evilmaniclaugh

Simon’s dreams are darker and more mysterious than usual, full of sinister images and forest sounds: low feral snarls, soft padding of feet and the snapping of twigs. A howl wakes him and he reaches out to curl his arm around Jayne’s body, but all he catches is a hint of warm, hairy skin escaping his fingers.

“Bi zui!”

Fully roused he sits up, naked inside the sleeping bag, and in the muted flicker sees dark shapes and the eerie pinpoints of fire-glow eyes surrounding them.

Half-dressed in a pair of army pants, Jayne is crouching behind a jagged tree stump, his revolver at the ready. “Get over here,” he orders.

Struggling into his shorts--because somehow that seems of vital importance--Simon straps on his gun belt then sneaks a hand into his backpack, hunting for ammunition. He should know where it is at all times.

“Stop rutting around and get your butt here now, Doc,” hisses Jayne.

Simon’s learned how to fire his revolver with efficiency, but hardly ever at night and never when he’s overrun by panic, sweat seeping down over gooseflesh skin. He kneels, holding the piece exactly as Jayne’s taught him, remembering to breathe, remembering to place his shots with care.

A second territorial howl signifies that the hunt is on and a dark river of bodies creeps single file toward them. Simon’s heart thuds dully in his chest and as he takes aim, the retort of Jayne’s Colt and consequent yowl signifies that one of the wolves is down. Enraged, the pack charges forward; Simon counts at least half a dozen animals and, shaking with fear, he fires and misses.

Jayne, however, doesn’t. Precise and cool, he picks off the wolves until, with heads down, the remainder of the pack turns and races back to the cover of the forest.

Simon’s never felt such relief. Shivering from cold he scurries back to the main area of their encampment, pulling on clothes and boots as quickly as he can.

Jayne doesn’t move, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the dark tree line ahead of him. “Stoke the fire,” he says as he reloads and adjusts his position slightly to a more comfortable one.

When the animals come at them again Simon’s unprepared for the fear that packs a punch to his guts, but this time he pulls himself together enough to wound one of the lead wolves in the shoulder.

“Ni tama de tianxia suoyou de ren duo gaisi,” snarls Jayne when his gun malfunctions and as Simon looks up from reloading he sees one of the animals take a leap over the fallen trunk in front of them.

The creature is big and powerful, but Jayne’s quick with his knife, so quick that Simon can hardly tell what’s going on. He fires his revolver blindly at the rest of the pack then swings around to try and stop the wolf that’s taken Jayne down without killing his lover in the process.

A sob escapes Simon’s throat as the tangle of bodies slumps lifelessly over to one side. His eyes fog with tears and the useless, fucking hand that’s holding his useless, fucking pistol shakes like a quivering leaf, but then Jayne emerges, wild-eyed and bloody and everything in the verse shines brightly again.

Reaching for his spare revolver the big man turns to face the one animal that remains alive, ready for attack, head up and fangs bared in a snarl. “Come on, you rutting sumbitch. Try take me if’n you dare.”

Looking sideways Simon notices that Jayne’s upper lip is twisted into a lupine sneer and his eyes are glittering with excitement. He wishes he could understand the thrill of battle but knows he never will. He might be tougher than before, but he’ll always be more suited to saving lives on an operating table.

Aware that it’s beaten, the wolf turns and slopes off into the darkness, retreating into the safety of the forest and Simon almost feels sorry for it. Family gone, it’s now destined to live out the rest of its days alone. He wouldn’t wish that on any creature, not even a Reaver.

Jayne remains on alert but moves closer to the fire, leaning up against a boulder and freeing the cylinder pin of his Colt.

“Did you get bitten?” asks Simon as he squats next to the big man, wiping away the blood with a wet cloth.

Jayne looks up at him, blue eyes contrasting fiercely with his gore-streaked face. Half-naked and barefoot he resembles a native warrior more than a mercenary soldier. “Some,” he says, holding out his left forearm for examination.

The bites have reopened old wounds. “There’s barely anything left but bone,” jokes Simon as he cleans it gently, running an antiseptic wipe over the bleeding tissue. “You’ll have to offer up some other body part for gnawing on soon.”

Jayne reaches out with the fingers of his right hand and touches Simon’s own scars. “S’been a hard few months that’s for gorram sure.”

