I serve them salad in white ceramic dishes. Without dressing.
Magister Vance reaches out to the clasp of the short pleated white kirtle I'm wearing. He waits, allowing my refusal as protocol demands, for everything here is done through humility and consent. Naturally, as etiquette dictates, I allow his hands free rein. He unclasps the belt, and I inhale, holding my tense stomach in, as the garment falls away, leaving me naked. He smiles across the table to where Meister Ashton sits, and reaches out to fondle my balls. My heart jumps a little, although my self-control strives my body not to betray a tremor. My veiny sallow member starts to climb up my belly in slow response, as he shifts his intimate attention to caress that most sensitive sweet-point on its underside where the shaft meets the bulbous head, using fingertips, then the feather-touch brush of the heel of his fingers. His grip encircles me, I'm alive in his hand, which is now holding me so firmly and pumping up and down my length, quickening the tempo, the jellied roundness of my testicle-sack dancing, until my cock begins quivering from the inside out, whereupon he deftly directs it down so that as it spurts, its sticky sauce of buttermilk sprays across the green tendrils of salad in his dish.
As the final pulse subsides Vance wipes the leaking cock-tip carefully with a serviette, then lifts a green strand, anointed with my dribbling semen, between thumb and forefinger, and nibbles at it critically. Then he swallows it. And smiles up at me, 'thank you.' I'm relieved by his evident approval, for I'm a little in awe of this donnish fellow with his honey-coloured skin and amber eyes, his disarming combination of poise and articulacy.
I stand there, a little unsure. 'Should I dress now, Magister?'
He glances across to Ashton. 'I think not. We prefer you in the state of nature. Is that not so?'
Ashton nods his approval. 'He'll never qualify for the 7.5, but the boy has a pleasing package.'
So, with the question resolved, I continue attending to their requirements nude. But the incident has significance in that this was the first time I'd encountered the term 'the 7.5', and the reference intrigued my attention. Their conversation continues, back and forth, over the meal. I wasn't really paying attention, something about the number of planets inside the orbit of our world, those which had been devoured by the expanding solar mass. Had one, or maybe two bodies been incinerated...? Mercury and Titan? They are learned men. Their knowledge of myth and history is extensive. Their dialogue is fascinating, but much of it goes beyond my understanding.
Finally I'm dismissed. Thanking them, I retrieve my kirtle and tiptoe from their suite discretely, leaving them to their debate. Heading back for our room I pause on the piazza balcony. The air is soft with the season. There's a white accumulation of bird-shit on the balustrade. Blossoms stand on tall purple stalks lined up in the dirt-pots just outside. And beyond it, the huge pale dome of the sun eclipses half of the sky, the daytime stars glimmering in the surrounding twilight. No matter how many times I take the view from here, it's never less than inspiring. The mauve undulations of sand stretching away from our perch all the way to the horizon. The Foundation is embedded into the lower slopes of the mountainside, it has four floors, each with extensive meditation garden and cloisters. Its segmented roof made up of interlinked sections overlapping like glimmering lizard-scales. Glancing up and back are the white towers where, they say, occasional sky-ships used to berth, their sails and pennants billowing in the updraft thermals of the terminator from day to night. There have been no sky-ships for at least a hundred years or more, the empty towers provide roosting-space for black bats, but I can see in my imagination the way those fantastic galleon must have ridden the shimmers of air.
Somewhere way across the vast wastes of sun-parched desert and sunken lands, sundered away by gulfs of time and stranger dimensions, there must still be shoreline cities around the Pacific lake. Although I've never seen them. I've heard tell the stories of other human genders, races and species that walk those distant streets and mazy-alleyways. I've seen colour-plates in books, tapestries and flickering screen-images, but it's difficult to tease out truth from pleasing fantasy. Like Vance and Ashton in their saffron house-robes discussing extinct planets. I tarry for longer that I should, before heading back to the room we share, walking with soft tread so as not to disturb the ghosts of the thousand generations who have lived here before us. The last pure spikes of daylight streaming in.
Cujel is waiting there, already undressed, and we embrace. His compact torso glistening beneath the touch of my fingers. His corn-silk hair falling in around his face, shadowing his expression, but the feel of his hand's journey up my leg in agonisingly delicious progress tells me all I need to know. My nostrils detect the faint aroma of the oil-polish on the four gleaming bed-posts as we recline together, skin to skin. My heart beating faster as the sex-heat of our bare bodies increases.
The scent and texture of the hot flesh of his penis in its wild bush of pubic colour, its hue and stirring dimensions, as I kiss and caress it. The soft feathery touch of my lips on his shaft leaves it moistly-warm, its taste absorbing up through the roof of my mouth as I draw my lips along its full length until I feel its head probing at my throat-entrance. Drawing back, pausing just below the perfect glans, pressing my lips around the familiar contours of his cock, sucking the fold of loose foreskin, sliding my lips slowly up and down. Detecting the soft moan of his escaping pleasure. Then sliding my lips all the way back down into the nest of soft hair, my lips caressing the base. Both of us responding in convulsions of flushes and palpitations. His mouth is on me where my cock is bobbing uncertainly, drawing it nimble-tongued within the clasp of his thin pale lips. Pleasurable sensations shocking up from my groin to storm my brain. We squirm in together, sucking each other in a passionate frenzy, riding mutual waves of pleasure. Then, too soon, but eagerly appreciated, we drink the spurt of each other's bodily secretions.
Since we both turned eighteen and graduated to become free to choose, it's the fourth month of our pair-bonding. Some bonds endure for intense, torrid and erotically-charged weeks, but no longer. Others – like Vance and Ashton, endure a lifetime. Given man's proclivity to seek variety and novelty, few are exclusive. Man will plant his promiscuous dart and spray his seed wherever and whenever he can. It was ever thus. But still, every time together with Cujel is special.
It's only later as we lie together, perspiration cooling on our skins, the rich taste of his semen cloying in my mouth, that I ask 'Cujel, have you ever heard of the 7.5?'
'What do you mean? What have you heard?' He reaches down to flick the flaccid head of my cock with his tongue.
I groan appreciatively. 'Nothing really. Just that Meister Ashton said something about it while I served them. I don't understand what he meant.'
'I've heard something. Not a lot, and most of it rumour, unsubstantiated. It's a secret society within the Foundation. One that has been passed down through centuries. A biological elite, the defining qualification determined by penis size, 7.5... you see?'
'Can that be true? Does that make sense?' I nuzzle my head forward into his groin, drawing the full length of his cock back into my mouth, mentally ascertaining its dimensions.
He shrugs. 'Because we are cloned and grown from the DNA of preceding generations it stands to reason there will be recurring physical echoes.' His blue, deep deep blue eyes are keen with sharp intelligence.
