The Artifact of Foex (19 page)

Chet obeyed, shaking. He wanted Fenimore’s
penis inside him. Chet suddenly remembered that they didn’t have
any condoms, but he didn’t want to stop now. Truly, he didn’t. He
especially didn’t want to go banging on Othnielia’s door and ask
for condoms, his cock sticking up like a spike beneath the skirt.
Othnielia probably didn’t even have any; she didn’t need them,
after all. Besides, what venereal disease could Fenimore have that
was so bad? Modern medicine had undoubtedly far outstripped any
73rd century plague.

Fenimore rose and retrieved the bucket,
uncovering it as he returned. Chet caught a whiff of doedicu lard.
“You’re going to be a filthy little girl when I’m done with you,”
Fenimore murmured.

Chet felt Fenimore lift his skirt as cool air
wafted between his legs. Chet wiggled involuntarily, his dick
popping out of the feminine underwear once again. Fenimore swatted
him on the ass, and Chet squealed.

“Stay contained,” Fenimore ordered, tucking
him back in. Chet almost came in his hands, gasping. Fenimore’s
fingers lingered on his buttocks, still covered by the underwear,
rubbing Chet up and down. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your cock inside me.” The words burst
out of him without checking in with the shocked part of his brain,
the rational side. Chet felt exhilarated and powerful. He’d never
before experienced this freedom, and he might not get another
chance.

“You are a slattern,” Fenimore chuckled. “A
little whore. Do you really want me to do a kindness to you?”

Do a kindness?
Maybe it was an
anachronism for fuck. “Yes, sir.”

“Ah, that’s my good girl. You’ve finally
acknowledged me as your lord and master, eh? Such a sweet anuro. I
think I shall have you after all.” Fenimore let go of his ass with
his left hand, moving the underwear to one side with his right. A
greasy finger found Chet’s ass, and Chet moaned, bearing down. The
finger slipped inside him. The grease was both absolutely
disgusting and the most sexual sensation Chet had ever experienced.
Not that he’d felt many, but still. Fenimore greased him
thoroughly, like a railroad engine.

“Oh sir, fuck me hard. Please fuck me.
Do
me a kindness,” Chet moaned. His cock slipped out once
again, but Fenimore didn’t put it back. Chet could feel the front
of the skirt against his dick, the underwear hem tight around his
scrotum.

“Am I to fill your burning shame, doxy?”
Fenimore’s tone was low, alluring. He grabbed Chet’s underwear and
pulled it down to his knees, trapping them together.

Ew.
Burning shame?
Probably another
anachronism, this one not nearly as sweet, but Chet was still
aching to play along. “I’d give
anything
for you to fill
me.”

“Perhaps I shall accommodate your base,
hysteric lust, then. Spread your legs further and show off your
civet. Wider. Wider. Good, like that. Common slut.”

Fenimore spat, and Chet felt the wad his hit
back, through the blouse. He half turned, shocked to be treated
with such contempt, but Fenimore mounted him and drove inside. Chet
shrieked, his high-pitch tone sounding girly even in his own
ears.

It was like being fucked by a machine.
Fenimore took him hard, without reprieve, plunging deep inside.
Chet groaned at the pain, feeling terribly feminine in the
clothing. He really could feel himself become a whore for Fenimore:
power of suggestion was nothing compared to being encompassed in
the blouse, the fabric of the skirt, the bra clinging to his chest.
And like a woman, Chet was disappointed when Fenimore came less
than a minute after entering him.

“That wasn’t much,” he said, sprawled beneath
Fenimore. “Thought you’d have more in you,
sir
, with all
your talk.”

Fenimore grabbed Chet’s hair and pinned his
head to the hay. “Just for that, girl, I’m going to stay inside you
until I’m hard again.”

Chet frowned. He was compressed and splayed
in this position. Surely Fenimore didn’t mean—? He did. Minutes
passed as the man lay on top of him, wiggling just a little,
apparently enjoying the position of ascendency. Chet had all the
time in the world to regret his dive into the obscene. Despite
everything, he was still aroused. Fenimore reached around and
grabbed the persimmons still bound by the bra, squeezing them. Chet
bore his touch, his own dick so hard it quivered. He wondered why
he hadn’t come, why he didn’t come now. Perhaps the clothing was
once again responsible for his restraint? If he’d been naked, he
would have shot off just like that, but somehow he couldn’t quite
come as a woman.

