Dark City: Introduction

Code: M/b
All disclaimers apply.
By dirge@operamail.com

[Sun - Ash - dead whore - Bridger Madison - Fang]

--- Soleil ---

Year 2611. A well-lit bedroom of an urban skyscraper on the 700th floor above the moist, dark cloud of smog that sits like an angry god over the poorer, crime infested denizens of Dark City. Eleven-year-old Soleil stands naked, his little penis erect and bobbing with the excitement of the boy's tender, racing heart. He is afraid to touch it. He knows it will go away, but there is something magic about it, mysterious, sinful. What would his father say if he found his only son in such a state? Surely the belt, or a piece of rope. Soleil quickly grabs the tight synthetic fabric of his little underwear and squeezes into them. Now his dick is trapped, suppressed, but still raging hard. It will go away soon, he thinks to himself. He climbs into his large bed and burroughs down into the blankets imported from some far off country. Slowly the lights dim, replaced by a dream of a tree on top of a hill. Snow is falling, and a bright light is shining through the flakes. And then warm, gentle, peaceful, sleep.

--- Ash ---

In the same skyscraper but on a much lower and dangerous floor, eleven-year-old Ash, with hair as black as the coal sky after the deep impact, waits for his customer on the dingy bed. Illuminated by the light from a holographic sign that blinks red and orange "LIVE SEX>>>>OPEN>>>ALL>>NIGHT" is the porcelain skin of the boy's trembling arms. He wears only a dirty t-shirt and the tight pair of shiny, black synthetic shorts that when he spreads his legs reveals skin at the conjunction of his crotch and thighs. He too has a raging penis, but he always does while he is waiting on a trick. The room is cold and stale; the air control has not worked in sometime; the radiator creeks and clanks but releases little warmth. He has a cut on his bottom lip and a thin, delicate scar that runs from his ear down his neck, across his chest and over his bald pubis where it ends at the base of his very hard, little dick.

--- Private-I, Bridger Madison ---

I don't wear a watch. I'm one of the few who can tell day from night in Dark City just by the way the sounds in the street change, the way that dismal rain patters on the concrete and metal. The way the info-grid blinks and brightens and then dims like some flowing blood of the lethargic denizens of the ghettos.

Dark City used to be called the pearl of New America; they say there used to parks and gardens you could walk through. I don't know about that, all I know is after the impact six hundred years ago things changed. People started moving in for protection. The population grew and grew. Corporate entities rose to power a fell and rose again. Religious orders controlled various neighborhoods. Gangs fought in the streets over complex technological and philosophical issues. Information and industrial espionage became the common currency. Factories polluted the air, nuclear winter raged forcing people to commit murder for a crust of bread, and much more that I don't know about and some that I do. Dark secrets lurk around a every narrow alley: prostitution, murder for hire, boys for hire, girls for hire,  illegal cybernetic alteration, drugs, sex, theft, greed, religion, child pornography, adult pornography, incest, fathers fucking the tight little asses of their sons in one-hour hotel rooms; but worst of all, money. You can buy anything, and I mean ANYTHING for a little of the green in D.C.

The boy lies dead on the motel floor in Ship Port, an industrial area to the south of City Center. I see no signs of abuse. His body is cold but still pliable. Not a mark on his tender skin. I don't know the kid, but I've known dozens like him. He's Asian, probably from a whore over in China town; daddy was probably some white businessman. Gently I turn the small body over and look for clues, anything. Not a mark. How old was he, twelve, thirteen, max? I'm gentle with him, almost reverent, as if he were still alive somewhere deep in his death, as if he might understand that the last person to touch him did it with love. God, what a tender ass. What a fucking waste. Smooth and perfect like an Islamic pearl, like a little baby peach. I slip on the rubber gloves and part his dead, boy behind. His anus a slack, well fucked "boy pussy" as they call it over in Red Town.

