Songs_of_the_Satyrs

by Aaron J. French

  Besides, he didn’t need a second fix; he feared overdose.

  “Yes,” said Martin. “I suppose I do.”

  “I’m guessing that’s not a badge in your pocket?”

  Martin shook his head. The youth was lovely. He had sharp cheekbones and a taste for glamour. Eyeliner accentuated his long lashes and a touch of rouge drew attention to his soft lips set against a hard mouth. He cast cautious glances around the courtyard, although they were alone and a short dash to a major street.

  Martin withdrew his hands from his pockets and held them up. “No, I’m not a cop or a social worker or some nut job. Though maybe I am a bit nuts to hang around here while the sun goes down.”

  “You got cash?”

  “How much are you asking?”

  The smile he flashed Martin sent his heart aflutter. The blood rushed south, and Martin turned his head in as casual a manner as possible, trying to shield his mounting excitement and the overt joy he felt for his resurrected libido.

  “Depends,” said the youth, “on what we’re talking about.”

  Martin told him. Negotiations ensued and ended abruptly. The youth had all the chips. Martin was new to this sort of exchange of services, and the youth had pegged him right off as a newbie and milked him for more than he might usually have gotten away with. Ultimately, Martin was compliant. The final sum wasn’t unreasonable. Not for him anyway, who would have gladly paid double for a boy so lovely.

  “Okay,” he said once Martin had dished out half the payment on good faith. “I’m going to make a call on my cell. In ten minutes I’m going to make another one. Then another when we get to your place, and then one more before I leave.”

  Martin frowned. “I assumed this was all going to be anonymous.”

  “You can listen to what I say. It’s just a precaution.”

  “A precaution?”

  “It’s my thing. Call me paranoid.”

  “No, sorry, I understand.”

  “Safety first.”

  “Right.” The perpetual nagging doubt Martin had fought hard to repress was beginning to surface. Maybe this was not such a good idea. Maybe he should have gone to the video store instead, or spent the night downloading from some preferred websites—although these were pale alternatives to flesh and blood. He’d made it this far; farther than he would have imagined. The boy had a right to be cautious. In his line of work it was probably as necessary as using a condom.

  And he was attractive, tantalizing, sensual . . . downright hot. Really fucking hot! He was wearing leather pants that beautifully described his trim and round buttocks. The black-collared shirt was buttoned down to reveal just a glimpse of that smooth, tawny chest. A veering bulge even hinted at his endowment. The kind of smolderingly beautiful hunk Martin would surreptitiously ogle from a distance and quickly memorize for later recall, once he was alone and horny.

  He made the call then, saying only, “It’s me, yeah, we’re leaving,” and hanging up.

  “Right,” Martin repeated. “Let’s go then.”

  “Lead the way.”

  He took side streets and alleyways, moved swiftly across quiet residential neighborhoods, and cut through two small parks, one of which had a rowdy gaggle of teens around the swing set, who were too busy mucking about to pay them the slightest attention.

  Martin never once glanced back. He reached a district of militant townhouses, zero traffic, and one stray black cat. Not a curtain stirred; no bored or nosey neighbors here. It was the sort of dead pseudo-suburban street that made you believe you had entered The Midwich Cuckoos novel.

  Once Martin had climbed the steps to his door and put the key in the lock, the boy was there, standing next to him, smelling of cloves and cinnamon. Martin went in first, then stood aside in the narrow hallway, letting the boy pass in order to shut and lock the door behind him.

  The youth edged sideways, lightly brushing his lovely rear end against Martin’s crotch. Professional technique? Martin wondered, but not unhappily. By now he had a raging hard-on from a battle of suppression he had (somewhat gladly) fought and lost en route.

  Don’t be premature, he chided himself.

  The youth turned left into the living room and without permission or prompting made himself at home on the leather sofa. Martin hated the trendy “modern look” of most homes, with their leather furniture and surgical steel coffee tables and minimalist decor—but the fetishist in him loved the smell and feel of leather and vinyl. The youth’s attire certainly complemented the furniture.

