitement.
"I do not know the words, Aled. I need your help to tell me
what I feel."

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"More than bright..." came the murmur, sounding shocked

and pleased. "But Stephan ... I don't think I'm quite your
type, am I?"

"What's my type?" Stephan argued, mulishly. "How do you

know?"

"I answer you back, I argue with you. And you—a prince!"
"Now you are laughing at me," Stephan said, rather

miserably.

"I'm not a virgin..."
"Neither am I!" Stephan growled, though he'd never have

dared confess that to his royal mother. She never realized she
had caught him with the twins that day after his sexual
deflowering, believing instead that she had saved him from
what she considered a fate worse than death. He hadn't seen
fit to disabuse her. It had been

"I'hardly nevy sub(msive... I don'pl dat she rp—. I donen)Tj1.4935 -1.5 TD-0.3024 Tc0 Twwe sa—w?"

whamatafts lnfess tnat shbadgevecrap on's mbootsce!"

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stones crumbled as if it had suddenly grown very tired of life,
and dribbled to the ground. The segment of wall, as large as
a doorway, slowly swung out from its moorings. For it was,
indeed, a hitherto secret doorway.

A young man stepped out from inside the tower. He

stumbled a little over the final step, but righted himself
gracefully, stretching a little and staring at the view around
him with disorientation.

Stephan knew immediately why he'd never pictured the

owner of the voice in a maiden's clothes—why he'd always
imagined Aled just so. Aled was tall, like Stephan himself, and
slender, but with long, strong legs and broad, masculine
shoulders. His clothes were rough but well cut; the shirt was
open at his throat, showing a long, pale neck. He wore
britches that were tight around his narrow hips, hugging his
calves down to soft, well-worn boots. In a wild, thrilling
moment, Stephan thought that maybe he would like his long,
strong fingers to play inside of those britches.

And the hair! It was as glorious as ever, thrown carelessly

over a shoulder, and only a little tangled from his bizarre
emergence from the tower. The copper color shone amongst
the green of the forest; the thick, soft fringe fell over Aled's
wide, dark, cautious eyes. And even with the bulk of it caught
up in an arrangement of leather ties and tails, the tips of that
silken curtain teased at the base of his buttocks.

Aled gave a loud, very masculine cough and brushed at his

sleeves, trying to free his clothing of the mortar dust. His
eyes accustomed themselves to the new setting, and his feet
back on solid ground. They also accustomed themselves to a

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proper, face-to-face view of I-am-Prince-Stephan, and then
they shone with delight and excitement.

"That was some damned strong magic," he grinned.
Stephan grinned back, though grinning had always been

frowned upon by his royal mother as a rather common
expression. "It was," he agreed. He took another step
forward, and put a hand on Aled's shoulder. They stared at
each other, their eyes grinning along with their mouths, and
then Stephan leaned forward and kissed Aled's dusty lips. He
knew they'd be warm. He knew they'd taste of lemons and ale
and ripe red berries and every other rich, stimulating taste
he'd known in life. "So was that," he whispered, reluctant to
let go of the touch.

Aled's eyes had drifted closed, but they sprang open again.

His cheeks were flushed, but he wasn't embarrassed. He
didn't look like he'd be embarrassed, or scared, or doubtful
about anything. Somehow that had all been reflected in his
voice, Stephan knew without a doubt. One of his strengths in
battle had always been an ability to assess the worth of both
his men and the men of his enemy.

"So do it again," said Aled boldly, his eyes on Stephan's

mouth. "Let's enjoy it a while longer before you go back to
the castle and face your failure."

"No failure," said Stephan calmly, though his heart was

thudding with the excitement of being so close to Aled's lithe
body and dancing eyes. "And I'm not going back."

Aled was startled. "What the hell do you mean? You're a

crown prince. You have to go back and ... do crown prince

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things. I can't be part of that. I'm a servant, Stephan. I'm a
man."

Yet another of Stephan's strengths in battle had been his

ability to make snap decisions in the face of stress and
danger. "I'm going to stay with you. There's no argument. I
have four brothers, did I tell you? One of them can do the ...
crown prince things."

Aled started laughing. The sound, now matched with his

actual bodily presence, was deep and resonant and very
contagious. When Stephan laughed as well and slipped an
arm around his waist, Aled pressed up against the prince's
body and took another kiss, long and deep.

Stephan's body hummed with excitement. His groin ached

so much and was swollen so fully that he was afraid of
bursting out of his britches. Then his hands slipped over the
tight globes of Aled's ass, and he thought that might actually
be a golden opportunity. He was inordinately proud of his
performance on the kissing front. He believed with a little
more practice he could meet the further expectations that he
had learned from the twins—and those he had dreamed of for
himself. Aled brought out the best in him. Aled was a perfect
companion. Aled was...

"Stephan. Prince!" Aled was trying to get his attention.

"Where will we live? The tower was hardly a place of great
luxury, but it was the only home I had. What will we do for
money? I can paint pictures and sing songs, but you..."

Stephan would not be discouraged. "I have a tent. I have a

horse and sword." He smiled broadly, nodding his head back
toward the forest behind them. "I also have a devoted

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manservant who has been following me through the forest
thinking I have not seen him, thinking I cannot survive
without my crown prince things. And he will be bringing
clothes and provisions. Also a strong box that we both
discovered hidden under the castle's guest room bed, which
appears to contain many rich jewels that were once in the
possession of a manic, miserly witch who surely owes you—
owes us both!—some suitable compensation."

Aled shook his head with pleasure, his hands resting lightly

on Stephan's body at all times. They kissed again: Stephan
tangling his hands in the depths of Aled's fabulous hair, and
Aled breathing in the strength and single-minded
determination of his rescuer.

"Come with me now," demanded Stephan, albeit with a

slight trace of nervousness.

"This will give your royal mother a heart attack!" came the

dry drawl that Stephan had grown to know so well. Aled's
hand reached out, and their fingers linked most perfectly.

"I sincerely hope so!" Stephan replied enthusiastically, as

he drew the other man back into his embrace. "And then you
can show me the meaning of your demand that I 'kiss your
ass'!"

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Wild Fox Chase

By Misa Izanaki
(Based on Ask a Fox for Its Skin, a Chinese fable.)
Kenji wandered through the open air market, taking in the

sights and smells of it all. Cured meats, the earthy, green
scent of fresh veggies, and fresh-baked breads all wafted
under his sensitive nose. It all smelled so good, and it was
starting to make Kenji very hungry.

It was only a matter of what Kenji wanted to eat. There

were grilled meats at one stand, fresh fruit at another, and, of
course, the breads and pastries at the bakery. It was a small
shop at the far end of the marketplace, and it always smelled
good. The bakery was definitely one of Kenji's favorite stops,
more so because of the baker's all too handsome middle son,
Jake.

"Oh, I wonder what Jake will have for me today?" Kenji

almost bounced over to the bakery. He and Jake had become
fast friends over the last few months and the young man had
been keeping Kenji very well fed.

Of course, even if Jake hadn't fed Kenji on a regular basis

they still would have been friends. Jake was kind, generous
and very sensible for a man barely in his twenties. He was
also handsome to boot, which made Kenji hungry in an
entirely different way.

Jake stood in the front of the shop, setting out still-warm

bread and breakfast pastries in shallow baskets. Kenji

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couldn't help but lick his lips. He couldn't decide what was
more tempting, breakfast or his friend's lean body.

"Morning, Kenji." Jake waved at him, but it seemed half-

hearted at best.

"Good morning." Kenji cocked his head to one side and

studied his friend. Something was wrong. Jake was usually
more excited to see him.

"If you say so."
"What?"
"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that." Jake sighed and raked a

slim hand through his dark blond hair. "It's always good to
see you."

"All right, Jake, what's wrong?" Kenji eyed his friend. "It

wasn't anything I did, was it?"

Jake shook his head. "It's not you, Kenji. I—"
"Is there a problem, boy?" Jake's father glared at them

both. He was a gruff man who always seemed angry about
something, at least when Kenji was around. It was hard to
believe he and Jake were even related, let alone father and
son.

"It's nothing, sir."
Jake's father gave Kenji one last glare before heading back

to his work, grumbling under his breath.

"Look, it's kind of complicated and I don't really want to

talk about it here." Jake piled more bread into another basket
and kept his voice low.

"That's fine. I'll meet you later then." Kenji snapped his

fingers as a new idea popped into his head. "I'll take you to

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lunch. It's the least I can do, considering how often you feed
me."

"I can't ... not today. I have errands that need to be done.

Can we talk tomorrow?" Jake glanced up, his emerald green
eyes briefly meeting Kenji's copper-colored ones. "I'll be free
in the morning, at least."

"Sure." Kenji didn't like that one bit. Jake never turned

him down, especially when he offered to pay. Something had
to be wrong. "I'll come by tomorrow, then."

"Wait!" Jake glanced around cautiously and pulled a small

bundle wrapped in a cloth napkin out from behind one of the
bread baskets. He pushed it into Kenji's hands. "Don't forget
your breakfast."

"Thanks." Kenji took the gift and forced a smile for Jake.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

Kenji walked through the rest of the marketplace lost in

thought. Jake's words bothered him. What could be so
important or dire that Jake couldn't tell him then and there?
Why did he have to wait until tomorrow to find out? He sighed
and opened the cloth bundle Jake had given him. Kenji wasn't
terribly hungry anymore, but he was curious to see what Jake
had for him.

The most wonderful scents filled Kenji's nose. There were

two pastries: one sweet and one savory. The savory one was
a buttery roll filled with bacon and cheese, while the sweet
one was a crisp and flakey pocket filled with custard and
strawberry jam. Both were Kenji's favorites, and Jake had
probably made them especially for him. Well, that settled

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things. He had to eat them. Worried or not, Kenji would not
let Jake's hard work go to waste.

* * * *

Kenji stood on the edge of the large forest that bordered

town. He had been restless ever since he'd talked to Jake,
and he needed to burn off some of that nervous energy
before he did something reckless or stupid. Kenji stepped
deeper into the woods and stripped off his clothes. He
wrapped his boots and pants up in his shirt and buckled the
bundle to a tree branch with his belt. He would need those
later, unless he wanted to be locked up for public nudity ...
again.

He closed his eyes and willed himself into fox form. It was

easy, especially for kitsune. There was no stretching of bones
and skin or awkward, helpless moments as his body shifted
from one form to another. For Kenji, like most of his kind,
there was simply a puff of bluish smoke that tickled his nose
and he would be standing there as a fox. It was all part of the
magic that made kitsune what they were.

Once the smoke cleared, Kenji bounded through the trees

on sleek, silver paws. It was nice to run again, to feel the
wind in his fur. Sometimes he wondered why he kept to
human form for so long when this one allowed so much more
freedom. There was no clothing to get tangled in or human
manners to keep track of. And, best of all, he didn't have to
hide his ears and tail. Kenji had beautiful ears, soft and
perfectly pointed, with the barest hint of black at their tips;
while his tail was full, lush and perfectly proportioned to his

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body. Both were his pride and joy, and Kenji hated hiding
them.

Unfortunately, it was a necessary evil when walking among

humans. Kenji had learned, all too well, how superstitious
people could be. He had been in Salem—what, three years
ago?—and had barely escaped with his life. Show one person
your tail, and they try and burn you at the stake for being a
demon. Kenji sighed; maybe his parents were right about the
west.

He hopped onto an old, weather-worn tree stump and sat

for a bit, letting the sun warm his soft, silver fur. Leaves
crunched behind Kenji, catching his attention. Kenji's furry
ears twitched and flicked back. Someone was following him,
and trying to be stealthy about it, too. Kenji hopped up on a
fallen tree and sniffed the air. The sharp scent of cold iron
and gun powder hung in the air, making Kenji sneeze.

"A hunter?" Kenji growled, and his vulpine tail bristled. "My

day just gets better and better."

Hunters rarely bothered his kind back home in Japan. The

people there knew better than to hunt a kitsune, but in the
Americas it was very different. Then again, there were no fox-
shifters here. The closest Kenji had found were the coyote
people of the southwest. They were a fun lot, curious and full
of tricks, but they never came this far north. They knew
better, or so they told Kenji.

The coyotes had warned him, too. They told Kenji how

tempting that lovely, silver coat of his would be, and how any
hunter looking to make a bit of cash would probably chase
him through woods and desert for it. Not that Kenji listened.

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Once he had his heart set on something, be it a place, thing
or person, nothing could change his mind. Besides, Kenji was
pretty sure he could outrun and outthink a simple hunter.
Even if he couldn't, Kenji was far larger than a typical fox,
and he could take a man down quite easily if he needed to.

Kenji just hoped it wouldn't come to that. He didn't really

want blood on his paws; really he didn't.

Kenji sniffed the air again. Ah, his hunter had gotten

closer. New scents filled Kenji's sensitive nose; warm leather,
sweat, and something else earthy, male and oddly familiar.
There was also no blood scent, either, which was strange.
Most hunters reeked of it, but not this one. This one had to be
young and inexperienced or very bad at his work. Oh, now,
that made Kenji very curious. Maybe running into this hunter
wasn't such a bad thing after all. Leading this foolish man
deep into the woods and leaving him lost there might be fun.
At the very least, it would take Kenji's mind off Jake.

A shot echoed through the forest, reminding Kenji of the

task at hand. He yelped as he imagined a startled fox would
and bounded deeper into the woods. Kenji weaved through
the trees, taking the longest and most confusing path to the
river. Once there, he would use the water to mask his tracks,
and hopefully leave the hunter lost and tired in the deepest
part of the forest. It was an easy enough plan, as long as the
hunter kept up with him, anyway.

Kenji darted through more trees and a thick patch of

underbrush. His hunter was keeping pace with him
surprisingly well, a little too well, for Kenji's comfort, at least.

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He had meant to lose his hunter before the river, but it
seemed that Kenji needed new plan.

That's it! Kenji grinned as it came to him. He would shift

forms once he hit the river. His hunter wouldn't shoot him if
he was in human form, would he? Oh, maybe he should leave
his tail and ears out. The people here might not believe in
shape-shifters, but they did believe in forest spirits. Even the
most serious of hunters would think twice about shooting one
of them.

As soon as his paws touched the river bank, Kenji shifted

into his true form and slipped into the cool water. Kenji
grinned as he caught sight of his reflection on the rippled
surface of the river. He was handsome as a fox and even
better looking as a man. Long silver hair fell over broad
shoulders and into warm, copper-colored eyes. His body was
hard and muscular and his skin the color of pale honey. It
was all accented by furry fox ears and a lush silver tail. This
would definitely throw the hunter off the trail. Kenji could be
very distracting, even if the hunter preferred women over
men.

Kenji turned around so his back would be to the hunter

when the man finally decided to emerge from the woods. It
didn't matter; Kenji could hear him coming and would know
exactly when he stepped onto the river bank.

Sure enough, the bushes behind Kenji rustled and twigs

snapped beneath the hunter's boots, alerting Kenji to his
presence. Kenji heard the hunter's boots skid a little on the
grass and soft dirt of the river bank. He must have stopped

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suddenly, and was probably very surprised to find someone
bathing in the middle of the forest.

"Can I help you, or would you rather keep staring at me?"

Kenji didn't turn around. Let his hunter try and figure out how
he knew that the man was there.

"Sorry, I didn't expect to find—Kenji?"
Kenji turned his eyes wide. "Jake?"
"Yeah, fancy meeting you out here..." Jake raked a handful

of hair out of his eyes. "Do you always bathe all the way out
here?"

"What can I say? I like my privacy." Kenji leaned against

the rocky bank and glanced up at his friend. It was a good
thing that the river was waist deep on him or Jake would have
gotten an eyeful. "What are you doing out here?"

"It'll take too long to explain. You didn't happen to see a

fox run by, did you?"

"Maybe, but what would you want with a poor little fox?"
"This one wasn't little ... it was almost as big as a wolf!"
"Then maybe you should stay away from it. Anything that

big must be dangerous."

"It doesn't matter if it's dangerous or not, I-I need to catch

it." Jake crouched near the edge of the river, trying to catch
his breath. Their little run though the woods must have been
harder on him than Kenji had thought.

"And since when do bakers hunt foxes?"
"Since my fiancée wants a fox fur coat as a betrothal gift."
"What?" Kenji's eyes narrowed as he backhanded his friend

across the face. He didn't know what made him angrier, the
fact that Jake was apparently getting married and had never

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told him, or the idea that his sweet and gentle baker was out
to kill a fox just so someone could wear its skin.

"Ow!" Jake stumbled back, landing flat on his ass. "What

was that for?"

"For not telling me!" Kenji's ears flattened against his hair,

like an angry cat's.

"What, the hunting part or the marriage part?" Jake sat

back in the grass, rubbing his cheek.

"Jake!"
"I was going to tell you about the marriage part tomorrow

... I-I would have told you this morning, but my father was
there, and—"

Kenji pulled himself out of the river and stood over his

friend angrily with his hands on his hips. Damn, he would
have been a lot more imposing if he wasn't naked, but there
was nothing to be done about that. "And how long have you
been hunting poor helpless animals?"

"I usually don't, but I didn't really have a choice, either. I

can't afford to buy her the damned coat..."

"Then you should go home and tell that fiancée of yours to

find something else to wear."

"Why are you so mad? It was just a fox."
"Hunting for food is one thing, but—" Kenji took a deep

breath, trying to calm himself. "How would you like being
hunted just so some stupid girl could wear your skin? How
would you like to be shot at and chased down?"

"I guess I wouldn't." Jake sat in the grass, looking a little

hurt and very confused. Too bad, Kenji was too angry to care

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at the moment. "But it wasn't like I actually hit the damned
thing."

"I guess I was lucky you missed then!"
"What's wrong? You act like I took a shot at you, or

something."

"So that wasn't your bullet whizzing past my ears?"
"What? I-I would never shoot at you."
"But you did. I was sitting on that stump minding my own

business an—"

"Wait, you were that fox?" Jake blinked, then his eyes

went wide. He must have just noticed the ears.

"I'm a kitsune, actually."
"What's a kitsune?"
"Creatures of nature and magic that can take the form of

both foxes and humans." Kenji's ears flicked back and forth to
emphasize what he was saying. "Or something in between."

"That's why you have fox ears." Jake blushed as his gaze

wandered lower. "And a tail..."

"This is my true form. It is a mix of the two, as you can

see." Kenji ran his fingers through the wet fur of his tail.

"Wait a minute!" Jake shook an angry finger at Kenji.

"You're angry with me for not telling you about the marriage
thing, but you've been keeping this from me the entire time
I've known you? That's the pot calling the kettle black, if you
ask me!"

