Wasteland Rose

"Kee-rist fuckdamn," Guzza muttered, awed.

I looked at him, wearily. It was too fucking hot for this shit.

RustBucket is the closest thing to civilization left in the Wasteland, as far as I know, outside of warlord citadels or rover camps. Cobbled together corrugated iron shacks, small lean-tos of scrap lumber tents of canvass and hide, a small city of flotsam and jetsam in the middle of the desert, a hodge-podge modern-day Gomorrah. The babble of dozens of languages filled your ears the moment you entered; English and Spanish and Chinese and a couple Native languages too.

There was shade all around, from canvas canopies and metal overhangs, but fuck me if it didn't feel hotter than it did out there in the fucking desert. The sun was fucking beating down like it hated my ass, and while my hooded scarf kept it out of my eyes it trapped sweat and heat in. The hard-packed dirt underneath us reflected the heat right back at us, leaving us caught between a frying pan and a fire. The town stank like ass, too, from all the unwashed traders and slavers crowding its streets, and from the drunks marinating themselves in rogut and paint fumes at the local cantina.

Put that together with the headache I was getting from too much Blue Ruin at the Gutted Raider, and yeah, I was not in the fucking mood for Guzza pointing to shit and saying 'Look, mommy! I saw a thing! Lookit!' Look, he's a standup guy, and hell on wheels in a scrap, but goddamn does he have the attention span of a fucking mayfly sometimes.

We go way back, ok? He and I did some fighting for Warlord Rectus Rectum (yeah, that was his name, and yeah, he earned it in multiple ways) years ago back when we were dumfuck teenagers, then met up again a year or so after Rectus got hisself impaled on a steel pole from ass to mouth for crossing the Vulvalingas to do some caravan guarding, before joining up with the raider gang that ambushed us ten miles out of RustBucket. Traitors, you say? Survivors, more like. There's not much honor in the Wasteland. You do watcha gotta, or wind up like the traders did: your heads on spikes on a raider's fender, your goods in his trunk, and your meat in his stew pot (and his meat in your wife or daughter).

Hence us being here, doing some genu-fucking-ine legitimate trading on behalf of the Horsemeat Gang, who had an idiot for a leader and quite possibly the stupidest name since the Dickcheese Crazies all bought it trying to raid an old oil rig and got wasted by the remnants of the U.S. military. Long story. Apparently involved killer robots, I shit you not. I'll tell you some other time.

Anyway, Guzza and I had our asses parked on a set of ATVs hitched up to rickety old carts fulla supplies, just gently motoring our way on outa town, trying not to start shit by running anyone over, while also looking don't-fuck-with-me enough so that they wouldn't start shit with us. Handy skill to have in places like this. To be fair, there was a pole with the battleflag of the Horsemeat gang (horse skull and crossed drumsticks; yeah, I know) sticking up from the back of my ATV, and that probably scared away most trouble.

"What?" I growled, over the low grumble of the engine.

"Shit, didja see that! Cutcher engine, hold up!" Dumbass suited action to word, pulling over and frantically gesturing for me to do the same.

For fuck sake, Guzza. If this was him following his pecker again, I swear to- "What?" I repeated, pulling the ATV over, parking it under a tattered canvas overhang and knocking a vendor's case of mutfruit. A glare and a hand on my sword hilt made him fuck off with his complaints.

Guzza pointed, back at the auction block. I looked. A few slaves up for barter, these ones offered by the Bloodmouth gang. Huh, didn't know they even did slaving. Hardcore fuckers, I suppose they could capture the best merchandise if they put their minds to it. "Okay," I said patiently, "Slave. What about it? Boss Hoss doesn't do slaves, you heard him." One thing I agreed with that jock-brain on. Slaving's bad business, buying or selling. Always gotta watch your back for a knife, everyone hates you, you hate yourself, and you gotta pay a mint to feed 'em. Even leaving aside morals, slaves are the lazy idiot solution to manpower shortage.

"Yeah, but you should see this one!"

Oh, Kee-rist, he's thinking with his cock again. I swear, half the trouble I get into comes from tagging along with Guzza during those times his balls climb outta their sack and hijack his brain. To be fair, those times did usually lead to us dropping some hefty payloads in some mighty fine varied terrain, so an ill wind and all that shit.

"Dicksucking lips, tight ass in leather pants, fucking cheekbones, man!" I couldn't see his expression under that gasmask he always wore, but I'll bet he was drooling.

"And way outside what we can buy with pocket change, idiot," I replied. I squinted. The black-haired one? With the- was that an undercut? Was that a gal or a fella? Not that either of us ever cared. "Unless you've been saving up so's you can buy yourself something wet to wick." Hah. Saving? As if.

"We can look, right?"

Oh, why the fuck not? We did our work for the day, and Boss Hoss could fucking wait for a bit. Besides, the drive back would be scorching, and there was goddamn shade and maybe even some complementary aqua-cola on offer. Didn't we deserve some goddamn entertainment?

What's the worst that could happen?

~o0o~

"Annnnnd for this fine piece of posterial pulchritude, this magnificent meritrix, this capital catamite, the bidding starts at thirty trade tokens or equivalent! We accept Citadel aqua credit chits, gallon canisters of guzz, or ingots of stainless!"