“You’re not very impressive anymore.”

“If you bait me, you should know what you
get,” Fenimore breathed in his ear. He reached into the low cut
blouse and removed a persimmon, then pinched Chet’s nipple. Chet
squeaked and writhed. Fenimore chuckled. “Finally got a reaction
from you, doxy.”

“Did you used to do this often?” Chet asked
breathlessly. His ass felt wide open, at the mercy of the
half-erect man bearing down on him.

“Often enough. I best loved taking apart
young fops new to court. Old bessies would hover over the girls
during their coming out; they’d be guarded and locked day and
night. But no one cared to hover over young men. They were
especially sweet if they thought themselves the highest lords of
Uos, swaggering drunk from one tavern to another. I could take that
type all day.”

“What about women?”

“Of course women. Whores by the boatload,
naturally, and sometimes I had an older widow with multiple assets
and a wet, ready civet. That’s how I started, you know. Older women
with assets.”

Chet frowned critically, trying to match up
what he knew from his studies against Fenimore’s claims. It was
really too bad he hadn’t taken Clementina’s class about that period
in Tache history. “Didn’t you ever marry? I thought it was almost a
requirement back then.”

Fenimore sighed. “They tried to drown me with
a wife once. She was young and attractive. I carefully ruined her
with my attentions, then lent her out to friends and sundry until
she found a man who fit her better than I ever could. She learned
to play the game rather well, I’m proud to say. Such a good
student. I was quite sorry when she died in childbirth last... um.
Three hundred and half a year ago.”

“That’s despicable,” Chet said, scowling. He
wanted to climb out from under Fenimore, but he could barely move
in this position.

“Oh, it’s far better to be despicable than
boring. My love life is—was—considered absolutely notorious at
court,” Fenimore said congenially. “That way my other activities
are well covered.”

“You snooped for your prince, didn’t you?”
Chet said, thinking back to what Knife had said. Knife had called
Fenimore a “colleague," and Knife was almost certainly a spy.

“Snooped?” Fenimore seemed confused.

“Um. You were a spy? An intelligencer.”

Fenimore shifted his weight—uneasily, Chet
realized. “It seems my past is more uncovered than I’d
thought.”

“Well, Knife said you and she were
colleagues. And I just assumed...”

“Ah, Knife.” Fenimore breathed a sigh of
obvious relief. “I see. Yes, of course she would insinuate
that.”

Chet wondered if the man would fuck him
again, or if they would continue lingering here conjoined like
mating insects. “I’m growing tired,” he said, tightening his aching
ass muscles to emphasize the point.

“Good thing I am not.” Fenimore began moving
atop him. He lifted himself off and pulled Chet closer at the same
time, so they were still connected, then fucked him at a leisurely
pace.

Chet felt wide open, wider than he’d ever
been in his life. The underwear was somehow gone from his knees. He
gasped when Fenimore reached around and grabbed his cock, stroking
up with a light touch. Chet thrust backwards, aroused once again.
Fenimore laughed and took him at a swifter pace. This time Chet
wasn’t overwhelmed—he found that he preferred the rougher fucking.
It felt better, the thumping against his ass reverberating through
him with fantastic pressure. He came without warning, spurting
messily all over the skirt. Fenimore bore down on him, coming with
shuddered gasps.

Chet struggled away from the man, determined
to break free. He heard an audible
pop
as his anus was
released, and Fenimore didn’t hold him back.

“Oh, Pantheon,” Chet groaned. “I don’t think
I’ll ever be tight again.”

“Yes, you will,” Fenimore predicted. “You
will be tight, and I’ll rend you open once again. That, or I’ll
lend you to another man who’ll do the work for me.”

Chet frowned. “I’m not your wife.” Blouse,
skirt and bra to the contrary.

Fenimore grinned at him. Apparently spotting
something in the hay, he lifted up a ruined twist of the pink
underwear. It was torn asunder. “You’re rough on clothing, little
girl. What will Saemion say?”

“She would say it’s time you two came down
and ate midday,” Othnielia said, sticking his head through the
ladder hole. Chet almost buried himself in the hay head first, he
was so embarrassed. “Here, Chet,” he said, tossing in a bundle.
“Now that you and Fenimore have had your fun, perhaps you’d prefer
something more suitable to your preferences.”

