Where I write a cuckold story. Except it's not really a cuckold story. Um. Just read it.
All characters involved in sexual situations are eighteen and over.
***
Two ex-lovers eyed each other warily across a pier.
Barrow Witch spoke first. "You've gotten older."
"You look the same."
That brought something close to a smile to her face. "The advantages of being the avatar of the gods of enlightenment."
"The gods of
madness
, you mean."
She sighed and looked away. "Nathan. We've talked about this. What you and your master did was unnatural."
"Saving the earth isn't unnatural."
"The age of sanity is over, Nathan. The stars were right
centuries
ago. Denying the age of madness disturbs the cosmic cycle."
"It would bring about untold suffering and destruction!"
"In exchange for cosmic enlightenment and transformation!"
"Madness and mutation!"
"That's just what that immortal homewrecker told you!" Barrow Witch shut her mouth and straightened up. "I mean, you have been let astray by
false heroes
."
"Um," said Grey Apprentice, desperately wishing she was somewhere else, "shouldn't we be dealing with the sex plague?"
"Right."
"Yes."
"Of course." Grey Sentinel explained what he had learned while Barrow Witch listened.
"Well," she said, "this needs to be stopped, if only because it would interfere with my masters' plans." She frowned. "It would seem that they are the key to solving this issue." She caught his expression. "Oh, don't look so shocked. You must have realised that your powers are keeping you safe from the infection."
"Hmmm." Grey Sentinel scowled.
"I will consult my dark masters as to how to end the infection. Let us meet here in a week's time."
"We might not have a week, Amanda."
She shook her head. "You know full well that the Enlightened One's perception of time is...different."
"What do we do until then?" said Grey Apprentice.
"Endure. Contain. And beware of Mocking Mistress! She seeks to use the infection for her own devious ends."
***
Mocking Mistress lay back on the bed. She was naked, other than her mask.
Pet lay curled alongside her, the girl's hands gently stroking, fondling, touching, as the two watched a screen. On it, Pet was being brutally fucked by a half-dozen men, the men using her body for their pleasure.
"I could watch it forever." Mocking said.
"Why stop at watching?" Pet murmured. Her hand reached up and touched the diamond-encrusted collar around her neck. "I love being your whore. I love fucking whom you tell me to fuck, doing whatever you can think of, but..."
"What is it, my little Pet?"
Pet smiled and murmured something into her ear. Mistress shuddered. "I couldn't."
"You can do whatever you want, Mistress."
There was a chime from her personal communicator. It had been doing that a lot lately. Wasn't there something she should be doing?
It wasn't important.
Mistress listened as Pet whispered hot, needy suggestions into her ear while her hands worked their magic on her body.
***
Nathan flew over Epoch City.
Past the Tower, past the central district with its futuristic skyscrapers; past the industrial zone, with its high-tech marvels. Past the east-side, with its slums and decrepit regions. Past the suburbs.
Out further, to the ruins of a mansion, old and long-burnt.
He slowed, flying over the bramble-laced, weed-infested garden, and eased himself down next to a pair of immaculate graves.
He contemplated the pair for a long time. Eventually he spoke.
"There's a new threat. A new challenge for us to face. A new possible end of the world."
He took in a deep breath and looked around.
"I wonder, sometimes, if this is what you really wanted for me. When you investigated the dark dimension, when you went on that expedition. I guess it doesn't matter.
I remember when I found out you died. When you were
murdered
. It was some bad years. The doctors, the asylum...if Master hadn't come along, I think I would be lying next to you, now. Same with Endless. She worries about me. They all do.
They think I'm doing this because I'm angry. Well. I am angry. But it's not the reason I'm doing this. It's something...like I said. I remember when you died. And you know what it was that really broke me? It wasn't the grief. It wasn't the anger. Those were things that could pass. No."
He nodded to himself. "I just remember thinking...
this isn't the way the world should be
. Children shouldn't lose their parents like that. Not me, not
anyone
. It was like someone had pointed out a glaring crack in the world, so large and so terrible that everyone just ignored it, for risk of going mad contemplating it. Not some ravening hoard of mad gods or alien conquering empire or mind-altering plague, but just...an unkind world.
