Morning always brings hope, even on this unreal planet, Eros, home of love, even when, as now, there is a steady drizzle of rain and the skies are dark. But the fragrances in the orchard are divine. I arose and went out into the dim light and let the rain stream down my body and stood under the apple tree, now in full blossom, and let my senses rule me.

Each day here is like a different existence, and I a different person. If there is continuity it is an easily broken thread. How much have I forgotten since I landed here? I cannot even remember how long ago it was.

Yesterday appears as a night-dream, not reality. Katte -- and in that anomalous form! But how beautiful he was still, doubly beautiful by virtue of the female body, so voluptuous, so cushioned, so smooth. The face the same, mouth half open as if in want of breath.

The spirit of this place, whatever it is, is adaptable. Or it may even be that my robots have combined into one clear and loving intelligence.

There was a new being in the orchard this morning, walking wistfully through the slight mist and the warm rain. He was young, slim, and his waist was half the width of mine who am so massively girded with muscled flesh. When he saw me, he turned away into the trees, and I followed him softly and enquiringly. A slim white youth with long brown hair, naked and pleasant to look upon.

I came upon him suddenly, leaning against one of the taller trees, surrounded by white blossom. He was twisting his fingers together like a child, staring at his hands, head drooped, with a wistful mouth, his hair across his forehead and his delicate features.

He took a deep breath when he became aware of my presence, put his hands at his back and leaned against the bark, looking up into the branches. The open scissor shape of his graceful thighs was like a gently branched bough or the forefinger and middle finger of a hand crossed in the sign of hope.

As if he were the spirit of this orchard at its loveliest, its softest spring before the fruit has formed.

I leaned against him gently, put my arms about his young slim waist. He was abashed, and yet he smiled so sweetly with downcast gaze. My lips and nose were against his hair and he smelled of the lovely white apple blossom he so much resembled.

"Master," he whispered and raised his arms to my shoulders. His eyes were green as apple skin, like jewels in the soft dim light. His own white skin the hue of the clustered blossom before the wind can shake it down, while it is fresh and young. I could see and feel his pelvis through his skin and imagined it was fashioned from alabaster, as were all his delicate bones. I could feel his ribcage with my hands, his shoulder blades against my warming palms. The soft warm rain was pattering on the leaves and the smell of the earth was rich and brown and fresh.

"Master," he whispered, laying his head on my chest.

I put my big dark hand under his delicate smooth chin and his open mouth was ready for my mouth. There was the taste of crisp white bitten apple.

When I left him he was lying under the tree, fading into the ground like the morning mist.

These things happen here.

* * * * * * *

The seemingly thin spun gossamer of my thoughts takes place amid the sure reality of my surroundings. If this is a dream it is a most convincing one.

Am I real myself? Or, like these others, the product of some separate dreaming brain? -- that, perhaps, of the possessor of the ring who slips the jewelled object on at will, or takes it off?

Feresh, against the wall again, looking at me with his big solemn eyes, pushing out his smooth black arse and sticking a finger in his silky rectum. Does he use me, or I him?

"Do not be cruel, Master." His voice is as dark and soft as the rest of him. "Master, Feresh is in need. Only Master can service me the way I like, with Master's big hot tool in my little boy-hole."

And indeed his bulk has shrunk, turning from black to white, a slim stripling in a lace panty with alabaster skin. Big blue eyes, close cropped silky blond hair. Pouting mouth. Comes and sits upon my massive thighs, puts his slim arms around my heavy black shoulders. Leans back with half-closed eyes as I place my big black hand over his white belly covering his cock and balls. He bucks slightly against my palm.

I am both the heavily muscled Nubian and the slim white boy. The white boy is entranced by this soft black velvet-skinned god of heroic proportions. The boy sits on his master's lap with one leg trailing against the master's massive leg like thin ivy on the heavy trunk of the tree, his toes hooked behind the great calf muscle, the swollen woody thew. The other leg is thrown over his master's opposite thigh, the joint of the leg resting against the sculpture of master's knee, most fine-turned bone.

Master's legs are hairy but he was the day before yesterday shaved by the doting Feresh who lingered long over this most precious, this most valued task. The boy can feel the slight rasp of the shaved hair against his own hairless white skin.

The boy is seated on the living black throne, the supreme and central place of this planet-universe. And all the power of the place is under the boy's legs, the great central pillar is there, the enduring phallus. There is only one way to plug into that power, only one rite for complete communion.

Boy is sucking Master's nipple, boy is now almost baby, awed by the black god, boy's tongue is Master's source of pleasure, boy-mouth, boy-lips -- and now boy-fingers. Master lays back and boy is crawling on his flesh like a white maggot, feeding wherever he can lick and suck, in total adoration. Boy is now the maggot of desire and need, undulating over that black host and heaven.

