ElyriasEcstasy Read online

  The fleshy smacks filled the tight little room, which just a short while ago had been nothing more than a dreary hole—just as moments ago this Guard member had been only a nameless pathetic drone. He was much more than that now. Virge had fully woken him, turned him into a lust-crazed beast, one willing to risk his position for the sake of this sudden and unexpected tryst.

  Everybody was one fuck away from losing their minds, Virge Temple thought to herself, the silent statement having the gravity and profundity of an ideological declaration. It pulled the grin tighter on her face.

  Nick pressed her to the wall as he fucked her. His cock impaled her again and again. His hand clutched her breast with steely strength. His fingers gouged her ass. He hammered into her, his balls slapping her with every plunge. It was good, so good.

  She was coming again, this new fearsome orgasm looming over her, warning of its severity before crashing down onto her. Pleasure struck her with violent force. At the same instant Nick was snarling by her earlobe. “Fuck, fuck—” Then his hot seed was gushing into her. She felt every sweet spasm of his cock. Together they shivered and swore and shuddered their way through to the ending.

  They stayed locked that way for a luscious afterglowing moment, slumped bonelessly against the wall. Finally he withdrew his cum-slicked organ. She softly shoved herself away from the wall, staggering a bit. Nick was gathering up his trousers. She looked around for her shirt and leggings.

  “That was…” He was looking down as he tidied his black uniform. He wiped his glistening face on a sleeve. “That was…” Wonder still lit his eyes.

  “Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?” Virge dressed quickly. She palmed sweat off her forehead. “I’d like something,” she said, facing the Junior Interrogator.

  Nick’s features clouded. He was trying to regain that stern expression from before, but it was pretty hopeless. In a more apologetic tone than he probably wanted to use, he said, “I can’t let you out of here.”

  “I know that. I wasn’t trying to get favors from you by giving you mine.” She wasn’t sure if he got the little cleverness of the expression. She decided it didn’t matter. “All I want is a drink. Before your chums show up and ask me questions all night.”

  “A drink?” He seemed to be examining the word for a dangerous concealed meaning. “That’s all?”

  “That’s it.”

  He tugged at his uniform a moment longer, though there wasn’t much he could do about the flush on his pale face. His chest was still rising and falling rapidly as his breathing slowly returned to normal. “Okay,” he said at last. He turned, then turned almost immediately back, eyeing her. “That really was…” But again he couldn’t put words to the experience.

  Poor guy needed sex more often, Virge thought again. But her sympathies hardened before they could wholly form. He was, after all, still a part of the Guard, still on the side of keeping the ordinary people of the Safe repressed for the benefit of the Lux.

  “It really was,” she said with finality. “Now go get me my drink.” It was a command.

  Nick Daphral looked at the floor. “Yes, Miss Temple,” he said as he went to unlock the cell door.

  Chapter Three

  Urna’s room was dim. He’d always kept it so. Even during the day, though very little time was spent here then. That time was largely devoted to training exercises. Drills and tests, peppered with minimal bouts of supervised socialization with others in the Weapon/Shadowflash division. And there were the sessions with the doctors, taking blood samples, running analyses, shooting him and Rune up with who the hell knew what.

  It was no wonder he liked to talk so much shit when he was out in the Unsafe. Out there he had freedom, of a sort.

  Evening had come and they had sent him a woman.

  Urna was lying on his back on the bed in the center of the room, studying the four walls around him. They were covered with graffiti. Evidence of the time he had spent within their confines. Words and pictures overlapped each other, childlike scribbles giving way to angry, capital letters, half buried beneath elegant, swooping script.

  On the little stand by his bed were his evening drugs, the pills arrayed neatly. He never received full explanations for any of the dope they gave him. It was all “This is good for you” doctorly shit. He hadn’t yet taken the first of his dosages. Already he was feeling the urge to do so. But he resisted it.