I notice two things, one of them is normal the other I've never seen before. On the inside of his left buttock are three small scars right next to each other like you'd get if a cat scratched you. I've seen the same mark a hundred times, and it always makes my heart race, my cock jump with desire. It's the sign of a kitten, a boy born for anal sex. He's a little old for me, but I could have fucked him once, back when we he was a waif. Kittens are special, and they're expensive. They're not fifteen minute fucks; they need good long sessions of anal stimulation, and that's what they sell.

The second thing I notice is what appears to be a cybernetic alteration at the base of his perineum, right before the tender seam disappears between his ass cheeks. It looks like a port for some bizarre computer device to plug into. But what? Cyber alterations have been suppressed for a hundred years; that is, until the fall of the Church-Link fifty years ago -- the corporate-religious collective that ruled almost every aspect of Dark City. Now everyone was looking for underground laboratories to artificially enhance their lives, looking for some electronic fountain of youth, some way to extend their physical power, and, as is now evident, some new sexual alteration.

I stand back and look at the pathetic corpse. I'd shed a tear if I hadn't seen too much already. All I can do is sigh at his lost beauty. "Here's lookin' at you, kid." I whisper and walk out the door.

--- Ash ---

The man walks out of the bathroom wearing a white cotton towel around his waist. Forgetting himself and the role he must play, Ash watches his athletic john inquisitively as he stands by the window looking out at the eternal sea of darkness and lights. He's a good-looking man, maybe thirty-two or thirty-five. His body is long and lean, built well with muscle, toned. Not the fat slobs that he sometimes has to deal with; this man, even in his absolute stillness, moves with a sort of fluid grace. Ash catches himself fantasizing about the coming fuck, one of his clients, one of the fuckers who have all the money, enough to buy him for a short night in a smelly room. The man turns and looks at the boy. He has well cut abs, and a haircut that is somewhere between important and free. Just the lightest shadow of unshaven jaw gives him the power of seeming weary, perhaps aging. There is something about you, Ash thinks.

"What will it be, kid?" the man asks as if he were a cook behind a burger stand. Ash is suddenly shy. He thinks back over all the men trying to remember if one of them had ever asked him a question. The man went over to the radiator heater and turned the dial. When nothing happened he think took a pin from the dresser and did something to the thing; instantly a series of ticks resounded in the cold room, and Ash could feel the warmth, far off like a distant fire.

"Wha. . .what?" Ash whispered. The man turned from his inspection. His penis, pointing at the floor, appeared to have grown.

"I'm yours until dawn." Said the man. "Or should I leave?" he questioned.

Ash shook his head that he should not leave. "What's your name?" Asked the boy. It was the first time he had ever cared to know the name of someone who, if for a night, possessed him monetarily.

"Sampson" responded the man. "I am Sampson." He repeated, as if to someone far off in the dark corner of a cumbersome room. The towel dropped and his large uncut penis seemed to be breathing. He had no pubic hair, smooth as boy, making the tube of flesh between his legs seem clean and large. Ash bit his bottom lip and whimpered. The man crawled onto the bed, filling the boy's small nostrils with a potent, masculine smell. From out of his foreskin drooled a long silver thread of pre-cum that landed like a cold kiss across Ash's bare legs. The boy whimpered.

--- Private-I, Bridger Madison ---

Lil'Fang's mother was a Haitian-Vietnamese whore who worked in Red Town. His father, so they say, was a Nordic prince who had the taste for chocolate bush. Lil'Fang got the best of both genes. He's the color of a chocolate milkshake with not enough chocolate syrup, and at twelve he has the kind of body that makes any clear-headed man want to cum a load in his pants. The kid is fuckin' atomic, and now he eyes me serpentine from across the room as he unbuttons his shirt. He's also well trained in kung-fu street style, and could cut your wallet and then your throat open as seductively as his boyish lips lovingly swallow your cock.

