Disclaimer:This is a work of gay-themed fiction with explicit sexual themes; if you are not legaaly permitted to read such material or are offended by it, please leave now. I reference real pieces of artwork and artist, I am not sponsoring or advertising these works or artist, nor am I affiliated with them in any way. Any characters who resemble real people are purely by coincidence, and certain names may be references to contemporary individuals or properties.
Chapter II Warp Space Route: Ginna to Sayfaam Estimated Warp Time of Journey: 9 Hours, 1 hour remaining
I guess I was more tired than I thought, because I slept for most of them journey. I check that the Etoile's autopilot is set to exit warp space when we enter planetary orbit. I do a review of the systems and see that they're all fully functional; fuel's a little under half, so I'll have to remember to find a station at some point. But all in all everything seems in order and I'll be home soon enough.
I lean back in my seat wondering if I should put on music or a podcast to pass the time. A sudden jolt in my dick makes me realize I started unconsciously rubbing myself, and in a few seconds I am hard. I'm the kind of hard where it's actually a little painful to touch, but then again I haven't cum for over a day despite getting two other guys off. I don't really have anything better to do, so I continue jerking my slab of meat. I'm not edging or trying to blow my load as much as I am going through the motions of masturbation; like a teen half awake in the early morning, jacking off only because biology tells them that's what needs to be done. It's weird because I want to cum, but I can't really focus on it. Something in the back of my mind keeps pulling at my thoughts.
I wonder if calling Rodriguez in advance was a bad idea. Benny is cowardly, but he's the last person to run from a beat down (especially when he knows he deserves it) and even if he did hide, Li would tell me where he went anyways. Benny isn't really a concern. I start to think about how the Etoile was scratched; did something run into it while they were towing it or was that hot mechanic just really dumb? Wouldn't be a surprise if he was an idiot and Slin just kept him around so he had something nice to look at when he couldn't get laid. And thinking of Slin, how did a cheap crook like him ever afford a hangar that big? As crappy as it was, it could hold at least forty ships and he also owned a small port on top of that. Who am I kidding? Slin didn't own any of that, some mob boss left that scumbag in charge of a small part of their operation. Mobsters love the Slins of the galaxy; ruthless and petty enough to run a crime racket, but spineless enough not to reach too far above their station.
I wonder how much trouble Slin will be in when his boss finds out he lost a Penetrator. From his phone call with mechanic boy, the boss does not sound like the forgiving type, but would he really expect the owner to just lose it and think `oh well, I'll just get another one'? No fucking way was I leaving my handsome man behind, not even if you offered me twenty Class V Penetrators. I'm not giving my baby up for anything, and he's getting fixed as soon as we get get home. My man takes care of me, it's only fair I take care of him. My mind is consumed by these stray thoughts, grasping at something so important yet just out of reach.
For forty minutes my arm acts like a robotic appendage on the assembly line, pumping until someone shuts the power off. It's so boring my eyelids close in preparation for a sleep; but my mind is too active to slumber in despite what my body says. On my computer I activate the vibrate function on my "backdoor seat restraint". I found out a while ago that Le Putain Quotidien's Lifestyle Podcast and Sudoku can only do so much to pass a long warp jump, and when you're alone, sometimes your body will supply its own entertainment but even that needs a little help every now and again.
"Oh, Fuck!" I gasp. My mind is dragged away from its frustrated pondering and focuses on the frenetic pleasure being put on my rectum. My prostate is crying out in agonizing ecstasy, pleading for further attention. My hips lifts off the seat and slam back down, the pleasure increasing with each bounce of my butt on the satin cushion. Once fully in the throes of sexual pleasure, I dig through memories of porn videos, erotica, old flings, and wet dreams, putting myself into those scenarios of raw uninhibited fucking to bring this joy ride to a big finish.
I first picture the opening of Butt Pirates V: Captain Ramrod's Revenge, where the eponymous pirates fuck a yacht full of fancy rich boys traveling to a resort planet. It is one of the worst in the series; the plot is stolen from II and there are so many orgies that none of them are even special, but the first scene is a masterwork of pornography. The brutality of the pirates and the sincere looks of discomfort and fear on the victim's faces made it that much hotter, one of TPM's best shots ever taken (I think the description of the film states that most of the rich guys were played by first time bottoms to give it authenticity). Unfortunately the atrocious dialogue and cheesy one-liners pop into my head, killing the mood, so I try to think of something else.
There was this story in Le Putain Quotidien's True Encounters section, where one editor wrote about his experience at a Ryujin spa. He was getting a full body massage from an Owata masseuse which quickly turned into a steamy fuck session as the masseuse's tentacles started massaging around his butt and then in the guy's hole. I've never been with an Owata but from what I've seen online as well as the stories from people who've been to Ryujin, it's an intense experience. I pump my cock even harder as I imagine I'm in that studio, getting suspended in the air by tentacles with python strength as the muscled massage therapist sticks his long tongue up through my love chute, large hands caressing my bottom getting it ready for a very intimate massage. The fantasy eventually fades; I find it too hard to immerse myself in it when I'm in a cramped ship traveling through warp space rather than spread eagle in midair at an ocean resort (I wonder if the money I'll get from Benny will be enough for a vacation).