Bad alliteration aside, this wasn't that bad at all. People watching at these kind of things had a certain appeal. A nicely varied crowd of bidders; here a fancy-pants trader probably come from New Vegas in a patched leisure suit, there a raging feral in tattered rags, and over there some sort of weird crow-thing with a bone-white mask and bladed gloves whose sharp fingers clacked together nervously. The crowd of watchers, too poor to bid but enjoying the show like us, was even more varied,

Bidding rose sharply, and the Bloodmouths looked content, if bored, behind their red half-face masks. These rich fucks were desperate for a slice of this ass, and I didn't blame them. A fella, it turned out, real gorgeous femboy style of thing. Not a trace of whisker on his face, eyeshadow and eyeliner and fuck me if I didn't reckon there was lipstick on his gorgeous bj lips. Hair in an undercut, chest hidden behind a leather vest but not a trace of muscle on his arms; peach-like ass squeezed into leather pants that looked painted on.

He was doing a little shimmy up on stage, not quite a bump and grind, ass gyrating round and round, asscheeks like two coconuts in a sack, a wicked half-smile on his face.

A fucking flower in the desert.

God, I was popping a stiffy already, and they hadn't even gotten down to the demonstration yet.

Yeah, the demonstration, the reason Guzza was sticking around. You see, no one was going to pay that much fucking cash for for a slice of ass alone. What was on offer wasn't just an ass and a set of lips, no, this was something more valuable: a trained sex slave, an eager master of multiple methods of sexual gratification. Whether you had a cock or a cunt, this twink could have it fucking gushing in two minutes flat with just his pinky finger, or your money back.

With those kind of claims, you don't work on the honor system. You have to demonstrate it. Naturally, they'd have the boy demonstrate on one of their own; no sense risking him catching something from one of this lot before the buyer even took him home. I tried to guess which one it would be. Sure as fuck not the auctioneer, who was a waleyed scrawny fuck in a long coat. The shirtless brute with the polearm? The thin one with kohl under his eyes who kept swapping a switchblade back and forth from one hand to the other? The crossbow-wielding lady in the headscarf?

"Aaannndddd do I hear a hundr- oh, yes! Ladies and gentlemen, friends and enemies, we have a bid of one hundred trade token equivalents, and as promised, we are delighted and overjoyed to pause the bidding to demonstrate our fine little tease's"- for, indeed, the twink had been pouting and twirling and puckering his lips and turning and bending just right- "salacious, salubrious, sensual, sensational, sexual skillset!"

"Ah, shit yeah!" Guzza shouted, to the approving laughs of the crowd. The crow-thing made a weird "Ah-ah-ah-ah" that was probably approving, but who can shredding tell with those things? Only thing worse than a crow-thing is a frog muto, you ask me. Not that I hate all mutos, don't ever think that. Why, I once had myself a whore with three whole titties. Apparently the brothel had one with four, but that's just plain wrong in my opinion.

"Can I plow 'im?"

I sighed. Fat chance. Not that I blamed him for asking.

"It seems we have a volunteer cock from the audience," the auctioneer said. "What say you, gentle bidders, shall we trust this strange waster to handle such delicate goods?" Smug fucker, playing to the audience.

The audience laughed. The bidders looked unamused. "K-k-k-k-k. Shriveldick small-prong, dirty-drip too, this one thinks," the crow-thing sneered. "Away from Corak's boy-bride-to-be, awwwwk! Must be kept clean, yes!"

"Yeah," the business-suited fella said. "Thirty two skidoo, kiddo. Grown folks are doin' business."

Now, Guzza's honor was far from my fucking business, but we were wearing Boss Hoss's symbol on our gear, and had his fucking tattered old banner flying from my rig, and fuck if that kinda shitmouthing was gonna fly with him. Besides, Guzza and me shared a few holes, and I knew full well 'shriveldick' he wasn't.

"Boss Hoss vouches for the man's size and cleanliness," I said firmly, "and also his stamina." Oh what the fuck am I doing. "We aren't called the Horsemeat Gang for nothing." Oh what the fuck am I doing. "Unless, of course, your bitch here can't handle a foot of raider meat up his pussy. Otherwise, Guzza's the second-best man for the job."

I hooked my thumbs in the heavy chain that held up my (decorative) fur loincloth dramatically, and leaned back, letting my fingers frame my crotch and show just who I thought the best man for the job was. Well, doubt they had any illusions about the size of my balls.

And fuck me if the little bitch didn't look interested, eying our crotches up with a definite look of anticipation, and licking his pretty little lips.

"Weeeeeeel," the auctioneer drawled. "Boss Hoss hisself, now, is it? Well, I don' reckon as I figger-" he cut off abruptly, sarcastic imitation drawl and all, as one of the Bloodmouths clamped a hand on his shoulders, and gave him a firm nod. "-that there would be any problem with that," he finished, giving an apologetic grin just this side of sickly. "We have nothing but respect for the Horsemeat Gang and their, aha, horsemeat."

"Holy shit," Guzza whispered.