"You like this, Bridge?" The boy whispered as his shirt dropped to the floor and he was standing there in nothing but the leather and copper studded choker around his thin neck and the leather leggings that came up to each knee in which glinted the deadly silver of Lil'Fang's infamous daggers. The two knives where small, boy size, probably toys to most anyone else, but in the tender hands of this child they could sing the poisonous song of death. The kid looked at me with a hunger that betrayed his cool fašade. The hands that could kill in a razor's breath now trembled to caress my dick. I didn't say anything as he approached where I sat on the edge of the bed. Was he really only twelve? Could the way his tiny body moved in anticipation of sex come from such a small boy? I tried to think back to the last time I had this child's mouth suck my cock. Had I given him or his friends a grudge to kill me since then? Had I given the people who paid him and kept him employed any reason to kill me? I resisted the urge to feel for my gun; he would have my throat open before I could pull the trigger.

"I need to see Johnny the Mormon." I said. This, I think, caused the little snake to pause in his procession towards the bed. His five-inch dick was ridge and pointing up to his chin, beating with the pulse of his calculating little heart. God, if I ever had that boy in a room without his knives I would lift him into my arms and kiss him, before eating out his ass with pleasure, sucking his pea dick to one dry cum after another.

"What you want with Johnny Mormon?" he asked suspiciously.

"Business." I said, not willing to offer more. Lil'Fang continued towards me, his hand greedily stroking his bald dick, pulling the foreskin long and taught then jerking it back to reveal the little pink head. When his leg touched my knee my breathing stopped of its own will, but it was probably just a surge of blood rushing to my cock. With a motion too fast for the human eye the boy was upon me and I was lying out on the bed. In a blur his steal was out! and cutting, one by one, the buttons on my shirt so that it fell open like a silk Kimono. In a crescent slice I felt the tip of the thin blade split the neckline of my t-shirt and dissect the hairs down the center of my chest. The next thing I know Fang's lips are latched on to my exposed nipple, and he suckles me like a pup does a mother dog. My hand stroke his face, his shoulders, his bare sides, his milky-cocoa flanks, careful not to touch the knives that seconds ago whispered through the air.

The half-breed boy child trembled as his feather soft lips sucked my chest. Now and then he would lick me with his tongue, lapping his own saliva that drooled down my hardened torso. My hands explored as they dared, caressing his small back, following the ridges of his spine to the nape of his neck where I ran my hand through the silk of his dark hair, now damp with the effort of his lust and his own boy-sweat. I take the tour down the ridge of his back to where the coccyx dives between the globes of his bubbling little ass, each of my hands filling with boyflesh. Deep within him, like an annoyed cat, comes a low and menacing growl. It is a fact of life and death, and everyone who needs to know knows that Lil'Fang's ass is off limits. His knives protected his chastity; perhaps one of the few working boys of Dark City who was as ass-virgin in his twelfth year as the day he was born.

Taking his warning I squeezed one last time on his butt before circling under, rubbing his tender flank, and finding his little soldier, ridged and waiting. I masturbated the boy without guilt. From his mouth came little grunts of pleasure, little squeaks of ecstasy as I yanked his balls and tweaked his foreskin. My fingers clawed into his pouty taint, as close as I dared go to the deadly fruit of his anus.

My own cock raged. A wet spot smeared across my lower belly, the Cyclopsian eye of my penis peaking out from the tight confines of my faded jeans. Lil'Fang knelt with each of his bony knees on my thighs, assaulting the pressure points of pleasure. His little but powerful thumbs dug painfully into the nerves on the sides of my chest. Still, in the boy's lust, he was controlling me. He could kill me.

The way this boy assassin took a man's cock down his young, tender throat, you didn't need his ass. When he was six years old I was the first man he seduced, his boy grunts filled this same room then as they do now. After his mother was murdered Fang kept her apartment and went to work for Johnny the Mormon, or Johnny Mormon as everyone in Red Town and Black Alley called him.