"What do pots and kettles have to do with this?" Kenji

hated English. Damned language made no sense to him
sometimes.

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Jake sighed. "Look, we were both keeping secrets from

each other ... I'll stop being mad if you will. Deal?"

"In my defense, I didn't tell you because I didn't think

you'd believe me and that it would scare you off ... or that
you might burn me at the stake."

"Burn you at the stake?"
"It's a long story."
"Kenji!"
"Fine, fine ... I wasn't really angry with you, anyway."

Kenji sprawled in the grass beside his friend.

"Good."
Kenji sat up, keeping his tail discreetly over his privates.

Humans were always kind of funny about nudity, and Jake
was no different. Jake kept looking everywhere except at
Kenji, and that was not going to help if they were going to
talk. "So, when did you decide to get married?"

"I didn't ... my parents decided for me. They picked out

the girl and everything." Jake flopped back into the grass and
folded his slender hands behind his head.

"So what's she like?"
"Don't know. I haven't even met her yet."
Kenji patted Jake's shoulder. Getting married was a huge

decision to make, and to have the choice taken from you just
made things harder. He was just happy that his parents knew
better than to force anything like that on him. "Well, maybe it
won't be so bad, maybe you'll like her. They arrange
marriages all the time back home. A lot of them actually work
out pretty well."

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"I'm sure she's a nice girl and all. I just don't want to

marry her."

"Oh..."
"I don't love her."
"Then tell your parents that you're not ready. I'm sure

they'll understand."

"I doubt that. My father threatened to kick me out of the

house and the family if I don't go through with it." Jake sat up
again and pulled at the grass near his feet. "Something about
it being time for me to settle down and that I'm too old to be
hanging around with the lazy good-for-nothings that I call
friends ... I can only guess that he meant you."

"Thanks."
"I don't think of you that way, but my father does. He

thinks that you're a bad influence too, and Mother thinks that
you're some sort of fae and that you're going to whisk me
away somewhere." Jake laughed, but it was more of a bitter
sound than a happy one. "Who knew that she'd be closer to
the truth, right?"

"I always thought that they didn't like me very much."
"Sorry, I tried to tell them that they're wrong about you,

but neither of them will listen to me."

"Well, maybe your fiancée will like me better, hmm?"
"Kenji..."
"Come on, Jake, maybe it won't be so bad. I'll even be on

my best behavior when I meet her so she'll still let us spend
time together."

"That's not the problem. I can't marry her—I'm in love

with someone else. It wouldn't fair to her, or me."

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Kenji smiled and patted Jake on the back. "Then don't do

it. Look, go home and tell your parents that there's another
girl that you're in love with. I'm sure they won't care who you
marry as long as they get kits out of you."

"Kits?"
"Sorry, I meant little ones. You call them children, I think."
"Ah..."
"Come on, Jake, your parents can't be so picky about the

girl you're in love with, can they?" Kenji brushed a bit of hair
out of Jake's eyes. "It's not like they're marrying her."

"Kenji, I—there is no other girl. The person I want to be

with is a man—well, a kitsune..." Jake took a deep breath,
like he was bracing himself for the worst. "I would rather be
with you than any girl."

"Me?"
"I like being with you, Kenji. I can talk to you and we have

fun together." Jake glanced up at him, those stunning green
eyes full of cautious hope. "Besides, you are the most
beautiful man I've ever seen."

"Even if I turn into a big fox?"
"You could turn into a wild boar, or even a toad, and I

would still feel the same way. I know it sounds crazy, bu—"

Kenji leaned in and kissed Jake, cutting off whatever else

he had to say. Jake's lips were warm and soft against his
own, and better yet, Jake wasn't pulling away from him
either. In fact, the pretty blond leaned into the kiss and
opened himself to it. Kenji felt Jake's tongue flick against his
own cautiously. This was probably a new experience for Jake,
but all in all he was taking it very well.

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"Mmm, you're as sweet as I thought you'd be." Kenji broke

the kiss, letting Jake catch his breath.

"So, you don't think I'm crazy or strange for falling for

you?" Jake fingered a few strands of Kenji's hair. He looked
so young and so unsure of himself.

"Why would I? You are handsome, sweet, and you feed

me." Kenji nuzzled his friend's cheek affectionately. "I
couldn't ask for a better mate."

"Really?"
"Yes. But no more fox hunting, okay?"
"I'm sorry I shot at you." Jake trailed a finger over one of

Kenji's furry ears. "I didn't have a choice though. If I didn't,
my father would have, and he might have killed you."

"Ah, so you were protecting me?" Kenji raised a slender,

silver eyebrow at his friend.

"You were too beautiful to kill, but I did want to catch

you." Jake kept petting his ears. If Kenji had been a cat, he
would have been purring in contentment. "I thought you
might be magical and that if I caught you, you'd grant me a
wish or something. You know, like in the fairy tales."

"Sorry, no wishes, love."
"It's all right. It was a dumb idea anyway."
"I never said that." Kenji leaned into those warm, petting

fingers. "You did catch me, so I will grant you a request or
two."

"Hmm, you could give me that pretty, silver pelt of yours

or..." Jake brought his face closer so his lips were bare inches
from Kenji's.

"Or?"

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"You could kiss me aga—Wah!"
Oh, Kenji had hoped Jake would say something like that.

Before he could finish, Kenji pounced on him. Jake toppled
backward into the soft grass with Kenji tugging at his clothes.

"Mmm, definitely more kissing." Kenji trailed warm,

nipping kisses over his friend's face and neck. "More kissing
and less clothing. It's hardly fair that you're fully dressed
while I'm running around naked."

"But you ran the entire way here naked."
"I had my fur. It's different."
"True. I think I like you better without all the fur, though."

Jake grinned and kicked off his pants. Soon he was as naked
as Kenji was. Oh, and what a sight. Jake was lean and sleekly
muscled, with long legs and the most delicious looking cock.

"Mmm, and I like you better without your clothes." Kenji

licked his lips hungrily.

"Hey, stop looking at me like you want to eat me."
"But I was going to eat you..." Kenji lapped at a pert, pink

nipple, making Jake moan and writhe beneath him. "In a
good way."

"Okay, as long as it's in a good way." Jake looked relieved

and very aroused. His cock was already hard and leaving wet
tracks on Kenji's chest.

Kenji grinned. He couldn't help it, not with his handsome

friend squirming under him. It was almost too good to be
true. Kenji looked at Jake, his ears twitching slightly. "Do me
a favor, love?"

"Anything."
"Pinch my ear."

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"What?" Jake pushed himself up on one elbow and blinked

at Kenji.

"I want to make sure I'm not dreaming."
"Okay..." Jake ran his fingers over the furry tip of Kenji's

ear and tweaked it. "Was that good enough?"

"Ouch ... well, I'm definitely awake." Kenji nuzzled the flat

muscles of Jake's stomach. "That makes this all the sweeter."
He lapped lower, flicking his tongue against the head of Jake's
cock. Kenji trailed his tongue wetly over the crown and across
the weeping slit in its tip. "You don't know how long I've
dreamed of this ... of you."

Jake groaned, his hands tightening in the grass at his

sides. Oh, he must have liked that. Kenji lapped at Jake
again, dragging his tongue from base to tip before swallowing
that long, slender length whole. Jake lifted his hips, driving
his cock deeper into Kenji's throat. If Jake had been any
bigger, taking his whole length without choking would have
been hard, even with Kenji's skill. But Jake was the perfect
length and thickness, and gave Kenji little trouble.

"Kenji!"
Warm fingers petted Kenji's hair gently as he bobbed his

head, working Jake's cock with his lips and tongue. Kenji
could feel those dark green eyes on him, watching as he
sucked Jake off. Kenji glanced up and met his lover's gaze.
Jake blushed and looked away.

"What's wrong?" Kenji pulled off of Jake's cock and nipped

at his chin. "Didn't you like what you saw?" Kenji wrapped his
fingers around that hard, slick length and stroked it slowly.

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"Mmm, I did." Jake blushed again, his breath ragged. "B-

but it's strange too, watching you..."

"With my mouth on your cock?
Jake just nodded. Kenji sighed; the poor boy was

repressed. He probably thought sex was something you
fumbled through in the dark and were ashamed of later, all in
the name of making kits. Of course it would be fun to teach
him otherwise, lots of fun.

"But it's all part of it, love." Kenji moved his hand a little

faster, making Jake moan and buck. "Watching, touching,
hrrr, tasting. There's even a scent to your arousal, you know,
and it's very sexy."

"Kenji..." Jake sat up and tried to pull Kenji's hand off his

cock. "If you keep doing that..."

"I know. I want you to come. I want to see you spurt all

over my fingers." Kenji nibbled on Jake's jaw, his tail wagging
like a happy puppy's. "Hrrr, then I'm going to fuck that sweet
ass of yours."

"Ooh..." Jake slid his hand up Kenji's arm, petting him.
"That's it, touch me, feel the warmth of my skin." Kenji

grinned. "It would feel really good if you did."

Slim, callused hands wandered over Kenji's broad

shoulders and down his back. Kenji wished Jake would touch
other places as well, but there would be time for that later, or
so he hoped.

"Kenji!"
"Let go, love. It's all right." Kenji kept his eyes riveted on

Jake's face as he stroked that gorgeous cock. Jake was
desperate to come. Kenji could tell by the way Jake's hips

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moved, fucking his hand so wantonly. Finally, with a moan,
Jake tossed his head back and came, spraying Kenji's fingers
with sticky heat.

"Damn." Jake flopped back into the grass, panting

breathlessly. He was beautiful and made Kenji hard and very
hungry. "Is it always like that?"

"Sometimes it's even better."
"Ooh, can we do it again?"
"Mmm, my beautiful, wanton boy." Kenji licked the come

from his fingers. "Hrr, you're tasty, too."

"You think so?"
"See for yourself." Kenji held his sticky fingers out, Jake

sucked on one of them cautiously. Now that was a sexy sight.

"It's not too bad." Jake sucked on another of Kenji's

fingers. "I bet you taste better, though."

"You're going to have to find out later, love. Because all I

want to do right now is fuck you." Kenji patted Jake on the
hip. "Now roll over for me. Come on, on your hands and
knees."

Jake did as he was told. He rolled onto his stomach and

propped himself up on his elbows and knees with that
gorgeous ass in the air. Jake glanced over his shoulder
hopefully. "Like this?"

"Perfect."
Kenji knelt between Jake's spread knees and trailed his

fingers over that pale, pert ass. There was nothing he wanted
more then to slide his own, eager cock into Jake and ride his
lover until they were both exhausted, but he had to take
things slowly. Jake was obviously new to all this, and the last

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thing he wanted was to hurt his lover. Kenji sighed. It would
be his luck to have Jake wanton and naked and nothing to
slick him up with.

Jake looked at him again with a touch of worry in those

lovely eyes of his. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, love. Just relax for me, all right?" Kenji nipped at

Jake's hip. I'm just going to have to improvise. His ears
perked as something came to him. Oh, there's an idea.

Kenji pushed Jake's cheeks apart and flicked his warm, wet

tongue over the tight pucker between them. Jake moaned
and pushed back against his face. Kenji lapped at Jake again
and prodded Jake with the tip of his tongue. He pushed his
tongue a little deeper, wiggling it against tight, twitching
muscle. Kenji slid his hand over the velvety skin of Jake's
balls as he fucked his lover with his tongue.

Kenji's hand wandered lower, fingering his lover's cock.

Jake groaned and rocked his hips, pushing back against
Kenji's tongue, then forward to rub against hot, damp fingers.

"Easy, love." Kenji sat back, licking the fingers of his free

hand. "I don't want you to come again, just yet." He trailed a
single, wet finger over Jake's hole and slowly pushed inside.

Hot, clenching muscles gripped Kenji's finger as he moved

it back and forth. Once Jake relaxed a little, Kenji added a
second to the mix, stretching his lover a little further. He
pulled his hand back just long enough to lick his fingers
again, and slid three into Jake's ass.

"Kenji!" Jake panted and leaned back as Kenji's fingers

stretched him.

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"Mmm, you look so good, love." Kenji curled his fingers as

he slid them deeper, rubbing right up against Jake's sweet
spot. "So shameless..."

"Can't help it, it feels so good."
"Do you think you could take another one of my fingers?"

Kenji twisted his hand, making Jake groan again. "Or would
you rather have something else?"

"I want you." Jake reached around and wrapped his hand

around Kenji's dripping cock. "I want this." He looked so
desperate. How could Kenji resist?

With one quick motion Kenji flipped Jake over, those long

legs hooked over his shoulders. The other way was easier,
but Kenji wanted to see Jake's face while they made love. He
wanted to watch his lover come again.

Kenji rubbed against Jake's hole, slicking it further with

pre-come before pushing inside. Jake's body tensed and
tightened around Kenji's cock as it slid deeper. He stopped
once he was in, to let Jake get used to the sensation. Soon,
the grip on his cock eased and Kenji started to move.

Jake moaned and bucked his hips, meeting every one of

Kenji's thrusts. His fingers tangled in soft, silver hair and
pulled Kenji into a deep kiss.

Between those hot, eager kisses and Jake's sweet ass

squeezing his cock. Kenji was going to come, and soon. He
slid his slick fingers between their sweat-damp bodies and
stroked Jake's cock. There was no way he was coming before
his pretty lover.

Jake arched against Kenji's body, moaning into his mouth

as hot spunk seeped between them. Kenji could feel his

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lover's climax as Jake's body spasmed and clenched around
his cock. With a growl, Kenji picked up his pace, driving hard
and deep into Jake's ass. Jake's fingers found his ears,
petting the soft fur. That last bit of sensation pushed Kenji
over the edge.

Kenji rolled onto his side and pulled Jake with him. They

lay in the cool grass tangled in each other's arms, catching
their breath. Jake snuggled closer and rested his head on
Kenji's shoulder. He was flushed, but looked very content.

"I love you."
"And I you." Kenji whispered, picking a bit of grass out of

his lover's hair. "Come on, we should bathe, unless you want
to go home smelling of sex and kitsune."

"Maybe I should, then maybe my father would figure

things out." Jake sat up and dangled his feet in the water. "At
least I wouldn't have to worry about getting married, right?"

"Wouldn't telling him be easier?"
"You don't know him very well, do you?"
"I know he doesn't like me much." Kenji wrapped his arms

around Jake's shoulders and snuggled close. "He'd have
kittens if he knew I was the one stealing your heart."

"It was freely given, Kenji-love." Jake leaned into him,

relaxing a little. "You know that."

"I know." Kenji brushed his tail over his lover's hip.

"What's bothering you, then?"

"I'm worried, that's all." Jake tangled his fingers with

Kenji's. "If I go home and tell my father that I'm in love with
you, and that I won't marry that gi—"

"Then don't go home."

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"What?"
"Come back to Japan with me."
"I don't know; it's so far." Jake had that worried look on

his face again. "I've barely been out of town before."

"There is a first time for everything." Kenji winked at his

lover. "Come on, it'll be fun! Think of all the trouble we could
get into."

"What about your family?" Jake gave Kenji a worried look.

"What if they don't like me?"

"Jake, my parents will adore you, as will my brothers and

sisters." Kenji smiled, his ears twitching slightly. "The only
hard part will be keeping you to myself."

"But—"
"They won't care if you're a man or a woman, fox or

human, love."

"Really?"
"They'll love you like I do." Kenji nodded and nuzzled

Jake's cheek. "Well, maybe not that much..."

Jake just blushed. "Kenji."
"Of course, my mother will try to coax you into making an

honest fox out of me."

"What?"
"She's been trying to get me settle down for ages, but

don't let her push you into anything." Kenji slipped into the
water and pulled Jake with him. "It's a big decision, more so
with one of us. If you become my mate, you'll be binding your
life to mine."

"And how is that different from any other marriage?"

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Kenji cupped Jake's face in his hands and gave him a

serious look. "Kitsune live much longer than humans do, love.
And if you become my mate, you'll live as long as I do. Your
friends and family would grow old and die long before you
do."

"Oh."
"Like I said, it's a big decision. Don't worry about it,

though. You'll have time enough to decide."

Jake looked thoughtful for a moment, then slid his arms

around Kenji's neck and kissed him gently. "I'll be all right, as
long as I have you."

"I was hoping you'd say that." Kenji lifted his lover up, his

tail wagging happily. "As soon as we're clean, we'll go."

"Wait, can we go back to town first? I want to pack a few

things, and say goodbye."

"I don't know, Jake." Kenji's ears drooped a little. "The

sooner we leave, the better."

"I can't just run off without a word." Jake pulled himself

out of the water and dried himself off with his shirt. "I owe
them an explanation, at least."

"Why?" Kenji's ears flattened against his hair. "They were

going to marry you off to some strange girl, regardless of
your feelings."

"They're still my parents." Jake pulled himself out of the

water and dried himself off with his shirt. "I need to tell them
something."

Kenji reached up and grabbed Jake's wrist. "Then at least

let me go with you."

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"It would be better if you didn't." Jake turned and

crouched down to look Kenji in the eye. "My father won't hurt
me, but I don't know what he'd do with you, considering..."

"True." Kenji didn't like the idea one bit, but he didn't want

to argue with Jake about it either. Jake could be surprisingly
stubborn when he put his mind to it. "And I don't want to
start our relationship off by killing my father-in-law, do I?"

"I hope not."
"Fine, I'll wait for you outside." Kenji grumbled. "I still

don't like the idea of you going alone, though."

"Don't worry, Kenji-love." Jake rubbed Kenji's furry ear.

"I'll be fine."

* * * *

Once they were back in town, Jake had headed off to talk

to his parents. He'd left Kenji to wait in the marketplace until
he was done. Of course, that had been over an hour ago, and
Kenji was getting restless and a little worried.

"Damn, I should have gone with him." Kenji paced from

one end of the small courtyard to the other. "I could have
snuck over there in fox form and he would never have
known."

"And what would have happened if you got picked up by

the dog catcher, or worse yet, my father?"

Kenji nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't even heard

Jake coming. Then again, Kenji never had figured out how
humans heard anything with such small ears. At least Jake
looked to be in good spirits and in one piece. Well, mostly one

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piece. There was a bruise on Jake's face that hadn't been
there earlier.

"So, how did it go?"
"Well enough, I guess. My father kicked me out and

disowned me, but I expected that."

"Did he hit you as well?" If Kenji had had his fox ears, they

would have been flattened against his hair. Father or not, no
one had the right to hurt his lover.

"No, that's from my mother, actually." Jake fingered the

bruise and sighed. "She took it a little harder than I thought
she would."