“But we’re alive,” says Simon, planting a quick kiss on Jayne’s forehead, “and I wouldn’t change a thing.”

*

Battered and bloody from the previous day’s excitement, they set out at first light, both of them dog tired but eager to get this journey over with.

“At least then we’ll know,” says Simon as he tramps behind Jayne, actually enjoying the hike through the forest. It may be dangerous terrain but it’s beautiful: dense and cool, smelling of sweet foliage and cleanliness.

“Yep.”

Jayne understands. It’s the ‘not-knowing’ that’s been getting them both down: more than facing the horrors of a new town, more than the idea of having to leave this small backwater of theirs. At least then they’ll be able to make plans -- one way or another.

After a few hours walking the trees begin to thin out and it’s obvious to even an inexperienced outdoorsman like Simon that they’re approaching the boundaries of the forest.

“It ain’t the route I planned,” says Jayne as he stands on a plinth of stone and uses his field glasses to survey the area, “and it may have been a mite tricky, but it was a gorram speedy way of getting here.”

Simon climbs up next to him and looks down into the valley. Spreading out before them lie several small clusters of buildings, nowhere near the size of Gainsborough, but, most definitely, the small mining community they’ve been looking for. He can’t believe the journey was so easy. Swinging around, Simon looks back at the dense forest and the ominous mountain range and realises that getting back home won’t be such a simple business if it proves to be necessary.

“Best pick up the pace if you don’t wanna get left behind, Doc.” Jayne grins back at him, already tramping down the slope.

Simon jumps down from the rock platform and breaks into jog, pains in his feet forgotten, the long grass swatting at his shins as he catches up to Jayne and tries to keep up with those long-legged strides.

The sun beams down on them, buttery yellow and portentous. Things are going to be okay, thinks Simon and he breaks into a smile as they continue down the hill, eventually reaching the road which connects Hartford with the ore mine in the mountains.

A naïve part of him is hoping for this pleasant atmosphere to flourish, but it evaporates the moment they come upon a scattering of human bones. As they approach the town precincts the skeletal remains increase in number, bodies lining up in ranks at the sides of the track.

“Probably too old or too mangled for Reavers to butcher for meat,” says Jayne in offhand manner, his emotions guarded.

The first buildings they come to are nothing more than broken down shacks, home to the poorer members of the community.

“Working the seams ain’t a way to get rich,” says Jayne. “It’s the bosses who are the earners.”

Simon remembers his grandfather owning a large amount of stock in one of the big industrial chemical companies. In the past he’d always been relieved it wasn’t Blue Sun, but now that guilt seems to have spread its wing tips a little wider.

“It’s a good bet most of ‘em wasted all their coin in the town bars ‘though,” continues Jayne as he sifts through rubbish and the few remaining personal items. “Booze has a way of helping to numb the pain.”

One hovel is much the same as any other, but they search them all carefully, looking for that unlikely needle hidden inside a haystack. There’s no point in them making the journey if they go about this half-heartedly and at least they don’t have to deal with a putrefied mass of bodies the way they did in Gainsborough.

“I sure as hell weren’t gonna be no wage slave,” mutters Jayne, continuing his soliloquy as he kicks open a cupboard only to find it empty of everything but cobwebs.

Simon can picture that confused teenager trying to figure out how to make his way in the verse. “So what did you do when you left home?” he asks.

“Learned to track. Learned to shoot.” Jayne folds his arms in defiant manner. “Learned how to rob and kill folk.”

Simon doesn’t rise to the bait.

They move on, leaving the derelict shanty town behind them. Rooks caw from the nearby treetops and one of the birds swoops down to settle on a painted wooden sign, gazing plaintively at them with coal black eyes.

The painted letters on the board are faded, but Simon can make out the name, ‘Hartford’ and above it the words Balliol Chemical Corporation. This was a company town full of company people -- most likely left to their own rough and ready devices by the Alliance and the inhabitants of Gainsborough alike.

Skeletons continue to litter the roadside, picked clean by carrion-eaters and bleached white by the sun until they’re almost perfect enough to be displayed in a glass case at medical school. Occasionally, Simon steps on small shards on bone and the crunch doesn’t sicken him as much as it should.