"Now, I'm sure you'll forgive if the demonstration is oral-only," the auctioneer said, clearly placating the audience, who quite fucking obviously were not too fond of the idea of some raider trash plowing their boy-toy. "Naturally, given your advertized endowment, it would not be fair to allow you to, ah, distend the product in ways that might take time to undo. I'm sure you understand."

"Holy shit," Guzza said.

"Now, step right up, I said step right up sir! Up onto the platform, yes, here in front of us, and our dear product will most clearly demonstrate for our buyers exactly what their coinage will be purchasing." The twink went elegantly to his knees, head level with the frankly enormous bulge in Guzza's pants, eyes fixating on the bulge before looking coquettishly up to look him in the eye.

"Holy SHIT," Guzza shouted, as his new friend unlaced his crusty leather pants and pulled his cock out of his jock. Undercute (look, I gotta call him something, and no shit he's cute) stared, not quite as flabbergasted as Guzza, but goddamn nearly. Don't reckon I blame him, my friend is packing quite a dick indeed; nine inches long at least, fat and juicy and curved upwards like a tusk, with a big fat old mushroom-shaped head. Now, I'm not one for taking the blade as much as I am for sheathing it, if you take my meaning, but even I could appreciated that man's prick.

"Holy shit holy shit holy shit," Guzza chanted, as the boy took the cockhead into his mouth. I couldn't see the details of what he was doing with his mouth and tongue, but judging from Guzza's constant low moan, the kid must be a goddamn wizard with his tongue. He sucked cock like an expert; slow and languid, not slamming his head down on it like he was giving a handjob, but with a hunger in his eyes that might or might not'a been fake, but was goddamn sexy to see. He took his time, but devoured that dick like it was the first meal he'd had in days. Don't usually see that kinda cockhunger in women, definitely one of the pros to girlyboys.

The kid popped his mouth offa the cock, slapping it against his lips a few times while fixing me with a slutty, challenging stare. 'Can you come and take me off him,' it seemed to say, or maybe 'Could you last as long as he is?' Damn me if I didn't want to try either, especially given what he did next.

He flashed Guzza a mischievous little look, and then I shit you not, he took all nine-and-some inches of inch-thick dick down his throat, hilting it, and burying his nose in the thick carpet of hair at the base, in one fucking swoop. All the while, his delicate little hands were working my friend's sack, rolling and tugging his balls with just the right mix of gentleness and firmness, making appreciative groans (as much as he could with a cock balls-deep in his esophagus) the whole time.

Now, by this time the entire audience was popping wood at the very least, and quite a few were openly stroking themselves at the sight of it. The bidders were trying to play it cool, although I could see the businessman's prick tenting his slacks from over here and the feral looked like the only thing stopping him from leaping up on stage and ramming the boy's throat like a ramrod down a gun barrel was the crossbow-wielding Bloodmouth, who kept glaring at him.

The rest of the audience had less self-control than the bidders. Some were, like I said, jerking themselves, or lying back covered in their own jizz and very satisfied, but others were out-and-out fucking in the streets.

Two albino girls who looked like twins were writhing in a twisty 69, which did some interesting things to the elaborate patterns of scarification on the skin of their legs and bellies, making it look like the goddess-figures were writhing in pleasure along with them. I watched as they came simultaneously, drawing their slim pricks from each other's mouths before tucking them almost sheepishly back into their pants, cuddling each other and watching the show back up on stage.

A giant, muscle-bound fucker was taking it up the ass from his girlfriend, a slim redhead who was ramming his ass with a worn old strapon. She had a hold of the rear flap of the fellas loincloth, and was using it to slam his muscled ass back down onto her crotch.

And, in all of this, not a single eye was turned anywhere but up on stage, where Guzza was getting the world's best fucking blowjob.

His balls were in the twink's mouth now, lipstick stains covering his sack and cock, which was slick with spit and being jerked at a frantic pace with one of the kid's hands, the other vanishing up in Guzza's crack doing something that had him groaning, a low and steady mindless noise of sheer bliss. His prick was throbbing, bright red and slowly turning purple, and his balls looked two times larger than they had in the beginning. Poor bastard had been edged so long his mind had broken.

Cock still seemed to work, though.

His moans increased in pitch, high and wailing, and the twink gave him three firm strokes and pulled his hands away, leaving Guzza to thrust his hips uselessly, cock pulsating in the still air.

Guzza's cock twitched, throbbed, pulsed, and then with no further stimulation spurted gouts of thick cum high into the air, and he screamed with relief. One, two, three, and then four spasmodic contractions launching enough jism to impregnate a legion of whores up to splatter and sizzle on the baking sand. After that, the flow tapered slightly, the next couple of spurts lesser in strength, but still prodigious, before finally the cum just oozed out of him, dribbling down his still-throbbing prick.

The boy slowly dragged his tongue up the length of the shaft, collecting Guzza's seed with evident enjoyment, and then planted a gentle kiss on the mushroom head.

My friend reached out a shaking hand, aiming to pat the boy on the head I figure, missed by a mile, and then slowly, with great dignity, keeled over backwards in a dead faint.

And that's when the fucking feral attacked.