Fuck, I am right there! I am violently jacking off, my dildo turns to its highest setting as I slam down on it, but I just can't reach a climax. Then I remember Taylor, oh fuck, do I remember Taylor. Luscious black hair cascading down his shoulders to crown a perfectly regal face, holding dark alluring eyes that swore to give the most sinful and decadent pleasures the universe could conceive. A sensual Baritone pours from plump lips concealing perfect, shining teeth and a tongue more dexterous than the most talented acrobats. A body that looks like it was chiseled from the finest marble, every fiber of muscle perfectly sculpted into a form that embodied strength and gentleness; flesh dyed a light tan olive, decorated by a dusting of dark hair over his person. His ass was exquisite, practically made of steel, and his cock was perfect; thick and long, complimented by heavy balls and perfectly suited to fuck me. Fuck, I wish he was real (the more I think about, the more I realize that I basically became Taylor, but a bottom and maybe just a bit hotter).
When I started secondary school and began to show a sexual interest in men (I'm pretty sure I knew I was strictly gay when I was very young, but I didn't really think about men sexually at that point), Taylor was my first wet dream, first crush, and the first guy I wrote about in my journals. Looking back, I'm pretty sure I meshed together features from various celebrities, porn stars, video game characters, hot teachers, sexy neighbors, and some of my dad's friends into my own personal sex idol. He was my perfect lover and ideal partner...well actually I don't think I ever gave him a consistent personality and I never had a fantasy about him where he didn't start plowing me within the first five minutes. Sometimes he was sensual and other times he was rough or even sadistic, but he really just appeared when I wanted to be fucked (I take it back, he was my ideal boyfriend).
Even in my early adulthood, Taylor is always able to make me cum. Right now I'm imagining that my ass is hitting against Taylor's strong thighs instead of seat. We're stuck in warp space and he's violently pounding my ass in my own ship, never giving my hole a rest. He whispers in my ear that he won't stop for the whole duration of the jump. He gloats that because of the Lorentz factor in warp time, he's technically been fucking me for hours, telling me if I want to I can change course and he can fuck me for a full week. He knows I want to because I'm fucking horny slut; I slam down onto his cock and hit my prostate hard.
"Taylor!" I moan "Taylor, oh fuck Taylor! Fuck me Taylor." He leans back in the seat, telling me to jack off his cock for him like the whore I am. As I bludgeon my butt against his pelvis, he continues to tease me, calling me the biggest slut in the galaxy, tells me my only reason for becoming a Star Runner is because it helps me become the sluttiest cum dumpster of all time. It was true, at least for that moment it was true. For Taylor I would be a filthy cum slut, a cock sleeve who needed every man to use it whenever they wanted.
I shout "Taylor fuck me!" and suddenly the dildo got a sudden jolt in energy or something because it rattles so wildly that it feels like my prostate is going to explode. The shock causes me to fall back onto the sex toy, which in turn causes me to shoot no less than ten thick ropes of gooey cum onto my window and console, literally the moment my ship leaves warp space. It's a good thing my fall secured me onto the toy or the exit might have sent my head through the window currently painted with my seed. It looks like someone threw a thick vanilla shake on my window (not a bad euphemism). Behind the white cream plastered on my view window, I can make out the blue and green orb of Sayfaam, a scattered trail of ships traveling from the planets surface to the lunar one and vice-versa. I'm home.
I transmit my credentials to Sayfaam Space & Air Control. When I receive the "go ahead" signal, I aim my ship towards the northern continent, where New Ny is probably getting into the seventh hour of the morning. My ship quickly descends through the exosphere and down through the troposphere, the skyscrapers of New Ny comes into view (don't expect me to comment too much on the scenery. If you see one New Ny, you've seen them all. Nothing compares to the original). I pass over the city, following along the river's delta and over all the air traffic buzzing around it like wasps around their hive, only lowering my altitude when I'm near the suburbs bordering the Garrett river. About 4 kilometers away from the city, a river Island comes into view. It's beautiful with lush foliage covering the hills around the surface, small veins of fresh water form from clear ponds, descending to either fill the Garrett or create new pools. Swaths of wildflowers dot along the grass, their colors contrasted against the white rocks of the cliffs and the pale pebble beaches that skirt the boundary of the island. Towards the center of the island built into the rocky base of one of the cliffs is what appears to be a long slab of metal slab. Further inspection will reveal a door and shuttered windows built into the face of the slab as well as a garage door with a metal path leading out to a small landing platform where the Etoile is about to take his well-deserved rest.
I open the cockpit and jump out sighing "Fuck it's good to be home." I grab my pistol, phone, wallet, and DICs from the pilot's seat, before closing the Etoile. I put my hand on the door's bio-metric scanner and enter the dull, purely functional shack my father built. I press the house control screen by the front door to turn on the lights and open the shutters, since the gray box becomes unnaturally dark without a light source. The place isn't what you'd call a shoe box, but even with the large space, the featureless metallic wall gives the impression that you're shoved into a compactor that could close in at any time. Kitchen and dining space on the right side, a recreation space, desk, and bedroom on the left (I only have a bedroom because I installed glass walls around the sleep space six months after I moved in). There are two doors in the bedroom, one connecting to the bath/shower/ laundry room, and the other to a closet. A door on the right of the bunker leads to the garage. I strip, put my things down on the bed, and fetch some body wash from the bathroom. I leave the bunker and circle the around the hill to where a waterfall cascades into a shallow pool, which barely comes up to my waist at its greatest depth.