Kenji growled and turned, still determined to storm to the

baker's house and give Jake's parents a piece of his mind.

"Kenji, don't." Jake slipped an arm around Kenji's waist,

stopping him in his tracks.

"Why? She had no right to hit you!"
"It's not worth it."
"But—" Kenji clenched his hands angrily.
"I have you, and that's all that matters." Jake's fingers

brushed against Kenji's cheek. "Let's just go and not give
either of my parents a second thought."

"Fine, I'll leave them alone, but I don't like it."
"Kenji..."
Kenji took a deep breath and counted to ten, twice. That

helped a little. What helped even more was Jake, who was
petting his back with those warm fingers of his. Kenji couldn't
wait to see what else Jake and those talented hands could do.
"That's a dirty trick, love, petting me like that, and in public,
no less."

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"It's better than you going to jail for biting my mother."
"True." Kenji couldn't help but grin at that idea. "Come on,

we should go." He pulled Jake down the street, almost
bouncing. Kenji couldn't help it; he was excited about going
home and having everyone meet his love. "I'll get an earful if
I try and keep you to myself any longer."

"We still have to figure out how we're getting to Japan,

don't we?"

"It's already planned, love. We'll be with my family in a

few hours, thanks to a little fox magic."

"Magic?"
Kenji nodded. "I am a fox of many talents, and magical

travel happens to be one of them."

"Oh." Jake had that worried look on his face again. It was

cute on him, really.

"Don't worry about it, love. It's perfectly safe." Kenji

scooped his lover up and hurried excitedly toward his
apartment. "You should be more concerned with the wedding
and what you're going to do with me afterwards."

"I can think of a few things." Jake flashed Kenji a sweet

and very sexy smile.

That settled things. Scolding or not, their trip of Japan was

going to have to wait, at least for a little while.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Sweet Persuasion

By Angelia Sparrow
Apollo loved the nighttime. During the day, he labored,

driving the chariot of the Sun across the sky, but night was
his time, free of obligations and duty. His twin sister, Artemis,
got three nights off a month, but he was in the sky every day
with never a break. Even on the gray and rainy days, he'd
peek down between the clouds now and then, giving mortals
hope to hold out through the darkness.

Tonight, Artemis drove the chariot of the Full Moon, the fat

round sides sending bright silvery rays peeking between the
laurels of his private grove, making strange shadows and
filling the grove with chancy light. The beams picked out the
smooth lines of Zephyros, dozing on the cloak they'd spread.
Despite having made love to the West Wind twice already,
Apollo remained unsated. He followed his sister's tracery with
one finger of his own, roaming over his lover's chest and up
his neck.

Zephyros jerked awake with a snort, clutching at Apollo's

finger. Seeing who had awakened him, he pulled Apollo down
for a kiss. He teased the Sun-god a little before taking the
open mouth Apollo offered. Apollo tasted his lover and
lowered himself to lie back in Zephyros' arms.

"Hello, Sunshine. What brings this on?" Zeph asked.
Apollo glowered with annoyance. Zeph knew he detested

that nickname, so of course the Wind teased him with it at
every opportunity.

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"Come here, you blowhard. I'm horny." Apollo rolled Zeph

onto his side and reached for his cock, which had awakened
with the rest of him.

"Again?" Zeph laughed. "Apollo, you never quit."
Apollo silenced him with a well-placed tongue, and stroked

their cocks together. Zeph grew harder under his touch with
divine endurance and brought his own caress into the love-
making. Apollo set his favorite rhythm, a strong upstroke
followed by a looser downstroke. His tongue matched it in
Zeph's mouth. Zephyros swirled his fingers over the heads
and shafts where Apollo's hand wasn't. Apollo shivered at his
lover's touch, especially when Zeph stroked the delicate skin
of his balls.

Twice already had Apollo enjoyed his lover, and this time

took longer, even for a god. He kissed Zeph and tightened his
grip on their cocks. Zeph made his own light teasing stronger,
and shuddered as he came. Apollo took a few more strokes
and thrust his tongue into the Wind's mouth as he spilled over
their joined hands. Once spent, they lay together again in the
shadows of the laurels, both drowsy but not asleep.

"You never quit," Zephyros said again. There was no

rancor in the words and he kissed Apollo's shoulder, tasting
his way down to flick a single lick over Apollo's nipple.

"Aye, but you always match me." Apollo lifted Zeph's face

and kissed his lover, teasing his lips before plunging into his
mouth. "It would be interesting to see who is stronger."

"Perhaps tomorrow." Zeph rolled away, but Apollo curled

around him.

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"Perhaps." Apollo knew he sounded more thoughtful and

sleepy than game for Zeph's challenge.

But that tomorrow and many of the days after were

swallowed in busy-ness. Apollo drove the Sun every day,
bending close to ripen the grapes and corn. Zephyros blew
hither and yon, here at the behest of sailors, there at the
pleading of farmers who scorched under Apollo's gaze even as
their crops basked in it.

It was nearly another three full moons before they found

time to meet again. The corn had been cut and the hay with
it. Now Zephyros had leisure, for the farmers did not want
him scattering the new-mown hay or the bound shocks.

On a particular day, he strolled up alongside the Chariot of

the Sun, whistling, and hopped aboard for a ride. The horses
sensed the unusual weight and reared. Apollo brought them
under control, but not before they overheated a spring.

"Damn you, Zeph. Now Artemis will be cranky. That was

one of hers." Apollo clucked the horses on, not wanting to
linger in the autumn afternoon.

"I'll make it up to you, Sunshine."
Apollo gritted his teeth at the hated nickname. "Zeph, give

me one reason I shouldn't kick you off my chariot and let
your wispy ass blow away."

"What about that contest to see who's stronger, kouros?"
Apollo growled under his breath at that. Zephyros had

insinuated that his appearance, which was that of a beardless
youth, was the reality of his existence. Such a challenge to
his manliness could not pass unanswered. He knew it was
time for that test of strength.

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"Name your challenge, blowhard." He clutched the reins a

little tighter and braced for the worst.

Zephyros studied the earth, and at length pointed to a

shepherd. The young man strode along, his smooth, golden
limbs gleaming under Apollo's touch, driving his flock of fat
sheep down the road. His dark hair curled and shone with
cinnamon streaks. He carried a cloak over one shoulder in the
fashion of the hill herdsmen.

"Him. Whoever makes him drop his cloak is the stronger."

Zeph puffed his cheeks and blew a little. Trees on the nearby
hillside bent like Parthian bows.

Apollo smiled. This would be no contest at all. "All right.

Just because I feel generous, you can go first."

Zeph shot him a sexy grin. "If I win, I'm on top next time."

They seldom indulged in penetration, considering it unmanly.
On the rare occasions they chose that style, Apollo always
entered his lover.

"All right," Apollo repeated with a shrug, all confidence.
"Watch and learn, Sunshine," Zeph called as he slipped off

the back of the chariot and headed to earth. Apollo watched
as his lover went invisible to mortal eyes, but not to godly
sight.

Zeph followed the shepherd for a few steps then lifted a

few of his curls. Apollo nearly dropped the reins when Zeph
breathed over the mortal's neck. The shepherd shivered from
the breeze, but the Sun-god shivered from the sexiest sight
he ever recalled seeing. Zeph's tongue, transparent pink
against the youth's golden tan, traced all over the strong,
slim neck as the shepherd shivered.

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The shepherd threw his cloak around both shoulders.

Apollo smirked down when Zephyros glanced up at him.
Soon, he was clutching the chariot reins tighter than ever.
Zeph, ever the inventive lover, felt the young man, nearly
making love to him with his hands.

Zeph slid his transparent hands over the youth's long bare

legs, caressing his knees, stroking his firm calves. Apollo
wanted a taste of the young man very badly. Watching Zeph
tease him and touch him only made Apollo hotter. In that
mood, he was careful to keep his distance from the ground,
and ducked behind a cloud to cool off.

When he came out from behind the cloud, he saw Zeph

running his hands ever more boldly over the shepherd. The
youth clutched his cloak more tightly as Zeph sent fingers
tickling under his tunic, slipping over his arms, running
through his hair. With each touch, the shepherd burrowed
deeper into the wool.

Apollo knew exactly what those light, teasing fingers felt

like. Zeph had driven him to screaming one night under the
laurels, with nothing but the lightest touch. Touches tracing
over him that left his skin frozen and afire at once. Touches
slipping over his chest that woke his nipples to chilled
hardness. Touches sliding over his groin, barely there on his
cock, yet wakening it. They had swirled around his balls, only
making him groan more. Soft breezy fingers had slipped
along the crack of his ass, brushing his hole with the barest
intent. Then a fast, sweet twist at the head of his cock, and
Apollo had created a fountain his uncle Poseidon would have
been proud of.

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He almost envied the lovely shepherd that received

Zephyros' touch. How the mortal could only shiver in the wind
and not be flinging himself wide to be stroked all over his
beautiful body, Apollo didn't understand. His own cock
twitched with the memory of Zephyros' touch.

But still the shepherd wrapped himself more tightly in his

cloak. For good measure, he moved in among the sheep.

"A cruel, cold wind for such a bright day," Apollo heard him

grumble. He smiled more broadly, knowing Zephyros was
losing.

Obviously frustrated that subtle tactics weren't working,

Zephyros lost his temper and seized the shepherd's cloak. He
lifted it far away from the youth's body, only to have it
snatched back by the young man. He gripped the hem and
tugged, the shepherd dragging him along a step or two before
he tumbled on his divine butt in the road.

Apollo laughed at his lover. "Do you yield yet, you old

blowhard? Or are you merely catching your breath?"

"You try. He clutches that cloak with the bite of Cerberus.

You'd have better luck trying to coax Persephone's virginity
out of your uncle Hades." Zephyros rubbed his godly ass with
no decorum whatsoever.

Apollo just smiled more broadly. "Watch and learn,

beloved one." He pulled completely out from behind the
clouds and began to shine on the youth. Exercising the
greatest caution, he guided the horses infinitesimally closer to
the earth. Demeter, sunning herself on the grain-golden slope
of Olympus, stretched herself, rose, and waved him off,
clearly worried for her barley crop.

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But all of Apollo's attention was focused on the shepherd.

He sent a beam earthward to caress the sweet black curls
with their henna lights, and stroked the lovely face, feeling
brow and cheek, nose and soft, kissable lips. Were he able to
leave the chariot unattended, Apollo would have stolen a kiss.
He laid the beam upon the shepherd's shoulders, enjoying the
play of strong arms and shoulders.

Apollo had seen hundreds of shepherds—many of whom

fancied themselves his devotees and expressed it in endless
droning paeans, usually off-key—and knew what they faced
daily. They guided sheep, which could grow to twice the
shepherd's body weight, with only a stick. They faced wild
animals, everything from bears to wolves, with slings and
that same stick. They walked and slept among their herds. It
was no easy life, and it made men lean and tough.

Yet this one had supple skin and pleasantly rounded

shoulders. He mopped his brow under Apollo's attention and
unwrapped the cloak he had clutched so tightly earlier. He
slung it back over his shoulder and walked on, basking in the
renewed sunshine.

Apollo, not satisfied to simply return to the starting point

of their contest, kept working. He rubbed the back of the
shepherd's neck until it was dewed with salt sweat. He bore
down upon the youth's shoulders, making the weight of the
light almost palpable. Eagerly, he sought the strong golden
arms and long legs that strode so eagerly, raising the waters
of exertion on them as well. He lingered in the night-black
curls until the shepherd mopped his brow with one corner of
the cloak.

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Apollo caressed the youth from strong shoulders to

shapely buttocks to muscular calves, massaging him,
savoring the feel of him until the young man draped his cloak
across the back of one of the larger, steadier ewes. Apollo
sent Zephyros a smirk. He noted with great amusement that
the West Wind was sulking on a cloud, his pillowy lips pursed
in displeasure, almost puckered as if he was awaiting a kiss.

Oh yes, he'd get that kiss, and many more after this little

contest was finished. Apollo planned to make Zeph's losing as
sweet as his own winning was going to be. But right now, he
wanted to gloat in his victory for a little while.

A green and grassy hill with a lake stood near the road.

The shepherd began nudging his sheep toward the water.
Apollo kept working.

He didn't want to take his hands off the young man. He

delighted in the feel of the youth's arms, then stroked his
tunic, the light wool loose and rough under his hands. He
even caressed the shepherd's feet, teasing each toe in its turn
before running rays over the instep and ankle.

The shepherd sweated profusely and urged his sheep to

the lake. As they drank from one end and then scattered to
graze on the rich green grass, the shepherd stripped out of
his tunic, too.

Zepheryos came up beside the chariot, an eager look on

his face. "I know I lost that round, but it was worth it to get
my hands on him." He stared down at the naked youth.
"Apollo, do you think we could..."

"Double-team him?" Apollo asked. "It's near sunset, so

yes, let him swim and cool down. Then, when he goes to lie

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on the hill-side, we can enjoy him. Once I stable the horses,
we'll take mortal form and see to him that way."

All talk ceased as the shepherd rose from the pool. Water

dripped from his curls and down his neck onto a smooth chest
Adonis would envy. Apollo squelched that thought, lest he
draw the love-god's attention to the young man. Adonis was
as jealous as his mother. Aphrodite's tantrums against
beautiful mortals were legendary, and her son's were starting
to rival them. This pretty youth was Apollo's to savor, in the
company of his beloved Zephyros.

Zeph had already moved past the strong chest and pointed

out to Apollo the place where more dark curls formed in the
valley of the hips. The cool water had left the shepherd soft,
his cock shy and hiding behind a lickable, nibble-inviting
prepuce. The long thighs rippled as he climbed up to where
he had left his tunic, and when he bent to retrieve it,
Zephyros moaned softly, the sound of wind over the necks of
oil amphorae, at the sight of the beautifully rounded ass.

Apollo couldn't resist sending a ray down to stroke it,

running along the curve of hip and then over solid muscle
before venturing down the crack that split it like a sweet
peach at the height of summer. The shepherd stretched under
that caress and spread his tunic on the grass. He stretched
out, smiling as he enjoyed the last of the afternoon sun.

The Afternoon Sun enjoyed him as well, running golden

beams over his body, brushing away the water drops that
clung from his swim. Apollo stroked the lovely shepherd,
feeling all of his body. Zeph leaned in to join the game,

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blowing away the occasional water drop, but mostly cooling
the youth in the wake of Apollo's attention.

Apollo upped the stakes and encompassed the shepherd's

cock and balls. They stretched and lolled in his warmth, not
growing hard, but no longer drawn up close to the youth's
body from the cold water. Apollo fondled them, his rays
wandering the length of the shaft, swirling over the head and
even kissing the balls just lightly.

Zeph followed suit, barely touching the shepherd, making

sure Apollo's heat did not grow too much for the lovely youth.
Apollo smiled as his lover raised ripples of gooseflesh on the
mortal, which he quickly soothed away. When Zeph's touch
peaked the shepherd's nipples, Apollo shivered, his own
arousal moving from a pleasurable desire to a pressing need.

He silenced his cock by telling it that he would have them

both soon, in human form. It sent the most distracting
images, and he was forced to abandon his attentions to the
youth in order to keep control of the Chariot of the Sun during
the onslaught. His cock had its own ideas, wanting kisses
from Zephyros before taking the sweet round ass of the
shepherd. Then it suggested perhaps sliding between the
youth's slim thighs instead so Zephyros could kiss them both.
Or Zephyros doing it, and he would taste both the Wind and
the mortal. There were so many things three men could do to
sate each other.

The divine prick silenced and the horses under control,

Apollo resumed watching Zephyros play with the shepherd.
The last bit of the drive was a tricky, steep slope, so he could

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only steal glances as he eased the horses and chariot down to
the horizon and the stable.

Zeph seemed to have matters well in hand, sending little

gusts every now and then, but never actually chilling the
mortal. Apollo thought of them enviously as he stabled the
horses. At liberty at last, he strode out of the stable and down
the slope of Olympus in mortal guise.

A few quick steps brought him to where Zeph waited.

Together, they saluted Artemis as she rose slowly.

"I acknowledge you the winner," Zeph said. "I left the

mortal sleeping on the hillside."

"Then he shall wake to road companions who feed him on

bread and olives and rich cheese," Apollo said. He made some
adjustments to his appearance and stood ready in a traveler's
cloak and staff, a satchel and sturdy sandals. Zeph matched
him, although his own brown hair did not catch Artemis'
gleam like Apollo's golden cap of curls. "Let us see to our
friend, who amused us so richly all the afternoon long."

Zeph caught him instead for a kiss, pulling him close by his

tunic. "Apollo," he whispered. "I do love you." Apollo opened
to the long sweet kiss of the wind, letting Zeph's tongue
dance over his as the god himself danced over hillside and
forest, cool and refreshing, until his lover had had his fill.

"I know you do. I love you, my summer breeze." He

draped one arm around Zeph's shoulders and led him onto
the main road.

It was odd to travel as a man again. It had been ... Apollo

paused and thought. It had been several centuries since he'd
last walked on solid legs. The last time had been in pursuit of

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a pretty milkmaid. She'd been plump and cheerful, squirming
delightfully under his gaze and bouncing in pretty ways at his
songs. That had been a delightful dalliance. He needed to be
physical more often.

This one promised to be just as delightful, if not even

more. The shepherd lay sprawled on the hillside, his sheep
milling about grazing. They cast a longing glance in his
direction, but did not approach closer than three paces.
Artemis looked down and gave her twin a wave coupled with
an eye roll. She'd never approved of his very active love life,
being a virgin goddess herself. Apollo waved back and gave
her a wicked smile.

There, beside the pond, they made a small fire and Apollo

took out his lyre. He tuned it as loudly as he could, in order to
wake the sleeper. The shepherd snorted and rolled over,
offering the gods a tempting view of his perfect ass.

Zeph just stared a little more while Apollo started the

filthiest song he knew, the one about the satyr who couldn't
make his prick go soft. The choruses got louder with Zeph
singing along, until the shepherd woke with a start.

"Good evening, strangers," he said, reaching for his tunic

to cover himself.

"Oh, we're sorry. We didn't mean to wake you." Apollo

smiled at him and Zeph offered a wineskin. "The wine is good,
the bread is fresh, and the night is too fair not to sing."

"I'm Zeph. My musical companion is Apollos."
The shepherd took the wineskin. "I'm Iakobos. Do you

travel far?"

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"Only to Delphi," said Apollo. "My patron has a shrine there

and I go to offer song and praise. Zeph accompanies me,
seeking along the way for the adventure."

"And have you had many? My sheep and I have seen

nothing on the road or the hills." He glanced at the full moon
and yawned. "I had not intended to sleep so long. Or at all."