  The woman stood a few strides beyond the foot of the bed, waiting. Of course she would wait. She knew her place, just the same as everybody here at the Weapon/Shadowflash complex wing of the Citadel knew theirs. Even he knew his place—he, the best fucking Weapon they had. Maybe the best they’d ever get, though if so it wouldn’t be for lack of trying. The other teams were trained relentlessly, hoping to duplicate the success of Rune and Urna.

  Yeah, good luck with that, he thought.

  He had drawn on his walls in every medium he’d ever had access to—paints, inks, wax, ash and blood. Long phrases and single words were written out in every language he’d ever come across, and some that he no longer recognized, if he ever had to begin with. There were profanities and long-winded philosophies, some that meant absolutely nothing, others that meant far too much. He had made time to study ancient texts. They could still be found, if you looked hard enough and were dedicated to slogging through books written by people long since dead speaking of ages and civilizations so remote that you could barely believe you were reading about Elyria.

  The words on the walls belonged to him. In a way, they were his sole meaningful possessions. But they couldn’t come with him. Wherever he was going.

  In the meantime, the woman was still waiting, standing there at the foot of his bed. She wore something diaphanous that hung from her slim shoulders. Her supple legs were bare. She was fidgeting a bit, the toes of one foot pressing atop her others. Her hair was a fireworks display of stiff multicolored tufts, because those who’d sent her in here knew he liked the unusual. Her soft blue eyes were shy.

  Through the brief gauzy wrap he could see she had scars. He didn’t mind scars.

  Still, he left her where she was, mind still unwinding from the day’s events.

  The debriefing had finished up an hour ago almost to the minute. They had given their statements at the broadcast studio like always, with cameras recording the footage for later airings. Urna had a vague notion of how those broadcasts were presented to the general public. They were energetic programs with commentators and visual effects. Apparently the slaughtering of Passengers was of great interest to the inhabitants of the Safe.

  It meant that he and Rune—and the others in the Shadowflash/Weapon division—were famous. People they didn’t even know followed their exploits. They cheered when they killed an especially high number of Passengers on their missions into the Unsafe.

  Rune, who usually did most of the talking with officials, had reported what he typically reported, with slight variations to accommodate this particular battle. Thirty-seven Passengers had been successfully eliminated. There had been no complications, no unexpected encounters with salvage crews or unlicensed civilians. Neither one of them had been damaged in any way. (Urna had suppressed a grin here. His knees were rather badly scraped up from the rooftop.) One set of wings needed refueling. Only the Shadowflash/Weapon teams used the wings. That was how precious the fuel was, difficult and very expensive to manufacture. Batteries charged with solar-generated electricity were the norm for transportation needs.

  It had been another “successful” foray into the Passenger-infested lands beyond the Safe. The kill numbers, or perhaps a pumped-up version of them, would be released publicly. Folks loved those stats. They ate them up as if this were a war that could be won, instead of the incremental extermination of a swarm of creatures that seemed to be in endless supply. Maybe, though, those slain creatures did mean something. At least as symbols. People wanted to believe that humans were still dominant on Elyria. They weren’t. But you had to have visited the Unsafe to trul
y understand that and most people never would. Oh well. Let the people hope, if that was what they wanted to do.

  At the debriefing, Rune had naturally omitted that rooftop fuck they had indulged in before strapping their wings back on and flying out of the dead city. Urna had enjoyed the sex. Rune liked to get rough sometimes, to manhandle Urna, like the Shadowflash was the more physically powerful of the two. Well, maybe that was true in a basic way. Rune and he had very similar builds. Hell, they were practically twins in that regard. But the Weapon had the superhuman reflexes. He could’ve turned the tables on that roof anytime he’d wanted. Then again, Rune had those impossibly potent senses. Fair trade, Urna had always figured—or thought he’d always figured, since his past was so cloudy. Maybe he’d felt different once about the distinct skills he and his partner possessed. Maybe not.

  But it had felt so good, letting Rune wrestle him down and fuck him in the ass.

