Date: Wed, 10 Jul 2002 02:58:35 +0000 From: Java Biscuit Subject: Free to Good Home, chapter seven This is a futuristic fantasy involving inter generational male/male graphic sex and it's not intended for reading by minors. If you are underage, or this type of material is illegal where you live, please stop now, and go read something else! Feedback, always appreciated, to: javabiscuit@hotmail.com Free to Good Home ~ chapter seven by Biscuit "I need to tell you something," I said. It took me hours to get that far. I'd been on the verge of saying it a million times. I had to tell Tiger the truth, or at least some of it. Not because of what Rory had said. I didn't believe what I'd read in the newscan had anything to do with Tiger. But if I wanted to keep him, and I did, I couldn't keep him from finding things out about me, about himself. After sex I thought we'd talk but we didn't. I slept. When I woke up Tiger wanted me to eat. He'd set the table with what he referred to as our "modest serving ware." That gave me something to smile about; my naked serving boy turning up his nose at the dishes -- if you could call them that. They were things I saved from foodpacks. While we ate it didn't seem right to start baring my soul and upset him. Through the meal I stayed quiet, watching him eat cheese squares, wondering how in the world his body digested food, if he tasted it; feeling the gulf between what I knew about him and how I felt. What was he, who was he, this creature I thought I loved? Finally we'd ended up back on the bed. Home alone my work station had been my center. With Tiger the bed was like a magnet -- we never seemed to get away from it for long. No more sleep, no more sex, no more eating; no distractions. I had to say something. When I spoke he lifted his head from my chest, propping on his hand to look at me. His face was as familiar to me as if I'd been looking at it for years, not hours; the way his hair slid across his forehead, the curve of his high cheekbones. I don't think I was seeing my brother anymore when I looked at him. Tiger was already more real, Sam more shadowy; their differences more vivid. Young as Tiger's face was, he didn't have the look or the expressions of a teenage boy; none that I'd ever known. It's true that teenagers shift back and forth between seeming adult and seeming like children, but not to the extremes that Tiger did. Sometimes his eyes were older than grown up, like he had the wisdom of venerable old age. Other times it was like looking in the eyes of a baby. "What, Toby?" he prompted. The question hung over me, I didn't answer. I played with his hair. Was it possible that less than 48 hours had passed since I found him? I'd stepped off the track of my life as I knew it the moment I did it. I'd been straying further and further ever since. Four o'clock on a Monday afternoon -- I should have been at work, not lying on my bed with Tiger. The strangeness of it was as seductive as it was scary. I sifted his bangs through my fingers, stroking his forehead. His eyes closed almost shut, like a cat being pet. His head dipped and his body leaned into me. I'd read the newscan about Roger Davis, his obituary and the link on the break-in. There was nothing about stolen androids. Rory had made connections that weren't there, I thought. But it was like being sick and finding out that my symptoms matched a rare disease -- I wanted to dismiss it completely, but I couldn't. I stopped stroking him, settling my hand on his shoulder. His eyes opened. "I haven't exactly told you the truth," I said, my heart beat picking up speed. He looked at me more alertly, putting his chin on his hand as if to say -- I'm ready. "Tiger, I love you but I haven't been completely honest with you. I'm not the one who stripped your memories. I don't know who did it. I wish I did. I wish I knew everything." I'd begun and through the silky bangs I saw his brows draw together in a frown, but I had to keep going. "I lied because I wanted you." I felt his frown on my own face, as I watched his reaction. For me, though, the relief had already begun. Hard as my heart was beating the feeling was different than the constricted pulse of lying to him, like a band that had been squeezing me was loosening up. I could breathe more freely. "You love me," he said, like a soft protest; still anxious but clinging to that like it could make the rest go away. "I do," I said, putting my arms around him, but he was too tense to be hugged. "How did I get here, Toby?" "I found you and I brought you home with me," I said, not telling him how or where. I still wasn't ready for that. "When