"A lovely, naked shepherd, asleep on a green hillside, has

been the most adventure we've seen," Zeph answered.
Iakobos blushed, his color deepening in the firelight.

"Now, Zeph," Apollo said. "Our young friend may only like

girls." He passed Iakobos the bread. Zeph offered cheese
from the other side. Apollo reached into a bag and opened a
pouch of olives into a small bowl.

Iakobos took a bit of bread and cheese and washed it

down with more wine. "Girls are nice. But men are nicer," he
said with a wicked grin at Apollo, one that took him in from
top to toe.

They ate and drank. Iakobos told them of his life in the

high pastures, amid the sheep. Zephyros, a master of
invention, created an entirely fictional pottery stall for himself
in the market at Corinth. Apollo just listened, smiling, and
tuned his lyre.

At last, he favored them with another song, his pure voice

filling the sweet night and resounding off of hill and lake in
counterpoint. The men listened, rapt. One of Zeph's arms
slipped around Iakobos' shoulders and the shepherd leaned
against him, comfortable in the Wind's touch. When Apollo
finished, Zephyros kissed him.

"Lovely!" He took another quick kiss. "Another?"

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"No," Iakobos interrupted, and kissed Apollo as well. "For I

have dined with two men in search of adventure tonight. Yet
the only adventure they have found is me."

"Ah, lad, run along home with your ewes and lambs. We

would not corrupt a child," Apollo teased.

"No child I. A score of summers and this one as well have

smiled upon me. The sheep will keep themselves for an
hour."

"More true than you know," Apollo muttered and drew

Iakobos close for a deeper kiss, sampling his mouth and
tasting the greenness of the stripling. The youth returned it
eagerly, warm in his arms. "Are you to be adventure for both
of us?"

In answer, Iakobos kissed Zephyros. If it was not quite so

hot as the one he had bestowed upon Apollo, it was at least
as eager. Zeph's hands went over the shepherd's back and
Apollo caught them in his own.

He kissed Iakobos' neck as Zeph enjoyed him, and then

kissed Zeph when he let Iakobos' mouth go.

"Enough adventure for a whole night, my dear Zeph,"

Apollo said. "And you said this trip would be boring."

"How was I to know what Aphrodite would leave lying by

the road for us, beautiful, wild and naked as Bacchus
himself?"

Iakobos laughed and drained the wineskin. "You talk too

much." He tossed his tunic aside and kissed Zephyros.

"If that is not an invitation, I am Poseidon, lord of the

sea!" Zephyros pressed Iakobos back to the thick sward and

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kissed him again. Apollo watched, amused, and lay down
beside them.

When Zeph's kisses found their way away from his mouth

and down his throat, Iakobos turned and kissed Apollo. Apollo
stripped off his own tunic and worried at the fasteners of
Zeph's.

Zeph kept moving on down in his steady way, his tongue

flicking over Iakobos' chest and belly. Apollo kissed the lovely
youth, his hands strong and sure on the firm, warm
shepherd's muscles he had only experienced through his rays
and beams earlier. Iakobos felt as delightful as he'd known
the youth would.

Iakobos' cock stood hard and tall from his body. Apollo

cradled it, and then when Zeph's kisses reached that region,
he fed it to his lover, stroking face and cock, balls and neck
as Zeph tasted the shepherd.

Seized by an idea, Apollo rolled Iakobos onto his side,

letting Zeph curl into his legs. He wrapped himself around
Iakobos and thrust between his thighs. Zeph's tongue caught
him, too.

So long. It had been so very long since he'd made love to

a man in mortal form. Zephyros, his West Wind whom Apollo
loved among the laurels, bore little resemblance to Zeph, the
ersatz Corinthian potter, here upon the hillside. The urgency
of his body, the hot need coiled in his balls, the maddening
flicker of Zeph's tongue, and the press of Iakobos' thighs left
him needing more, knowing that he could not endure it for
long.

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Zeph licked, his mouth slow and much hotter than Apollo

ever remembered it being. He thrust between the mortal's
legs, pressing down with his hand to make Iakobos tighten
around him. Zeph kept up the flicking, never settling into a
satisfying suck.

The shepherd panted and tipped his head back so Apollo

could kiss him. As he took the full lips, he felt Zephyros draw
both of their cocks into his mouth with a single breath. Apollo
thrust his tongue into Iakobos' mouth, imitating the motion
between the youth's thighs.

When Zeph swallowed again and pressed with his tongue,

Apollo was lost, coming so hard he could no longer tell which
side of his eyelids the stars were on. There was a great deal
to be said for mortal bodies. Apollo decided he needed to use
one more often.

When his head stopped spinning, he opened his eyes to

find Iakobos had left off kissing him and was now kissing
Zeph. That pretty sight left Apollo smiling.

"Are you sated?" he whispered into Iakobos' ear.
Zeph heard and answered, "He's not, not yet. Nor am I.

You were quick."

Apollo flushed a little. "Then let's not leave either of you

unsatisfied." He felt Iakobos again, the smooth strong chest
and flat stomach, his fingers seeking the dark curls that
Zephyros' mouth had lately vacated. Iakobos filled his hand
and more, giving a little yearning thrust as Apollo closed
around him.

Apollo ran his fingers along the thick shaft and stroked the

head, which was still damp from Zeph's mouth. He teased the

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taut vee under the head and tickled the slit. "Have him, as
men do," he whispered to Iakobos. He kissed the shepherd's
ear. "I will watch."

Zephyros smiled and joined his hand with Apollo's.

"Together, sweet youth," he said and kissed the mortal, using
his free hand to pull Iakobos' hand to join theirs..

"Nay." Iakobos pinned the West Wind to the ground and

rolled atop him. He aligned their cocks, giving Zephyros a soft
pat as he did. "As men do."

Iakobos thrust against Zeph's belly, grinding their cocks

together. Zeph groaned, unused to the treatment. Apollo
always went between the thighs, as gentlemen did. But it
seemed among shepherds and other such wild characters a
different fashion was preferred.

Apollo watched avidly, noting Zeph's responses to each

thrust. He memorized the way the mortal made his lover beg
for more. Zeph would definitely be having some of this style
of lovemaking once they returned to Olympus. He couldn't
wait to try it.

Iakobos thrust again, harder, and Zeph pulled him down

for a kiss. Apollo ran his hands over the intertwined bodies,
simply enjoying the unaccustomed sensation.

Zeph moaned loudly and thrust up, tensing. Apollo bent

down to kiss his temple since Iakobos was monopolizing his
mouth. Iakobos let go and threw his head back with a cry.

"Lovely boys," Apollo said and kissed them both. When

they rolled apart, he ran long fingers through the sticky fluid
that marked both of the flat bellies. He swirled it together

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before tasting it, noting the slightly different tastes, a faint
sweetness to Zeph and a strong taste of salt to Iakobos.

"Selfish," Zeph teased and got his own fingers in it.

Iakobos watched with wide eyes as the gods tasted the issue
and then kissed each other.

Apollo indulged himself on Zeph's mouth for long minutes,

savoring silken sweetness and sharing the salt. At length, he
looked up and saw Iakobos staring. Leaving his lover, Apollo
kissed the handsome shepherd in his turn.

Iakobos, seeming to realize their time was at an end, clung

to Apollo, seeking every corner of his mouth, pressing close
to remember the shape of his body. They parted, and in the
light of the dying fire, Iakobos looked up into Apollo's face.

"Thank you," he whispered.
Iakobos turned to Zephyros, who smiled broadly and drew

him to the ground for a kiss. The clinging was more
pronounced there, and Apollo found himself a little jealous.
But he smiled anyway, and watched the pretty sight.

"Thank you," Iakobos said again. "Safe journey. I won't

see you again, will I?"

Apollo stroked the shepherd's curls. "You'll see me every

day, mortal. My lover, you will feel. We thank you and
apologize for your discomfort this afternoon. We had our
sport at your expense."

Zeph sat up and reached for his clothing. "We thank you

for proving which of us was the stronger."

Iakobos merely looked confused. "I don't understand."
Apollo gestured to the moon, sinking in the west. "My

sister is nearly done with her work and I must start mine." He

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took one more kiss. "Sweet Iakobos, you have the thanks of
the Sun and the Wind. Go in peace."

Zeph stood up, dressed, and took Apollo's hand. Together,

they walked toward the east, not vanishing all at once so as
not to frighten their beloved shepherd. They faded from sight.

Zephyros kissed Apollo after they had reverted to their

own forms. "I have work to do today, beloved. There are
ships awaiting me. Windmills and trees and many other
things require my touch."

"Go on. It's nearly time to drive." Apollo waved him off.

"Come to me tonight."

"I can't, Sunshine. I've got a storm to move in and a

couple other night jobs to do."

Apollo pulled him into a tight embrace. "To your work

then. Come when you can. And deliver a kiss to sweet
Iakobos for me."

Zephyros returned the embrace, stealing a last kiss as he

did so. "Aye, I shall kiss him in passing and you may stroke
him. I will come, for have you not proved yourself the
stronger?"

Apollo stepped into the stable and took up the reins of the

Chariot of the Sun. He leaned over the beaten gold edge and
ruffled his lover's hair. "Zephyros, delight of my eyes and
beloved blowhard, someday you, too, will learn persuasion is
better than force."

[Back to Table of Contents]

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The Nature of Love

(A Fable previously mis-told as The Cat and Venus)
by Anah Crow
Col sat on his bed and watched Ari packing, his hands

locked around his bony wrists like cuffs to keep him from
reaching out. Col hadn't arrived at Solomon College with
much and, in spite of everything he'd accumulated over the
years, he wasn't going home with anywhere near what Ari
had. Watching his best friend fill the monogrammed trunks
that had been brought up for him drove the distance between
them even deeper into Col's chest.

"You hear back about that internship at the Justice

Institute?" Ari said, not looking back at Col. His shoulders
were tight under his blue vest and white shirt, though, giving
Col a good idea of what was going on with his face.

"Yeah, I start next week." Col leaned his head back against

the wall and tried to memorize Ari all over again. Spiraling jet
curls, silky cinnamon skin, a perfectly proportioned and
muscular body under his school uniform, dark gold eyes,
hawk-like nose, and a mouth made for laughing.

Col wasn't beautiful like Ari, and he wasn't rich. He had no

idea why Ari loved him. He could understand why Ari was
leaving him, though. There were so many reasons, and Ari's
arranged marriage was one neither of them could pretend
didn't exist. Solomon College had been a magical world for
them, far from the city, away from everything, with this small

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room and its soft beds where they could twine together in the
night.

"I wish you could come to the wedding." Ari turned to look

at Col over his shoulder and his lashes were darker than dark,
glittering.

"It would be rude." Col swallowed hard, clenching his

hands on his wrists. "Interns can't just take time off like
that."

"I could ask my father to..." Ari's voice caught in his

throat.

"Don't." Col didn't want to burst out with the admission

that there was no way he could bear to watch.

"Without you," Ari said, turning and falling to his knees by

Col's bed, "I will never be able to do this."

"I can ask." Col's hands were shaking and he thought he

was going to cry.

"I love you." Ari took Col's face in his hands and kissed

him. Col couldn't make himself pull away, even though they'd
promised each other over and over that each kiss would be
the last.

"I love you, too." Col's fingers looked like a ghost's when

he touched Ari's cheek. Ari kissed him again and Col couldn't
hold back the heat that welled up in him, or the moan.

Ari pushed his hands, rough from sport, up under Col's

shirt, finding Col's nipples. It wasn't fair. Col arched into the
touch with another moan, letting his legs fall open for Ari to
slide between them.

"Ari," Col whispered, trying to be reasonable.

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"Once more, love." Ari pushed his shirt off and Col moved

to help him. "Just once."

Every time, it was just once. Soon, there would be no

more moments to steal. As they stripped, Col slid to lie down
in his bed once more while Ari crawled up to straddle him. "I
want to feel you," Ari whispered, looking down at Col from the
shadows of his curls and lashes.

"Anything you want." Col watched his pale hands slip over

Ari's dark, muscled chest and down until his long fingers
traced the shaft of Ari's cock. Everything about Ari was
beautiful. Col drew his fingers away from the head, damp,
and brought them to his mouth, only aware of what he was
doing when Ari sighed at the sight.

"I love you." Ari leaned in for a kiss and Col felt Ari's hand

under the pillow, searching for, and finding, the sweet oil they
used for sex. It surprised Col; he thought he'd put it away,
but Ari must have put it back.

"I love you, too." Col smiled in spite of his sadness,

amused by Ari's persistence and sneakiness.

The smile faded when Ari's slick hand found his cock and

stroked it, slow and tight. Col shut his eyes and let his head
fall back, trying to forget that he was never going to feel this
again. When Ari shifted to take him in, Col gasped and
opened his eyes, looking up into Ari's.

"You feel so good," Ari whispered. Col had expected him to

take longer to get ready, but sometimes, Ari wasn't in the
mood to wait. As he rocked his hips and Col slid into his slick
heat, he whimpered with pleasure, eyes on Col, lips parted.
"Col..."

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"I love you." Col caught Ari's dark, tight nipples between

his fingers and twisted, getting a cry.

"Oh, yes." Ari sat back, tossing his hair out of his face and

starting to ride Col's cock, rising up and pushing down on it
hard and fast. Col felt a rush of emotion at just getting to
watch something so beautiful and secret, even as he
shuddered with pleasure.

They should have been quieter, but there was no one left

in the dorms to hear them. Ari's body was so sinuous and
strong over Col's, he drew Col's pleasure out of him along
with cries and gasps. When he came, writhing to get Col
deeper into him, Col could hardly breathe. His own orgasm
was almost a footnote to watching Ari come, his body arched
with pleasure and his voice repeating Col's name.

Afterward, they lay together, pressed as close as their

bodies would allow, and breathed each other's breath. Ari's
fingers slid through Col's hair, petting and twining and
tugging Col closer for more kisses. As sated as they were,
they were both trembling with the tension of knowing that
this was truly the last time. Col kissed Ari fiercely, as though
if they loved each other just a little harder, they could make
time stop. But the world didn't work that way.

* * * *

Col didn't go downstairs to see Ari leave; he just stood out

of the way as Ari's father's porters gathered Ari's trunks and
disappeared down the hall. Ari lingered in the doorway.

"Go on," Col whispered.
"I can't." Ari's voice broke.

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"You have to, Ari." Col reached out and straightened Ari's

tie. "I'll come visit. I'll even try and make the wedding. I
promise." He wanted to sit down and cry, but he could do that
later. "It won't change much. We'll always be friends." He
smiled at Ari, hoping that it wouldn't break his face apart.

"Promise." Ari reached out and put his hand over Col's

heart.

"I swear that I will be there for you always." Col covered

Ari's hand with his own, pressing the imprint of it into his
flesh. "Nothing will keep me from you."

"I don't deserve you." Ari leaned in and brushed his lips

against Col's, a daring move with his father's men due on the
stairs to hurry him along any moment. "I'll love you always,
Col."

When Ari took his hand away and fled, it felt as though

Col's heart went with him. When he put his fingers to his shirt
to see whether or not he was bleeding, Col only felt grateful
that he'd gotten to love someone so much, that he'd been
loved in return.

From his window, he could see the car that had come for

Ari, loaded down with Ari's belongings, driving away. Col
wished he could have packed himself into one of Ari's chests.
When the car was out of sight, Col sat down on his bed, the
one they'd shared, and cried.

* * * *

Back in the city, Col picked his way through the trash-

strewn streets outside his mother's house in the small hours
of the morning. It was a long walk to where the bus would

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collect him so that he could get to work. He didn't mind too
much, as tired as he was, because his walk gave him time
alone.

The house was crowded and Col was sharing a room with

his two younger brothers. He was used to sharing a room.
However, in the last four years he'd grown accustomed to the
solitude of library alcoves and the peace of his room with Ari.
He'd shared his room with Ari, but it was less like having
someone else there and more like being complete. Every time
he thought of it, he felt as though his heart was going to
break.

Col's eyes clouded and he tripped over a bundle of trash.

He blinked away tears, apologizing before he realized it
wasn't a homeless person sleeping on the grate. Sometimes it
was so hard to tell.

When Col got his bearings again, he read the neon sign in

the tiny window where he'd caught a glimpse of his own
stooped form. Chapel of the Blessed Mother. A piece of paper
taped below read: prayer candles, 25... incense $1; or what
you can afford.

Standing in the street, Col counted the coins in his

pockets. He had enough for a candle and for the bus. Col
shouldered the narrow white door open and stepped inside.

He hadn't been raised with much faith, but his nona had

been very religious and when Col was a little boy, she'd taken
him to church with her. Col remembered standing at the feet
of a lady in white and blue who had seemed impossibly tall.
She'd smiled down at him like she knew him, but he'd never
said a thing to Nona about it. Somehow, he'd known it was a

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secret. Since then, Col had put it down to childish fantasy,
but pictures of the Blessed Mother had always brought him
some comfort.

Inside, his eyes adjusted to the near dark, and he could

make out a narrow room with only one row of six pews before
an altar that took up the whole front of the room. Col made
his way down the side aisle toward the front, looking up at
the vague shape that he knew would be a statue of the
Blessed Mother.

Usually, her hair was tucked up under a blue veil that fell

to her knees. Usually, she wore a white gown to the floor.
Usually, she had a sorrowful expression on her beautiful face.
Usually, she held a white dove in her hand.

Not here. Col would have looked away in shame except for

his surprise. She stood at the front of the room, a little shy, a
little coy, and perfectly bare. Her hair was golden and it
flowed all around her like her veil, protecting a little of her
modesty. Her skin was alabaster, her eyes were like lapis,
and she looked as though she was about to laugh with her
pink pearl lips curved in a smile. One of her hands lay as
though to keep her hair from exposing her sex, the other lay
on her bare left breast, the fingers touching over her heart.

The flickering candles in blue glasses at her feet lit her up

from below and made the world seem made of sky or water.
Col would have stormed out in an offended fury except that
he knew that smile. He knew her eyes and the light in them
because he'd seen them when he was a little boy. He dropped
to his knees on the padded bench at her bare feet, his heart
in his throat.

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There was a little plaque at her feet that read, in scrolling

letters, Bring me your heart, and I will ease it. Col pulled out
the coins in his pocket. He had enough for thirteen candles,
one for each moon of the year, a lucky number. Looking up at
her smile, he couldn't refuse her everything he had; he could
walk to work. He put all the coins in the little box before him.