  “Nice pad,” said the youth. “Smells kinda funky though. Earthy.” He glanced around, perhaps looking for potted plants, but didn’t spot any. “What’s your name anyway?”

  Martin moved into the adjoining kitchen, visible through a partition in the wall. His reply was delayed as he grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of red cabernet sauvignon from below the counter.

  How was he to reply? Should he use his real name? Was there any harm in that? Or would it be more thrilling to role play?

  “Brian,” Martin replied, hoping to sound genuine. “Brian Kinney.”

  The youth nodded, unimpressed. He withdrew his cell phone again. “Okay, Mr. Kinney.”

  “Brian.”

  “Brian. Gotta make another call.”

  “Be my guest,” said Martin, but the youth was already talking, a rapid succession of yups and yeahs and all rights, and it was over.

  Was that inane chatter or some sort of code? Martin mused.

  “Wine okay?” Martin came into the living room.

  “I don’t need a drink. Got any beer?”

  “I’m afraid not . . .”

  The youth smirked, but accepted the glass.

  “What should I call you?” said Martin.

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Justin?”

  Justin shrugged, took a tentative sip of the wine, and pulled a face. Noticing that Martin was watching him, he smiled, dipped his little finger into the glass, and drew a crimson streak over his lips as if applying gloss, then slowly licked it off.

  Martin reached for his wallet, took out the remainder of the bartered cash. The boy’s gaze instantly flickered to the money as Martin set it on the table, an instant of weakness revealing itself: he was like a starved animal catching his first glimpse of nourishment in too long an interval.

  Justin stood up and went over to Martin, who was now sitting on his black leather recliner. His pants swished and creaked when he moved. He knelt and unzipped Martin’s fly.

  “You’re a big boy, Brian.”

  Martin sighed.

  “I’m gonna gag on this beast.”

  But Justin was a pro: he didn’t gag once. He brought Martin close to the edge a couple of times, but backed off at Martin’s gentle command.

  Martin was in his own world. A private mantra circled inside his head. He had to keep a firm hold on the reins, or else he’d blow his load in one go, which was no good. He might not have the opportunity to recover and then come a second time. He wanted the whole experience to last. A gradual build up in lieu of a transient eruption. So he filled his mind with thoughts of death; death to prevent premature ejaculation. Death to prolong the pleasure. The boy was good, too good. He needed a rest.

  Martin disengaged himself, and carefully tugged his sensitized manhood back into his briefs. He gave Justin’s crotch a tentative stroke, feeling a tumescence there. The boy emitted a sexy little moan to show that he was not altogether impassive or displeased.

  “Let’s go up to the bedroom,” said Martin, rather breathlessly.

  Justin drained his glass. “A top off first?”

  Martin turned and bent as he grabbed his drink from the coffee table, losing sight of Justin for an instant, which was long enough. He was slammed in the face before he had fully righted himself.

  The force of the blow wrenched his head and broke his lower jaw, shattering two or three teeth in the process. He fell to his knees, blinded and confounded by th
e pain. The wineglass, however, did not suffer even a hairline crack. Martin had always been proud of his glassware; it was sturdy stuff.

  ***

  Justin didn’t wait for the old fart to recover. He retracted his arm and delivered a second, more powerful blow. Martin’s elbow connected with the rim of the coffee table on his way down, and Justin didn’t know if the resultant crack was the wood splintering or the poor bastard’s skull caving in. Nor did he care. Martin slumped, unconscious, over the staining red wine that was seeping into the rug.

  Justin bent down and placed the glass under his nose to make sure he was still breathing. Satisfied, he shoved the money into his pocket and, not without some difficulty, heaved Martin over his shoulder and carried him upstairs.

  He laid the dirty old bastard on his bed and took a moment to admire the room, decorated with framed, erotic photography and bondage gear aplenty. Kinky, but too much so. This was one hardcore fetishist, but it seemed as if he was overcompensating. The photographs were difficult to discern, even at close range.