“Thank you,” Chet called as Othnielia
disappeared.

“Abyss, I’m hungry. Guess I’ll have to whip
you another time.”

Chet shrugged, still distracted by
Othnielia’s appearance.
He, or, um, she didn’t turn a hair—if
she’d had any,
Chet thought. Fenimore was putting himself back
together; he wiped himself down with the torn underwear and buried
it deep in the hay. Chet snorted. Othnielia would probably find it
mid-winter, frozen solid. Repayment for her kind hospitality, Chet
was afraid.

He bundled the rest of the soiled women’s
clothing together and descended the ladder, Fenimore following.
Chet found himself mulling over Fenimore’s earlier words, disturbed
at the images they invoked. There was no way Fenimore would be
lending
him to anyone. Chet had chosen to explore this
bizarre and riveting sexual world once, but he could stop any time
he chose. Right? He was a free man despite their little games.

Midday was a hearty meal, featuring a doedicu
roast with gravy and mashed parsnips. Othnielia turned to Chet
while they were eating. Chet braced himself for questions regarding
his sexual adventures, wincing inside.

Instead, Othnielia said, “I understand you’re
studying for your Ph.D. in archaeology, Chet. Have you dedicated
yourself as an affiliate to Philapo, yet?”

Chet swallowed a suddenly dry bite of
home-baked bread. It went down like ashes in his mouth. “Uh. No,
good Flame. I’m unaffiliated and intend to remain that way.”

The usual startled looks around the table
followed this statement. Chet was used to them by now.

Journey said, “I’d assumed you were waiting
to become Literati for some reason.”

“I don’t see the need.”

“Are your family atheists?” Othnielia asked.
“We have a clan of atheists a few miles away, bunking down and
waiting for the end of the world. While I admire their survivalist
attitude, I find myself dubious as to their goals.”

Knife chuckled under his breath. “I’m dubious
as to atheists’ grasp on reality.”

Chet agreed readily with this assessment:
atheists on Uos were a paranoid lot with reason. They were alone in
their assertion that the Pantheon were not really gods at all, but
evil space aliens with too much power, playing with humans like
children with toys. Some sects believed that there were no higher
beings, while others argued that there was a bigger god somewhere
in the universe who had originally created everything, including
the Pantheon. Chet could only be glad he hadn’t fallen in among a
group of such weirdoes and kooks.

He cleared his throat. “No, good Flame. My
father is a dedicated Merchant, and my mother is the only
non-hereditary Scientist among my aunts and uncles on that side.
All six of my sisters have dedicated themselves as Acia Nuns. My
two older brothers have followed in my father’s footsteps as
Merchants, carrying on our family business.”

People were staring in earnest now, even
Fenimore. “All
six
of your sisters dedicated themselves to
Acia?” Othnielia said.

Chet nodded glumly. “My youngest sister
dedicated herself last midwinter. You could say my family is highly
affiliated.”

“You must feel like the odd man out when you
go home,” Journey observed.

Chet shrugged, playing with the remaining
food scraps on his plate. “Yeah.”

“How do you intend to pursue a teaching
career without dedicating yourself to Philapo?” Journey said. “The
Literati University System isn’t partial to the unaffiliated,
though you are the population majority. They don’t like
us
teaching, even in more congenial locales than Wetshul. Do you plan
to teach at an independent city or city-state university?”

“I don’t know,” Chet said, downcast. “My
father keeps threatening to stop paying tuition and drag me home by
the collar, but... the past holds so much. I feel it on my
shoulders, like a weight. If I didn’t study history, I think I’d
drown under that weight.”

The Flame at the table exchanged looks. “The
past is the past,” Othnielia said, rising to gather empty plates.
“Mostly it’s like layers of rock, pressed stratum of events piled
atop one another.”

Someone knocked at the door, and Masie rose
to answer it, greeting the neighbor on the step. She closed the
door behind her to speak to her friend; Chet could hear them
conferring in undertones outside.

Journey was frowning deeply, gazing at Chet
as if she wished she could see through him. “Chet... before I, um,
took the initiative the other day to rid you of your virginity, did
you... were you...” She gulped and looked away. “What I’m trying to
say is, when you held a lit match or lighter to your fingers,
could
you burn?”