Zachary Jernigan - No Return

They resumed walking. “What does it say?” he asked.

“It’s a call to arms,” she answered. “A declaration of war.”

CHURLI CASTA JONS

THE 24 thTO THE 26 thOF THE MONTH OF PILOTS, 12499 MD

LAKE TEN TO TAN-TEN ISLAND,

THE FOUR NATIONS NEUTRAL REGION

She had resisted the temptation to masturbate for almost two months. The last time she did so was in Casta, the night Vedas complimented her swordsmanship. With the wind howling over them, she rose to orgasm three times, just thinking of his body so close. She had not known him then, not really: he had been an idealized version of himself, a dream creature.

Now, of course, she held no such delusions. Vedas Tezul was only a man, albeit unlike any in her experience. A confoundingly constant presence in her thoughts, at any moment she could summon him to her mind’s eye. Hear his voice as though he stood next to her. Feel his warmth. She could close her eyes and recall every detail of his body.

He had changed a great deal during their journey. As a result of constant walking and lean meals, what little fat he possessed had burned away. His waist and thighs were thinner, not so much that a casual observer would notice, but Churls certainly did. Like a mage studying a book of alchemical diagrams, she catalogued every sinuous line of his physique.

His face, too, had been transformed. During their first days on the Steps, he had lost his razor. A thick, wiry black beard had come in, yet it could not hide the leanness of his cheeks. His hair, just a black shadow clinging to his scalp when she had first met him, grew in as a thick, helmetlike nap sparsely flecked with grey. The wrinkles around his eyes had become pronounced, and the eyes themselves, a deep brown, almost black, seemed somehow more observant.

He had possessed the appearance and bearing of a young man when they left Nbena. He was beautiful then, definitely. He was gorgeous now—a singular creature that moved with the grace of a stag, unrushed and fluid. He held himself with a natural poise, as though the world fit him perfectly, conforming to his will as surely as his suit conformed to his body.

She pictured this man, an older and perhaps wiser man, as she touched herself under stained sailcloth blankets. Her hammock swayed to the violent listing of the ship, but she was determined, matching strokes of her labia with the violent movement, now and then pushing a fingertip deeper, brushing her clitoris lightly. She flexed her buttocks in time, imagining Vedas turning her sideways in the hammock, fingers prying her legs apart, an obsessive fantasy of being exposed by him again and again.

His beard rough against her inner thighs, ticklish against her anus as he lapped at her.

Probing her fingertip deeper, she pressed against her clitoris, rotating over the small, firm organ with increasing vigor. Imagining a tongue, a mouth. The occasional rasp of teeth, shocking and almost painful.

Sailors called to one another on the deck above, sounds muted by wood and rain pounding on wood. The brass bell of Berun’s voice, calling encouragement. The constructed man loved being aboard the ship.

She sensed that Vedas was awake too, listening. Sailing did not agree with him. He worried about pirates and sinking, and his body had yet to acclimate to the motions of water. He fought every wave, attempting to right himself instead of moving with the motion. Time would undoubtedly prove his facility with this mode of travel, but in her fantasy he already moved with the confidence of a man born on the lake.

After finishing with his tongue, he wrapped hard arms around her lower back and pulled her from the fishnet—tightly hugging her so that she could not fall any lower, could not kiss his mouth or neck. She gripped his scalp, running nails through his short, thick hair. She tried to link her feet together behind his back, but it was too broad. His fingertips tightened into her skin, and he crushed her stomach into his face.

She breathed faster in the hammock, fingertip moving in rapid circles over her clitoris.

He held her down against the rough floor, hands tight around her wrists. They kissed roughly, tongues flicking, teeth occasionally clicking together. His mouth tasted like almonds, and she swallowed his saliva. She thrust her pelvis upward, trying for contact, but he held his body above her, hips high off the floor.

“Please,” she said, and he knew what the request meant. He lowered himself slowly until his weight rested fully on her. He let go of her wrist, and both of their hands descended. She pulled her skirt high around her waist, and he formed an opening in the suit material, allowing his rigid cock to spring free.

She reached for it. He batted her hand away.

The ship rocked from side to side. The sailors’ voices grew louder overhead. Churls bit her lip until it hurt, a sharp counterpoint to the waves of pleasure radiating into her stomach and legs.

He slid his length into her slowly, and she tightened immediately around him, willing him deeper. The smooth, slightly cold material of his suit slid along her thighs, an alien and unbelievably arousing sensation. As the head of his cock pressed against her cervix, she gasped. He began thrusting, not quickly or slowly, but inexorably. She wrapped her legs around his lower back and rocked into his motions, angling so that his weight fell upon her, forcing his erection to a greater depth.

He gasped. Already, he was close.

In this respect, she suspected her fantasy held truth. She had wondered many times if Vedas was an experienced lover. She thought not. He certainly did not act like one, though he possessed extraordinary control over his body. No doubt, given enough time and attention he would become a very talented lover. But the first time his rise to orgasm would be quick and ungraceful.

Sometimes, she loved quick and ungraceful.

The swells of pleasure crested and broke. Her fantasy faded to nothing as she rode her orgasm through its surges. Her back arched and collapsed in the hammock, and her legs twitched. She bit her forearm, moaning into flesh. Her fingertip twitched on and off the hypersensitive skin of her clitoris as if it were a hot coal. As the spasms wound down, she slid her hand lower and pressed the fingertip against her anus, the merest suggestion of entry.

She pushed a long breath from her lungs, and then grunted as an immense hand slapped the port side of the ship, causing it to list sharply starboard.

Screams overhead, the sound of rushing water, the snap of timber.

The ship righted, fell to port. Her hammock turned over, nearly spilling her out.

Another wave pounded into the ship, but she did not scream. She thrashed in the fabric embrace of the hammock as it spun around a second time, one part of her attention focused on getting free and the other on the deck above.

No sailors’ shouts. No feet drumming on wooden planks.

The ever-present thrum of the thaumaturgical engine, a sound that had long since faded into unheard background noise, had ceased.

The ship shuddered again, tilting.

She finally managed to throw the covers from her body. As the hammock swung high, she jumped free, landed awkwardly and rolled into the wall. She shook the impact away, oriented herself, and stood, struggling for balance on the bucking floor. Vedas swung in his hammock along the far wall, apparently unaware of any cause for concern.

She took one step, and the floorboards erupted before her. A jagged ridge of black rock rose up toward the ceiling. Water rushed in through the wound and the ship pitched violently.

Her feet left the floor and the ceiling rushed to meet her.

‡

The lapping of water upon a shore. The call of birds. A dull throb in her head and chest, her heartbeat, slowly spreading to fill her body. She swam through layers of fuzzy sensation into consciousness, into the dim recognition of wrongness. She was hurt, stricken nearly immobile on a beach. Alone, apparently. Minutes passed as she gathered the tatters of her memory and wove them together.