I take off my boots at the door and enjoy the cool feeling of the soft grass on my feet while I inhale the scent of the river mixed with deciduous trees and flowers. The whisper of the stream harmonizing with the breeze through grass and leaves crescendos into the loud hush of the miniature falls. I try to bathe here as often as I can, its very...not spiritual, but psychologically soothing to me. My dad took me camping on this Island every school holiday, spending the days fishing, exploring the woods and traveling to New Ny whenever one of us was struck by the need for a livelier environment (but we'd always come back before the night was out to gaze up at the stars). I remember that I was six when it happened; we were walking around the island searching for nothing in particular, just wandering around for the sake of exploration, picnic supplies packed in case we got hungry. It was a hot day, though not very humid, and even though we were often in the shade of the trees we still worked up quite a sweat. We eventually made our way over to the falls and set up a blanket and campfire for a picnic and s'mores, but after gathering all the wood to spot by the pool we were slick with perspiration. Dad sad we would wash off before we started eating, but rather than head towards the bunker like I thought we would, he began stripping right there in front of me. I'd never seen him naked before that but I still think even as I did back then that my father was really good looking. He waded into the water and beckoned me to follow him under the falls. I was hypnotized by his nude body, I'm not sure how, but I managed to break my focus enough to strip down and follow him. I washed myself under the falls transfixed by his form, copying everything that he did.
Nothing happened between us of course (Sorry boys, this ain't that kind of story), we just cleaned ourselves, but as I continued to stare at my dad I realized that he was more than just good looking. His pecs, his abs, his biceps, his thighs, his butt, his penis and testes were all formed wonderfully and they fit together to build a being that could only be described as beautiful. Beautiful. My was father was beautiful. I know that sounds suspect but I swear I am not sexually attracted to my dad (men who look like him, is a different book entirely), I just, for the first time in my life, saw a fully grown, full exposed man and concluded that it was beautiful to me. We finished cleaning off and sat on the blanket, started the fire, ate our food in the buff and barely talked. In retrospect I think my dad knew that I was observing him and didn't really want to prod too much about my curiosity or put up any boundaries before they were needed. This was the day when I realized I was gay, when I knew that a male is the type of person a want to be with intimately (once again, not attracted to my father. He just helped me conclude that for a partner, I'd want something that vaguely resembles his body...I don't have an Electra complex you pervs!). I didn't have sexual desires but I knew that men were aesthetically more appealing. This was confirmed for me when I was flipping through channels on the TV and I turned to a porn channel that was showing a group of naked, big breasted sorority girls squirting whipped cream onto each other while kissing, teasing their breast and rubbing their vaginas and it didn't provoke a reaction (that's to say it didn't provoke a sexual reaction. Me screaming and sobbing in terrified confusion and running to my dad to tell him about the scary women on the TV is what some would consider a strong reaction... I'm guessing my dad knew I was gay pretty early in my life).
I walk through the water and wet myself under the falls, shivering from the shock of cold but I force myself to stay put knowing it will get better in a moment. The sunlight dances across the water in a lively ballet, ribbons of white gliding along the glassy surface. I get out from under the falls and build up a lather in my palms which I apply to my tanned body, starting with my arms, down my torso, my legs, and then my hair which was also saturated with a quite a bit of sweat. I create a new lather for my dick and ass which of course of deserving special attention. I soap up my genitals and ass, taking time to really clean out my hole which currently only has lube inside it, and I realize I haven't eaten anything in over a day. I'll probably get something at the Billie's Pub; Benny will probably give it to me on the house to soften the beating I'm going to give him (It won't but the free food will be nice).
I rinse myself under the falls and head back to the bunker. I put the soap back, lube up of hole (just in case), and I look through my closet to find my perfect "beat the shit out of my fixer" outfit. I grab a full body flight suit, basic black with navy blue accents and a combat belt with a holster. I pack up my DICs and wallet, holster my pistol, and put away my phone, I put on my boots and head into the garage. I walk through the largely empty chamber and hop onto my thrust bike, I unlock the systems with the bio-metric scanner I had installed last year, and the machine hums to life and lifts about thirty centimeters off the ground. I use the bike's console system to open the garage. Gripping the handles and pulling on the throttle, I shoot out of the garage and maneuver around the island before I hit the river.
I'm going about sixty kilometers, a line of small waves trailing behind me on my way to River Park. In ten minutes I'm zooming past metal and concrete spires emerging from the water, growing greater in number and choking out the sky. I reach the docks and turn onto a ramp leading into the burrow. River Park is one of those places that sounds like it should be nice but walking around you keep your hand on your money. Parks, trees, and lovely buildings form the bulk of the burrow, but there are very few police patrols and the ones you do see are as sketchy as a hot picture on a hookup app (though if you use a hookup app and don't spend at least five minutes investigating your matches, then you kind of deserve to be murdered). A large number of people walk the streets armed and it looks like everyone is giving you a side glance. To most River Park is unnerving but those in the know, can easily figure out this place is Star Runner central.
Well, unofficially it's "Star Runner central" since "The delinquent act colloquially known as `Star Running' promotes illegal activity and other offenses disruptive to society". The governement says their against Running, but anyone with half a brain knows that if politicians or the military can benefit from it, they'll turn their eyes from any "immoral activity". Most people living here aren't runners but they either don't care or do business with us, as long as they can make money and not have to worry about being shot. Normally with this many armed strangers I'd be ducking behind the nearest solid object, but there's an unspoken agreement between Runners, governments, gangs, businesses, and everyone else; when you're in a Runner's Art, you keep you're weapons holstered. Don't call a realtor thinking you'll be moving into a gated community, it's a silent agreement not an eternal oath of devotion. Shit happens. Violent, bloody shit (remember to tell your doctor if you are experiencing frequent violent, bloody shit). Gangs have shoot outs, jilted lovers try homicide as a cheap alternative to therapy, muggings and beat downs aren't unheard of, and basically every horrible thing you can think of happens every so often. It doesn't happen as much in Arts because sometimes you don't know who you're fucking with. Rob a ship or an apartment and you might be pissing off a runner with full ammo and lots of free time. You can try a con but hopefully it isn't on a fixer with a phone full of Runners they can send after you. And that's getting off easy. Runners get hired a lot from these safe havens, by clients on all sides of the law; you might be in an alley mugging a tourist with poor direction sense or it could be gang leader, a COO, or a princess with an execution-happy father (while not all of these have happened in River Park, they have happened in a Runner Art somewhere before).