  Especially since it might turn out to be the last time the two of them would ever be together like that.

  Thrumming with leftover energy, vestiges of the rough, unplanned sex with his Shadowflash coupled with the thrill of the mission, one section of Urna’s mind ticked off the time while another busily committed the walls to memory. He wanted to remember everything he’d written there, just like he wanted to remember what had happened on the roof.

  Abraded knees would be the only badges of honor he carried with him from this place.

  But now wasn’t the time to go. Not just yet. At a specific hour the corridor patrol was changed from two persons to one. Lying on his bed, clad only in the skintight black briefs Urna liked to wear in his room, he let out a barely audible sigh and gestured to the female. She looked at him quizzically, not sure what his lazy wave indicated, so he said, “Take that thing off.” Though he wasn’t even sure his gesture had meant that. Might be his brain was starting to haze from not taking his first evening dose.

  The woman rolled her shoulders and the garment made a gauzy little pile on the floor.

  She had small, pert breasts tipped with fine pink nipples. Her stomach was flat and there was some decent muscle tone to her. She didn’t look underweight. She displayed no particular shyness about being naked in front of him. Her air of nervousness seemed more general. Maybe she was awed to be in the presence of Urna, the most famous Weapon of all.

  Normally he might’ve gotten some amusement out of that last thought, but now it just seemed silly. He had never really cared much about his notoriety. It wasn’t like he could go out among the regular people and be cheered and celebrated. His life was far too regimented for that.

  She had scars across her left upper arm and one that slashed across her trim belly, from beneath her right breast to just above her navel. The scars looked purple in the room’s dimness, not yet whitened with time.

  “Finger yourself for me,” he told her, not stirring from the bed.

  Blue eyes blinked at him a moment. Was she too bashful to perform in such a manner for him? Bloody unlikely. Those who arranged these assignations knew his tastes. Hell, the officers who ran the Weapon/Shadowflash division probably knew every mental detail about him that there was to know. Certainly he had no illusions that they weren’t aware of the long-running sexual intrigue between himself and Rune. How many times had they ducked out of their daytime duties to slip into each other’s room, tumble around on one another’s bed? To say nothing of that time early on when they’d still been in barracks with other troops, that memorable night when he’d gotten into Rune’s bunk and the two males had lost themselves in a delirium of sixty-nine—only to realize far too late that they had drawn a crowd of half a dozen young troopers, a few of whom were jerking off as they watched.

  The woman had planted her feet, her toned legs open. She had ginger-colored pubes, belying the kaleidoscopic splendor of her hairdo. Two fingers spread her nether lips for him. He saw the glint of moisture. A finger of her other hand trailed its way along the fissure.

  “You like how that feels?” he asked. He’d expected his tone to be dull, dead. After all, he had other things on his mind. But the question had a hoarseness to it, even a hint of urgency.

  She nodded. The way her narrow shoulders jerked and the rising color in her cheeks made Urna think she was telling the truth.

  He liked how she looked doing it, he decided. He felt the familiar tugging on his briefs, his hardening cock pulling on the sheathing fabric. Hooking a thumb in the waistband and rising onto an elbow, he slipped them off himself.

  “Get that finger inside…” he ordered. “In deep. Two. Yeah, good.”

  She had the two fingers in her pussy, working them in and out now at a convincing rhythm. Her small breasts jounced. Her mouth was open, lips wet.

  Urna’s swelling cock head rolled up his hairless thigh and settled on his lower stomach. He couldn’t remember ever questioning why he’d never grown hair below his head, but he had long since concluded that he liked his body this way, smooth, without any hirsute distractions.

  She was coming. Her orgasm seemed to gather light to her, as if her climaxing body were drawing the room’s meager illumination to it so to amplify the wonder of the carnal culmination. A shudder rode through her and one knee bent before she regained her balance.