With every candle he lit, Col's hand shook more. Bring me

your heart. How could he? It had left him with Ari. By the
time he'd lit the thirteenth candle, he was sobbing. He'd
meant to ask for a blessing for Ari, for the wedding he
couldn't bring himself to attend, but he couldn't make the
words come out. Clutching the rail at Her feet, he put his
forehead to the backs of his hands and cried.

He would do anything to be with Ari, just to be close to

him. How he could wander, hollow, through the rest of his
days without his beloved was beyond him. And how could Ari
live without him in turn? He knew how Ari loved him. It felt
like being born like this, even being born at all, was a terrible
accident that had wounded them both. Col would have given
anything to change it.

"You would give up being human, being all you are, to be

with him?"

Col's head jerked up and he was looking up into Her blue

eyes. "Yes." He wasn't shocked to hear Her speak; maybe it
was grief, maybe his childhood fantasy had been real, but all
he felt was relief at the sound of her voice. It sounded like
music and laughter and bells, even though she spoke
seriously.

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"You must be certain. You cannot love him as you have

before if you give yourself to me," She said.

"Will I be near him?"
"For all your days, for all that they will be less than you

have now." She sat down on Her altar, gracefully, and held
out Her hand. Col reached for Her and she laughed. "No
questions, sweet Columba?"

"Only that one." Col reached further and, this time, She let

him take her hand.

"Then be with him you shall."
Col felt himself getting smaller, lighter. He wasn't holding

Her hand anymore; he was standing on it, cradled in her
palm. His heart fluttered against his thin ribs, the world
changed around him, and he stretched his wings.

* * * *

Ari paced the boardroom, catching the flicker of his

reflection in the chrome trim on the long conference table and
high-backed chairs he passed. Everything here was cold and
angular, made of glass and steel and wood trapped under
plastic. Just beyond the thick windows was the sky, was
freedom. Ari reached for what looked like a handle on the
nearest pane.

"Ari, are you listening?" His father's voice brought his

attention back to the room.

"Yes." He took a breath. "I just wanted some fresh air." As

a small act of defiance, he opened the window. The air
outside was anything but fresh. The horizon, and the

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cityscape leading to it, was all teeth and smog. The illusion
that he could step out was comforting, though.

When he turned, he had schooled his face to the stern

facade his father had modeled for him all his life. Ari's father,
dominating the huge room even while seated at the head of
the table, embodied power. Behind him, Ari's brother Dio was
doing a passable impression of their father.

"They're here," Dio murmured, glancing at the glass inset

in the table in front of Ari's father when a light in it glowed
green.

Ari's father stood as the door opened and a pair of broad,

dark men in white robes over black suits stepped in. They
looked regal enough, but Ari could tell by their bearing that
they were merely the muscle of the entourage. A slender
woman in a business suit came in, then an elderly man in a
black suit with the hood of his white robe draped over his
silver hair. Behind them, a tall man a little older than Dio
escorted a girl who was swathed in Tyrian purple linen.

Ari could hear everyone else talking, but his eyes were

fixed on the girl, Meireth. When she lifted away her hood, he
could see that she was fair, but not beautiful. She was young,
but her eyes were intelligent and she gave him a small smile.
He might be able to like her; he wondered what Col would
think of her. Of course Col would like her.

He took her hand in his and murmured a greeting, bowing

to her. Col liked everyone as best he could; Col was too good,
too kind. When he straightened, it wasn't her downcast green
gaze that caught his attention, nor was it the flush in her
golden cheeks. It was the heat in the eyes of the man who'd

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brought her in. The man, Melas, offered Ari his hand as
though he were reaching into a slop bucket. Ari didn't trouble
him with much of a handshake. Somewhere in the back of his
head, a dry voice noted that this must be the bastard
stepbrother.

"How was your flight?" he asked Meireth before he knew

he was speaking. Politeness took hold and he was saved from
trying to face down Melas' dagger glare. "I hope it wasn't too
difficult for you." He offered her his hand and she took it,
casting a shy glance at her father where he sat with Ari's
father, going over a stack of documents.

Of course, their moment of meeting was irrelevant to

everyone but them. The exchange of far more important
things was involved in this contract.

"It was quite nice, thank you." Meireth's hand was small in

his, a contrast to Col's long, strong fingers. "It was kind of
you to send your jet."

His jet. Right. The jet was one of many things Ari had been

given on his return home. Inheritance or pay-off, Ari didn't
care what one called it. It wasn't enough to make up for
losing Col. "It was nothing. Your comfort is important to me."
He'd learned to talk like that from Col, who said things like
that as though he meant every word.

"Thank you." Meireth's smile said that he might have

learned well. "My father says that you own many such things,
like this building and more. He pointed it out as we flew in. It
looked like the tallest building in the city."

"My father does," Ari said, tucking her hand in the crook of

his arm and leading her away so that he didn't feel the angry

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eyes of her escort on them. "I have some few things of my
own, enough that you'll never have to worry," he promised
her. Her eyes, wide and green, looked up at him with
complete trust. "This isn't the tallest building anymore. Here,
I'll show you."

They walked around to the windows, and Ari pointed out to

where the thin skeleton of a new building was rising into the
thick afternoon sky. "That's going to be the tallest building."

"Oh." Meireth leaned against him easily, and then laughed.

"How annoying."

"What?" Ari looked down at her.
"Well, your family went to all the trouble of building this

one, and someone comes along and builds one taller." She
smiled up at him and her eyes sparkled with amusement.
Gods, how Ari wanted to feel more than a little bemused
affection for her. Some heat, something, anything at all.

"Oh, that's ours, too," he assured her, grinning back to

cover the hollow in his chest.

She was laughing at him when something fluttered up

against the glass as though blown there. A flurry of pale
wings, and then there was a bird perched in the open window,
looking confused. It was small and pure white except for
silvery flight and tail feathers, and it had beautiful, dark eyes.
Meireth made a little sound of shock and clutched at Ari's
arm.

"It's just a little bird. No idea what it's doing up so high."

Ari made to shoo it out the window but Meireth's grip
tightened.

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"No!" She said it loud enough that the conversation

stopped at the other end of the room and her cheeks flushed.
Her eyes went very wide at the irate look on her father's face
and she covered her mouth with her hand.

Ari covered for her, forcing a laugh. "Yes." He tapped her

nose with a finger as though she was a naughty kitten, and
she gave him a look of pure relief, then nodded. Her
compliance seemed to settle the older men, but Melas was
still staring at Ari when Ari glanced once more before turning
back to the window.

When they turned back, the bird was still there.
"It's a dove," Meireth said, slightly squeaky with

excitement. "So pretty. It's good luck. Don't make it go
away."

"It's a wild bird," Ari said with a sigh. He couldn't stand the

thought of caging anything, now that he knew what it felt
like.

"Here? In the city?" Meireth shook her head. "Put your

hand out. If it comes in, then it's tame. If it flies away, then
maybe we shouldn't get married."

Ari put his hand out, flicking his fingers, hoping to scare

the bird away. Fly away, he thought. I would. Go. Please. It
wasn't as though superstition was going to stop this wedding,
but it would be nice if at least the bird agreed with him.

Meireth gasped as the bird stepped into Ari's palm and

settled there as though it had found its nest. "Oh," she said,
her free hand fluttering to her mouth. "It likes you."

Ari could feel the tiny heart beating on his thumb, the tiny

talons pricking his skin. None of this made any sense, but it

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was strangely comforting to hold the bird. He let go of
Meireth to run his forefinger over the delicate head, getting a
low warble for his kindness.

"What are you two nattering about?" The sharp voice made

all three of them flinch. Melas loomed over them both, hands
behind his back, face like an axe, steely and ready to strike.

"Look." Meireth was undeterred by the sternness. "It flew

in the window and got in Ari's hand." She stepped back and
tugged at Ari's sleeve, turning him around for all to see. The
white dove was stark against his dark suit and skin, drawing
attention.

Meireth's father stood, frowning at first, then he smiled. "A

good omen."

For once, Ari's father looked pleased. "Indeed. It's good to

know that the gods agree with our calculations."

"You can give it to me on our wedding day," Meireth

murmured, smiling up at Ari proudly, as though he'd done
something right. "It'll bless our new home. You'll have to take
good care of it."

Wedding day. "I think I can manage for a week." Ari

looked down at the little bird and it looked back up at him,
trusting and calm. There was only one person who'd ever
made him feel safe that way, like a bird in its nest. Ari
stroked the little bird's head and swallowed down the
tightness in his throat.

* * * *

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"What do you mean, they can't find him?" Ari slid his

hands into his hair and stared at his brother. Dio stood by the
door to Ari's rooms, looking apologetic.

"It's even in the news. I sent you a file." Dio shrugged, his

handsome face contorting into a frown. "You'll have to pick a
different best man. I'm really sorry, Ari. I'm sure he'll turn
up."

"I just..." Ari felt like all the air had gone out of him, like

the world had turned on its side.

"I'll do it if you can't think of anyone else," Dio offered.

"Look, I know some people over there. I'll have them ask
around."

"Thanks. I'll look at that file." Ari turned his back on his

brother without consideration for his rudeness. He hardly
heard the door close behind him as he staggered to his
bedroom.

He collapsed on his bed, clutching his laptop computer,

then opened the lid. Dio's file was there on his desktop. Ari
opened it.

Local Man Disappears From Church
Columba Arcturi's briefcase was found in the Chapel of the

Blessed Mother on Myrtle Ave. The young intern at the Justice
Institute, a graduate of Solomon College Law School, has
been missing since Monday morning.

Ari couldn't keep reading. He slammed the laptop shut and

tried not to scream. Instead, choking sounds were all that
came out, as he doubled over and started to sob. He knew
where Col was. Gone. Gone because Ari had left him.

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The laptop clattered to the floor and Ari curled up on his

side, hands clenched into fists pressed into his belly. Col. Ari
wanted someone, something to pray to right now. There had
to be something bigger than himself out there, something
that could make sense of all this. He stared blindly into the
dark outside his open balcony doors, sobbing, oblivious to the
luminous moon that was creeping over the trees. By the time
the milky light was glittering in his tears, Ari had cried himself
to sleep.

In Ari's dreams, though, he was waking up. He was waking

up because a darkness had crossed his face, through the
moonlight. At first he thought it was the shadow of the dove's
cage that hung from a golden pole beside his bed, the cage
he left open because he couldn't stand to close the door.
When he opened his eyes, though, the shadow was that of a
man, a familiar, slender shadow.

"Col?" Ari reached up. Col didn't speak, but bent to kiss

him instead. Ari's hands found Col's body, solid and warm
under white silk, so very real. "Are you here?"

"Yes." Col pulled away to smile at him. He was almost as

pale as the moon. "I'm always here. I love you too much to
be anywhere else."

Ari wanted to believe it so much. Part of him was crying

out that this couldn't be real, and the rest of him was
silencing it as he helped Col strip off his white shirt.

Col had never thought he was beautiful, and nothing Ari

could do would convince him. Now, watching Col's body in the
dark, tears welled up in Ari's eyes. He'd obviously never tried

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hard enough to make Col understand. "You look like a
dream," he whispered. "Like an angel."

Col laughed and dropped his gaze, like he always did. Even

in the moonlight, Ari could see the color come up in his
cheeks. "If you say so."

"I say so." Ari thought he had fallen asleep with his clothes

on, but he was naked now. When he held his arms out to Col,
Col lay down with him, warm against Ari's skin. "It's true."

Col kissed him to silence him, deep and slow, and Ari

thought his heart was going to break through his chest to get
to Col. "Anything you say," Col whispered, letting Ari roll him
over onto his back. "Anything you want." Col's hair spilled
across Ari's red pillows like silver.

"You. I only want you." Ari left fluttering kisses over Col's

cheeks and the bridge of his perfectly straight nose.

"I'm yours. Always. Forever," Col promised. He cupped

Ari's face in his hands and kissed him tenderly, soothing him.
"Nothing's going to come between us."

Ari believed him, believed him more than the shadows of

reality that clung to the corners of his mind, where the
moonlight couldn't reach. Col had never lied to him. "I was
afraid you were gone. I can't do this without you," he
whispered, shivering as Col's slick hand wrapped around his
cock, getting him ready, giving him what he needed so much.

"I'm here," Col murmured. "Feel me." Then he moved

under Ari, wrapping his legs around Ari's waist, pulling Ari
into him.

Ari's cry of surprise and pleasure echoed in the silence, but

he couldn't stop to fear bringing attention to them. Col was

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wrapped around him, holding him together, and they moved
like they always had, so easily. Ari pushed in deep,
whimpering at the tightness he'd been dreaming of feeling,
the sensations his hand couldn't imitate.

"Gods. Col." Ari pulled back to look down at Col, to see the

flush on his cheeks and the way he was biting his lower lip.
Ari kissed him to stop him from hurting himself and Col's
gasps slipped free. That was better; now Col's mouth was
swollen and bruised from teeth and kisses, making him look
even more beautiful. His eyes, so dark compared to the rest
of him, were bright with tears. "What hurts?" Ari stopped,
cold through with fear that he'd done something wrong.

"Here." Col laid his hand over his heart.
"Oh." Ari took his hand and pinned it down in the pillows,

then did the same to the other; Col yielded to him with a little
sigh. "It's okay, love," he said as he moved the way that
made Col whisper his name. "You don't have to hurt
anymore."

After that, it was all pleasure that made them careless and

forgetful, pleasure that went on until the moon set, leaving
them sleeping in the dark. Somewhere, Ari knew he'd been
sleeping all this time, but he didn't want to believe it. When
he woke, his pillow was wet with tears.

* * * *

Life was different now. Simpler in some ways, more

complex in others. Col couldn't speak to Ari, but he could
comfort him a little sometimes. Ari's hands were still as gentle
as always, and when Ari held Col in his hands, Ari seemed

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happier. Col watched him sleep in the moonlight on the nights
of the full moon, watched him arch and murmur and whimper
and come, whispering Col's name.

For a few days, Col had only been the bird, but the more

he was with Ari, the more he remembered. He was aware of
so much now. Meireth, Ari's future wife, had insisted that Col
come to all the ceremonies before the wedding. He tolerated
her for Ari, who seemed pleased at her awestruck little face
when she held Col in her small hands.

It was from his vantage point on an orange tree growing in

an immense marble pot in the meeting room of Ari's father's
summer home that Col got to watch the scenes play out. He
didn't dislike Meireth; she was sweet and full of laughter that
she was constantly stifling when the men of her family
scowled at her. Dio reminded him of Ari, just more solemn
and slender. The older men and the peons were like cutouts
from a book of characters, and Col couldn't imagine how his
bright, sweet Ari came from a place like this.

There was a dark shadow over the proceedings, though. If

he'd been human, Col might have missed it. As a bird, he got
to see what no one else saw. He could see the loathing in
Melas' face when he looked at Ari, and the raw lust when
Melas looked at Meireth. More than once, Col wished for a
body other than this, one that could survive the anger that
surged up in his feathered breast when he saw what no one
else could.

How could they be so oblivious? Col's tongue was made for

trilling now, and when he wasn't with Ari, when Ari had to go
away, sometimes he forgot his concerns. The winds were

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sweet, water was clear, and seed was plentiful. How could he
worry? He preened, making himself pretty for Ari's return to
him. As much as he grieved for his lost life with Ari, it had all
been in his human mind, and now he was near Ari every day.

"Today's the day," Ari said to him. The door to Col's cage

was never closed, but Col didn't see the need to leave it if Ari
wasn't with him. The morning sun was staining the marble
floors and Ari had been away from him for some time. For a
moment, Col had no idea what Ari was talking about. Then Ari
reached for him, and Col remembered as he stepped onto
Ari's hand. "You're coming with us."

Ari pressed a kiss to the top of Col's head and Col thought

his heart would burst against his ribs. All he could do was
flutter with bliss. "I'm sorry." Ari held him up to eye level.
"Too forward of me?" Oh, Col missed laughing at him.

Ari tucked him back in the cage as a servant walked in.

"Time to go."

The servant came over and moved to close the cage, but

Ari stopped him. "Never close the cage. He comes and goes
as he wants. It's not a blessing if you lock it up." The servant
gave Ari a strange look, but then he picked up Col's cage,
pole and all, and Col had to clutch his perch to hang on.

They put Col's cage near the altar of the family chapel. He

swung there, dreamy, in the blue-tinted light shining through
a long window, forgetting who he was, or who he had been.
People came and went, their voices a blur of sound. Someone
moved his cage, startling him, and he came back to himself.

A long, lean figure caught his attention. Out of the corner

of Col's avian eye, it looked like a shadow walking, hollow and

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full of darkness, even when it passed in and out of the light.
After a moment, his human mind put a word to it. Melas. The
servants made way for him, let him come to the altar and set
a case there.

In it were a pair of golden goblets, set with gems that

caught the light and threw it around. Melas lifted one and
placed it where his sister would kneel. The other, he held a
moment longer. There was a lull, and it seemed as though the
servants all fell away from the scene, for one reason or
another.

In the silence, Col watched Melas draw something from his

breast pocket. A silk handkerchief, pure white, but Col saw
something dark within it as the man wiped out Ari's goblet.
He wanted to cry out, but crouched low instead, so as not to
draw attention to himself. Melas wiped the goblet once more
and set it down at Ari's place.

Trembling, Col waited until he was gone, then launched

himself from his cage. The goblet was heavy and the gems
hurt his wings as he beat against them. He could smell
something dark and wrong on the air. A sense of victory
surged through him as the goblet fell from the altar and
landed on the floor. Panting, he crouched on the altar and
tried to straighten his feathers.

"What have we here?" It was a woman's voice. "You

shouldn't be here," she said. Her hands closed on Col before
he realized what was happening. "This isn't your place, little
one." She tucked him back in his cage, ignoring his struggles,
and fastened the tiny silver wire latch. Col watched in horror,
crying out and throwing himself against the door of his cage,

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as she set the goblet back upright in its place. Then, she
straightened her sky blue wimple and habit before stepping
away.

The hours wore on and the sun shifted. Col grew weary

and his body ached from flinging himself against the bars of
his cage. His mind felt heavy; he was slipping away.
Somewhere, he heard music and voices; people began to fill
the chapel. Something was wrong, but Col couldn't remember
what it was.

"Who did this?" The voice was gentle, almost like Ari's, and

someone unlocked Col's cage. He couldn't remember why he
should want to leave it, even when he saw the face that was
so much like Ari's looking in at him. "You're practically the
best man." Dio's finger stroked his head. Col shook himself
and came to stand on the edge of his cage, watching Ari walk
toward him with Meireth on his arm.