My self is both boy and man, feeder and fed. I am lover and beloved in one. In this is the ring's source, the ring of that eternity which here we can but glimpse.

In 69 we make that ring, become that pulsing thing and all the power surges through the cock and into the mouth and then on into the other cock plugged into the other mouth, endlessly, a ring of power, a ceaseless wave.

Even this boy's white cock, this small, delicious cock, these small delicious balls like power-batteries to increase the living current. The black mouth opens and takes in the cock and balls, sucking on all three and they are enclosed by broad dark lips of passion.

Above the boy's pale face the great arch of the Master's thighs is stretched majestically, a great flesh-bridge flung across the river of the void. And hanging there the darker flesh of the living sac and its sacred contents. And hanging there the great pointer of the universe, the volcano of seed, just above the small white mouth, brushing the Cupid bow of the delicate lips, swinging like the knotted rope of doom's great bell, or the huge wraught clanger of the bell or the swung bell itself.

Here is the ripe fruit of time. Here we form our ring as the power surges through our bodies and we feel...What can we now not feel? What can we now not know?

* * * * * * * *


I hear him calling me but I do not reply, sitting here in the darkness beneath this great dark tree, the cool breeze rippling its fingers over my hot skin.

"Ahshawn," he calls again.

Master is standing in the doorway. I see him clearly although he cannot see me. He is bathed in the light of the three encircled moons. He is wearing a long lawn robe with golden embroidery open at the front so that his superhuman form is revealed -- his superhuman swelling chest and the superhuman bunched meat of his dark thighs. The strip of cloth that covers and augments the swell of his manhood is held in place by a thin band of watered silk and precious stones that glitter in the slight light.

"Ahshawn," he calls again. He needs me but for once I must resist his calling and my own longing. Can the creature not rebel against its creator?


His voice recalls a thousand thousand nights of love and ancient memories stir in the dark places of my mind. I have met him in a hundred thousand forms, both his and mine. Siren-catamite to morph to my desire, to mould, to press. I know that he and I are one, same mind, same substance. But division is required for us to see and touch each other.

The oneness is the ring, the cock ring of the universe worn by the greater master, Lord Ptah who in the outer darkness arouses his own member with his shuttling hand, his loom worker's hand, drawing the foreskin back and forth. Lord Ptah the master-wanker, never ceasing from the seed's creation and release, his cock never failing, upright forever and forever.

Whose spunk is life. Whose need is love. And so must endlessly divide so that himself can find and shag himself. Cock-master. Lord. The Adorable. The only God. Creator and Sustainer.

My master turns toward the greater moon and stretches his arms high above his head. The gold and lawn folds of his robe fall back so that the wonderful body is revealed.

I lay face down on the ground, willing not to be seen. Grass and leaves so soft against my skin, my cock laid long against the earth as if it were my master's shapely bum and the delightful crevice of his bum. And the scented hole, my master's ring though which I enter him.

Master stands outlined against the moon, his long hair and his robe streaming in the sudden breeze. He stands in the wind, the star-wind, but where I lay is calm. It is my thoughts which have aroused the breeze and as the air buffets and carresses his body it obeys my own desire and is a part of me. I blow against him and around him, my hidden many hands upon his chest and massive thighs and cock. I slip behind him and my streaming arms carress his back and bum. I shiver up and down his manly spine and whisper love songs against his lovely ears.

If he will not respond, I blow more wildly, uprooting trees and flowers in my way, showering him with petals of the flowers, showering him with all the bright spring's blossoms. Against his sweating skin my blossoms linger, clutch and fall. Against his sculpted thighs my many mouths and many lips for a brief moment suck and adhere. Against his brightest ornament I brush myself ceaselessly.

I am behind, above, around, in every place in simultaneous pleasure everywhere. My senses have gone from me, into the air. I blow, I blow, in naked pleasure blow.

* * * * * * * *

There is Another, an Unseen, there. These creatures exist in the mind of their creator, in the vast universe of his hollow skull which is all space and time.

Ptah-Char, the ancient diety, the scribe. Ptah-Char seated before his computer screen, his fingers endlessly shuttling the silver keys. Ptah-Char in ceaseless sexual reverie and rut. They are me and I am them. I exist in them as they in me. Together we have formed the holy ring.


It seems very likely that this is the last of The Ring, the circle closed. If you liked this, there are some other stories by me on Nifty, as follows:

`The Prince' under Gay/Science Fiction.

`Cinema Sex' and `Used' under Gay/Encounters

`Uncle Jules' under Gay/Incest

Or you can view my rather ancient home page at