Solstices Obscurity Dusk Ch 02

All characters are over the age of 18.

*****

"Sandious! Jabber-talking, slack-jawed, lemmings. The lot of you be silent!"

I sling a stone across the short distance at the queued retches. Standing on the ebony pier into the murk that is the river Styx, the gathered crowd of regret-squalling, tear-burbling, religious-postulating souls finally goes silent, when and only when my stone clips one of them in the head and he pitches into the river. Whatever lurks under those tepid waters, swirls up hungrily. I know not what it is, nor am I inclined to seek that answer. But it...or they, swarm over the fallen object lesson to my ire and frothy red the dark waters boil.

And of course, that starts the screaming again.

"Mordious. Pocapdedious!"

Leaping to my feet, I pull my rapier and stalk towards the huddle mass of the naked souls. I set the steel point into a half dozen posteriors, making them jump out my way, till I'm standing in the very middle of them.

"Listen to me, you retched bags of pus! I have had enough of your caterwauling about how this isn't the afterlife you were expecting. Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news to the lot of you...fine, upstanding, not-doubt loved in life and missed in death...people. But...YOU! ARE! FUCKING! DEAD!"

Snarling, I run my rapier through one of them. Through her left tit! I don't do it to be cruel but just to be sure I have their attention. She falls screaming to the muddy ground, clutching at the bloody mammary. I lean down, and after a moment, smile at her.

"Hurt? Yes? Tell me, why aren't you dieing? I just drove two foot of steel through your nipple and then straight through your heart." I hold out my hand, and before she can stop me, catch her by the hair, and pull her to her feet. I use that tangle of golden locks to direct her. "See? You are all fucking dead. Cold-corpse dead! Your time to make decisions, to complain about the way that the world has done you poorly...is over! Now, I want you plebeians to stand over here quietly, till your slimy boat to the...afterlife...appears."

"Turn her lose."

With a grin, I look towards the voice. A man. A tall man, nicely formed. Dark of hair. A chest sculpted with a craftsman's level of precision, marred or enhanced by a trail of ebony hairs running down to a well-formed cock. He has about him the air of a man used to being the most dangerous person in a crowd.

"I said, turn her lose!" he demands.

"Oh, I heard you." With a grin, I send her spinning off the pier and into the Stygian waters.

"NO! Don't! Gagck!"

The point of my rapier went through the underside of his chin easily. Like a blade into water, it slid into his bared soul. When he opens his mouth to scream I see that I have penned his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

"Just because you can not die...does not mean I can not make you wish that you could." I look over my shoulder when I hear Charon's oar splash into the water at the end of the pier. The Ferryman is giving me a look of warning, I sneer in reply. Like the stick marionettes I played with as a child, I walk this fool I have impaled to his awaiting craft. "Here, I would hate for your to miss your chance at heaven."

Ripping free my sword, I spin him by his shoulder when he grabs at the wound. Planting my boot upon his arse, I send him a tumble into the rancid craft to land in a whimpering pile at Charon's feet.

With a smile, I bow to the Ferryman. Sending my rapier into its sheath, I walk back towards my tree stump. The other lost souls huddle away from me as I pass. They stand there looking at me, or at the boat, or at the red waters still churning under the quay

"Get the hell on the boat, or I will feed all of you simpering, pathetic, slugs to the thing in the river."

They scamper down the pier into the craft. Lemmings off the cliff just as I named them. They have no idea where the Ferryman is taking them, or what new horror they might have to endure...forever...when they get to that most final of destinations, but oh they will pile on to his craft. Pay his demanded coin, without question or comment, and ride out into those odoriferous mists. Trusting. Trusting that "God" will keep them safe. That they are "Saved" because they had water pissed on their heads. That their "Savior" has a "Plan" for them...

I spit in their direction.

Picking up my quill I sit down to write, what I was of a mind to pen down...before I was so crudely interrupted. I jab my wrist for ink and begin to write.

As you might guess, I was a young man when I had my first joust into the lists of love and lust. Twas a Welsh maid of my father estate, she who had the care of the linen washing, that took my male maidenhead. Oh, she was no great beauty; had tits like a pair of meal-sacks, and certainly, to judge by my later exploits, not skilled at all in the act of the fuck. But what did I know then of the Forbidden Subject. Nothing. I was so much an innocent youth. But a month was I returned from the school father sent me to for my education.

Hardly had my eyes seen, or my ears heard, and certainly my hands had not touched.

That day, at dawn, I took my paints and went to the small rivulet, that crossed the property on its way to the family's mill-run, with the hopes of making a naturalist painting of the local waterfowl. As I set up my small canvas and laid out my oils, I was interrupted in my preliminary sketching of a most handsome Red-breasted goose when I heard a woman singing. She approached the stream, with a large basket on her hip and before I could warn her off had quite frightened off my avian subject.

In a storm I went down there to give this bosomy maid a good-telling-off for disturbing my art, only to be greeted with laughter just moments into my diatribe. She, amid her laughter, began called me names that I did not like. English names.

