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Just for fun I
like to take characters that originated in television shows, (thus not
belonging to me) and put them in situations not presented on the shows. Such is the case of Dylan Hunt in this
story. He belongs to Tribune Films (and
was created by Gene Roddenberry); I have him now, for a few minutes. I’ll give him back when done, although for
the present they seem to be done with him.
This story is rated adult; contains strong language, m/m sex, and big
words. Thanks to Julia and UD for
commas and inspiration. THE THIRTEENTH By McJude When you
thought about it, as Dylan Hunt was prone to do, time itself seemed a bit of
an anachronism. As any elementary
school student knew, both time and space were relative, yet delineating periods
of time was necessary. It provided a
framework without which society would collapse. At least that is what you were taught. Vedrans had existed without it, but with
first contact with the men from earth, his ancestors he hated to admit, all
of that changed. Thus universal
time (or at least that part of the universe controlled by the Commonwealth)
operated on a system based on the astronomy of a small planet of a minor sun
in a minor galaxy. None of it was
exact. A day was based on the rotation
of that planet on its axis, a year on its revolution around the sun. The year was broken into months based on
the revolution of its one satellite and even that was off so that the months
had to have differing lengths. The
days were broken into hours, minutes and seconds based on a system that
predated the invention of the decimal.
Then they tried to make it scientific by saying that a second was
equal to 9,192,631,770 Cycles of the
Cesium Atom's resonant frequency. Who
measured that? Didn’t the attempt to
measure have some effect? He’d learned
that somewhere. Things had been modified so that you no longer had to consult calendars
or recite poems to determine the length of a month, but essentially there
remained this terra-centric measure of time.
After four quarter year segments, each divided into three months,
there existed a thirteenth month which varied in length each year to keep the
calendar in line with the astronomy.
The variations could be measured in seconds or days, and it seemed to
work. The month was called just “The
Thirteenth.” Holidays of most of Earth’s major religions had fallen in that period
so it became a “universal” time of celebration. As most of the rest of the universe had no
concept of religion or celebration, the concept was not adopted easily. But the peoples of Earth were quite
persuasive. Eventually all planets
would pause, regardless of where that planet was in its rotation, once a
“year” and celebrate something which involved a great deal of food, alcohol,
gift giving, and sometimes worship. The He was there to wait for an assignment that would be his first chance
after graduation to really serve the High Guard. Anticipation made the isolation even
worse. He wanted to start now; not
after “The Thirteenth” was over. Still
he used the time to catch up on some reading, work out, and even make up for
lost sleep; but eventually even Dylan Hunt got tired of waiting and decided
to go out for a few drinks. *
* * * Dylan
remembered once as a teenager watching an ancient Earth movie called Star
Wars. Mid-way through the movie was a
scene set in a cantina. The patrons
were of every imagined species of sentient beings. Some were flights of the imagination and
some weren’t so far off base. In reality, in most places in the universe
dissimilar species did not often choose to share establishments of
conviviality. This was primarily because the agents of intoxication which were
pleasant for one species might be repulsive for another. One might be tempted to approach one of
those attractive, if slightly inebriated, females
with the piebald heads were it not for the horrible stench of sour milk on
her breath. Still on isolated drifts
like this, the bars looked much like they did in Star Wars. The only difference with this one was that
all the patrons were male. “Perhaps they
just come here to drink?” he said to himself, but he knew he hadn’t. Back in his quarters he had fine scotch
supplied by the High Guard. They had
specifically warned him about going out and mixing with the population, but
eventually he got bored and lonely.
He was looking for company.
From the looks of the bar’s patrons, he would just have to be satisfied
with a few more bad scotches. “Perhaps there
is a room somewhere where there are sex androids?” It wouldn’t have been correct to expect
that the women who were stationed on the drift would also have to provide
sexual favors for the men working there. Sex androids were often provided on long
flights, so that crewmembers who did develop
relationships with other crewmembers could do so based on mutual attraction
and not physical need. Eventually he
would have his own sex android; that thought made his cock stiffen slightly
under his tight trousers. He tried not to
think about sex, concentrating on the scotch, the music and even the tacky
decorations hung to celebrate the holidays of “The Thirteenth.” He marveled how the traditional decorations
from Earth’s Scandinavian region, which his mother had constantly reminded
him was the homeland of his father’s family, had been twisted and remixed but
were still apparent in “The Thirteenth” decorations. Red and Green. Evergreen and Holly. He wondered if there might actually be
something magical about the colors, after all they had survived the most
brutal of transitions between the pagans who originated them and the
Christians who adopted them to their Christmas celebration. “Damn it, Hunt,
there’s not a woman in sight and you’re still getting horny.” It was not a good sign. The closest thing to a pussy he could think
of was one of the hermaphroditic Perseids. Usually the thought of sex with one of
those long chinned grey people whose idea of fun was differential equations
was enough to kill all thoughts of sex.