Ari. Col sighed and wanted to fly to him, but that would be

unwise; instinct refused to let him draw attention to himself.
He stayed where he was, watching Dio and Melas help Ari and
Meireth settle at the altar. The old nun was the one who
poured the wine for both of them as the priest droned on. As
she set the decanter back on its stand behind Meireth, next to
a small statue of the Blessed Mother, she looked up at Col
with blue, blue eyes, and she smiled.

There was no joy in her smile, just a muted sorrow, but

Col remembered it from somewhere. He had so much to
remember and it was all flying away, into the blue of her
eyes, like a bird winging into the sky. He caught the motion of
Melas leaning in to murmur in his father's ear, distracting him

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as instinct sparked the fear of the predator in his breast. The
fear faded as he forgot why he should be afraid. When he
looked back, the nun was gone. Everything was gone. The
glitter of sunlight on jewels was the only thing that drew his
interest.

Something distant was calling out to him, something in his

heart was drawing him back by the thinnest thread, the
thread of a promise. Sun struck gold, flashed in Col's eyes as
Ari lifted his cup. He tried to cry out, but he had no voice but
the dove's. He launched himself into the air, reaching,
straining to cross the distance. All that mattered was that the
cup not touch Ari's lips. The air sang against Col's feathers as
he flew. He felt as though his heart were about to burst
through his ribs.

Col's hand struck the cup as Ari brought it to his lips. The

goblet made a golden arc in the silent air, trailing wine like
blood. For a moment, all was still, and then Meireth
screamed. Ari leapt up, grabbing at Col, his hands catching
handfuls of white silk. Meireth screamed again and Col
pushed Ari back in time to catch the brunt of Melas' rush.

Melas took him down, hands closing around Col's throat,

wringing his neck like a dove's. Col struggled, hands clawing
Melas', but he was too weak. His work was done, anyway.
He'd saved Ari; he'd broken his promise to Her, and there
was no surviving now. He was trying to twist enough to see
Ari one last time. He could hear Ari's voice, but it was too far
away. Then there was a dull thud, and Melas went limp,
sprawling over him.

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The face looking down at him was Meireth's. Clutched in

her hands was the alabaster statue of the Blessed Mother that
had been by her seat; there was blood on it now from where
she'd used it to smash Melas in the back of the head. Her
eyes were wide like a child's, but when Col met them, there
was recognition there.

"Well. I think that's a first." A woman's voice cut through

the chaos, a voice Col remembered well. "That was very
resourceful, dear. I don't recall ever being used as a weapon
quite that way before." As the nun came up the altar steps,
her bent back straightened and she grew tall.

Col struggled to sit up, pushing Melas off of him. Meireth

stepped back, clutching the statue to her chest. Dio let go of
Ari and Ari flew forward to throw his arms around Col, trying
to protect him. There was silence except for a low groan from
Melas. The wine still hung in the air like a garnet necklace;
the goblet had not yet hit the ground. Ari's breath was harsh
and sweet on Col's cheek. All around them, the world was
frozen.

In the midst of the suspended chaos and moving mystery,

Col could think of only one thing. He turned to press his
cheek to Ari's, leaning into the circle of Ari's arms. "I love
you," he whispered.

Ari's breath caught in a sob. "I love you, too," he

whispered back. "I missed you so much."

When Col looked around, Dio had an arm about Meireth,

staunchly ready to defend her against the Blessed Mother,
who stood at the top of the altar steps surveying the scene.
Meireth, for her part, looked good and ready to take care of

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herself, and Col and Ari, if she had to, with Her own image.
Below them, Melas moaned and clutched at his head.

"I thought we agreed that you would give up your human

self," She said to Col, sternly. "It seems to me that you kept
something from me."

"I didn't mean to," Col said, forcing his voice out. He took

Ari's arms from around his shoulders and stood to take his
punishment. Behind him, Ari scrambled to his feet and snuck
his hand into Col's. The touch gave Col strength he didn't
know he could have, even in the face of Her disapproval. "I
gave you everything I had."

At first, he thought that She was angry, then her

expression shifted and she laughed like golden bells. "You
did." She reached out and touched Col's chest, her hand
falling where Ari's hand had pressed as they'd said goodbye.
Her eyes danced with amusement. "No one can give what
they do not have. I seem to have outsmarted myself. I
cannot keep something from being what it is. The nature of it
will out, no matter what I do."

Col realized that he was shaking, clinging to Ari's hand.

"What ... what happens now?"

"Now?" She turned to look around her, her gaze falling on

Melas and turning dark. "This happens now."

Melas arched and cried out, regaining consciousness. He

fought his way to his feet, reaching for Meireth, who pulled
back with a small shriek of indignation. "I did this for you," he
snarled. His dark hair was red with blood and his eyes were
wild. "For love of you. You." He lunged one more time but as
he moved, he blurred.

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A moment later a blackbird with a red cap took wing, then

Her hand closed on it, bringing it back to her. She tucked it
into the cage and locked the door. "If you love, you will love
anywhere, in any form," she said to the bird. "And this body
should bring you peace from your evil." The bird cried out,
harsh and pained.

"I didn't know," Meireth said softly, oblivious to the fact

that she was clutching the statue to her breast.

"I know." The Blessed Mother took the cage from the hook

on the pole and turned back to the four of them remaining.
"Now, what shall we do with the rest of this mess?" She
looked around at the frozen crowd, then back to them. "It
seems that I am still owed at least one wedding."

"I would," Ari began, stepping up to put his arm around

Col. "I want no one else. But we can't." Col leaned into him,
his eyes stinging with tears.

"Nonsense," She said, and laughed. "That would satisfy

me, but I can't speak to the requirements of your people."

"I will." Dio looked down at Meireth and held his hands

out. "If you will."

Meireth looked at Ari and Col, then at the statue she held.

She set it back on the pedestal and turned to Dio. "The
contracts are signed, someone needs to marry someone," she
said firmly, putting her little chin up and taking his hands. "If
you'll marry someone who hits people over the head with
religious statuary."

"I think I'll take my chances," Dio said, smiling at her in a

way that made Col's heart light. Ari must have seen it, too,
because he gave Col a squeeze. "Besides, you're not the only

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one I have to worry about making angry." Dio looked to Her,
and She laughed.

"I don't foresee that being a problem," She said. Her

expression softened and Her eyes grew bright. "I say now
that it will not be." Her words felt like something being
written into the air and everything around them; as the sound
fell away, Meireth stood on her toes to kiss Dio on the mouth.

"Oh." Ari's voice was soft in Col's ear, surprised and happy

at once.

"Come," She said. She held her hand out to Col. "This is

not our place or time."

Col turned and kissed Ari one more time, shameless and

unafraid. "I will see you soon. I love you."

"I love you, too," Ari said. He tangled his hands in Col's

hair to keep him close a moment longer. "I dreamed of you.
Is this dreaming? Or dying?"

Col remembered watching Ari dream and it made him hot

inside. "As long as we're together, does it matter?"

"No." A smile dawned slowly on Ari's face.
"I suggest that the next wedding be held in My House,"

She said. She held her hand out to Col. "For luck. I will see
you all there."

Col let go of Ari and stepped back, taking Her hand in his.

In her other hand, the blackbird cried in its cage. "I will be
waiting for you."

"I know," Ari said.

* * * *

After The End...

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On a green hill, in the shadow of pale pillars that

overlooked the sea, Col stood with Ari's hand in his. Dio and
Meireth's wedding procession was wending down the hill,
trailing the sound of bells in its wake. A red-capped blackbird
rode the wind down from the blue skies into the bowing
poppies and lace flowers, crying out angrily.

"That was beautiful," Ari said softly. He was dressed

simply, like Col, in white robes with a blue stole about his
shoulders.

"I love weddings," Col agreed. He would have loved

anything that involved being with Ari, but seeing Dio and
Meireth happy was an excellent bonus.

"So do I," She said. She was sitting on a stone, waiting.

The wind tugged her blonde curls and blue ribbons and white
smock. She swung her bare, grass-stained feet, kicking the
stone. "So, why don't you have one?" She jumped up and put
her tiny hands on her hips, her child's face turning stubborn.

Ari looked at Col and smiled. "Marry me?"
"Oh, yes." Col leaned in and kissed Ari on his beautiful

mouth.

"No kissing until after the vows." She clapped her hands

imperiously and they came to Her obediently. "I won't have
my parents being improper."

"Does this mean that you're staying?" Col knelt down and

looked up at her, arranging his robes as he did. Beside him,
Ari did the same, and then took his hand again.

"If you hush and get married, I might," She said. "Are you

two going to behave?"

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Ari looked at Col and started to laugh; Col couldn't help

joining him. "I can't promise," Col admitted. "We're
disobedient creatures by nature. You know we can't help it."
Ari was laughing too hard to speak.

"Fine. You deserve each other." She clapped her hands

again. "You're married." The wind wrapped around them both
and Col leaned in to kiss Ari on his laughing mouth. He didn't
feel much different after the kiss, just a little more in love,
like always.

She sighed heavily and so Col got to his feet, pulling Ari

with him. "Satisfied now? We're married," Col said. "Are you
ready?"

"We're ready for you." Ari put his arm around Col's

shoulders.

She looked solemn for a moment, all the ages rushing

back into Her eyes. "I'm ready." She held out Her little hands,
and by the time Col had swung her up onto his hip, all that
was left in her endless blue eyes was innocence. "Are we
going home now?"

"Yes." Ari turned them toward the path that led back to the

city. "Everyone's going home together." Col laid his head on
Ari's shoulder. The blackbird swooped low, calling after them
as they went down into the world.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Court and Country

By G.S. Wiley
"Better beans and bacon in peace than cakes and ale in

fear." The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse, Aesop.

There were once two boys, born three months apart, who

lived on neighboring country estates in the south of England.
The elder of the two, William Montmorency, had parents who
were more ambitious than they were wealthy. The younger,
John Kittering, had parents who were wealthier than they
were ambitious, but John's father was more than amenable
when William's father suggested pooling their resources to
help their sons advance in life.

Instead of attending the village school with the other boys,

William and John were educated by a private tutor hired by
their fathers, a man lately of Cambridge who taught them
algebra and geography, religion and literature, and the
history of the Roman Empire. It was a fine education, and
John did well in his lessons, but his interests lay closer to
home, in the flora and fauna of the countryside that
surrounded them. His happiest days were in the summer,
when he and William could escape their tutor for a while and
lie amidst the long grass together, staring at the blue sky and
finding the shapes of hedgehogs and badgers and daffodils in
the cottony white clouds.

William, on the other hand, preferred music and fashion

and tales of courtly life. The tutor had, for a very brief period,
lived at court, and William's favorite times were when he

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could convince, flatter or cajole the man into abandoning the
Pythagorean theorem for an hour or an afternoon in favor of
stories of lords and ladies, of dances and intrigues and courtly
love.

Childhood passed in the blink of an eye, as it always does.

When they reached the age of fifteen, the tutor recommended
they go up to Cambridge. At the same time, William's elder
sister Catherine married the Earl of Donchester, a minor
aristocrat who was nevertheless far above the Montmorency
station. Attending the wedding, a glamorous affair with, he
later told John, a capon and beef banquet and a masked ball
afterward, was a highlight of William's young life.

"Catherine's husband has secured a place for us at court,"

William told John, as they lay in the hayloft of one of the
tenants' barns. "Father believes he will find me a position in
the queen's retinue."

"I am happy for you," John replied, chewing on a piece of

straw. It was the truth; a life at court was what William had
always wanted.

"Will you go to Cambridge?" William asked.
John shook his head. "I want to stay here." He had no

choice, in any case. He would inherit the Kittering property
one day, including all of the farms and tenants that came with
it. John's father wanted him at home, where he could learn
how to run it all, not, as he said, "in Cambridge learning more
of that high-bred Montmorency nonsense."

"I will miss you," William said. Then, so quickly John

almost missed it, he darted forward and kissed John on the
cheek. John sat in surprised silence, the kiss burning on his

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skin, as William jumped down from the hayloft and
disappeared.

The next day, William and his parents left for court.
Season followed season followed season. John grew from a

weedy boy of fifteen into a strong, broad-shouldered man of
twenty-four. He learned about animal husbandry and crops
and how to keep foxes away from the henhouse. He knew
which of the farmers planted barley and which planted wheat,
he knew whose horse had thrown a shoe and whose sow had
given birth to twelve fat piglets. He was a firm but generous
landlord, a well-respected and upstanding man of the village,
and when his father died of a fever one winter, it was
remarked in the tavern that this was no hardship but a
blessing to the tenants of the Kittering land.

John himself was happy. He mourned his father's death, of

course, but he knew it was as natural as the oak dropping its
leaves in autumn, or the failure of one crop so that the next
year's could thrive. He was where he wanted to be; on the
land, day after day, feeling the earth beneath his feet and in
his hands, surrounded by God's creation and loving every
moment of it.

The only bane of his existence, if one could call it that, was

the question of marriage. "Your father wanted to see you
married with sons," his mother would frequently remind him
as they sat at the table. "He won't be able to rest until he
knows the estate will stay in the family."

"When the time is right, Mother," John always said.
"And when will that be?" she always persisted.

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"When I meet the right woman." John knew it had to

happen eventually. It happened to everyone. All of the boys
in the village, the ones he hadn't gone to school with because
of the tutor, were married, and most seemed happy about it.

This always set his mother to grumbling about duty, and

about how, in her day, no one had expected to be happily
married, but John ignored her. None of the village women,
the tenants' girls who thrust their bosoms at him or the
higher-class daughters of neighboring landowners, had
attracted him so far, but it would happen. It had to.

John knew the facts of life as well as anyone who'd grown

up in the country. He'd seen countless bulls rutting with cows,
boars with sows, stallions with mares. He'd also, on occasion,
seen people. More than once, as he rode around the estate,
he'd seen or heard his tenants giggling and shrieking
indiscreetly in the bushes. He knew, logically, that one day he
would feel it, that same powerful drive to mate and produce
the sons his mother so desperately wanted. Of course, being
good Christian human beings, they would have to arrange a
wedding first, but knowing his mother, that would be no
concern of his.

One morning in early spring, John was out on the land,

walking with the dogs through the woods between the
Kittering house and the large, empty Montmorency estate. It
had recently rained, and the ground was still soft enough to
show footprints. John knelt down to examine them; they were
larger than fox prints and looked almost like they belonged to
the dogs, but the dogs had been inside since the rains began.
Wolves, then, John determined grimly, or at least one wolf.

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That was all it took to cause trouble, especially since it was
lambing season. Whistling the dogs to his side, John followed
the footprints through the forest, his head bent in
concentration. He was so absorbed in his task that he didn't
notice the man in his path until they collided.

"I beg your pardon, sir." John looked up, immediately

embarrassed. The other man was well dressed, in silk and
satin and a fine pair of new-looking hose.

"John." The man smiled at him, then pulled him into a

close embrace. "I'd know you anywhere." The man released
him, holding him at arms' length to look him up and down.

It didn't take a large leap of reasoning for John to figure it

out and say, "William. You're home."

William laughed and embraced him again, holding John

tightly against his chest. John returned the embrace this time,
holding the other man just as tightly until William released
him and said, "Come on. We've got some catching up to do."

"It was my wife who insisted we come," William said, as

they walked up the embankment to the Montmorency house.
"She wants to see the country estate."

"She's here, then?" John felt suddenly uneasy. He was shy

by nature; he didn't like meeting new people, and he couldn't
for one moment imagine what he might say to any glittering
highborn wife of William's.

"Not yet. I told her I'd make sure the house was still

standing before bringing her and her ladies all the way out
here." Of course William's wife would have ladies, John
thought. She was probably a duchess, or at least a
marchioness.

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"You got your wish, then." John smiled. "A wealthy wife, a

position at court. I'm happy for you."

"And I for you," William replied, giving John a hearty slap

on the shoulder. "Every inch the country squire. And the
father of many strapping sons, I assume?"

John shook his head. "Not yet."
"You should get to it," William recommended.

"Fatherhood's the greatest thing in the world. Especially when
you have a swarm of ladies to take care of the little beggars."

William's servants had already unlocked and opened the

house when they arrived. It was still musty, and clouds of
dust floated in the beams of sunlight streaming from the
newly unshuttered windows. "My parents would have wept to
see it like this," William sighed. "My mother's final wish was
to come back one last time."

"She's passed away, then?"
"The sweating sickness," William said. "She and my father

both, within weeks of each other. It had London by the throat
last autumn. Catherine's a widow, now, as well, and she lost
her youngest child. You were at least spared that out here?"

"I hadn't heard of it," John replied.
"Ah, the country," William smiled. Then, suddenly, he was

off again, heading toward the stables. "Come on, let's go for a
ride."

William's horse, a fine bay mare, was obviously more used

to paved roads and highways than the soft country paths.
Eventually, they tethered her beside John's roan stallion and
continued on foot, through the newly seeded springtime fields
to a big empty barn.

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"Do you remember these places?" William said eagerly as

they went inside. It was damp where the holes in the roof had
let in the rain, and it was empty but for some wet hay in the
corner. "When we were boys, we used to pretend they were
our castles in London, where we would hold massive balls and
feasts and masked parties."

"You did that," John reminded him.
"Yes," William agreed. "Then you would find some flea-

bitten old moggy in a corner, and we'd have to watch the
damn thing give birth to twenty-eight kittens and get whipped
when we were late for dinner." William shed his fine cloak,
placing it carefully on a splinter of wood strong enough to act
as a peg. The rings on his fingers glistened in the sunlight as
he climbed up to the hayloft. John followed, sitting on the
wooden boards covered with grain dust and spider webs.

William was clearly happy in his new life, and John was

truly happy for him. Still, as John looked at him in the barn,
he felt a twinge of regret. If William and his family had
stayed, John thought, they could have had more time
together. They could have grown from boys to men with each
other. John could have attended William's wedding, and they
could have been like the old friends John saw in the village,
drinking together in the tavern, sharing village gossip and
advice.

John was busy painting this idyllic scene in his mind,

ignoring inconvenient details like William's disinterest in
farming and his dislike of their shabby local tavern, when
William kissed him.

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That first kiss before William's departure had been

pleasant, but so surprising and so confusing it had seemed
best for John to put it out of his mind. Now, though, he
remembered. He didn't have any choice.

Unlike the last time, this kiss was long, drawn-out and

thoughtful. William's hands rested on John's shoulders as his
tongue slid across John's lips, and John, surprised at the
sensation, opened his mouth to protest or encourage, he
wasn't sure which. William made the decision for them,
pushing his tongue past John's lips and into his mouth.

John had never felt anything like it. He had certainly never

seen anything like it and, lacking any frame of reference, he
decided to let William take the lead. He didn't object as
William slid one hand into his hair and the other down his
body. When William's hand reached the bulge in John's hose,
though, John had to take action.