“Do they feel anything?” says Jayne when they arrive at the charred remains of the first town building. “Reavers, I mean,” he clarifies when Simon looks puzzled. Kicking through the debris the mercenary uncovers a sign which reads ‘Balliol Assay’ and kicks it disconsolately to one side. “I don’t see no point to a life like that.”

Simon clears the grit from his dry throat. “I don’t understand it any better than you,” he says. He wishes so much this could be explained away by means of a virus, but their experiences have proved conclusively that this is not the case.

As they enter the main part of the town both men are taken aback by the sheer level of destruction. The place is a junkyard of looted items, most of them smashed to smithereens. There’s even an old leather swivel chair dumped unceremoniously upside down in an old horse trough, the red and white pole hanging above a nearby doorway indicating that it must have belonged to the town barber.

Leaving their backpacks in a doorway, they split up, each of them taking one side of the street to explore. Simon walks through the boneyard buildings, hand resting vigilantly on his right hip, boot leather aging with each step from a fine layer of grey dust. As he wanders from one scene of devastation to another, gloom settles over him like that grimy residue of human powder. Shouldn’t he be more pleased? Surely this is the outcome he’s been wishing for? His happy ending.

Discovering the town registry, he harbours a faint hope of finding some form of working communication device. Responsible for registering all legal transactions that took place in Hartford, the Notary Public must have had access to the Cortex, but as Simon sifts through the office wreckage and moves on to piles of paperwork on the varnished oak desk it becomes apparent that the person holding the title here did little more than record details in a leather-bound book then hand out pre-signed certificates.

Simon sits at the desk and stares at the unused pad in front of him. Picking up the pen he scratches his name onto the paper, ink long since dried up making his spidery handwriting almost invisible. ‘Jayne Cobb,’ he scrawls on the line below, wondering if the man has another, even more bizarre, middle name.

“Folks here put a fight. They made their stand in the bar just across the street. Took what women and children there were into the back and did their best to defend them. Course it weren’t ever gonna be enough.”

Shocked from the unexpected intrusion, Simon looks up at his lover, eyes shifting from side to side with embarrassment as he rips the legal certificate from its pad then folds it into four, hiding the guilty secret deep inside his pocket.

“It’s a mess over there,” continues Jayne. “Nothing left of the place. Ain’t found a way to send a wave neither.” He looks hopefully around the Notary’s office. “How about you?”

Simon shakes his head somberly.

“Space dock’s intact though. Reavers must’ve figured they might find use for it. ” Jayne brightens visibly. “And there’s a whorehouse out back of the bar,” he says with a leer. “Reckon we should stay there while we try to figure out what to do next. Could be kinda dirty.”

“You always think with your cock,” laughs Simon, his hand imperceptibly edging down to caress the front of his pants as he imagines how very dirty it may turn out to be.

“You’re a one to talk.” A smile twitches the corners of Jayne’s mouth. “Wanna see the kind of fun stuff they got in there?”

Simon lurches to his feet, the chair scuttling away across the floor behind him like an oversized beetle. “Show me,” he says, his voice coming out as gritty as before, this time the huskiness more to do with sex rather than dust.

Injuries forgotten, he matches Jayne stride for stride as they jostle each other out of the way, elbows jabbing, fingers grabbing -- all part of their foreplay. Across the street and down a narrow passageway they race, skin scraping against brickwork, and in contrast to this dead place Simon overflows with life, blood pumping, sweat trickling as he pushes with every iota of his being to win. The passage opens out into an enclosed yard and for a second Simon loses his bearings. Jayne feints a move to the left in the direction of an exit and Simon overtakes him, but then with a loud guffaw of laughter, the mercenary turns and heads for a wooden staircase.

Frustrated at being outmanoeuvered by such a simple play, Simon reaches out and makes a grab for Jayne’s belt, but misses, almost falling flat on his face. Resigned now to losing the race, he follows on at a more sedate pace and he’s looking to his right, checking out the less-than-subtle signage on the front of the whorehouse when, out of the corner of his eye, he spots an old-fashioned satellite rig attached to the side wall. Wo de ma! Could this be what they’re looking for? The building is obscured from the main drag of the town and maybe, just maybe…

“Jayne,” he gasps as he stomps up the steps, his footsteps thudding dully on the thick wooden treads.