Johnny Mormon was once a high priest of the New Mormon church; that is until the press discovered he had personally deflowered fifty boys at a religious retreat. Perhaps he would have gotten away with it, but he had decided to make digital recordings of each sexual encounter, recordings that to this day are sold in the back rooms of every porn shop in Dark City, providing the money to pay the overhead for Johnny Mormon's more sinister and lucrative business ventures. After the New Mormon church excommunicated him, he went underground, and as a coup de force all fifty boys, ages 4 to 14, who had been cherry-popped by him left too. That was fifty years ago and Johnny Mormon was now seventy; some people mutter he is prince if not king of the sex trade in Dark City, at least as far as boy-ass is concerned. I wasn't sure, but I had a hunch that kitten that is probably still on that bed in Ship Port was one of his. At any rate, I aimed to find out.

Concerned that Lil'Fang would slice my pants to ribbons I unsnapped the button and allowed my dick to surge out. Fang had released his pressure hold on me and now was nibbling at my naval, his hips rubbing his little cock raw on my leg. As if a piece of meet had been thrown to a tiger, the kid went down on my dick with a noise akin to a deep, guttural moan. His hips bringing his little nut to a dry cum, the boy only stopped sucking my shaft long enough to catch his breath and whimper his arid pleasure, and then he was back at me. I moaned from the sensation feeling the bulge of my head rub against his throat. My fingers played with his choker. Fucking hell, this boy needs to be disarmed and fucked so hard he stays fucked--but more than one man has met his end acting out on those very thoughts.

I was quickly reaching my limit. My hips driving my fuck stick deep into the boy's oral cavity. As if in an act of control Lil'Fang withdrew my cock like a sword swallower pulling out a cutlass and examined his shiny, slimy handiwork, giving my head that leaked clear fluid a lollipop kiss. In a fluid motion Fang slithered up my body and laid his genetalia atop my own, beginning a rhythmic hump and grind. I tenderly held his shoulders as his lower body did all the work -- my cum was boiling to escape. Through all this his eyes never left mine. Lowering his head to my pectoral, just above my nipple Lil'Fang kissed. I felt a quick sharp pain and when he withdrew form my chest blood was dripping down his chin, his eyes gone vacant in his scarlet lust. As if ashamed of his perversion he smiled at me, showing two glistening incisors, vampire sharp, the other secret behind his name.

"I love you, Bridge." The boy whispered, and crawled up to press his small lip against mine. Our tongues danced like diamond back rattlers making love in the desert sun. I tasted the sweet aroma of my own blood, mixed sweeter still with the sexed up saliva of the boy. Then as a soon as the heavenly kiss had started it was over. Fang lithely turned, exposing his parting ass to me and went down on my cock for good. Like when he was six my cum exploded down his throat, deep into his little belly, it shot into is mouth, it oozed and dollopped out of his lips. And he swallowed as if the hunger was deep in him, deep at his core.

We lay in the dark room. Fang sleeps upon my chest. He's small for his age. Agile, delicate, vulnerable. With me he sleeps like the prince that he is: safe and sound, not a fear in the world. I love this child. I don't know why. And I don't know why I let him drink my blood, but I do. Since he was six he as lapped at the red scarlet of my life. He says mine is the only man-blood he will drink. I've met other boys, fucked them hard to screaming cums while noticing the puncture scars on their small chests, between their legs, on their necks. And I know, I take satisfaction in knowing, that Fang has marked them as his. These boys are safe. The scars are signs of allegiance, of tribal belonging. I too drift off to sleep, warmed by a little boy I have felt cum in my embrace for six long years, still he is so young.

Sleep is a dangerous pleasure in Dark City.

I awoke with a start. The room was empty and cold. I was naked and alone. A note from Fang lay on the nightstand; it told me when and where to meet Johnny Mormon. But left no indication of the boy who was my paramour. Outside I heard the laughter of children seducing men.

To be continued . . .