The Cure
By: Lostwolfe
[title:the cure:version1.01/bastardized]
what he sees next to him draws him and repels him all in the same
the older man strokes his silver/black beard and looks over at the
'why are you here, boy?'
of all the young ones so far he's the only willing participant and the
instead of the rumbling, pleasant voice, a gruff, almost trembling
for the first time the older man takes time to actually look at the
standing up the young man is surprised to find that the big hand of
he opens the door to the part of the house that no-one has ever seen
the colours are unbelievable...nothing he's ever seen has come close
now awed himself, the big man watches as the little ghost of a boy is
i stand up and lift him, as if i would a child, carrying him in my
it's in one of the lulls in the conversation that i begin to make
'father,' he whispers.
he sits up and looks down at me one last time. i can imagine what
i stand and reach out to him, take him in my arms and hold him,
while i'm sitting there, too afraid to fall asleep, lest i see him in
i said i'd probably not write another piece of vore...and here, all
curiously, though, this isn't the original version of this story.
you see, when i started writing this, i posed the question: 'what if
the shocking [and sort of scary] thing about this story was that from
ok. i'm going to stop being dead serious now and hop off of my
*hugs* 'n stuff :)]
[further note:bastardized version:21 may 1998]
[thanks to my editor, sagebear who, once again undertook this
there were no utterly drastic changes between this version[1.01]
[copyright (c) 1998, julian comley/nicodemus caine/greywolfe]
[date:10 may 1998]
[author:greywolfe]
[bastardized on:20 may 1998]
[editor:sagebear]
[mailto:9424407@bistud.ctech.ac.za]
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part i:
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the young man sits next to the older man on the bed, contemplating
him, silently.
breath.
draws him because the older man is the antithesis of himself:
broad, expansive, outgoing to his shy, little nature. repels him
because of why he is here. dangling his legs over the side of the
bed
he waits, patiently.
boy. he's maybe eighteen, maybe nineteen, at the outside twenty,
and of all the young men he's had in this room this one is the
quietest, the most introspective. and he isn't afraid. there's a
quiet fire in those eyes.
the voice comes out deep, rumbling; it sounds like the voice of a
bear to the young man - if bears could talk. he contemplates the
question for a moment and then replies: 'because there's no where
else
for me to go, sir.'
older man wants to keep this dialogue going for as long as he can, to
find out what's going on here. more than meets the eye, probably.
'how so?' he asks, quietly, putting his arm around the boy's neck.
hesitation, then: 'got no family, sir, no friends, no job, no place to
belong to, no god to believe in...i've just got my disease.'
'how...bad is your disease?'
'getting worse. physician morton gave me maybe three more months to
live, sir...so i need your help.'
'you know why you're here, though? officially, i mean?' the big man
asks, his hand absently stroking the boys arm.
it's then that the young man does something that the older one hadn't
expected of him; he bows his head and whispers, almost inaudibly, as
if he's revering something, or praying to something. 'you...eat the
boys they select.'
he gets down onto his knees, in front of the big man.
'please don't turn me away, sir, please...'
and then the thing that makes the decision for the man who is more
than six hundred years old comes...as he's kneeling, the boy begins
to
cough, raising his little hands to his mouth he tries to stop the
coughing...but when he removes his hands, there's blood in them.
he's dying *much* faster than avery morton predicted...wasting away
before his eyes. the fire in his eyes clouds, dies, as tears roll
down the young man's cheeks.
'please...' he says, softly.
voice emits from the old man. 'get off your knees, boy.'
obediently, the young one sits down, arms around his knees, waiting
patiently to be turned away, but that doesn't happen. instead another
question comes.
'where did you find out about me, son?'
the young man thinks. got to fight the fog at the edges of memory.
got to get the answer. got to be obedient.