“Don’t worry, Doc.” Jayne yanks hard on Simon’s arms, dragging him closer. “I won’t make you pay too hard for coming in as loser. Though I ain’t forgotten what you said about needing a spanking.”

Muffled by a mouthful of Jayne’s jacket Simon struggles to break free. “Get off me, you oversized chun ren.”

Jayne lets go, obvious taken aback by Simon’s words, a hurt expression appearing on his face.

“Sorry, ai ren, but look.” Simon points to the rusted dish protruding from the wall. “Did the Reavers find this place? Is it looted?” A million questions become tangled up on his tongue. “Did you see a transmitter inside?”

Jayne doesn’t waste any more time with pointless talk. In a second of being shown the satellite dish he’s charging through the entrance with Simon following close on his heels. The brothel is overflowing with gaudy furnishings, brightly coloured drapes adorn the windows and there are a number of long, low daybeds for customers to lounge on while they’re waiting to be serviced. The first private area they come to is a kitchen and leaving Jayne to explore it more thoroughly Simon heads for the staircase.

He’s halfway up when the mercenary calls from below, “’s’just bedrooms and bathrooms up there. I checked it out last time I was here. Nothing in the galley neither.”

Frustrated by their lack of success, Simon’s on the point of giving up when he hears this loud exclamation of surprise. Wheeling around, he sees to his delight that Jayne has discovered an obscured doorway at the far end of the linear reception area, its decoration matching the walls exactly.

“Looks like we may’ve found what we was looking for. The madam here must’ve kept her rooms secret so no one would break in and rob her.”

“Rob her of what?” Simon’s confused.

Jayne laughs. “This place most likely made a mint of cashy money. Whores ain’t cheap, you know and there’d’ve been plenty of fellers wanting a regular thrust.”

The private rooms consist of a bedroom and bathroom, a living area and, hidden away to the very rear, an office.

“Wo kao!” says Jayne as, simultaneously, they catch sight of the telegraph machine housed in a cabinet. “Maybe them space freighters do still use high frequency.”

Simon’s nonplussed. Isn’t it a rather wild coincidence there being another antiquated machine on this planetoid? “What would a brothel keeper be doing sending telegraph signals?” he asks.

Jayne looks at him as if he’s stupid. “Rim worlds are a whole lot different to the central planets, Doc. This is how she would’ve drummed up passing trade,” he says as he frowns at the controls, puzzling out how to turn it on. “If you’d’ve been stuck out in the black for a while then read one of her messages, you’d drop landing gear quick smart.” His eyes shine brightly with amusement. “Both kinds I reckon.”

A quick flick of the switch results in nothing and when Jayne checks the lights and finds that the power is off Simon remembers the battle they had supplying the farmhouse with electricity.

“It ain’t a problem, Doc,” says Jayne when he sees Simon begin to fret. “There’s a generator in a storage shed out back of the kitchen. Plenty of fuel too. Gimme a second and I’ll have it all fired up.”

He leaves the room, doors banging behind him as if a hurricane’s passing through the bordello and Simon takes advantage of this moment of solitude to examine his feelings. There’s no guarantee their plan will work, but if it does then he and Jayne can get away from here, back home to Serenity. A whisper of happiness threads its way through him like smoke and he collapses back onto the soft cushions of the couch, filled with visions of escape. Then, in the distance, comes the unmistakable sound of a generator roaring into life and, almost immediately, the lights flicker on.

“Moment of truth,” says Jayne from the doorway, his gaze alternating between the Simon and the telegraph machine. “D’you wanna try it?”

Simon shakes his head, worried that he might truly be the Jonah that Mal Reynolds implied when he first bought passage on Serenity. “Have you used one of these before?” he asks, trying to erase all thoughts of jinxes.

“Yeah, but it was a hell of a long time ago.” Jayne reluctantly shuffles closer as if the machine’s about to take a bite out of him and reaching out warily, he flicks the power switch. The display bursts into life and for a minute the man stares blankly at the keys, then he thaws, his fingers running over the dials. “Ain’t certain about waving someone on this thing but I know there’s a setting to send out a distress signal.” He stabs at a series of buttons then looks around at Simon with a bemused expression on his face. “Reckon I done it, Doc.”