"William." He jerked his head back. William's eyes were

dark and his pale cheeks were flushed as he looked at John.

"I've missed you," William said, simply.
"This is..." Nothing according to nature, John knew that

much. But he also knew that his mind and his body were
screaming at him to continue, not to stop, to let William do
whatever he wished, and the sooner the better.

"Please, John." William licked his lips. John nodded. He

didn't know what else to do.

William smiled and covered him, resting his body on top of

John's, pressing down until John could feel his soft stomach
and the contrasting hardness in his groin. John wondered,
vaguely, if this was how the boars and sows and stallions and

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mares felt, before losing the power of conscious thought
entirely.

* * * *

John's mother was thrilled to see William. "It's about time

the Montmorencies came home," she said, smiling at him as
they sat at the table. It was John who had insisted on
bringing William back to the Kittering house, mostly because
he couldn't bear to be parted from William again so soon.
Even as they sat eating stringy capon and making small talk
with his mother, John could think of nothing but what they
had done in the barn, how it had felt, how William had
sounded and smelled and tasted and how soon they might
possibly do it again.

It seemed like an age before his mother finally said, "Well,

I'd best be off to bed, then." It was all John could do not to
hurry her along and, when she at last ran out of
inconsequential news to share and shuffled out of the room,
John was at William's side again, pulling William toward him.

William laughed. "With enthusiasm like that, you'd be the

toast of the court," he said, as he buried his nose in John's
neck. "Lord Donahugh, for one, would write you endless
reams of bad poetry and try to put his hand on your thigh in
the chapel."

John pulled away to look at him. "Such things happen?"
William shrugged. "Sometimes. I wouldn't let Lord

Donahugh near you, though."

"But it's not natural." It wasn't the way things were

supposed to work, in nature or at court or anywhere.

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"My dear John," William said, "You are the expert in that

regard, but I can tell you nothing has ever felt more natural
to me." His expression turned serious. "If you are having
doubts..."

"No," John reassured him, quickly. "No doubts." Even as

he said it, a new thought struck him, one he hadn't had time
to consider in the barn. "But you're married. This is adultery."

William's expression didn't change. "Lady Montmorency is

a very forgiving woman."

"That doesn't matter." John remembered the trouble he'd

had to mediate when one of the tenants accused another of
seducing his wife. "It is a grave sin." Not to mention a serious
headache when John had been forced to adjudicate the case
and mete out the required consequences.

"Things are different at court," William said, and kissed

him.

Lady Montmorency certainly thought so.
Her arrival at the Montmorency estate was a highly

exciting event for the townspeople. The tenants on the
Montmorency land had made do mostly on their own, with
occasional help from John and the other landowners, but to
have their glamorous landlord and his wife back from London
was a thrilling prospect for many. Ragged children and their
hardworking parents lined the road as the coach drove up to
the house where William and John waited.

"My darling." As the coach shuddered to a halt in front of

them, a servant opened the door, and William held out a hand
to help his wife down. "How lovely to see you again.

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Welcome." He kissed her hand theatrically, and she surveyed
her surroundings with a stony expression.

She was older than William, perhaps even as old as thirty.

A pearled net covered her dark hair, and her dress was of
thick, heavily embroidered fabric. Over the last few weeks,
William had told John about her: that she was the widow of
an earl executed for treason, that she was a lady of refined
tastes and substantial wealth, that she had three grown
children by her first husband and one daughter, five-year-old
Mary, by William. This child was not in evidence, and,
although William had not asked after her, Lady Montmorency
said, "Mary will remain in London for the present. There is
talk of the queen taking her to France. This is a great
opportunity I did not want her to miss."

John thought, briefly, of the five-year-olds he knew, who

ran barefoot and often naked through the fields in the
summer and rolled carelessly in the snow in the winter.

"This is John Kittering, my dear," William said, as his wife's

disapproving gaze fell on John. "My good friend. Son of Sir
Joseph Kittering," he added. This clearly had no particular
significance for Lady Montmorency, who looked at him with a
stare that, while not exactly contemptuous, reminded John of
the way a barn cat might look at a mouse.

"A pleasure," she said, blandly, then turned to William. "I

am exhausted. Please show me to my room." William glanced
at John, but his wife had already started for the house, a
retinue of ladies and footmen behind her.

"I'll be around to visit later," William promised, and

followed the crowd toward his house.

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John watched them go, feeling as out of place as a chicken

in a pigpen.

The last few weeks had been paradise. It had been like

they were boys again, with the addition of the ever-present,
ever-enjoyable reminder they were not. If they weren't off in
the fields or in the woods, they were in William's bedchamber,
exploring each other's bodies with as much dedication and
thoroughness as they had ever explored the countryside.

Of course, John had not expected it to last forever.

Nothing did; he knew that very well. Whatever William might
have said, and possibly believed, he was clearly wrong about
his wife's eagerness to visit the country estate.

Still, the Montmorencies stayed through the spring and

into the summer. Every day, rain or shine, William came to
John. On the sunny days, they rode or walked around the
countryside; when it rained, they stayed in John's
bedchamber. John always half-expected Lady Montmorency to
catch them, or at least show some suspicion, but John rarely
saw her and, when he mentioned it, William again said, "She
doesn't care what I do."

"But she is your wife." John couldn't understand that she

wouldn't want to be with her husband. All the wives he knew
seemed to want it more than anything, and he remembered
his own mother complaining bitterly when his father was
taken away on business.

William, lying with his head in John's lap, turned to look

him in the eye. "She married me because no one else would
have a traitor's widow, and she'd rather see me on the

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gallows than in her bed. You," he kissed John again, quickly
on the lips, "are the only one who cares about me."

John did, as much as he'd ever cared for any living

creature, but he wasn't foolish enough to think it would last.

William wasn't at home in the country. He never had been,

and, sure enough, as the summer sun became hotter and the
crops grew high in the fields, he started to show signs of
restlessness.

They were minor, at first. As John's servants laid out a

meal, William said, "I don't know how you can eat capon
week after week, John. In London, there are at least a dozen
meats at every meal."

"Their butchers must be very gainfully employed," John

replied, blandly.

A few days later, it was a remark about the many

entertainments in London, the plays and the fools and the
endless merriment. Then it was a comment about the
sporting delights of court, about the tennis and the croquet
and the card games that could be played until all hours. At
last, as John and William lay out in a field beneath the star-
speckled sky, William said, "In London, there are fireworks
displays at least a dozen times a year. Great big loud
explosions of light over the river. You've never seen anything
like it." John had to agree he had not. "You should come,"
William continued, as if the idea was just occurring to him.

"To London?"
"To court."
"I don't think so, William."

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"Why not?" William sat up. "You'd like it." John was fairly

certain he would not. "You can't spend your whole life here
and, anyway, we're going to be heading back soon. My
stepdaughter is due to be confined with her first child and my
wife wants to be with her."

"Couldn't you stay behind?" John asked, even though he

already knew the answer.

William said it anyway. "I miss court. But I don't want to

miss you anymore." He took John's hand in his. In the
moonlight, his face was pale, but John could see the hope in
his eyes as he pleaded, "Please say you'll come?"

John shrugged and looked away. "I'll think about it."
He did. He thought about it for three days: about how

being with William felt like being in the woods on a perfect
spring day, when the sun was just filtering through the clouds
and lighting the buds on the trees. About how much he was
going to miss William when the man was gone. About how,
William being William, John couldn't be sure he would ever
return.

It was a warm July morning when William and Lady

Montmorency were due to return to London. When John
arrived at Montmorency Hall, the servants were already
bustling about, carrying trunks and loading parcels into the
carriage. John dismounted and left his stallion beside
William's mare.

William was standing in the main hall of his home, dressed

for riding in his cloak, hat and gloves. He smiled broadly when
he saw John.

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Although William had posed the question many times

about John joining them in London, John had avoided giving
him a definite answer so far. Now, he could hardly
procrastinate further. He quelled the nerves in his stomach as
he looked at William and said, "When do we leave?"

William laughed and embraced him, holding John so tightly

he was almost lifted off his feet. "But only," John said quickly,
"until the harvest. I can't leave the farms longer than that."
He couldn't leave his mother for much longer, either. The only
reason she hadn't forcibly tried to keep him from going was
her everlasting hope that he might come home with a wife.

* * * *

John could smell London long before he arrived. It wasn't

the natural, comforting smell of the earth and the farms, but
a heavy, putrid stink. William didn't seem to notice, and it
seemed impolite to mention it. John discreetly pulled up his
collar and tried not to breathe too deeply.

The smell got worse as they traveled into the city. The

buildings crowded claustrophobically on either side of dark,
narrow streets and overhung them in some cases, keeping
out the fresh air and sunlight. There were so many people,
pathetic beggars and well-dressed ladies, busy servants and
idle fops, that John felt certain he must have seen half the
population of the world before they arrived at Whitehall.

William was right; John had never seen anything like it.

When they finally stopped, he handed his horse off to a stable
boy and stared at the palace before them.

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"Come on," William finally said, pulling at John's sleeve. He

had a satisfied smile on his face, and his enthusiasm was
enough to comfort John's uncertainty as William led him
inside.

"Sir William." They'd barely entered the courtyard when

they had their first encounter with a courtier. He was a
reasonably young man, bearded and wearing more jewelry
than John had ever seen on one person, even when the reeve
had visited the village. "What a pleasure to see you back at
court." The man's eyes flicked, lizard-like, to John, who felt
suddenly uncomfortable again.

"My friend, John Kittering," William said. "John, this is Lord

Donahugh."

John wasn't sure whether he ought to bow or shake Lord

Donahugh's hand. He settled for minutely inclining his head
and saying: "My lord."

Lord Donahugh smiled a sickly grin. "A pleasure," he

repeated. "I do hope we will meet again."

He glided away, and William said, "Stay away from him."

John didn't need to be told twice.

He could feel everyone's eyes on him as they passed

through the courtyard and up a flight of stairs. Some people
spoke to William, notably two well-dressed young ladies and
another, younger man in a slashed doublet and hose. Others
just looked from behind fans or beneath large feathered hats,
or stared openly, without any pretence of doing otherwise.

"This is home," William said, as he opened the door to a

chamber. There was a large bed against one wall, a wardrobe
against the other, and a bowl of water on a stand next to a

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polished copper mirror. The window, large and arched, had a
view onto the courtyard below, onto the fountains and
gardens and dozens and dozens of people. "You'll be tired
after the journey," William said, sounding like a gracious host.
"I can have food brought if you like."

"I'm not hungry." John felt overwhelmed.
William nodded sympathetically. "It's a lot to take in all at

once. Here," he held out a hand. John took off his cloak and
hat and sat beside William on the bed. William laid a hand on
his shoulder, rubbing at a knot thoughtfully as he said, "We'll
need to get you some new clothes. The slashed doublet is still
in fashion, I see, and of course you'll need a ruff."

"Is that really necessary?"
William laughed. "Courtiers need to be fashionable, John."

William pushed him over and began to rub his back, working
his hands under John's tunic and sliding them across his bare
skin.

But I'm not a courtier, was John's last coherent thought

before he let himself sink into William's embrace.

Information moved quickly at court. It was one of the first

differences John noticed. At home, news would take days to
travel, sometimes weeks, and while it was eagerly
anticipated, there was never any hurry to get it. Here, a scrap
of news could travel around the court three times in a day. It
was never useful information, like whose prize cow had given
birth to a healthy calf, or whose crops were coming in
especially fine this season. It was gossip. John had barely
been at court a week before he knew that Lady Devereaux
was sleeping with both Lord Hardisty and the Earl of

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Cheltingham, and that Baron Westham's daughter Elizabeth
was expecting to be betrothed to the Marquis of Greenbarrow
as soon as he could do something about the mad German
wife he had hidden away on his country estate. He knew none
of these people, but that didn't stop others from telling John
stories about them, a gleam in their eyes as they recounted
all the salacious details.

William seemed fascinated by these stories. He would

listen to them for hours on end, putting in comments like,
"Last I heard, she was warming Richard Vellier's bedsheets,"
and, "I don't know what he expects to gain from that, her
family's been sponging like parasites for the last six
generations." John stared at the ceiling, or at the tapestries,
or at the tiled floor, until he couldn't stand anymore, then he
would smile politely at whoever was talking to William and
walk away.

On one occasion, he left William and a giggling young

woman in a yellow gown in favor of examining a richly
detailed tapestry. He was wondering whether it was meant to
be an oak or an ash tree in the background, since the artist
apparently didn't know the difference between the two, when
the tapestry moved and Lord Donahugh appeared out of
nowhere, reminding John of the sleights-of-hand he had seen
traveling gypsies perform for coins in the village.

"Mr ... Kittering, was it not?"
"Yes." John looked at him and tried to smile politely. There

was something definitely odd about him, although John
couldn't quite put his finger on what.

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"How nice to see you again. I was so hoping we might run

into each other soon." The man inched forward, until he was
almost touching John. John took a step backward and glanced
over his shoulder. William was still absorbed in gossip with
the woman in the yellow dress. "I'm told you know a great
deal about the natural world. A friend of mine has given me a
gift of a most unusual bird. I wonder if you might be able to
identify it for me."

"Perhaps." John did know a great deal about birds, unusual

and otherwise.

Lord Donahugh smiled. "If you have time, we could go and

view it at once."

"Good afternoon, Lord Donahugh." Suddenly, William

appeared behind him.

"I was just telling your ... friend about my unusual new

bird." Donahugh looked at William pointedly, and John felt
like he was missing something.

"That is fascinating. Unfortunately, we have a previous

engagement." John let William lead him away, but he
resented the stern, "I told you to stay away from him," that
followed.

"He approached me," John said. "And my father is dead,

William. I do not need you to assume his role."

"You know nothing of the nature of these people," William

snapped.

"I know they occupy your time and attention with mindless

gossip."

William rubbed at his forehead, as if he had a headache.

"I'm trying to protect you." He smiled at John, who felt guilty.

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He had chosen to come, after all. And this was William's
territory, just as the country and the farms were his. "Come
on. Let's go for a walk in the garden."

John knew William was trying to make peace, so he went

along, determined to notice the beautiful color of the flowers
and the outstanding health of the bushes and ignore their
unnatural, regimented rows and ridiculous topiary shapes.

William had been right in one regard: the food at court

was far greater—in quantity, quality and variety—than
anything in the country. And if there was one thing the
courtiers liked more than gossip, it was a good banquet.

It was at just such a banquet that John encountered Lord

Donahugh again, a few days after he had first mentioned his
bird. John was seated at a long table, across from a large,
bearded man who seemed determined to eat an entire lamb
in one sitting. William was beside him, chatting to the man on
his other side while John looked at the endless supply of
meat, fish, poultry and bread in front of him. It was easily
enough to feed all the tenants on his land, and all the
neighboring regions, probably for several weeks at least.

"The venison is delicious," Lord Donahugh said, as he slid

onto the bench beside John. "It comes from the hinds in the
queen's own forests. Of course, I prefer the harts myself."

"Is there much of a difference?" John asked, out of

politeness.

"Oh, most definitely."
John turned away, but that didn't discourage Lord

Donahugh. He began to eat daintily, as John looked at the
man across the table. This fellow was clearly in no mood for

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conversation, or even common courtesy. When John said, "If
you might pass the ale, please?" the man grunted and pushed
the jug roughly in John's direction, causing a wave to crest
over the jug and land on John's doublet.

William glanced over at the same moment Lord Donahugh

said, "Let me help you," and placed his hand, in a manner
that was not in any way helpful, directly onto John's groin.

Only William had ever touched John like that. The smile on

Lord Donahugh's face made it obvious, even to John, that he
knew exactly what he was doing. William knew it, too. He
stood up, but John beat him to it. Using all of the strength
he'd developed working alongside his tenants, he hit Lord
Donahugh squarely in the face and left the banquet hall, fully
aware that every idle, scandal-hungry eye in the room was
watching.

A short time later, William arrived in his chamber. John

was sorting out his clothes, removing his sensible, useful
tunics from the garish "fashionable" ones William had given
him, packing those he had brought with him into his trunk.
"You're going to be the talk of court for the next few days,"
William said, with a smile.

"I imagine so."
"Donahugh is a fool, but he's not stupid enough to try

anything else. He'll leave you alone."

"I have to go home. Mother and the tenants need me."
"There are weeks until the harvest. You couldn't stay just a

little longer?"

"No." John looked at William. "This is not my place. I

cannot stay here, William, not even for you." Even if Lord

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Donahugh never spoke to him again, there were others,
dozens of them, watching his every move with greedy, empty
eyes. Not to mention the soulless stone that surrounded him,
the ridiculous manicured lawns and unnatural flowers that
had all the artifice of the courtiers around them and none of
the beauty of the natural world.

John expected an argument, but instead, William nodded.

"Now," he said, "You know how I feel in the country."

John sat on the bed and tried not to remember what else

they'd done there. "So it will be another nine years before I
see you again?"

"Not that long, I hope. I really ought to visit the house

more often." He looked at John. "And perhaps in the winter,
you might find time to leave the farms and visit me here."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps," John smiled at the idea, "You could

spend the winter with me." He could picture it now, lying
warm in William's arms while the snow fell on the fields
outside.

William could clearly picture it as well. He embraced John

to him. This time, it was John who kissed him, a long, deep
kiss that nevertheless reminded him of that quick surprising
peck William had given him the last time they'd separated.

The next morning, he got his horse from the stables and

left. As he rode away from London, John wondered what he
would tell his mother when she asked about court. That it
wasn't quite to his liking, he decided, and that he was glad to
be home. It was the truth. And, he thought, he would also tell
her that, while there was no chance of him getting married in

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the near future, he was as happy now as he ever had been in
his life.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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The Cock and the Jewel

By Sean Michael
He tugged on his labret, rolling his eyes as another set of

sorority tits walked in, all halter tops and bare bellies. Great.
Navel rings for all. Idiots.

Axe sighed and wandered up to the front, waiting for the

inevitable questions—does it hurt? How long until it heals?
Will it bleed?

He hated Friday nights.
"Perk up, Axey. That's your bread and butter, huh?" Jackie

chuckled, her eyes looking shockingly blue in her tattooed
face.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. God, knows I need it, especially

now." Thomas had walked out, what? Three months ago?
Four?

"I need something more traditional," he'd said. "Someone

who can be seen in public. Someone with ambition. Someone
grown up."

