The Warlord's Physician Ch. 09

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A warlord's son finds taboo love in the wasteland.
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Part 9 of the 10 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 04/14/2018
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Snake joined the party late, but parties were a customary requirement after such an enormous victory. The staunch employees of Overdog Enterprises deserved to drink and be merry after risking their lives. So, Chef had set aside a great deal of his product for the men of the outpost. Some cocaine and moonshine was all it took for the highwaymen to get wild and red-eyed and loud.

Car radios played old dance music from before the war, the kind with lyrics about sex and booze and any number of inappropriate things that suddenly became much less taboo when society fell apart. The smell of alcohol and sweat and smoke hung in the air, within the wood and steel walls of the outpost.

It was a raucous, medieval affair, far less civilized than the feat Snake had enjoyed a night earlier. Highwaymen chased their bed slaves around, playfully or menacingly, as they gave up control of their senses to thin white powders and moonshine that tasted like piss.

Dancing became fucking the more intoxicated the gang members became, and there was ultimately very little difference between the two. A few fights broke out, as they often do, over who had the right to which beautiful woman. But someone always fell drunk into the dust before anyone could draw a gun.

Even as they partied, smoke curled from the ruined cars outside their walls. Bodies rotted under the veiled moonlight. But the dead were disregarded as the victors howled at the moon, feral with joy and sedated by the toxic allure of booze.

Looking out at his highwaymen, his gang of glorious soldiers, Snake couldn't help be reminded of the old days when nuclear war was fresh in his psyche. The world was just as chaotic then as it seemed in that outpost. Anarchy. Freedom. A world where men like him could be what they were truly meant to be.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Snake said, standing atop the hood of his bullet-ridden truck. He felt so powerful, like a king on his throne before the courtier who served so diligently. He spotted his son somewhere in the back of the crowd, holding a bottle of shine. His son, who did battle with mercenaries. His son, who killed an enemy of the gang. "I cannot thank you enough for the pain you inflicted on our enemies. And I am pleased to let you know that you will be inflicting far more. The mercs were sent by the so-called free city of Heritage. In a few days, the order will come down and we will be riding west. So, drink and fuck and be the natural men you were always meant to be."

With those words, the Overdogs howled like a pack of rabid hounds who just found a dumpster full of fresh meat. The promise of war was the promise of loot and women and the cathartic violence that ruled their lives. It was everything they wished for from their warlord, and everything they needed.

Snake didn't stay to enjoy the alcohol and Chef's special. He returned to Martha, who was still chained away in the garage and in desperate need of a helping hand.

Warcry did not spend his time in such carnal joy. He didn't snort anything Chef offered him, he didn't take the time to fuck a slave girl. He barely even drank, and frankly was tired enough to fall asleep. But Needle was there, so they slipped off to be alone just over the hill rather than listen to dated pop tunes and watch drunk highwaymen vomit on their naked slaves.

The hill was small and round, not like the steep one from which he had sniped the deserted worker. They slipped around the side, down a beaten path and between some skeletal trees. Nobody even noticed their disappearance through that thick haze of shine and smoke and noise. They could still hear the music and cheering and fighting and fucking from the outpost, but it was a distant white noise.

"Why are we here, sir?" Needle asked in a moment of insubordination. The attitude he'd given those injured highwaymen had put him in a mood where he believed he could speak as he pleased to his superiors.

But Warcry didn't mind. "Because I said so." He lied down in the dust and rested his head on his hands. It had been a long day and he wanted to close his eyes for a bit. The poor slave didn't get such a privilege. "Rub my shoulders, boy."

Needle silently obeyed and started pressing his tired fingers into his master's back. He had no earthly idea what he was doing or if this was the proper way to give a massage. The Crazies had not taught him the ways of the masseuse. It seemed like the kind of thing that they might teach a pleasure slave, but not a physician.

If Warcry's gentle, drunken moans were any indication, he was doing a good job. Between the burning shine and the soothing hands on his shoulders. The world spun, so slowly, so gently, as the shine seeped into the grey matter of his brain.

"I mentioned a reward before," Warcry said, his words slurring a bit.

"Yes, you did, sir," Needle said, kneading into his shoulders. His chains rattled as he words, a constant reminder that he was not free, like the weight around his neck.

"What do slaves like in rewards? I've never given one before," he admitted. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen a slave rewarded with anything besides extra food or a new set of rags to wear.

Needle felt those old familiar butterflies stirring up a storm inside of him, and he grew as daring and wild as any of the highwaymen he served. So, he did not say a word, but he reached a ginger hand down Warcry's body, slipping a few fingers down his shirt and looking over the upside-down face of his owner.

They were an inch apart, but it may as well have been a canyon a mile wide. The frail, long-haired boy's face was just above his. "Well, someone's precocious," Warcry said, his booze breath washing over the slave's face. "I don't know what you're waiting for. Just remember that I can have you beaten if I want."

"I'll risk it," Needle whispered, leaning in to press his chapped lips against Warcry's.

It was warm and wet, and for a moment the world had not ended, and they were something normal. Maybe they were students at a university. Maybe they had met at a coffee shop. The whole world fell apart and they were just together, heads pointed in opposite directions, as Needle took his reward.

Needle would be a liar if he said that he hadn't fantasized about this since the moment they'd met. He could hardly breathe as Warcry's tongue explored his mouth.

They were both so inexperienced, but Warcry had seen the motions before. He wrapped a firm hand around the back of Needle's head and pulled him down. A strong hand, asserting his dominance and maintaining control over the lovely boy.

Needle hand to stick his chains hands in the dirt to rebalance himself, as he was pulled down. Warcry gripped the chain around his neck and held him in place, like a dog on a leash.