Simon is equally as bewildered. “What do we do now?”

Jayne shrugs. “Guess we just wait and see if someone waves us back.”

It’s possibly the worst moment of anticlimax that Simon has ever experienced. All that soul-searching and trepidation should have culminated in something far more impressive than this. “Hungry?” he asks, for want of anything better to say.

“Too tired,” says Jayne. “There's clean water here. ’M gonna grab me a shower and then hit the sack. Feel as if I could sleep for a week.”

*

Next morning Simon finds Jayne in the office, keeping himself occupied by breaking into the madam’s safe. “Any messages?” he asks, knowing long before he speaks that the answer is no.

Jayne shakes his head and concentrates on what he’s doing. “She should’ve got herself a better quality lock box,” he says triumphantly when the door springs open. “I ain’t lost my touch.”

The platinum is stacked high. “It’s a shame we haven’t got anywhere to spend it,” says Simon, suddenly remembering the wad of bank drafts stuffed away inside a pocket of his backpack. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the gilded over-mantel mirror he’s taken aback by how much he’s changed. He’s turned into a filthy, rich, unkempt, mountain man. “You know that barber’s shop across the street?” he says, lifting thick strands away from his head in disgust. “Do you think you could cut my hair for me?” It would be nothing short of mortifying to be rescued in this state.

“Depends how you wanna end up,” says Jayne dubiously.

“Less like a hobo?”

Jayne stands at Simon’s shoulder and stares into the glass. “Can see what you mean,” he says, eyeing his own image through narrowed eyes. “I ain’t looking too good myownself.”

Simon disagrees; he loves Jayne’s hair, which is long and wavy, starting to recede a little but still thick and dark. He likes to grab hold of it when Jayne’s going down on him. He likes the feel of it against his skin when they’re fucking. “But-”

“If’n you get to have yours cut then so do I.”

Slipping to his knees and unfastening Jayne’s fly, Simon wonders how strange it will feel to have short hair again.

“If we both have shaved heads we’ll look like convicts on the run,” he says then he goes back to work, swirling his tongue around the knob of Jayne’s cock, safe in the knowledge that he’s won.

*

Simon checks the telegraph machine after breakfast and, again, before they leave the bordello.

“It ain’t a highly populated part of the verse,” says Jayne as he pulls on his boots.

That’s true enough. Simon remembers looking at the quadrant charts as they were coming in to land. He’d never seen so many unlisted, unpopulated rocks in his life. “Come on,” he says, eager to see if the barber shop has any contents left intact.

The smell wafting from the piles of old garbage is musty with an underlying hint of putrid, but Simon has no intention of clearing up another backwater town unless it becomes absolutely necessary. It amuses him that the barber bothered to put up a red and white pole outside his tiny business, that symbol of tradition now hanging off the wall and swaying precariously from side to side in the slight breeze.

A sign, laid on its side on the step, spells out a list of the services once offered here -- services that rather gruesomely hark back to Earth-That-Was history. According to the board, the barber also doubled as town dentist and could perform minor operations if necessary.

“This… this… is barbaric,” Simon stammers, looking at Jayne through eyes that are round with incredulity.

“It ain’t unusual.” The big man strides through the doorway and begins ridding the tiny room of some of its trash, a piece of broken countertop flying through the smashed window.

“Watch out!” yells Simon, narrowly avoiding the airborne debris.

“Sorry, Doc.” Jayne’s busy sorting through the items that are strewn all over the linoleum floor. “Got us a set of clippers,” he says, waving a dusty box in the air.

Once they find a way to power up the place, Simon begins to wonder exactly how easy it is to shave a head. Jayne, however, seems unconcerned by the minor details and is busy oiling up the clippers, so to take his mind off his worries Simon sits down on an upturned storage crate and squints at the old newspapers which cover the floor. It’s only when hair starts to fall onto the paper that he realises Jayne has begun to cut away his long locks with a pair of scissors.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks nervously.

“Nope. But I did shear a sheep once if’n that makes you feel any better.”