He’d actually used it on occasion when studying. Dylan knew that was not the source of his
sexual excitement, it was coming from men, most specifically a group of
Nietzschean men who had been watching him closely all night. Nietzschean men
were genetically engineered to be physically attractive, they literally
reeked of testosterone. Despite their
claims that they used sex only for procreation, they were also noted for
recreational use of kluge males. The
thought of becoming a battered bottom was enough to allay the sexual tension
that had been rising in his groin.
Dylan decided to finish his scotch, settle his tab, and return to his
quarters for a night of solo sex. That is until
he looked up and saw a Nietzschean striding toward him. * *
* * * Even though
they were excessively genetically engineered, Nietzscheans were not homogenic. They
came in a variety of shapes, sizes and races, all strong and all
attractive. This man was dark skinned
indicating that some of his genes had come from Africans. He was both taller and bulkier than Dylan,
but his most distinguishing feature was long hair, well past his shoulders,
carefully braided into hundreds of coils.
He had large chocolate brown eyes and lips that appeared firm and
intriguingly soft at the same time. “Do you have a name, kluge?” “Hunt, Dylan Hunt.” “You drunk enough, Hunt?” “For what?” “To get your ass fucked, that’s what.” “And that pick up line has worked on exactly how many
people?” It was the worst pick-up line
Dylan had ever heard, but then he also thought that Nietzscheans didn’t
bother to pick up men, they just raped them. “I wasn’t trying to pick you up, I want to fuck you, understand.” “Perhaps?” It was an honest answer. He’d thought the same thing many times when
he talked to women in bars. His mother
and his High Guard training had worked hard to teach him respect, but there
were times when the cock was doing the talking. Normally he would have been repulsed and
angered by such an approach, but tonight was a little different. Maybe it was the isolation of the drift,
maybe the strange place at holiday time, but the thought of the Nietzschean’s soft lips on his body and his hard cock in
his mouth and ass were enough to allow him to ponder the lack of social
graces. “Do you have a name?”
Dylan asked with a flirtatious smile. “My name is Tiwaz Hohoham.” “Please don’t ask me to say that three times, I’ve had too many
scotches.” “Way too many, if you are making fun of a Nietzschean’s
name. Tiwaz
. . .” “Is another name for Tyr, the Norse god of War, and Hohoham is a tribe of Native American people akin to the
Anasazi. “ The smile had turned smug. “Do you have a depth of knowledge to go with the wealth of
trivia?” “Take me someplace comfortable and you can see.” “Who exactly is picking up . . .?” “I hope you were going to say whom. Bad grammar is a real turn off for
me.” “This evening isn’t going exactly the way I had anticipated it
would, but it could be interesting anyway,” the Nietzschean commented. “It will be, I guarantee.” * * *
* * They were both sufficiently drunk and horny that the sex was
close to immediate. Clothes were shed
quickly upon entering the Nietzschean’s quarters,
which differed only in minor ways from those which had been assigned to
Dylan. The bed was narrow but substantial and a roughly woven carpet
cushioned the hardness of the floor.
Dylan was surprised when the larger man first kissed him and then
worked his way down his body, dropping to his knees and taking Dylan’s erect
cock in his mouth. It was heavenly,
but Dylan possessed a need far greater than that which would be satisfied by
a standing orgasm. While still staying
connected, they managed to drop to the floor, and begin a sexual encounter
that after centuries was still ascribed ancient Arabic numbers. When Tiwaz produced a tube of lube that
smelled like leather and honey, Dylan’s suspicions that recreational sex did
occur among Nietzschean males was confirmed.
He was going to get fucked, not raped.