Generally people understand not to start anything just in case, but it doesn't concern me when I pull up in front of Billie's because I know exactly who I'm fucking with and they fucked with me first. I park my bike on the corner, right at the door, and look up to see the flickering neon sign reading "Billie's Pub". I walk up to the door and wait ten seconds for the faulty motion sensors to register me, then walk into the dim, rusted bar. Booths line the perimeter each with tinted windows to look out of without being looked upon. Cushion-less stools surround the bar, empty but for one at the center corner. A stocky hairy, human has his face flat on the table and arms hanging on his side, the scent of cheap beer crawling all over him. A buzzer sounds a minute after I walk in.
From the kitchen I hear a low, croaking "Fuck!" and out walks a woman, arms sketched all over with tattoos and metal piercing her nose, eyebrows, and ears. She has on a simple black shirt and pub's logo on an apron. Her black painted lips and brown eyes are knitted into a weary scowl but they lighten when they see me (well, not so much lighten as becomes less hostile). She places her hand on the head of the drunk pushing until he topples backwards in muffled thump. He groans and sputters, arms weakly flailing at the floor trying to grab the air for support.
"Beat it, Frank" she says dryly.
The guy opens and closes his eyes in five second intervals and spits out "I can go hoe...is only...is only...I need a drink cause...you-you can tell me to goes...you opening late into the nigh...is too early to leave."
"It's early because it's ten in the morning. Leave."
His eyes stare blankly at the floor "Where...where is I supposed to go...when I needs me a drink?"
"Don't care. Try your ex-wife. Don't care which one. There's a guy here with actual money, and I don't need you scaring him off." Drunk guy makes three futile attempts to push himself off the floor before resigning to crawling along it.
He passes by me and turns to the girl saying "That's no guy...look that ass...that a nice girl with the-the...um...the big fat ass" (More proof if proof be needed that no guy is completely "straight". A nice mouth and fine ass are all any man needs to prove to Heterosexuals that swinging the other can be just as good as with a women. And when it's me the experience is always better). The drunk goes to leave but bangs his head on the door. When it does open he crawls out of Billie's and rolls onto his back, he lies there like a fresh corpse waiting for the detectives to comb through his crime scene.
"I heard your trip sucked" the girl says while lazily scrolling through her phone.
"Hi Jack" I mock "How are you? Do you need anything?"
"You're angry and you need to kick Benny's ass. Why do I need to ask you about stuff I already know?"
"It's courtesy, Li. It's helpful t quality to have in the service industry."
"You're one to talk about politeness."
"When have I ever been rude to you?"
"Have an hour to spare?"
"Li."
"And you're here to beat up Benny, a thing which some might call, not nice. Also, you know that when a guy says `jack off', half the time he's talking about you sneaking out ten minutes after sex?"
"Li."
"I'm not joking. Everyone in River Park uses it, even the five guys you haven't slept with."
"Li, where's Rodriguez?"
She tries to avoid my eyes, but she knows very well I'm not going anywhere until she gives me something. She locks gazes with me and gets a very serious look.
"Look, he got real scared after you called and he's laying low until you calm down. He's afraid you might do some real damage. I promised him I wouldn't tell you where he is until he gives the okay."
"Li."
"In the office. He was hoping you'd check the apartment so he could sneak out while you were up there" she brings out her phone and starts disinterestedly checking her social media.
From the back, towards the office I hear "Li! What the Hell!"
"Sorry, he was too persistent. He wore me down" she poorly defends herself.
I nod my head and march towards the back office. There's no need to pick the lock or break down the door because deep down Benny knows he deserves this. I walk into the office and Benny's simply standing there in the center, hands up; not hiding or fleeing or trying to shield himself because he knows exactly what's coming.
"Jack, hey. Good to see you man."
"Hi Benny! Ready to get the shit kicked out of you?"
I rush up and grab him by the collar, fabric stretching as I bring him up to my face and my fist locks into the perfect position for punching his nose flat. He puts his hands up and starts stuttering W's like a broken record.
He stutters "Wait-wait-wait! I know you're mad about your ship but-but, I can get it repaired tonight. Free of charge! Tonight!"
He points out to the bar "Li's a great mechanic. She worked at her Aunts' repair shop in Si Long."
"I'm not working for free" Li shouts from the floor.
"Come on, just this one favor. For me?"
"You'll pay me in a month or I'm kicking your ass."
"Can't win with either of you" he muttered under his breath "Okay! I'll pay you later! And Jack you'll get your ship repaired. Happy?"
"Very much so" I raise my fist to beat him.
He flinches "wait, wait, wait! I get it, you're tired, you've been out for days, it sucked, not that you've ever minded sucking" he thinks he muttered that part enough that I wouldn't hear. "So how about I get Li to make you dinner. Anything you want, free of charge. Drinks too!"
Li shouts again from the diner "I'm on break...And I want overtime."
"Gotta say you two are spit roasting me real fucking good. Fine Li! How does that sound Jacky?"
"See now that's the kind of deal I'm talking about" and I get ready to punch him again.
"Wait, wait, please! Well this recurring joke is fucking hilarious. Okay look I know the last job didn't work out but I got a new job just for you."