It doesn’t. In fact Simon begins to feel increasingly apprehensive especially now Jayne’s full of himself and laughing away like a hyena. The worst thing of all is not having a mirror in front of him. At least then he’d know what Jayne was cackling about. Soon the clippers buzz into life and Simon closes his eyes, trying not to think about what a feng le idea this is and wincing as tufts of hair get caught up in the blades.

Finally the clippers are switched off and Jayne smoothes a palm over Simon’s cropped head. “All finished, Doc. Done a pretty fine job of it too.”

As Jayne takes a step back, eyes shining with approval, Simon hunts around on the floor for a shard of mirror that’s big enough to be useable. It’s hard to get the full picture in a piece of glass two inches by five, but Simon is immediately shocked by the change. Copying Jayne he runs a hand, back and forth, across the bristles. “I look…” His sentence peters out as he becomes stumped for words. He’s never had his hair this short before and it’s certainly different, it makes him feel so very different.

“You look good enough to eat,” says Jayne with a dirty grin.

Simon wriggles; his back and neck itch uncomfortably and he can’t wait to climb into a hot shower. Getting to his feet he heads for the doorway, brushing his shoulders clean.

“You truly ain’t gonna do me then?”

Jayne sounds petulant and Simon smiles, shaking his head in an emphatic ‘no.’ “I’ll do you later,” he says imagining the way the sex will play out, Jayne kneeling on the bed pliant and needy with Simon powering into him from behind. It’ll be good. It’s always good.

“Least I can give myself a good shave while I’m here.” Jayne’s sullenness slips away, the pouch full of cut-throat razors a consolation if the expression on his face is anything to go by. “Shiny,” he says, checking out his new toys one by one.

The itch crawling across Simon’s back is continuing to drive him crazy. “I’ll see you back at the bordello,” he says. “Don’t be long.”

“Gonna do some looting after I finish up here. See what I can see.” Jayne’s fingers twitch avariciously and sunlight glints off the open razor blade, making patterns on the walls. “Keep an eye out for messages while-”


Simon’s out of the barber’s shop long before Jayne’s sentence has ended. Charging up wooden steps, he throws open the door of the whorehouse and after a cursory glance at the silent telegraph machine he then heads for the bathroom, shucking off his clothes in a desperate act of striptease.

The soap is pungent, almost acrid to his nostrils, but it’s better than any of the floral scented gels that are lined up in the wire tray. As he lathers his body clean then runs a hand upward through newly shorn hair, the bristles subside into soft wet spikes and he smiles a slow smile of relief.

Shaving meticulously, Simon rinses his face then wraps himself in one of the thick bathrobes that have been packaged ready for clients to purchase. He towels his hair then sits at the dressing table, chin resting on laced fingers, and, after a minute or so spent in silent contemplation, he speaks to the reflection that’s staring back at him from behind the illuminated glass. “You look like a real man again, Doctor Tam.” Something’s different though; he might be clean and neat with cheeks as smooth as a baby’s, but he’s leaner and harder now -- almost unrecognisable from the person who arrived here all those seasons ago.

Without thinking, Simon picks up a tube of lipstick from the collection of make up that’s neatly arranged in a pink wicker basket. Removing the lid he twists at the casing until a tapered shaft of red appears which, instinctively, he smears over his lips. It feels strange, greasy with a chemical sweetness, and as he gazes at his altering image, a growing sense of curiosity develops.

Outlining each eye with a kohl pencil he highlights the thickness of his eyelashes with mascara then selects one of the wigs which decorate the audience of mannequin heads seated on the chest of drawers next to him. The long red hair slides into place and, looking up, he shivers with excitement. Simon Tam is gone.

It takes a while to find clothes that suit. He has no intention of shaving any part of his body; he just wants to transform for a short while in order to prolong this fantasy. The basques and brassieres are hopeless, only serving to emphasise his lack of breasts, but a pair of French knickers sit nicely on his hips, the silk feeling highly erotic as it glides, slippery smooth, against his sensitised cock.

“Oh god,” he moans. This is, without doubt, the dirtiest thing he’s ever done.

The nightgown slips over him like water, coming to rest at mid-thigh, and with one thin strap sliding off his shoulder and the prominent bulge of his erection distending the material, he looks more wanton than he could ever have imagined possible. The urge to masturbate into the silk is intense and so, to take his mind off his arousal, Simon sprawls across the bed and delves into one of the novels he brought with him from the public library in Gainsborough. At first he’s too worked up to do anything other than read the same paragraph over and over again, but the words inevitably draw him in and soon he becomes lost inside Hardy’s Wessex.