They kissed for what seemed like hours, just a few sandy yards from the boisterous highwaymen. The world was warm and they were so close to one another and they didn't want to be any farther apart. Even if Needle wanted to get away, he couldn't, and that was exactly how he liked it.

Warcry felt a tightness in his chest, but not that old familiar one. As Needle ran fingers through his hair, something in his heart wanted to burst. The butterflies in his stomach were no longer calm and gentle. They stirred into a frenzy with each passionate movement of the lips. Then something else stirred, just as it had in the bath.

Warcry let the boy go, releasing his hand from the back of his head and letting go of the chain around his neck. "You've got work to do, boy," Warcry whispered, before planting a warm, wet kiss on the boy's shuddering neck, just above where the collar cut into his skin.

"Yes, master," said Needle in a flush, breathy tone. The hairs on his neck stood up, still warm from where Warcry had held him so tight.

He was odd and awkward, trying to reposition himself on shifting sand, while bound in chains. His teasing fingers slipped across Warcry's torso as he worked his way down, bare knees digging into the rough dust.

Warcry didn't offer any help. He simply leaned back on his hands as his slave got to work. His hands wandered across the lithe master's body, eventually working down to the jeans that rested too loosely on his hips. Fiddling with the belt nervously, he licked his lips in anticipation of what was to come.

A small chuckle pursed Warcry's lips as his jeans slid down. It echoed across the sand, even as the music from the outpost grew louder and more anarchic. He didn't laugh because anything was funny or even because he was happy, but because of how cold Needle's fingers were against his skin.

Needle smiled and bit his lip, and pulled the jeans down to his knees. Warcry's cock was bigger than it had seemed in the water, and not too slender. A vein pulsed just beneath the skin, and it rose to greet Needle. The smell of musk hung in the air like an expensive perfume or something that got burned, or smoke from a violent fire.

"Canyon Crazies teach you about this?" Warcry asked, tussling his boy's messy, dirty hair with a firm hand.

Needle shook his head innocently. "No, sir."

"Then I guess it's time you learned," he said, pushing his head down on the hard cock. "Only reason a slave like you should open his mouth."

It was a strange feeling for both of them, but stranger for Needle. He never felt more warm and wanted than when his head was being pushed down. His cheeks went red as the head of his master's cock made first contact with his lips.

He had no experience sucking cock, but he'd heard the advice given to bed slaves when they were being trained. He pursed his lips on its head and darted his tongue out. Instinctively, he gripped the base of it in his hand and gently stroked it the smooth skin up and down, up and down, eliciting quiet moans from his master.

Then Warcry pushed him down farther, and his lips parted, and he finally had it in his mouth. Precum dribbled onto his tongue as it rolled up and down the bare skin. He only managed to get the head in, in that moment, because he'd never even attempted something like this before. Then he summoned some courage and pushed himself further down, sucking like it was a lollipop, tearing up as he tried to remember to breathe.

It was slow and methodical, and aided by his hand, but Needle worked on his cock until precum was leaking out like a broken faucet. It was salty and bitter, and that only made his mouth water even more. Spit dribbled down the side of Warcry's cock as it was worked. It got caught between his pubic hairs like a spiderweb.

Needle felt that pleasant warmth in his stomach grow as Warcry cried gently into the night. On a quiet night, his moans would have echoed across the wasteland. He lifted his one good leg in pleasure as and pushed down the slave's head. His back arched and his hips pressed forward almost involuntarily.

Needle panicked for the a second as his lover's tender cock went deeper, but calmed down when his nose reached the pubic hairs. Musk filled his nose, and his own cock grew harder from the sensual experience.

It was difficult work, but Needle was a determined boy. His head rose and fell, pulled and pushed by the hair, up and down bringing delight to his master. He ignored his own gagging sounds, and even the slight pain that came at the back of his throat with each pulsing thrust. That was a slave's duty. To ignore pain and discomfort for the betterment of their master.

Then Warcry finished, perhaps a bit too quickly because of the adrenaline of battle and the sheer joy of seeing his boy between his legs. He pulled the boy down as he finished, groaning as pleasurable waves washed over him. Needle was a good boy and didn't stop sucking even as semen spilled down his throat. And when it was done, he licked everything clean.

Needle's mouth was dry and that salty taste stuck with him, and it turned his stomach bitter. That warm feeling faded into an odd nausea, but he did not mind. He couldn't stop smiling a stupid, toothy grin, as Warcry lied back, satisfied.

A wave of exhaustion bathed Warcry and his leg went slack. He was suddenly very aware of the salty smell in the air and the sweat on his forehead, and the beautiful boy looking up and him from between his legs.

"Get over here, boy," he ordered, opening an arm.

Neither of them had ever cuddled with another human being before. Maybe their mothers, at birth, but that was not someone easily remembered. There was a quiet, unspoken vulnerability in the tenderness they showed one another. Needle laid his head on Warcry's chest and listened to the slowing beats of his excited heart. His own heart was still racing, pumping blood through his still-hard and untouched cock. He stroked it through his ragged pants, but didn't pull it out. His master had not told him to do so, and so he didn't.

They just lied there in the sand for a while. No words, nothing carnal. Just holding and being held in the pale moonlight, all the noise of the world so far away.

The wasteland was no place to tenderness, yet Needle could not help but look up at his owner in romantic awe. He knew what the warlord would say about something like this. That it was weakness or that it was pathetic or that it was feminine. But Needle felt safe, and Warcry felt cared for, and so the words of an absent warlord did not matter.

"You know you're still my slave," Warcry assured him. "This doesn't change that."

"Of course, master," said Needle as he gently twirled his fingers around his owner's chest. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"That's the right answer." He held the boy tight in his arms and stroked his back. The chains clanged with each heavy breath. And with a gentle kiss on the forehead, the world was quiet.

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