  He leaned forward to examine one and then jerked back. He realized that what he was looking at was the bole of a tree carved into the likeness of a young girl, who was frozen in a state of agony—or ecstasy—and transformation.

  It was incredibly real; in fact, parts of her looked rather . . . fleshy. This wasn’t erotic at all. He didn’t want to look at any of the others.

  Worry seized him. He was wasting time. He raced back downstairs and scrambled to find some duct tape. He disembowelled the front closet, swore, and then shoved everything back. He checked the small bathroom, to no avail, then moved into the kitchen, but found nothing beneath the sink either.

  He began randomly pulling out drawers and stopped.

  “Okay,” he muttered to himself, panting slightly. “Take it easy. Stop acting like an amateur.”

  There was an order to things. As long as he stuck to the plan he had nothing to fear. First, he told himself, make the call. He made the call. He related the address and the condition of the victim. “Fine,” he finished. “I’ll see you.”

  Second, he found a rag and wiped the fingerprint trail he had left behind. Next came the duct tape, which he eventually discovered in a toolbox in the guestroom closet. By the time he had the still unconscious Martin securely bound, there came a sequenced knock at the door.

  A slimmer, taller youth in a tan leather jacket slipped through as soon as Justin opened it. He began to greet him but was cut off.

  “Call me Justin. In case the fucker wakes up.”

  “Fine,” replied the other boy. He was about the same height and build as Justin, but he had longer hair and a feral grin that accented his canines. “Who am I then?”

  “Ted.”

  “Sure. Whatever. You think he’ll wake up?”

  “Not any time soon. And if he does there’s a likely probability that he’ll need a CAT scan.”

  “You brained this one too?” Ted slipped into the living room. “What’s with you and knocking people on the head? Is it symbolic or something, like revenge for having to give them head?”

  Justin grinned. “No, I like that part.”

  Ted lifted one of the glasses, and as he examined it he remarked, “You fuck him first?”

  Justin smirked and shuffled off into the kitchen. “Christ, Ted. Don’t start acting all jealous. We’ve got a job to do. Let’s just clean the place out and go, all right? It was as much your idea as mine—”

  “Yeah, yeah—all right! What’s this guy got? Can’t be much if he lives in a townhouse.”

  Justin rifled through the kitchen drawers and cabinets. “He’s a suit. He’s gotta be loaded. Just go check out his wristwatch. Posh stuff. And earlier I saw . . . here, look at this.” He held up his find. “How’s this for posh? Pure fucking silver.”

  “Are the walls thick enough, you think? Anyone see you come in?”

  “Look, we’re safe. Sooner we get this stuff in the van, the better.”

  Ted moved into the kitchen and grabbed Justin by the waist. “Didn’t bring the van,” he said, yanking him forward so that their pelvises joined. “You give me a fucking boner in those pants, you know that?”

  “Come on, not now. What do you mean you didn’t bring the van?”

  “Traded up for a convertible.”

  “Great. So we’ve got a hot car sitting outside?”

  “We’ve got a hot rod in here.”

  “Would you quit—what the fuck was that?”

  Ted swerved around and reached behind his belt. They stood side by side, staring at the cellar door. They had both heard it: a muffled groan.

  “You put him in the cellar?” Ted asked.

  “No. Upstairs. You packing?”

  “Just this.” He pulled out a bowie knife.

  “No gun?”

  “You kidding? Do you have any idea how expensive guns are?”

  Another groan, this one sharper and more precise, as if it knew it had an audience. There was a jarring quality to it as well which resonated in the walls.

  Ted grinned and reached toward the door to the cellar. “Creepy shit. Think this guy’s some kind of serial killer?”

  “Wait.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. It’s a cliché, but when you hear shit coming from a stranger’s cellar, you gotta check it out. You ready?”

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

  “Man up,” said Ted.