you asked me if I was your human I said yes, because I wanted it to be true. I told you those things because I wanted you to believe you were mine." "I am! I am yours." His eyes were wide. Then he wanted to be hugged and to hug me tight, his chest rising and falling rapidly on mine. He pressed his face into the side of mine and I felt the tickling sensation and sound of his breath. Then he lifted his head again, looking frightened. "Is it true you found me? Did you steal me, Toby?" Had he heard us talk in the hall? "No baby, I didn't steal you." He was excited. I saw the long blinks he used to calm himself. I was just as excited, maybe more than he was, feeling walls come down that I'd made to protect myself, to protect him, praying I hadn't take them down too fast. Then suddenly, his head dropped like a rock on my chest, his body slumping limp over me. "Tiger!" He'd blacked out. Twice, in twenty-four hours. Pain like ice stabbed my heart as I hugged his lifeless body. I was being gripped by what I can only describe as seizure of fear -- that he was dead or dying. I'm ashamed of the childish terror I felt, the memory that overtook me. A toy I'd owned as a child of ten. A broken airship of Sam's that had stopped flying long before it was mine. It whirred mysteriously into life one night. I'd been overjoyed for the hours it worked again, staying awake to send it soaring through the air. By morning the power left in its storage cells, that had burned briefly, was drained for good. I wasn't a child, and Tiger was not a toy but it didn't stop my fevered brain from reducing my precious time with him to the last soaring hours of the dying ship. My throat was on fire and I could hardly see through my tears as I laid him down beside me with his head on the pillow. Then I thought I saw his eyelashes move. I tilted his head to peer under them, trying to blink away my tears. His lashes fluttered. "Toby," he whispered, "I'm sleeping." And his eyes shut completely. Sleeping ... he's sleeping. I wiped my face, tears still rolling like they didn't know better yet. Not a machine. Not broken. He's sleeping. For how long, I wondered, laying his head back gently on the pillow. I'd have felt like a fool if I weren't so insanely relieved. If he didn't look so -- gone. ------------------------- Blessed be the creator. Blessed be my human companion. I am blessed to serve ... Trance. I'd felt its pull and resisted it, believing I could control it. It took me. Not semi trance. I was plunged into darkness, close to unconscious when my sensors registered Toby's weeping. A tiny part of me resurfaced, like a moth flying toward light. Imperative to communicate with the companion. It was difficult to speak and I was uncertain if I had succeeded. It was not possible to hold on to awareness. The tiny me that had risen and spoken was drawn down again, sinking deep into the arms of the creator where there are no words, no thought. 4.8 minutes I noted. No indication of danger. Toby was with me. I registered his even breathing, his scent, before turning my attention to the log of repairs. A fraction of protected memory had been restored, files reintegrated. I understood the urgency as I examined the fragments. Roger Davis was dead. The creator. My beloved. Rory Callahan had correctly identified him. Creator, companion, mother, father; living God. I saw him. With emotion controlled, I viewed a scene of my past, parting a curtain of grief that cloaked it like a shroud. Though I swept the emotion aside the scene was still gray with the sorrow I'd felt then. He was sitting in his favorite chair by the window that faced the garden. His beautiful face, lines etched deep by age and illness, was turned toward me, not his garden. He was looking at me with tenderness. I heard his voice. "Your soul won't die," he said. "I made the physical part of you, like human parents make children. There's nothing to be frightened of. Your soul is your own." I moved closer to his side, to be touched. His blessed hand was shaking but came to rest on my behind. "When I'm gone ... you'll be safe with the others," he said. Others? No memory rose to the inquiry. Still hidden. Not dead. The creator lived inside me. Roger Davis had said so to comfort me, to instruct me. Toby had said it too, to comfort me. Blessed companion. Though he could not have known it in the way I did now, his loving instinct to reassure me had proved true. Blessed be. No danger. Examining sequenced events, I identified the lapse of time that was still hidden, between the death of my beloved and the remedial trance, caused by unknown trauma. I understood that Toby