I relax my fist and cock an eyebrow at him. He very slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He scrolls through it and excitedly shakes the screen in my face when he finds what he's looking for. It's a heavily encrypted message, with no address, but the at the top of the message is a UEN. seal and a promise of six figures. Enough DICs to rent out an entire building in New Ny for ten years. I don't need to read the rest to know this is good work, it's UEN after all.
I nod reassuringly "Good work Benny" and punch him in the face, he hits the floor.
Before he has a chance to react I grab him up off the floor, bringing my knee into his stomach. I shove him down to the ground and straddle him, I hit his left cheek, before he can even process the pain I match the blow on the other side of his face. From the diner the sounds of today's bike race increases, the announcers fighting to be heard over Benny's grunts and bruising skin. When his face looks bloody enough, I switch to his chest and stomach, slamming down my fist in rough thumps, his twitch at every blow the only indication that he's registering pain. His arms are splayed out at his side, not moving. At least he knows that it's better not to fight this.
I'm getting tired so I ease up and sit back admiring my efforts. Benny looks like he fell flat on his face about five times but a doctor can make him look good as new in no time. I know he's holding out on me, so if he won't give me DICs, then at least I can feel joy myself in the knowledge that he won't be spending it on anything other than surgery. His hand weakly comes up to feel his broken nose and even a light touch causes him to wince in great pain, followed by a twitch from under my bum. Rubbing my ass a bit against Benny's pelvis clues me in to the situation.
"Really Benny? It's not fun beating the shit out of you if you get off from it."
"It...hurts so...much, but so...good" he moans "can you hit me again?"
I roll my eyes "Seven tonight, you better be there with Li and more info on the job" I give him one last kick before leaving and he moans, though I can't tell if its from pain or pleasure.
Li doesn't look at me when I come out but points to a few bags on the counter. I look inside and find a few food containers.
"I thought you were supposed to be cooking for me?"
"I don't cook. That's from the freezer."
"Does Billie know you're selling their customers food from the frozen aisle?"
"They know I don't cook so they make extra and all I have to do is put it in the oven when people want food. I have to baby sit a menagerie of drunks until three in the morning, I'm not cooking for them too."
"So why are you here now then? Billie has Rodriguez watch the pub when they're out during the day, right?"
She turns her eye towards the office "Benny wanted me here, expected me to run interference on you," she smiles at me "clearly he's not the brightest star in the sky. It makes one wonder how he ever became a fixer."
I sigh "As much as he's gotten me into trouble, he just as often gets me jobs that make me rich, at least for a while." I grab the bags and start heading out the door "see you tonight. Oh! And not meaning it as an insult, but do you think you'll be able to repair my ship?"
"I'd normally kick you in the balls for questioning my skill, but I'm getting the chance to work on a Penetrator so I'll let that slide this once."
"Treat my baby good" I call to her as I walk out the door and step over the drunk still passed out on the sidewalk. I pack my food in the small compartment on my bike and start heading out to the market street; Slin was nice enough to provide me with 2500 DICs, might as well use them. I have gear for almost every climate and situation stored in the bunker, so I don't need to stock up on supplies, but I do need some new eye catchers to replace that flimsy waste of money from Putain Quotidien. At least in a physical store I can test the durability before I buy them.
I walk through a few stores trying on a few mesh tops, muscle shirts, crop tops, and even some long sleeve articles. I rifle through the racks before trying on trousers of all sorts; khakis, jeans, leather, latex, rubber, and sweatpants. I leave all the stores before buying anything because the salespeople were getting too annoying trying to "help" me with my purchase. The female salespeople were especially personal with their assistance (I'm trying on neon pink shirts that read `bottom' in a store who caters to gay men, not sure what they were hoping would happen). After that I go to the men's lingerie store. Now yours truly, has absolutely no need for undergarments and in fact find they are often a hindrance, but damn if they don't make my ass look good.
I head into one of the designer shops, this one is particularly classy, only using a solid black and white decor which helped the underwear stand out even more; some pieces are displayed on very anatomically gifted models, but most are spread out across various tables or hangers. I notice that none of the pieces are piled onto each other, each individual article is given space to be viewed and admired. They had what one would usually expect in a lingerie shop, pieces made of lace and silk, rubber and leather for the more adventurous, and some normal looking pieces for the less adventurous. But as I pick up one of the jockstraps I notice that the stitching is done expertly arranged and the pouch looks like it was formed to carry a specific package (you don't normally see this much care when it comes to underwear). I look around more and start examining a pair of briefs made out of bright blue lace, beautifully made, when they're snatched from my hands. I turn and glare at some primped fop, decked out in pink. Bright pink suit jacket, bow-tie, trousers, handkerchief folded precisely into his suit pocket. His shoes and dress shirt were white but still had rosy designs plastered on them, and cuff links made from silver and pink gemstones. The sheer intensity of color practically hurt my eyes.
"This not for you" he says in a disdainful Anglican voice.
I'm ready to punch this guy in his pompous face, but I restrain myself enough to just curse him out "Well fuck you asshole. I don't tell you what shit to buy, though someone really should."
I turn to walkout, but he sashays in front of me, putting his hand on his chin studying my face (at least think he was. He had on a pair of very dark sunglasses that are another shade of pink). His flamboyant wardrobe gives his white face and hair, cemented into five inch pompadour, the illusion of him being pink as well.
It' been a minute and I'm about to shove past him when he pipes up "Can you change that."
I'm hesitate "Excuse me?"
"You're hair, can you change it?"
My hair is currently short cut and spiked at the top, but it looks good. I always look good. Who does jackass think he is, telling me that I need to change how my hair looks. At least, I don't look like a stick of bubblegum fucked a pride parade.