Dylan was surprised when Tiwaz spread the
lube on his wide palm and begin rubbing Dylan’s cock. Then he handed the tube to Dylan and lay
over a small, but sturdy, table. Not
exactly what had been promised, but totally acceptable. Dylan had a myriad of techniques to keep him from a premature
ejaculation. They usually involved
mathematics or in desperate situations unpleasant memories. He did not choose to use any of them
tonight. He was fascinated with the
broad shoulders and narrow waist of the Nietzschean and how he slipped his
feet back behind Dylan’s calves help orchestrate his
thrusts. He must have felt as if he
were flying. Dylan came too quickly,
but an hour would have seemed too short a period tonight. Dylan realized that Tiwaz Hogoham relished being fucked. This was something that he probably was not
likely to have shared with many of his fellow Nietzscheans. He wordlessly returned the tube of lube to
his partner and revealed what he had kept hidden from most of his fellow High
Guard compatriots. They used the
narrow bed, with Dylan’s legs wrapped around Tiwaz’s
shoulders while his face and chest were caressed by long tresses of braided
hair. He wished the wonderful feeling
would go on indefinitely. Eventually, they ended up sitting on the floor naked, drinking
beer and eating a high protein, high fiber Nietzchean
snack kibble. Instead of the usual
enervation, the vigorous fucking had piqued an energetic curiosity in both
men. Dylan was fascinated by the bone
blades, sucking on them and demanding that they be rubbed over his body. Tiwaz was
fascinated by Dylan’s foreskin which genetic engineering had removed from the
Nietzschean gene pool. Upon learning
that Hunt was half Heavy-Worlder, they proceed to
wrestle naked on the floor pretending that they were Ancient Greeks. At one point the Nietzschean even called
Hunt “Hercules” which produced a very wide smile. Eventually both succumbed to sleep. * * *
* * Dylan awoke to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and whole wheat
pancakes. He laughed at the sight of
the Nietzschean in an apron – only an apron.
Dylan was about to grab for his underwear and head for the table when
he realized he had no idea where any of his clothes were. He stood, sporting a still half-hard cock,
and looked around puzzled. “They’re in the laundry, Dylan.
Thought you’d like fresh clothes.” “You are . . .” “What? Domestic?” “I was going to say efficient.” “Well, let’s see how efficient you are at getting your cute young
ass to the breakfast table.” “Bet you say that to all the boys.” Dylan expected a sweet or maybe sly smile. He was surprised when Tiwaz
dropped his head and replied, “Not really.
I don’t suspect you would believe me if I told you I’ve never done
this.” “No way, you’re far too skilled to have been a virgin.” “Not the sex, the having someone stay over and making breakfast
part. The guy who approached you in
the cantina is the way I am most of the time. You’d be surprised how many guys will come
back with me after that line. I guess
if you want to get fucked, you don’t really care . . . what you eat for
breakfast.” “Perhaps we were overtaken by some spirit of “The Thirteenth”, do
you suppose?” “Usually don’t suppose much, but after last night.” “I’m here ‘til the end of the month, perhaps we could see the
sights . . . and do it again?” “Sorry, no. I’m scheduled
to leave today to go back to my pride. My wives are waiting, you know how it is.” “Wives?” “We’re a small pride, and I have good genes. I have five wives and right now over twenty
children.” “Interesting?" Just
what pride is that?” “Kodiak.” “Never heard of it.” “Not many have. We’re the
ones entrusted with the mummified corpse of Drago
Musevini.” “Of course. How stupid of
me?” “We are. I’ve seen
him. I’ve compared my genes. A 97% percent match.” “At one time it was believed humans were a 98% match with
chimpanzees, just how accurate are your testing processes.” Hunt smirked. “As accurate as those used by the greatest genetic scientist in
post-terra-centric times.” “Just kidding, of course.”
“You’re not only a good
lay but a good conversationalist.” “Having second thoughts about those wives and kiddies are we?” “Not really, but I have enjoyed the past few hours.” “Guess that is my cue to leave, or do you want me to stay and
help with the dishes.” “I want you to stay and not help with the dishes, but, yes, it
was a cue to go. Sorry.” * * *
* * When you are a High Guard cadet, at the top of your class, in the
best physical form, the future looks bright.
The day was as pleasant as the rose colored sky above. Dylan thought of the peoples of earth, especially
those of the northland where the sun didn’t rise for days during this time of
their year. There in the darkness they
created their own way of life complete with rituals and gods. A new assignment was coming with the first of the year. Dylan hoped it was something interesting
and challenging; something that would put him on the direct track to become
the Captain of a starship. Still,
after last night, he looked at the universe a bit differently. As vast as it was, there was a certain
pleasure in the interaction between two disparate people who found a bit of
passion and fun in a far corner of the universe. Soon there would be only memories and
those too would fade. Maybe someday, their great-great-great-grandsons would meet. He wondered what his scion would think of
Tyr Anasazi. McJude November 2005 |