  “I’m manning up,” Justin snapped back.

  Ted swung the door open, and a humid waft surprised their senses.

  “Smells like an arboretum down there,” whispered Justin.

  A faint illumination crept up from below, lighting the descending steps but little else. Ted carried on ahead, plunging forward in a foolhardy attempt to seem braver than he felt. There was no railing. Justin warily followed, the tension mounting with every booming creak of his leather pants. He wished he’d had the foresight to take them off. Then again, rushing barelegged into a john’s cellar wasn’t a very dignified thing to do.

  But neither was getting caught by the cops. What were they doing? A stolen car parked right outside, a concussed victim duct taped to his bed upstairs—it was time to leave, not go rooting around some asshole’s cellar. Justin no longer wanted to find out what the source of the noise was. He wanted to get the fuck out.

  “Ted . . .”

  Phosphorescent lamps lit the spacious cellar. The walls were lined with potted ferns and ivy. There weren’t any windows but the air flow was somehow regulated, and the humidity was quite high, giving the illusion of a sticky July despite the fact that it was a week into November outside.

  Justin navigated around the bizarre cellar in a daze. The ground crunched beneath his tread, as his wandering feet carried him next to Ted and in sight of a creature shackled upright to the wall. Justin gripped Ted’s elbow but Ted shook himself free, moved forward, and blocked his view.

  “Ted, don’t!”

  “Like hell I won’t. Do you know what this is? Come here, take a look. It can’t bite you.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” protested Justin, albeit feebly; curiosity gnawed at him from the inside. He peeked over Ted’s shoulder.

  It had horns, goat ears, and a hairy chest that blended naturally into unwashed wool from the waist down. It was pallid, underfed, and pathetic looking. It observed them observing it, and groaned—which was not the most accurate description of that unearthly, nerve-jangling sound, but Justin could think of no other way to put it.

  As well as being captive it was injured, maimed: both of its nipples had been sliced off, and a stream of glittery, jade-tinted blood leaked down either side, forming puddles under its hooves and spreading. Its all-too-sentient, bloodshot eyes pleaded with them.

  Set us loose let us free.

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Ted said absently, hypnotized by the rise and fall of it
s emaciated chest.

  Justin shook his head. “You . . .”

  Gawk at us like some caged animal human beasts and hear our agony.

  He’d been looking right at Ted when it happened—when the words steamrolled out of his mouth—but they weren’t his. They belonged to something else.

  Ted frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Nothing, sorry.”

  The creature was communicating through Ted—without Ted’s explicit awareness—using him like some sort of voice box. Justin didn’t know quite how to tell him. Ted probably wouldn’t believe him anyway.

  The faun groaned again, this time louder. It was a symphony of sounds, layered with grief and longing; a mingled cacophony of suffering beasts, wounded, dying. It assaulted them with its unmitigated intensity. An atavistic response caused them both to cringe, and they had to cover their ears and wipe their faces.

  Then suddenly it was over, and the air vibrated in the aftermath.

  Little beasts avert yourselves but it drills deeper.

  “Tell me you heard that,” said Justin.

  “I think the whole fucking block heard that,” Ted replied.

  “No, I mean . . .”

  He is awake the anger gives strength he is coming let us go be our savior.

  “It’s talking to me,” Justin said.

  “What?”

  “The . . . this thing.” Justin pointed a shaky finger. “It’s saying shit, but it’s using your mouth.”

  “It’s using my mouth?”

  “You don’t know you’re doing it. Honestly, can’t you hear yourself?”

  “I think the trouble is, you’re not hearing yourself talk.”

  “I’m not crazy. I know I heard it.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s all fucked then.” Ted sighed and was silent a moment, considering.

  He feeds takes with complacency he drinks from us.

  “It’s doing it again, isn’t it?” said Ted. “Judging by your expression.”

  Justin nodded.

  “Fine.” Ted slapped his trouser pockets in resignation. “What’s it saying?”