  Again blue eyes were blinking at him. “You want me to keep going?” she asked. The first words she’d spoken since presenting herself at his room a short while ago. Her fingers, adhered together with her own juices, stayed poised at her cleft.

  “Lick ‘em clean,” Urna said, and his cock twitched on his belly as she immediately raised the glistening digits and smeared her tongue over them, then put the fingers individually into her mouth and sucked until they sparkled only with her spit.

  A brighter excitement shone in her eyes as she finished, awaiting further instruction.

  He said, “Get over here and suck my cock.”

  She stepped to the foot of the bed, gaze riveted on his rampant organ. She licked her lips, appearing to struggle for words she seemingly didn’t especially want to speak.

  Urna frowned, then it came clear to him. “Don’t worry. I won’t come in your mouth.” He snickered to himself. It was like something out of ancient fiction, something from an improbably puritanical age of humanity. But it wasn’t her supposed aversion to having him spray his semen inside her mouth that had prompted the remark from the Weapon. Plainly she would’ve been fine with that, might’ve even preferred it for all he knew. But she wasn’t just here to pleasure him. She was a component of the whole program. The doctors and technicians tried tirelessly to recreate the success of his and Rune’s abilities and compatibility. And that included, he guessed, attempting to breed them, like they did with the precious cattle on the Safe’s farmlands owned by—who else?—the Lux.

  How many women had he poured his seed into over the years? No point even trying to find a round number. Had he ever produced a child in any of those females? He had no idea. No one ever told him anything. But one thing was certain—no female with a sterilization tattoo had ever paid him a visit in this room.

  As the woman prostrated herself between his spread thighs she glanced at his scraped knees, then took hold of the root of his cock so to raise it to her lips. A blip of recognition flitted through Urna. Beneath the wild multicolored spray of hair he thought he saw familiar features. Something in the angle of her cheekbones, her chin. Something he recognized. Had she been in to see him before? If so he didn’t remember the scars. Then again, she might not have had them last time.

  Whatever. Her mouth came down on his meat and he grunted. He looked down to see the cinching ring of her lips gripping him. She sucked him three-quarters of the way down his shaft, her cheeks caved in tightly around him. He thought about demanding that she deep-throat him but decided to have mercy on her gag reflex. Besides, that moment of maybe-recognition had softened some of his automatic harshness. He had no reason to be cruel to this woman, after all. Sometimes it was pleasant sport to be an a
sshole. Not tonight, though, he resolved.

  “That’s good. Yeah. You’re a talented cocksucker.” She deserved the compliment.

  The stiff tufts of her hair tickled his smooth inner thighs in a not unpleasant way. Her distended mouth rose and descended. Saliva dribbled out over his hairless testicles, another enjoyably ticklish sensation. His breaths were coming in raspy pants now. Which made him remember his promise.

  “If you want to get fucked, you better climb up on it now.” He had thought about mounting her but this would do. Why get off his back? Besides, this way he could continue to look at his walls, at the accumulation of maddened scrawling, years of fitting words together into a diatribe of epic proportions. Beyond understanding. Beyond decoding. Perhaps even by the artist himself.

  She had released his cock from her mouth and was moving up to straddle him. He put a hand to her curving hip, asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Arvra.”

  “How’d you get those scars, Arvra?”

  Her blue eyes shot instantly away and he felt an uncharacteristic pang of regret for asking. Normally he said whatever the hell he felt like in situations like this, same as when he and Rune were out gallivanting through the Unsafe.

  But something in Arvra’s manner made him reconsider his attitude. Also, hadn’t he just vowed not to be a prick to her? Maybe, though, he really was curious, and just not used to framing such questions tactfully.

  “Hey,” he said in the gentlest tone he could summon. “Stupid to blurt it like that. I wasn’t saying I’m put off by them. Really…” He lifted his hand to her shoulder, traced one of the two purple lines there. “Really, they’re kind of pretty.”

  “No,” she said, still looking away. “They’re not.”

  “Okay. Sorry.” Sorry? How often did he say that word?