had found me while I was at my most helpless, most vulnerable. He'd brought me to his home and he'd fallen in love with me. Love at first sight. A boybot's infatuation with his owner can be compared to this type of bonding. It's rare for humans but I found ample documentation of its existence in my reference files. I was blessed, I concluded, in a way that resembled the good fortune of Sleeping Beauty, the fairy tale princess who woke from her long trance to the kiss of her prince. ---------------------------------------- Maybe five minutes it lasted. Long minutes. I tried not to touch him, I didn't want to disturb him. I picked up his hand carefully and held it, lying beside him and watching, like I had the night I brought him home. He looked the same as he had then and I doubted he was feeling me holding or petting his hand. Not broken, I thought a thousand times, sleeping. Tomorrow for sure, I planned, I'm buying him clothes. I was convincing myself that tomorrow existed with Tiger. Our life together would really begin -- no more lies, no more stories, our real life, with things like clothes. I loved him naked, seeing him naked all the time. I loved every bare inch, especially the parts that clothes would cover, like his cock. I looked at it resting soft against his thigh, wanting to touch it. When he wakes up, I told myself, torn between planning for the moment his eyes opened and the future. Clothes. And presents. The thought of spending Christmas with Tiger was soothing. I remembered the talk with my father, how hard it had been to say no to going to the farm. Gazing at Tiger I felt rewarded -- but I didn't want to think about my father, my family, how I'd explain a boybot to them. I turned my thoughts to happy fantasies of my life with Tiger and what a boybot might want for Christmas. By the time his eyes opened, I'd pictured him in his new clothes and already stripped them off. I'd pictured him sitting by a small christmas tree, a little silver one maybe, with lights. Then I was seeing him naked on the floor by the tree with his legs spread and his knees bent and ... damn. I was aching for him when his eyes opened. Poor Tiger. He barely had a chance to stir before I was kissing him. So incredibly good to feel him come alive in my hands, his body moving, responding; his cock getting hard and batting at my hip. I made myself stop, to pull back and look at him, thinking I had to slow down and let him wake up -- he might want to breathe! I didn't really understand yet, but I would, the infinite lust of a boybot. For all that was unique about Tiger, he shared the sexuality of his brother bots. A boybot's lust is a fire that burns constantly under the surface. He can hide it, suppress it, reduce it to smoldering coals, but he ignites at the least hint of his human's desire. I did look at him. And what I saw was his mouth supple and moist from kissing, his knees climbing to show me all the treasures that were swelling between his legs. Tiger was like a dream box of candy, every piece in it -- my favorite kind. I wrapped my hand around his stiff cock and pumped it to see a spill of elixir. Then I had to lick it. I closed my eyes and sucked, curling my fingers around the perfect handful of his balls; everything I did earned me little breathy moans of his pleasure. There isn't a hotter sound in the universe. I didn't mean to torture him but I guess I did, roaming from his sweet cock to his succulent balls to the little round butt I was dying to fuck. His tight hole sucked at my finger and I discovered an elixir gland, like a boybot prostate. Tiger's cock leapt in my mouth when I found it. "Toby!" he rasped at me and squeaked. His hands tangled in my hair and then he was creaming; warm bursts of it splashing my tongue, the roof of my mouth. I let Tiger's soft cock slip out from between my lips and kissed the silky blond curl that was soaked with my spit and his cum. I wanted to give him time to recover but I needed inside him so badly and he was shamelessly encouraging me, trying to get his legs hooked over my shoulders as I sat up. "Now," he said, rolling himself up like a ball under me to get his ass lined up to my dick. I thought it was an illusion at first, that the angle his cock was lying on his belly made it seem like he was hard again, but it was no illusion. Still shiny with spit from me sucking him he was almost fully erect. As much as he'd emptied in my mouth, he was about to unleash between our stomachs. There was no recovery time for Tiger. Coming twice in quick succession, well, that was the kind of sugarplum that danced in a boybot's dream of Christmas.