He cuts me off before I can say anything "Red, dear. Doesn't at all go with your suit. Black. Blue. Silver, perhaps. But red, I see no red. No other element to bring it together. Just a small blemish on your head. The rest is fine. Basic black is always in fashion. Especially for hair. But those few locks. And your eyes. Red too. Are you wearing contacts?"
Fuck, that's what he meant. I've always had this, well, condition let's call it. Ever since I've had hair, there's always been a streak in the front that is always some bright color of the rainbow, and they always change. My eyes have the same condition, and they usually change when I'm feeling strong emotions (that's right I'm the amazing human fucking mood ring). Fortunately when people are looking at me, they tend to look way below my neck, but it still doesn't help to have people notice it. Star Running usually involves some degree of discretion and having color changing eyes and hair may get you unwanted attention. Although it does have its benefits; some particularly bureaucratic law enforcement agencies have trouble nailing a guy with blue eyes when their suspect had orange eyes.
To avoid a scene, now or later, I go along with the contacts guess "Yeah, I can change them, just not now. Why do you care? I thought you wanted me to leave because this" I pull up a different jockstrap "wasn't for me? Who the fuck are you to tell me I can't browse around this store, you cotton candy cunt?"
"The man who owns this store. And I say you can't browse. I won't allow it" he grabs the other jockstrap from me and snaps his fingers. A short muscled, brown skinned hunk in a dress vest and pink bow tie runs up and takes the jocks from the sugarplum shit stick, and rushes to the back, though not before tripping into a table while looking at me. The owner walks closer to me. I'm six inches taller than the guy but I can't help but feel cornered by him.
"In my store...you get fitted."
"...what?"
"Fitted. You will be fitted. Anything you see on the floor. On the racks. You will not touch them. Don't even look at them."
"But they're good underwear, great even. They look-"
"Awful. Terrible. Atrocious. I'm vomiting just thinking about it. The floor items are not for you. On a swimmer; they're phenomenal. On a model, gorgeous. Porn stars; sex has never been sexier. On you, these are garbage, trash. Don't you dare put one on. I'll have to burn them. You... get fitted. What is your name?"
"Jack-"
"Short. Hard. Rugged. Yet with a simple elegance. Like Diego. Have you seen Diego? Yes, you've seen Diego. Is it just Jack. I like it, straightforward. To the point. Like Cher. We don't have many Chers now, do we? Oh to live in the 5300s. They knew music."
I jump in when he seems to be reminiscing on info age music "my last names Beaucul."
He stirs from his daydreams "Beaucul? Short but melodic. Romantic but sexy. Very apt. Very French. Like me. Though Fillion has too many syllables for my liking. Three is too much. Two syllables is prettier." My jaw drops as realized as I just called one of the galaxy's most influential men's fashion designers, a cunt.
"Jean-Paul Fillion. You're-wow-you're like the creator of modern gay apparel-no, men's apparel. Everyone wears you. I mean you're clothes. I read you're interview in Putain Quotidien."
He sighs "Such an appalling publication. No true art, just sex and smut, under the guise reputable journalism. My publicist made do the interview for our 7760 Spring collection."
"Um..." I can't believe that I'm daring to say this to fucking Jean-Paul Fillion "but don't you make sexy underwear and clothes for guys?"
He looks up towards whatever deity he prays to, exasperated, asking "why are the beautiful always so stupid?" Before I can rebut his rudeness he continues "No I do not make `sexy underwear' as you call it. I design art. I craft fashion. I weave masterpieces to elevate image of man."
I'm about to interject but he sucks his teeth and drones on "What is this obsession the galaxy has with sex? Do they not see the beauty and aesthetic pleasure that art invokes in people. If Botticelli wanted Venus' to be sexual, he'd have painted her with her legs spread wide, sitting on a welcome mat. If da Vinci wanted John the Baptist' to be sexual, he'd have painted himself and Salai mid-fornication. If Michelangelo wanted the David' to be sexual, he'd have sculpted an erect phallus ejaculating stone semen onto the floor. Nudity is not inherently sexual and neither is clothing. The difference between Laaksonen's Kake' and Breyette's `Cory' is the emphasis of sexuality versus beauty, the former uses beautiful features for the purpose of sexual gratification while the latter utilizes sexuality to enhance the aesthetic perfection of the piece."
After reading his interview and watching him a few times on the net, I wondered if Jean-Paul Fillion was one of those fashion designers who only puts on show of eccentricity and auteur dramatics, but in private they're kind of boring, or if he's a real freak all the time. I now have my answer. He flicks his wrist, motioning me to go to the back. We walk through a bouquet of lovingly crafted garbage (Fillion's words, not mine) before we reach the fitting rooms. A sharp click sounds from behind me and the short hunk, working as Fillion's assistant struts out from behind an opaque glass door at the back of the changing rooms. He coyly smiles at me, but stumbles a bit when Fillion comes out from behind me, and he quickly attaches himself to the rear of his crazy boss. I'm led into an octagonal room with mirrors for walls and a black pedestal in the middle. Fillion tells me to strip and stand on a circular dais while he and Diego prepare everything (I notice that Diego is a little reluctant to leave me unsupervised for this part of the fitting).
I strip and appreciate the rare chance I get to actually look at my full profile. I really should consider building a room like this in the bunker. I hear boxes being slammed, scissors clanging, needle boxes being shook, exasperated complaints from a designer, and meek apologies from his assistance. While they're busy, I ask myself how I managed to wander into one of Jean-Paul Fillion's stores without me noticing. I also can't help but wonder why one his stores is in River Park. Sure, you get rich clients in a Runner's Art, but it's not normally the place where you'd put a high end fashion store (street fights and police raids tend to be bad for business).