“Wo de tian a!”

Simon jerks in surprise and rolls over onto his back, the book sliding off the bedspread and falling onto the floorboards with a dull thump. Breath hitches in his throat as Jayne kneels before him, mouthing eagerly at his silk-encased balls and hardening cock, and as the material becomes wet with saliva, Simon lets out this loud moan of delight.

“My pretty whore,” says Jayne, looking up at him lasciviously. “Gonna fuck you so hard, baobei. Gonna fuck you so hard you see them stars up in the black.”

Jayne crawls up him, kissing away the scarlet lipstick with determined swipes of his mouth and Simon bucks upward in delight. The auburn wig is tugged free and deliberately tossed aside and it’s then that he knows for certain that his big masculine lover isn’t hankering after any girl. The sound of the negligee being ripped into pieces is even more erotic than the feel of it resting against his skin and when Jayne, once again, leans down to lick at his crotch, Simon’s already close to orgasm, gasping as a pulse of pre-come wets the inside of his knickers.

“These can stay,” says Jayne, looking up with a grin, then, spreading Simon’s legs, he wriggles his tongue between silk and skin, searching out that tiny pucker of muscle.

Naked now, except for those loose, black panties, Simon lies on the bed, knees raised and brazenly parted, letting Jayne go to work on him. Weighted down by layers of thick mascara his eyelids fall shut, but then there’s a sudden, alien sensation and he jolts forward, propping himself up on his elbows and staring at Jayne.

“Trust me, this is gonna feel better than any finger.” Jayne’s hand is moving, he’s holding some kind of small object, and ‘though Simon can’t see clearly what’s going on, his excitement mounts as the probing sensation becomes more intense by the second.

“Better than a cock?” he asks teasingly, his voice husky with desire.

“Ain’t nothing better than a cock up there.” Jayne grins then sits back on his haunches while he fiddles with the settings on the butt plug.

Suddenly Simon lurches back onto the bed, a flurry of vibrations sending an electric charge surging through his body. Opening up wide he thrashes, canting his hips in order to take more of the toy inside him. At first his whole body bucks erratically, but he soon learns that if he reins in his movements he can control the sensations passing through him.

“Oh god, fuck, fuck,” he moans. His cock throbs stiff and wet against his belly, thicker and harder than it’s ever been as it nudges at the elastic waistband of his panties. “Please.” But Jayne is relentless: easing off as the pleasure becomes too great, trapping thin wrists against the pillow when Simon reaches down to jerk off.

The sensations intensify until he’s heaving off the bed, twisting and rubbing himself against any part of Jayne he can make contact with. “Please. Fuck, please.”

He’s going to come. He’s going to come in thick spurts spoiling the inside of his French knickers. He’s going to come without his prick even being touched. He’s going to come now.

“Made!”

All of a sudden he’s encased in a hot, wet vacuum and it’s such perfect release from the agonizing ecstasy he’s been going through that he cries out in delight. The vibrator continues to tease his prostate as Jayne sucks him hard, lips and tongue working to drive Simon ever closer to nirvana. He’s rigid and panting and he can’t remember a time when anything else was more important than this. When he climaxes, every molecule in his body ringing like a bell, it’s with certain knowledge that he’ll never willingly give Jayne up, not for anyone.

“You’re something special alright,” says Jayne and there’s a hint of wonder there that rouses Simon from his post-orgasmic daze. “If’n I hadn’t been wearing this I would’ve come right along with you.”

Simon looks up lazily and as he watches Jayne undress he sees that a black studded band is wrapped around the man’s balls, restraining the root of his cock within its firm strapping. His erection rises purple and angry from the tight leather ring, urgent with the need for release and it looks so painfully delicious that Simon licks at dry lips.

“Y’okay for me to fuck you?”

A few seconds ago Simon was sleepy and well-sated, but the sight of that fierce-looking cock excites him mentally and he can’t wait to feel it inside him.

“God, yes,” he says, “but take it easy on me, ai ren.” He’s still a little sore from the vibrator.