Fucker.
Like a suit could give that man what he had.
Still...
Axe shook it off, going to work—answering questions about

the jewelry, the metal, aftercare. Showing the piercing in the
plastic cock, the model pussy. Clit. PA. Guiche. Nipples.
Tongue. You name it; he'd pierced it.

His spiel got four out of six belly buttons pierced and got

him the last bit of rent for this month. Go him.

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"You okay, honey?" Alba, Jackie's pretty little Latina

chickie-mama, came over and wrapped one arm around his
waist, dark eyes watching the shop as the crowd thinned out.

"Yeah. Yeah, just tired. Hate..."
"Fridays," they said together.
Jackie snorted from where she was working on a muscled

shoulder. "Fridays are money in the bank, you two. Axe, you
just need to get laid."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
He probably did and, God knew, he could get some—he

wasn't Frankenstein or nothing, just a freak—but he just ...
hell, his last one night stand had become a three year thing
and he wasn't ready for something else like that. Nowhere
near ready.

The little bell over the door rang, and both Jackie and Alba

stared.

Axe looked up, blinked. "Fuck me."
Thomas Andrew Wilkerson the Third in all his six foot

three, blond yuppie glory. "Is that what you want?" Tom
asked.

"Huh?" What the hell? "What are you doing here? I mailed

the stuff you asked for."

"Yeah, well, the stuff wasn't what I wanted." Those bright

green eyes looked right at him, right into him.

"Get out of here, man." Alba stood up, short, spiky hair

bristling. "Haven't you upset him enough?"

Thomas ignored her, just kept pinning him to the spot with

those God damned beautiful eyes. "Look, Axe. Can we get out
of here?"

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"I..." It was midnight-thirty. He was off. Thomas knew

that. "Yeah. Whatever you have to say, it doesn't need to
bother the customers."

Alba touched his arm. "Are you sure, Jefe?"
"Yeah. Yeah, he can't hurt me." Not any more than the

fucker already had.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Axe."
Fuck a duck sideways, Thomas still had that sexy rumble

to his voice that did something to his insides. He didn't know
what to say, so he didn't. He grabbed his bag, locked his
jewelry cabinet and said, "See you tomorrow, guys."

"Call us if you need us."
"I will." He wouldn't.
Thomas pushed his hands into his pockets and fell into

step with Axe as they left the shop. "Our—your place?"

"No. We'll go to Modrian's and have a coffee." He didn't

want to be alone with Thomas, not yet.

Thomas sighed, but nodded, and they turned right on

Sampson, heading for the little cafe.

"So ... how's the job?" He wasn't going to let the silence

spread; he could make conversation, God damn it.

"It's work. Yours is going well, from what I saw."
"Yeah. I can pay the bills; I still have the loft."
Thomas held the door open for him, and then pulled out

his chair. "I'm glad, Axe. I know you love that apartment."

"Yeah. Where're you staying?" He nodded to the little

waitress. He'd done her tongue piercing. "Iced coffee with a
shot of caramel, please."

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"Double tall latte, please." Thomas waited until she'd gone

before answering. "The Fairmont Hotel."

"Hotel, huh?" Okay, that was weird. Maybe it was

something yuppies did.

"I couldn't find anything I liked. And trust me, I looked.

They all..." Thomas shrugged. "Were missing something."

He wasn't quite sure what to say. Life sucked? "What do

you want, Thomas?"

Thomas' mouth twisted into a smile. "Cards on the table,

right, Axe?" That smile faded. "You, babe. I want you."

"Since when?" He knew better. He was a late-night,

downtown freak. Someone you couldn't take to corporate
functions. Someone you didn't want to take golfing. A jackass
with a Master's degree and a job in a piercing parlor.

"Since I've been looking and dating and not finding anyone

who's you. Except for, you know, you."

"You didn't want me." He'd been there for the breakup, at

least most of it.

In body.
Sort of.
Thomas snorted. "I didn't know what I wanted then."

Leaning forward, Thomas covered his hand. "I thought I
wanted you in a different package. It took me months to
realize that the package was a part of you."

"Bullshit. Did you try girls? Poultry?" He didn't move his

hand away, though.

"Poultry?" Thomas actually chuckled softly. "That's almost

as weird as choosing you."

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He fought his grin. He wasn't ready to laugh with Thomas,

not yet. "Almost. I'm less feathery."

"On the whole." Thomas winked and squeezed his hand.

"Seriously, though, Axe. I missed you."

"You shouldn't have left."
"Maybe not, but if I hadn't, I wouldn't have realized what I

had." Christ, Axe never could withstand those green eyes
when Thomas turned that pleading look on him.

"Fuckhead." His tongue worked his labret, the spike in his

bottom lip wiggling and shifting like it always did when he
was worrying. Thinking. Whatever.

"I am. I'm an asshole, Axe. But I'm the asshole who wants

you."

He looked over, meeting those pretty eyes. "Yeah? Or are

you the one who couldn't find anything better?" If he'd
learned anything through this—and Axe wasn't one hundred
percent sure he had—it was that he didn't want to be
anyone's consolation prize, the one they settled for.

"You think I couldn't find dates? I had an underwear model

in the palm of my hand. This rich stud who'd just inherited
millions wanted to be my sugar daddy." Thomas shook his
head. "I had plenty to choose from, but none of them were
what I wanted."

He blinked. Stared. "A sugar daddy? For you?" Oh, God.

No one loved working like Thomas. No one. He started
laughing, leaning back as their drinks came.

Thomas beamed at him. "Nobody laughs like you, Axe.

Hell, nobody loves like you. Nobody looks like you. You're one
of a kind and I was a fool not to see you for the treasure you

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really are. I'd take you over a dozen sugar daddies and a
handful of models."

"Your cock'd fall off if you had to keep all of them happy."

God, this was the best iced tea ever.

It was Thomas' turn to laugh, and when that faded,

Thomas covered his hand again. "Tell me what I need to do to
come back."

"I don't know." He went with honesty. "I just got my shit

back together, got things to where it wasn't all about being
tore up."

"That's just surviving, Axe. I can make it good. Let me

come home and prove it to you."

"And when your boss invites you to supper and tells you to

bring your partner?" He knew Thomas couldn't bring him—he
knew that—but Thomas had to know that he wouldn't be
replaced with a pretty boy in a three hundred dollar haircut
for parties and golf.

"I'll tell him you can't make it and I'll be attending on my

own. I don't want to change you, Axe. How you are—that's
what I want. I know that now. I do. I swear."

"I want to believe you. That probably makes me a fucking

idiot..."

"No, it makes me damn lucky."
"It makes you something, all right." Axe tilted his head,

waggling his labret again, tongue piercing clicking against it.
"You're sure you just don't miss my Prince Albert?"

"Oh, that's a part of it. Not to mention that tongue piercing

on my cock." Thomas moaned appreciatively. "But that's not
the whole of it."

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"Well, I need to know all of it, because I was still loving

you when you left to find something better. I deserve the
whole of it." His anger finally came, and he was surprised that
it was now that it hit him. "You basically told me I wasn't
good enough for normal people, for you, for the suits, so,
damn it. I want to know, now. I want to know why I'm good
enough now."

Thomas' answer was quiet, the man looking at his drink.

"Because maybe it wasn't you who wasn't good enough, Axe."

He sat back, stared. "What does that mean?"
"It means I know I was an asshole, and I know the person

who screwed up here was me. And it took me nearly six
fucking months to figure that out. That makes me the idiot,
Axe, not you. I was too stupid to know what I had. Too much
of an idiot to hold onto the man I loved."

"Yes." He finished his drink and nodded. "You are. Good

thing you have about twelve hours to seduce my fine ass and
get me back."

"Twelve hours." Thomas gave him a long, hot look. "I can

work with that."

He looked at his watch. "Eleven hours, fifty-nine minutes

and thirty eight seconds, now."

Thomas leaned across the table and planted a kiss on him,

right there in the middle of the cafe. His eyes flew open,
staring into green. Then he pushed forward, tongue pushing
into Thomas' mouth. Thomas grabbed hold of it and began to
suck, tongue playing with his piercing.

"Guys! Get a room!" One of the baristas threw a towel at

them and it landed on his shoulder.

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Thomas sucked on his tongue a moment longer, and then

teased his labret before backing off. "Take me home, Axe."

"Yeah. Yeah, come on." He threw the towel back, grinning

wide. "Come home, man. Show me what you got."

Thomas stood and tossed a few bills on the table before

holding a hand out to him.

He took it, fingers holding on tight. "If this is a fairy tale,

man, I don't want to know it."

"I don't know of any fairy tales with a tattooed and pierced

man in them." Thomas' fingers squeezed his, not letting go as
they headed to the loft.

The streets were still busy—the bar hoppers heading for

pancakes or burgers or enchiladas or something, the bands
playing their last sets. The walk to the loft, though, it didn't
seem to take any time, and Axe was glad. He didn't want to
have to think about this for very long. He didn't want to think
about it for very long at all.

Thinking wasn't his strong suit.
He let Thomas in, knowing his lover would be surprised

that it was clean, that he hadn't trashed it. Hell, he'd
redecorated and shit. Painted.

"The place looks good, babe." Thomas was looking right at

him as he said it, though.

"I haven't started on the bedroom, yet."
"Funny, that's exactly where I want to start." Thomas

grabbed him by the waist and hauled him up against that trim
body. It still felt good. Hot and solid and weirdly right, even
when it had gone so wrong. Tilting Axe's chin up, Thomas

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began to drop kisses on his face, tongue coming out to taste
his labret.

"I haven't decided to forgive you yet." He moaned, cock

aching in his loose cargo pants.

"You will. I have twelve hours."
"Eleven and some." Confident asshole.
"Uh-huh." Another flick of Thomas' tongue slid across his

labret and then that tongue was in his mouth, Thomas kissing
him hard. He moaned, hands finding the soft, short hair,
holding Thomas close. "God, you're something else." Thomas
pushed their mouths together, tongue slipping between his
lips again.

"Less talking, more seducing." He chuckled, wrapping his

lips around Thomas' tongue, sucking hard.

One of Thomas' hands landed on his ass, squeezing, and

then he was walked over to the wall, pushed up against it.

Oh, better. Much better. "Have. Have a new piercing."

Come find it.

Thomas pulled out of the kiss, looking into his eyes.

"Where?" Before he could answer, Thomas started tugging at
his clothes.

Axe leaned back and watched, letting himself be a little

proud of how badly Thomas seemed to want him, need him.

Thomas got his shirt open and pushed off his shoulders,

fingers sliding down over his chest to play with his nipple
rings. "Not these. I remember these." Thomas tugged one
and twisted the other.

"N ... no. No. Not those. They're still mine." And sensitive.

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Thomas grinned and leaned in to take one into his mouth,

tongue curling around it, tugging some more.

"Fuck." His head cracked against the wall and his inked

hands reached out, touching pale skin.

"Yeah, yeah, that's coming. I gotta find the new jewelry

first." Thomas slowly went to his knees, kissing all the way
down, lips hot on skin like a fucking fire. A fire was starting in
him, all right.

"Navel's still not pierced." He did enough of those; he

didn't need one.

"I noticed. I like it as it is." Thomas' tongue swirled around

his navel, and dipped into it.

"Oh." His cock jerked, screaming, needing Thomas'

attention.

Thomas spent far too much time exploring his abs with

that hot tongue, but at last clever fingers began to work open
his belt.

His cock was leaking furiously, making his boxer—oh, God.
Oh, God.
He was wearing Thomas' boxers.
The pair he'd kept after.
Oh, fuck him.
Thomas tore open his cargo pants, hands stilling at the

sight of his boxers, fingers sliding on them.

A small smile dance across Thomas' lips as he looked up at

Axe. "These are mine."

"Yeah?" Fuck.
"Yes." Thomas' fingers hooked beneath the waistband and

the boxers were dragged down his legs. "So's this." One hand

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wrapped around his cock and Thomas' lips closed over the
ring of his PA, tugging on it.

His eyes felt like little coals, burning in his head, and his

throat was dry.

Finally letting the PA go, Thomas pressed kisses along his

cock, from tip to base. Suddenly, Thomas crowed. "Found it!"

The little barbell sat on the underneath of his cock, right

where it met the ball sac. "Called a frenum."

"Shit, Axe..." Thomas looked up at him, eyes intense.

"Have you fucked anyone with it yet?"

"No. No, I haven't been..." He wasn't a rebound guy. Hell,

he hadn't been interested in fucking for a bit, and then his
cock was healing, and then ... Well, fuck. Hadn't he just been
thinking about hunting some cock?

"Good." Thomas' fingers pushed back, searching for his

two guiche piercings, mouth diving in to worry the frenum.

Axe's prick ached, the tip leaking around the steel piercing

it. Thomas continued to play with the frenum before licking
his way back to the tip, taking it in between hot lips. Axe kept
jerking, going up and down on his toes. Thomas' hand
wrapped around his hips, encouraged him to push into the
hot mouth.

"Missed you. Asshole. I did." He had. So much.
"Mmmhmm." Thomas hummed around his cockhead,

tongue flicking at his PA.

He cock seemed to jerk with every lick, every jiggle. It was

making him fucking crazy, making him ache. Thomas sucked
and licked and played with his cock, with the PA and the
frenum, each touch just as crazy-making as the last.

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Then Thomas wrapped his fingers around Axe's hips and

tugged. He bucked in deep, focusing on fucking Thomas'
mouth, on taking what his lover offered, what he'd been
needing. Thomas opened wide and let him do it, eyes blazing
up at him.

"Love you, you bastard." His bastard.
The suction around his prick became harder, Thomas'

fingers digging into his hips. His ball sac went tight, the
frenum piercing pulling, tugging, pushing him over the edge.
Thomas swallowed over and over, throat caressing the tip of
his prick as the man took him in.

He slumped against the wall, blinking down, shuddering.

"Damn."

Thomas pulled away slowly, licking at the spunk that

dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Smug bastard.

He reached down, touched the long nose. "That might

have earned you a two hour extension."

"Just two hours? I'll take it." Thomas rubbed against his

hip. "If you'll take my ass."

"I'll take everything." Once he could get it up again.
"I'll hold you to that." Thomas' fingers played with his PA

and slid back to touch the frenum.

"Yeah." He hoped so. He honestly did.
"Nobody fills me like you do, Axe. No one."
"Good." He lifted Thomas' chin, shook the man a little. "No

one loves you like I can."

"I know." Thomas' voice was thick. "I know that now. Take

me back, Axe. You won't be sorry."

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"If you leave me again, I'll nail your dick to your

forehead."

"I'm not going anywhere, Axe, I swear." Thomas stayed

where he was on his knees, looking up. The man swallowed.
"I want to prove it to you. I want to wear your ring." Thomas
fished out a little, thin gold ring out of his pocket. "You can
choose where it goes."

"Oh..." He reached out, moaning a little bit. "Honestly?"

Right behind those pretty balls, where no one would see.

"Truly. Anywhere, Axe. I'll wear it for you wherever you

want."

Axe nodded. "I accept."
He held his hand out, helped Thomas up. Thomas kissed

him, holding tight to his hand, the ring caught between their
palms.

When the kiss ended, he whispered, "Behind your balls.

Somewhere only mine."

A shudder went through Thomas. "Yes, Axe. Please."
"Come home. You hate hotels."
"Just try and make me leave. We'll redo the bedroom

together." Thomas pressed close. "Thank you, Axe."

"Yeah. Just come on. Let's fuck and then go get something

good to eat, huh?"

"Whatever you want, Axe. As long as we do it together."
He was an idiot.
A total idiot.
Still, he was a happy idiot, and he'd take it.

[Back to Table of Contents]

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Contributors

Anah Crow
I've been writing for a very long time now; much of my

writing over that time has had queer characters, which makes
sense, because I'm queer as well. It's only in the last couple
years that I've been writing romance, though. I find writing
romance very relaxing. I never read much romance growing
up outside of classic literature, so I had no idea how
enjoyable it could be.

anahcrow.com
Misa Izanaki
Despite being born and raised in a very sunny part of the

world, Misa prefers dreary, rainy days to hot, sunny ones.
Mornings and static electricity are the banes of her existence
and she has a fondness for cats, squirrels, weird movies and
anime. Misa spends most of her free time curled up on the
couch typing away on her laptop with the food channel on as
background noise or lurking on the internet. When she's not
on her computer Misa can be found painting war game
miniatures, gaming or trying in vain to catch up with her
backlog of comics and books.

Winnie Jerome
Winnie Jerome lives in Northern California. She grew up as

a perpetual dreamer, aided by her voracious reading of
comics and fantasy books while she was growing up. She
spends her spare time writing, and has published "Yuppie

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Blues" (Torquere Press) and "A Special Dessert" for the
Iridescence: Sensuous Shades of Lesbian Erotica anthology.

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 temperamental Macintosh, drinking coffee, and dreaming
of thong-clad cabana boys. Sigh.

Clare London
Clare took the pen name London from the city where she

lives, loves, and writes. She juggles fiction with a frantic
family life and waits for the far distant day when she can
afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She's written
in many genres and across many settings, with short stories
published both online and in print anthologies. Most of her
work features male/male romance and drama, with a healthy
serving of erotica, as she enjoys both reading and writing
about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters. Clare
currently has three novels being published this year, is
working on submitting two more, and has plenty of other
projects in mind ... she just has to find out where she left
them amongst the frantic family life.

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

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gourd collection and fantasizing about one day retiring on a
small secluded island peopled entirely by horseshoe crabs.

Sean's stories have appeared in Bus Stories and Other

Tales and in the Shifting anthologies, as well as on Torquere
Press' Turn of the Screw. Novels include the popular Jarheads'
Series, the Going for the Gold series, Fine as Frog Hair and
The Center of Earth and Sky, Where Flows the Water, Second
Sight, Catching a Second Wind, the Eppie nominated The
Broken Road, Amnesia and many more. Check out his new
series Between Friends and the Hammer novels.

Rob Rosen
Rob Rosen is the author of Sparkle: The Queerest Book

You'll Ever Love and the forthcoming Divas Las Vegas, and
has contributed, to date, to more than fifty anthologies. His
erotic fiction is often found in MEN and Freshmen magazines.
Please email him at robrosen@therobrosen.com or visit him
at www.therobrosen.com.

Angelia Sparrow
Angelia Sparrow has written a number of short stories and

novels, both alone and with Naomi. She is a truck driver,
living quietly in the mid-South with a husband, four kids and
two insane cats. She enjoys science fiction conventions,
reading and crochet.

GS Wiley
I'm a writer, reader, teacher, traveler, sometime painter

and semi-avid scrapbooker who lives in Canada. I have a
fantastic husband, who indulges me in all these pastimes, and
makes a mean omelette while he's at it.

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