Fillion burst through the side room with Diego, carrying boxes and fabrics, coming up behind him. He slowly circles around me. I'm too afraid to move.
"Toned and muscled but not overly beefy. Some veins can be seen but aren't overly prominent. The abs are pronounced but don't come out under the pectorals. Those are nicely defined as well. The biceps, thighs and calves are not excessive in their musculature. The hair is very dark black, ebony even, thick and silky; probably has a good curl if you let it out. Lips are thick, nose is long and well structured, strong jaw and cheek bones, eye brows are beautifully filled out, eyes are lovely exotic shape. A face like a Persian prince. Color is a bit garish but the contacts can be removed. The dye in the hair can be washed out, fortunately. Skin is lovely, deep olive but...no tan line...interesting. Do you use a sauna, or perhaps a nude beach?" I shake my head "hmm. The problems arise when we reach the pelvic area. The penis in its flaccid state is already quite long, with significant girth; the testicles are also of an unusually large size. Yet neither compares to the issue we come into contact with when we get to the buttocks. Beautifully defined, perfectly rounded. Almost too perfect in fact. Tight and muscled but clearly retains a good bounce to it. No hair...yet no signs of hair removal, shaving, waxing, or the like. Hmm. Diego! I need an erect measurement."
I'm a bit surprised that he needs me to get hard, and I'm even more surprised that he's asking his assistant to take the measurements. I hear a light scratching from behind me and in the mirror I see that between the boxes and rolls of cloth, Diego is struggling to write on a small notepad. He seems to be ten seconds behind what Fillion is saying because it take him a moment before he realizes what the designer just asked him to do. When it hits him he almost drops the notebook and pencil, then he fumbles finding a place for the things in his hands before deciding just to leave them on the floor. From the elevated platform he looks even shorter and my dick comes to just below his chest. He looks up at me in awe and turns to Fillion, making sure he was truly given the honor to touch me. Fillion urgently and dismissively waves his assistant on.
Despite his filled out build and thick hands, Diego has a light touch (he obviously moisturizes often). He gently lifts my member, tickling my glans with his thumb. Once I begin to stiffen, he starts pumping my meat, well actually, it's more like a massage. He lightly drags his fist from the base of my cock to the tip, he brushes the tips of his fingers first on the top of my cock and then on the underside, before pulling my foreskin across my cock head. In a matter of minutes I am as hard as I was in the Etoile, and I'm genuinely impressed at Diego's dexterity and skill with his hands (must come from tailoring all day). It was obvious from this handjob as well as the casualness of Fillion's command, that Diego was quite familiar with this procedure. Regrettably Diego stepped to the side once I was erect and Fillion stepped forward with a cloth tape measure. He gets down my girth, length, the size of each ball, scrotum length, waist, thighs, hips, calves, everything. He spent a decent portion of his measuring time on my butt (can't blame him), though it felt less like foreplay and more like a medical examine. Diego stands behind Fillion, diligently recording all the designer's measurements.
After twenty minutes, Fillion drapes the cloth measure on himself like a scarf and enters the supply room "Diego, we'll need a flaccid measurement. Judging by the numbers we already have, I suggest you get the big cup."
Diego's hand job was already top tier, I need to remember to get his number for later. His admiration of my cock has me pegging him as a bottom but who says two bottoms can't have a good time. I like getting sucked off about as much as I like sucking, and sometimes no one else but another bottom truly appreciates the satisfaction of a good rim job. Diego approaches with a hand towel and a large plastic cup. I smile at him and he sheepishly hands them to me before going to attend to the auteur. I'm a bit disappointed at not getting finished off by a hot piece like Diego, but I'm getting a personal fitting by fucking Jean-Paul Fillion, so fuck it. Diego's hand work was expert enough that it only takes a few strokes before I'm letting loose into the cup. I spill a bit under a third a liter of jizz into the cup (good call on Fillion's part) and my cock is almost back to it's resting state when the designer returns. He takes the cup and hands it to Diego, who surreptitiously takes a sniff before reluctantly tossing it in a small bin in the corner of the room (waste of quality man batter, but what are you going to do?).
Fillion begins his measurements "It's an unusual request to get the measurements of an erection I know, but I like to make sure my clothing will cover all of you in any state. Most men can't help but get an erection, either because of the stimulation of measuring or the thrill of voyeurism, so we get the erect measurements out of the way and let them take care of themselves for the flaccid measurements at the end...I'm thinking the short cropped lace, either in navy or emerald. Haven't decided, but I'll know by tomorrow, what time is good for you then?" FUCK.
I sigh "I kind of have a...thing tomorrow. I really have to leave today, but can I call you or can I set up a meeting for later?"
"One of your Star Running contracts, I assume. I hope the pay is worth missing out on an original piece made just for you-maybe a red thong or yellow leggings. It's rarely the season for legging but it's so rare I find a bottom that fits them so well." I stammer a bit unable to make words, only stopping when Fillion jumps in "you shouldn't be surprised. I have a say where all my shops go and I know you Runners frequent here. Please, love, I work in the fashion industry. Protection details, illegal fabrics, fashion espionage I've worked with your kind since 42. Diego, we only have today. Briefs in basic white... Chang'e silk! Yes that's it."
I swallow and try to convey a coherent thought "Why would you choose to put your shop in a Runner Art?"