"Infant." "Baby." "Child."

I was none of these! I was a Gascony born son of the Viscount!

Catching her around her waist, I pulled her to me and planted a kiss upon her pert lips with all the authority of my position, rank, and title. When her lips met mine it was as if a gate opened and I felt a rise in my lance that only a severe need to piss in the morning, had ever brought about before then. It was a thing the monks at my school had hard words about. Hard words and harder punishment.

I was about to pull away when her hand found that very staff of procreation, through my leggings, and then her tongue was passing within my lips! I felt my heart race.

Laughing, she tumbled her basket of to-be-washed linens onto the earth, pulled me down and spread wide her legs. Between her knees, I found myself looking down into a woman's Temple De Virgin, uncovered, for the first time in my life.

Hearing flapping, I look up to see that my little wigged friend has smelled again my "ink" and come begging for a meal. Smiling, I squeeze out a few more drops for him. He settle in to drink at the carmine pool.

"You know my furry friend, between your appetite and my sins I might run out of ink." I laugh at the thought, and at his squeak of greeting. "I shall, if you keep coming back, have to find a name for you. If you keep up you gluttonous way perhaps...Nero. I could, always name you after family I suppose, that's a grand noble tradition. You rather have the look of my great uncle Vladimir" Taking my quill I lift his wing but can see nothing to give me a clue as to sex. "Or perhaps his daughter Belladonna?"

I begin to laugh, remembering the rude pleasure I took from her and will no doubt have to pen down.

"No, I think I will keep you clear of her name. You, have not her repartee...a woman most skilled with her tongue." I smile, remembering the sweetness of her fellatio, but that memory begins to blend with the rough sucking I received from my first gobbler of cock. I look to the drinking bat."I must think on you a name later, my friend. I must get this sordid tale out of my head.

Not knowing what to do I stood unmoving before that temple door. She gave me an exasperated huff and went to work divesting me of trousers. Then into her mouth, quick as feast-day sweet, went my cock. How I did not pop my spume at that first tonging touch I will never know. Luckily, she only held me within her mouth for a few moment to wet my rod then back she went onto the spilled sheets, pulling me with her.

Her hand was between us and with a skilled touch she directed the coupling of us, sex to sex. Into that wet grotto I plunged for the first time! Oh, even after a thousand such breaching I can still feel that first one. Nature and her guiding hand took me into that eternal rhythm, and I plied her gash with the very vigor of my youth. Her incessant, vapid laughter the only thing that caused me distraction. Which is to the good, since that distraction made that first time a joining of minutes, instead of seconds.

Looking down at the drying words, I see my little friend move over to the page and lick away an "e" before I can stop him.

"Here now, none of that!" scooping him up I bring him up before my face. "YOU, may drink your fill of the ink only when it is not on the page, do you understand?"

His little dark eyes look at me.

"I'm questioning a bat," I say to myself, softly. "So its come to that."

Placing him gently back by the dried pool, I give him more of my "ink" then pick back up the quill I had let drop to catch him. I see the tip of the quill splatter the bottle of the page. I catch the drops blood and scratch out my signature with them before they can dry, then I move back above that swirling jumble of letters to finish this tale.

Father and two of his men, one my father's reeve, arrived at that moment. Me there, with Burdock nettles stabbing me in the hip, and my cock to the hilt in a woman of his employ and he picked that moment to ride up. He said not a word, simply sat his horse looking at my naked buttocks. Then, when fear had made my cock shrink to the size of a piece of mezze maniche, he got down and walked to stand next to me. The maid was a scramble to push me off her but I was rooted to the spot as it where.

The foulness of the next memory washes through my mouth. I bring my bleeding left wrist to my mouth and drink the red flow to kill the taste of the humiliation that still lurks there.

"Do you know what my father did? My kind father, my gentle father, a man never known to raise his voice." The bat looks up at me, hearing my voice directed at it. "He placed his hunting boot on my ass and shoved me back down into her cunt. Then he took his riding crop and beat me to make me fuck her!"

Unimpressed or uncomprehending...or more likely just still hungry, my friend goes back to his meal. I get up and leave him to finish it. Walking over to the river, I gaze out at it's murky water as my memories bring back the harsh commands of my father.

"Fuck her! Fuck the whore! You wish to act like a man, then do as a man would and fuck!" I close my eyes to the memories of the Reeve laughing. Of the Guards' course suggestion of a spur up my arse to help speed me along.

I tighten my hand on the hilt of my rapier, relishing their long ago deaths by my hand. All of them. Guard. Reeve. My...father. Killed, all dead by this very sword. By my blood stained hands.

A soft weight lands on my shoulder. Looking, I see a sanguine smile.

"Had your fill?"

~squeak~

"I found your name. You are Stygie le Brix."

I scratch him under his bloody chin, as we watch the horizon for a sunrise...that will never come. Not to this place.

"par la mort de dieu."