The Eternal Youth, written and (c) 1993, 2003 by drow elf. Version 2.0.
Dedicated to Eastbayjag, Roy of Texas & Quickbits. Thanks, guys.

Like every writer I crave feedback, criticism, and acclaim.

From the lair of the drow
June the 12th, 2003.


Chapter 3. Larson Spawns.


          I had a dream in which my parents, who had been hung for larceny, rose from the grave. Father looked at me with hatred blazing in his blue eyes. "Would that you had protected us. A true son would have done no less." He raised his chin and showed me the marks the rope had made on his neck. "You fled when the bailiffs came. I disavow you!" Mother lunged for me, shrieking, "You let us die! You let us die, you coward!"

          I woke myself up screaming, drenched in my own sweat and the gathering dew, and found myself in a cornfield not far from the road. The Moon still shone, luminous, serene, mocking my pain.

          I was not alone--when was I ever, now that I was become a catamite? My lover of the day, a strong and gentle farmer in his late thirties, pulled me close. "Shush, lad, let's not wake up the wife or young ones. To sleep, and I will fuck you in the morning." He held me in his arms, falling quickly asleep again. He was stupid, but I liked him well enough to stay for tonight. I watched the stars, waiting for morning, tired but not able to sleep.

          When there was light sufficient for reading, in a futile attempt to change the morbid direction of my thoughts, I turned from the farmer with care and pulled from my pocket with stealth the note from Ian that said farewell forever. All those who love without being loved are fools! My fingers made to rip the note to shreds. Then I grit my teeth and knew I could not.

          My chances of reuniting with Ian were remote, and the idea he would care anything for me was far-fetched in the extreme. Reason cannot rule all our actions, though. In adversity, the human mind clings to hope like a rat adrift in a river to a branch. I placed the note back in my pocket.

          The farmer awoke with "morning wood" and did not rise, instead lying there and stroking his sausage. Strangely, I didn't feel aroused by the sight, but when he caught my eyes and beckoned me with a nod, I came to him like a faithful dog. We did not talk, wary lest his family overhear us; nor do I fancy talk during fucking, which should be pure, true, and visceral. Damn all our lying words!

          If stupid, the farmer knew enough to listen for approaching footsteps, ready to move apart if someone approached. I credited him for that. For we could hang for the pleasures we took.

          I stripped off my trousers and tossed them to the ground. My cock was sleeping soundly, defiantly. I shrugged my shoulders. Despite my lack of arousal, I was perfectly willing. Sex offered a draught from the river Lethe. Had I opium poppy at hand, that too would have sufficed. I let him guide me where he wanted me. He was hard as a rock.

          I unbuttoned his front and retrieved his erection, stroking it gently until it was the better part of a foot. Larger than Ian he was, and the comparison to the one I despised and was mad about gave me pleasure. He grabbed my buttocks. I spit on my hands and rubbed his cock until it was slick. Carefully I mounted his pole, slowly taking it in, the pain of entry not great this time because I was controlling the penetration. I took him all the way until my buttocks rested on his lap. Due to its length, he went too deep and it hurt. I arose, and when I sat back down I took care not to sit all the way. Fucking the well-endowed demands caution..

          I commenced humping. He caressed my cock as I impaled myself on him, rewarded only by my modest semi-erection that he could not increase. He was a simple and a plain man, but polite, and I liked him enough, but could not finish myself. I resolved to try, though; and was determined to receive his load as a matter of professional pride-for I had become a whore, among other things. Sweat trickled down my chest and onto his own as I gave myself to him, again and again. He gripped my waist hard, holding me down. He gasped with ecstasy. His body tensed. Pulsations from his cock signaled the precise moment of ejaculation. It lasted longer than most. I waited until he was finished, until his body relaxed, and I felt him softening inside me. Then I dismounted.

          "Time I was getting back," he said. With a husk of corn, he wiped his cock, placed the snake back in his trousers and got up. He tugged at my cock that had failed to make seed this morning, and said, "I'll bring you lunch at noon." Then he left. We could meet again anytime, if I wanted, but I was already tired of him, and he had no money. He had paid me with bread and bacon.

          I put my trousers back on and walked into the woods. After a few steps, I felt his semen dripping from my ass, and laughed upon reflecting that I did not even know his name.


          The year was 1716, in England, and I had fled The Randy Troll Tavern after having committed murder. Lacking any family or friends, I walked to London and picked the pockets of a derelict scholar named Jag, getting enough pelf for several weeks of regular meals and lodging. Jag discovered the theft (the additional theft, having caught me once before), and went hunting for me. He possessed the means to place street toughs under his employ, and after a close brush, I found it expedient to quit London for the countryside.

          My immortality, acquired earlier, had yet to become apparent to me. I cast it aside as Ian's ridiculous, hilarious delusion, though my opinion would change. The hands writing this story today are over 300 years old; yet look to be a young man's. Those that linger long in my acquaintance perceive the incongruence between my experience and my youthful guise, and wonder how it can be.

          The river where I had been bathing and drinking the past few days hosted another this morning. He was smaller than I, a young lad, tan like me, with short, straight, brown hair. I was intrigued. Hearing my approach, he turned around, and I realized my error, two breasts correcting my initial impression. She covered these with her hands. Her face was unusual, and I stared at it long, trying to decide if she were pretty; she stared at me with the same purpose. She had green eyes. Around her neck was a gold necklace with the likeness of a unicorn, her sole adornment.