"Something different I suppose. I always see my clothes being worn by high and mighty or the polite middle tier of society. But they're all the same. My designs need to be worn by those who rarely appear in my industry. Models and stars, they don't have what you have. I knew I could only find someone like you in a place like this"
I can't help but smile at the compliment. I know I'm hot, but to hear someone else say it is always a pleasure especially when that person is Jean-Paul Fillion. Diego comes in with a pair of beautiful white briefs, shining like the moon. Which of course it is. It's Chang'e silk. My face drops when I remember the price of such fabric and I pray Fillion finds me charming enough to let me pay him later.
They start putting the briefs on me and I strike up more conversation "If I got `it' maybe I should retire from Running and pursue a career as a model? It'd be a shame if the men of the galaxy didn't get to see me in my skivvies at least once before I die."
"Oh god!" he scoffs "idiocy, the curse of the pretty. I don't mean your looks. We have enough models that look as good as you. We could take a dirty, homely urchin off the street and with enough surgery and make up, turn him into your double. No, there are enough quote unquote hot men prancing around runways, movie studios, and on porn sites. No the it' is...is. Oh how to explain?!" He walks away for a moment then turns back "Do you know why Breyette's Cory' is considered a masterpiece but his Gregory' and Francisco' are regarded as sample artworks, as mere exercises in capturing the male body?" As someone who only looks at art for it's ability to make me cum I could honestly shake my head no "It's the water, the stone, the green, nature. Where he is, why he is there. That...something that works outside the subject, yet because of the nature of the painting is inevitably tied to it. The thing that makes beauty beautiful. Oh, never mind. I'm just rambling."
We finish fitting the briefs in silence, Fillion contemplating his pretentious sentiments, Diego softly smiling, hoping to keep customer and employer happy, and me wondering what exactly I could have that makes me beautiful to a fashion designer. His art is a visual medium so the visual is all that matters right? Fillion and Diego back away and give me room to admire their work. And holy fuck does this look good. The front pouch is formed in such a way that my bulge is prominent but it doesn't look like it's straining the pouch, the fabric goes across my hips without bunching up anywhere and the back is formed so perfectly and precisely that you can clearly see my backside cleavage form around my gorgeous globes. Best part is Chang'e silk is flexible and strong enough that I know getting a stiffy won't wear out the material. I could not have asked for anything better.
I nervously turn to Fillion "How much?"
He tilts his head "for you...free."
I cock an eyebrow "seriously?"
"They're white briefs, the underwear of children and men who never learned how to shop for grown up clothes. On a lesser being they would be a golden fleece, a Turin cloth. On you...they will suffice. Come back to me when you have enough time and money for something a little more...adventurous. Diego will leave your name with the store owner and you'll have a line directly to my office. I can come to you, but I know you will prefer to come to me."
I'm about to protest but he flamboyantly sighs "Very well, if you must compensate me in some way, then you will promise me this. When it comes your undergarments, your wear me or you wear nothing. We are done. Farewell my dear Beaucul" and he heads into the store room, Diego struggling to gather the supplies around the room and follow his boss.
I put on my clothes and dazed, walk back to my thrust bike. For the rest of the day I just kind of lazily ride around New Ny, thinking about Fillion. What was this special thing I had that made him want to fit me? It wasn't anything physical was it? He said it wasn't and I don't think I talked to him long enough for him to get a good idea of my intellect or charming character? Was it my hair or eyes, perhaps he liked the idea of guy who could change his physical appearance? I look carefully in the side mirrors and see that they're still red, perhaps fading more toward orange, but not enough that he would notice. Then again he is a fashion designer, if he can't tell one color from another then what is he doing. It's a little after three when I get back to the bunker. I strip off to every thing but my new briefs and hop on the Etoile.
I rub his hull lovingly "Hey baby, you'll never guess who I met today. Fucking Jean-Paul Fillion! Fuck, it was intense babe. He liked my body, of course, and he gave me a free pair of briefs. I look fucking amazing in them but..." It's pathetic that I struggle to get introspective around my own damn ship "he said something about me having it', whatever that means. But he said it's the reason I'm beautiful, well, it' and my sexy body, but I...don't know. I don't know why it bothers me. I'm hot, I'm smart, everyone wants to talk to me, I'm rich, well I fluctuate between a state of rich and soon-to-be rich, but I usually have DICs to spare. Everyone wants to be me, so I don't know why I'm stressing over what `it' is."
I turn over and open the hull to whisper into the cockpit so not even the wind can hear what I say to my boy "I think...sometimes, I wonder, if I do things because I want to. Like Running, fucking, traveling, because I want to or if it's because I...imagined that it's what someone like me should want. I Run, but I really couldn't tell you why...What if I find `it' and it means that I shouldn't do what I'm doing. I like me, but what if what's inside shows me that that's not my path"
I stroke the console and sit upon the hull my feet dangling off my sexy boy "Doesn't matter. Right now, all you need to know is that once we get you fixed up, we are heading right out to space. Truth be told, I didn't ask what the job was, but it does pay six figures. Gold DIC sticks baby! Lots of money, but also probably lots of things that can kill us. But, I've been through a ton of shit so nothing can really surprise me. But what about you? Can beautiful thing like you handle what the universe throws at us?"
"I think we both know the answer to that" a cheery masculine voice answers from my ship.
I blink "Sorry?"
"The answer is yes captain, I can handle anything thrown our way."
Fuck.
Author's Note: Please donate to Nifty Archive and make sure any criticism is conostructive and respectful. I would also like to thank Dave and Grant Levy who emailed me for the first chapter, it is an honor to know that my work brought some pleasure to another person, thank you both. Also, if anyone messages me and I don't get back, I'm not trying to be rude, I've always had a problem responding to mail and fan mail is a new experience so I might be hesitant to respond, but it is not because I don't appreciate you. I'll try to get better at responding. It's the least I could do. Thank you so much.-David T. Patrick