I know I can never fix the world. Make it a place where children don't suffer, where people don't die cruelly and early, but I just...I can't look away. I won't. And I think I'll get a little good done, trying to do the impossible. To make a kinder world. For as long as I can."
He smiled sadly. "Thanks for listening to me again. I know I come here way too often. I'll bring Tanya one of these days. She's a terrible Apprentice, mind." He chuckled. "I know you probably expected me to have children by now...I guess...she's the closest I'll get."
He vanished into the night, leaving the pair of graves behind.
***
Trevor Summerson, aka Brightblade, sat in the dark of his modest apartment.
A tumbler lay forgotten on the coffee table in front of him. A bottle of whiskey- mostly emptied- sat next to it, decidedly less forgotten. A tablet lay balanced on the screen in front of him. His breaths came out in low, agonised huffs.
He reached out and, with a shaking hand, touched the play button again.
The images on the screen leapt to life, the scene playing out in front of him.
"Oh! Johnny!"
Fresh tears streaked down his face anew, tracking down well-worn paths on his black skin as he listened to her voice.
His wife. His love. His soulmate.
"Fuck me harder!"
The video trailed over his wife's buxom body, her pale skin, her long, blonde hair. Johnny's voice, cold and mocking.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You! I belong to you!"
Too much. Even as the camera panned up, across the pale-skinned freak's chiselled torso, up his tattooed chest, to his sharp-featured face, to his smug, cruel eyes-
His hand twitched and slapped at the pause button. He took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes.
Noises. The front door opening. For a moment hope bloomed in his eyes, but the door opened and Imani stepped into his apartment. She took in the scene for a long moment before murmuring, "Turn that shit off."
"I can't."
"Bad enough that's on the internet, along with that gay orgy footage. Watching it isn't going to help you any."
"I-" He reached across to press the play button again but with quick, deft movements she swept the tablet away. He looked up at her blearily. "How's Kiara?"
"Kiara is..." Imani paused. "She's fine. Enjoying time with her auntie and her cousins. Tate's looking after her right now, and I'm looking after you."
"How the hell do I explain..." he gestured to the screen. "All of this to her? To my daughter?"
"She's one and a half. You don't for now." His sister sat down next to him. "What are you going to do? I mean, besides wallow in pity?"
Silence. Imani kept on talking. "Look, if what you told me is true...if there's some sort of sex plague that's affecting heroes...you understand, this isn't really her, right?"
"Yeah."
"Beacon...Emma...she's always been faithful. Always made it clear that she loves you. Whatever this curse is that's affecting her- it can't be more real than your love for each other. That wannabe rockstar necromancer is just using this stupid curse power to fuck with you." She rose. "Sober up, okay? And then get your wife back."
Trevor slowly nodded his head. "You're right."
"Now get to bed. And go kick some ass in the morning."
***
The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen. He looked up at Brightblade, the namesake weapon pressed against his throat, and laughed through broken teeth.
"We don't know where he is," he said, blood spraying with every word, "and even if we did, we wouldn't tell you, Brightcuck."
Brightblade shoved the boy onto the floor and looked around at the shattered remnants of the cultist hideout. His sixth assault in four days. All brutal victories over the petty sorcerers and criminals that made up the bottom feeders of Johnny Dreadlord's organisation.
Nothing. No leads. No luck.
And a new video released every day, put out onto the internet.
His blade flared with pale light, sensing his rage, his mounting frustration.
He turned back to the cultist, still grinning that worthless, stupid, mocking grin. "Then what good are you?"
He raised the blade and-
"That won't work."
The voice was a low purr that seemed to spill out of the shadows. Dropping the worthless little boy, Brightblade slowly turned, eyeing the shadows of the room. The voice continued, "He's cut ties. Gone somewhere safe. While he...indulges himself."
Brightblade gripped his weapon with such ferocity that he thought his fingers might break. "Noxia. Come to gloat?"
"No." The voice wasn't mocking. It wasn't smug. It was colder than frost, sharper than a drawn blade. "No, I'm not here to gloat."
Johnny's right-hand minion emerged from the shadows in the flicker of an eye. Her long black cascading hair was in disarray, and her bone-pale face was blotchy from tears. "No, I'm here for revenge, white knight. Care to join me?"