          I have not described myself adequately up to this point, which may be attributed to my lack of narcissism. A life of menial labor inhibited the growth of that vice, too common among the beautiful of the world, and rampant now among the moderns.

          My facial bone structure possesses an ideal symmetry that speaks of health and youthful virility. Men and women look at me with longing. I am of average height for my young age, with straight black hair, a tan complexion due to being often outside, and bright blue eyes, just arrived into manhood. I am slender, but more muscular than modern youths you may be familiar with, for unlike them, my body was toned by a life of work and, recently, travel by foot from town to town.

          Her hair and eyes were brown, her features small and delicate, and she looked to be at the cusp of womanhood, or perhaps already a woman--the certainty was elusive, for she had the look both of girl and of woman. I wondered if it was wrong to admire her, if she were but a child. But her expression spoke of experience, not innocence. She said, "Hi," still covering her breasts, and seemed neither ashamed nor afraid.

          "I have bathed here twice before," I said, "and did not know the river was frequented by a mermaid." She said, "A mermaid I cannot be. Mermaids live in the sea. A river-nymph I might be." "Do you mind my intrusion?" Her hands dropped from her breasts, a revelation; no young girl was she. "No. I am not shy," she said, "and you may bathe with me." She lowered her face slightly, her eyes inviting, staring directly into my own. She turned and sank beneath the water. I needed no more encouragement and began taking off my clothes. She came up and shook her head of the water. I was naked, and that which had been asleep was now awakening. The change was not due to her being a woman, and the farmer a man. It was simply that she was exquisite, and also, I had been primed.

          The cold water bit into me as I waded in, with deleterious effects on my erection. To take my mind off it I said, "What's your name?" "Elizabeth. No, just Beth. I don't like the name Elizabeth. What's yours?" "Larson," I said, holding out my hand to her. She ignored the proffered hand and seized my cock. She was brazen as... as I was. My sex stiffened under her caresses, and when she deemed it erect, she said, "Want to fuck, Larson?" My eyes gave response enough. She gripped my shoulders and lifted herself onto me, wrapping her legs around my waist. I was both mount and rider this morning.

          She moaned loudly, her voice sounding through the woods as I fucked her, not half so cautious as the farmer. In retrospect, that was unwise on her part, but I was so involved in my unaccustomed penetrative role that it had not occurred to me to warn against making noise. Her juices flowed, copious, covering me, proof of her love. I came once, and we paused briefly, kissing and holding one another. Then I began again, to her delight.

          We heard, even through our frenzy, a deep, angry, masculine voice shout a challenge. "Dirty bitch, you'll not cuckold me! You are dead! Dead! Both of you!" A tall, fat, blonde, red-faced man who looked to be about twenty waded in after us, waving his fists. He looked powerful, though decidedly awkward, with a potbelly. Muttering a curse, I withdrew, coitus interruptus necessitated by sudden peril. I thought to dispatch him immediately, and felt I could. I was really not a coward, after all, despite the dream.

          When she looked at him, I noticed, besides panic, recognition. She said, "It's Kirk, my husband," then as he came nearer, she shouted to me, "Run! Run if you want to live!" I despised her words, saying, "But what about you?" She shook her head, but could not hide her fear. I decided to stay. Damn the consequences.

          When he reached me, he was out of breath. He began throwing punches that were signaled in advance by his slow and exaggerated movements. He was larger than I was, but stupid, and it is not for nothing that cunning H. Sapiens triumphed over the stronger Neanderthal. I dodged and ducked, wanting him to squander his adrenal energy before I attacked. After being denied a connected punch four times, he abruptly turned and faced Beth. She had not skill in fighting, and his first punch connected with the left side of her head, eliciting a cry of pain and making a bloody mess of her ear.

          I closed in from behind and ducked my hands under the water, feeling for his groin. He turned around and grabbed me by the hair, and it might have been the end for me, except at that moment I found his family jewels and crushed them like eggs.

          He did not scream, though his mouth made as if to do so. His face went pale. He bent over, his eyes bulging from his head. I shoved him under the water, finding that his strength had deserted him. I found it was possible to hold him underwater. I shouted to Beth, who had blood dripping from her ear all the way down to her waist, "Do you want him to live?" She hesitated. His hands shot up, groping for me, finding purchase on my chest, but too weak to overpower me.

          There was a cold light in her eyes as she watched him struggling for his life. "People drown all the time," she said simply. No doubt there had been a long, dark history between them. Some marriages are made in Hell. After his struggling ceased, I held him longer still in order to be sure and then dropped him. He floated away, face down.

          When his corpse had floated out of sight, her period of mourning expired. She said, "Thank you for being brave, Thank you for protecting me." I smiled grimly, a murderer twice confirmed. Still and all, l could not help feeling pleasure at being called brave. Before you condemn us, reflect that such as we have populated this bloody old world of ours.

          I said, "We must leave now. You go your way, and I will go mine." She made as if to protest, but thought better of it. She said nothing in the end and went her way in silence. She would never grow old from this day forward. She would bear me a daughter, Sabrina, from this encounter.

          I made my way back to the cornfield and the farmer's promised lunch. The morning's two fucks and one mortal combat had left me with great hunger.

[ End Chapter 3. ]