Jayne preps himself with slick then rolls Simon over until he’s resting comfortably on his left side. Letting out this engorged sigh of absolute satisfaction he spoons up behind, adjusting the lie of the loose panties then easing his swollen ji ba inside. The sex that follows is nothing like Simon expects. Jayne’s cock--which earlier had looked so desperate--fills him, slowly and surely, with gentle pleasure. Jayne treats him with the utmost care, mouthing kisses onto the back of his neck and fucking him with deep, slow rolls of the hips.

“You alright?” The whispered words are breathy against Simon’s right ear, making his nipples peak and his skin erupt into gooseflesh.

“Couldn’t be more so,” he answers with a smile, reaching behind him for Jayne’s hand and folding it over his soft, silken cock.

*

A month and a few days later, Simon’s checking the telegraph when he notices something different from usual. The screen is blinking, a blur of flashing orange scrolling across the display panel, and as the lights fade in and out he becomes frantic. What if the machine dies on them before they have a chance to respond?

“Jayne!” He runs down the wooden steps across the yard and through the passageway. “Jayne!”

Jayne could be anywhere. The mercenary has to keep himself busy or else boredom leads to bad temper and because of this, whether it’s whittling crude animals out of wood or cleaning out trashed buildings, he’s always occupied with something. Once or twice Simon has come across him jerking off and that knowledge is a secret he’s kept to himself, spying on the big man and watching him pull at his cock until he comes with an unabashed grunt of pleasure. Today, though, Simon couldn’t care less what Jayne is doing. He eventually finds him in the tiny general store, sifting through their small stock of workmen’s clothing.

“My pants are so wrecked they’re about to split at the butt.”

“I don’t give a damn about your dishabille,” snaps Simon. “Get back home quick.”

“My dis ha what?” Jayne frowns.

“The state of your clothing, but never mind that now. I think there’s been a wave from someone.”

Again, they race each other across the street and through the alleyway that leads to the brothel, but this time Simon is yelling all the way and it has nothing to do with sex.

“The machine seems to be faulty. It’s flickering on and off. What do we do if it’s broken?”

These sentences are interspersed by breathless gasps as Simon pushes his body harder than he’s ever done before. With an air of desperation, he launches himself into the office, almost falling over the couch in his attempt to break land speed records, then staring in dismay at the silent machine, he utters one hopeless word. “No.”

Jayne strides forward, opening the glass door of the cabinet, and before Simon can stop him, he gives the casing of the machine a resounding thump with the meaty underside of his fist.

“No!” repeats Simon in horror. “What do you think you’re…?” His sentence is left without a conclusion when the telegraph suddenly erupts into life. “How?” he says blankly.

“Something Kaylee learned me a while back.” Jayne’s grinning like a loon as he reads the answer to his distress signal. “Number one way to get an engine going is to teach it who’s boss.”

Simon’s about to describe the many ways in which a spaceship engine and a delicate piece of communication equipment differ from each other, when he realises how pointless this would be. Instead, he looks over Jayne’s shoulder and watches as those thick fingers poke out a return message on the keys. “What’s happening?” he asks impatiently.

“Freighter’s passing by on its way to Augustine. Gonna reach here tomorrow. I said, yes to ‘em picking us up at the space dock.” Jayne turns his head to look at Simon, blue eyes containing a hint of curiosity and something slightly more ambiguous. “That is what you want, ain’t it?”

“It is,” says Simon. “Yes. Oh god, yes, it really is.” Filled with elation he grabs Jayne, hauling him into his arms and dragging him around the room in an unsteady, ungainly waltz, ignoring the horrified expression on the other man’s face.

Tripping over a small side table they collapse onto the couch in a rumpled heap. Simon untangles himself then pushing Jayne onto his back, he straddles that big, solid body he’s grown to love so much. “Just think, ai ren, by tomorrow evening we’re going to be somewhere else.” He laughs uproariously then comes to his senses when he notices the somber expression on Jayne’s face. “This is what you want too, isn’t it?”

Jayne looks up at him, facial muscles relaxing and then morphing into a toothy grin. “I reckon so,” he says. “I’ve about had my fill of one- horse towns and rabbit jerky.”



Chapter Fifteen