'i...an outcast...one of the priests who live in the wood told me,
sir...his name was...' and his voice fails him as it trails away to
nothing. 'george thurman,' the older man finishes for him. dumbly he
nods. coughs. more blood.
small young man on the floor. he's short, perhaps five foot, he has
a beard, which, to all intents and purposes, looks brown. his hair
is cut short, and that too is brown, at a guess. because the fire is
obscuring them, he'd say the eyes are the same colour. now his gaze
drifts downward. there are the beginnings of chest hairs poking
through the tunic, which is far too big for the little body. his
hands are small, bony, but they look strong. Because he's afraid,
the little one won't meet his eyes, instead the [supposed] brown eyes
dart this way and that, looking over the room, but never looking into
his own. he gets up, soaks a towel in the font and goes over to the
young man. kneeling down he takes first his left hand, then his
right hand and wipes the blood away.
the sombre brown eyes meet his and the boy says, softly: 'no one has
ever done that for me...'
he stands up, offering his right hand, 'come with me...i want to show
you something.'
the older man is holding his little one. slowly he goes where he is
bid, through passages of the house...down stairs, until they come to
a door, which is closed.
and leads the boy inside, closing the door behind him.
'i've...never shown this to anyone before, but you need this more
than i do...and i want to give something to you before...' the boy
nods and stands, in awe...watching the beauty before him.
to this, as he watches, an incredible sense of peace begins to blanket
everything he feels: the pain, the anguish of dying, the fear of the
big man behind him. it all drains away. he's heard of places like
this, but they are rare and he never thought he'd get to see one in
his lifetime, it being the short span that it has turned out to be.
he goes limp, suspended in spirit, but not in body and as he watches
the gold, red, amber, yellow, green, purple, blue anoint him. he
falls to the floor, kneels in front of this vision.
then the white light that he's only ever read about in books and
which is rarer still than this gate, the soul gate, falls upon him
and washes away the last traces of fear and doubt and pain.
washed in the light of the gate that transfers souls...he doesn't
know what it means, but knows that from now on everything is
different, everything has changed.
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part ii:
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the young man gets up and walks over to me, his eyes are no longer
filled with either fire, or mist, but with incredible peace. he
reaches down to me and takes first my right hand and then my left and
wipes both of them with the wet towel, which he has been carrying
since we left my room.
'no one has ever done that for me...' i whisper.
he nods. he understands. after six hundred years there's more than
enough blood on my hands, but it hasn't been blood i've wanted. i'm
a reluctant deliverer of souls. tonight, all of that ends, though.
'i don't know what to do for you,' i say, more in gratitude than
anything else.
he smiles down at me and replies, softly, 'just hold me, father.' i
nod and obey, reaching up to where he is and putting my large arms
around him, drawing him close, feeling the warm body rest against
mine. his arms go around my waist and i think about what i have to
do...later, not now. i nuzzle him, gently, until butterfly kisses
begin to fall on my forehead, then my closed eyes, then the tip of my
nose, which i smile at. finally his lips reach mine and time stands
still.
arms and to my bed...very gently i lay him down, then i lie down
beside him, reaching over to put my great arms around him, enfolding
him. he curls up against me, back to my gut, right hand on my right
leg and left hand in my right hand. for hours we talk, watching the
fire dance in the fireplace, his voice is soft, but almost tuneful,
as if he's singing. he tells me about living as an outcast, the
disease.
anything and everything and i find, to my dismay, that i'm falling
in love with him. i don't want to do what i have to, but i know
that if i don't this job...this curse...whatever it is will never
end.
love to him, whimpering softly with each stroke, because it feels
like the last...i'm afraid of that last stroke, knowing that it will
be time then.
he takes my kisses and gives them back to me, pressing
his lips and tongue into mine. time stretches and scenes blur into
each other, his hands in my hands, his little body curled up on top
of mine, my large body on top of his, thrusting, as gently as i can,
then faster and faster...finally, his smiling face and peaceful eyes
look into mine from his perch on my chest.
he reminds me of a dog, obedient, benevolent, gentle.
'i know,' i reply. it's time.
he's seeing. i am by no means small. my hair is a mixture of grey
and black, which it was when i took this office, at age fifty. my
eyes are silver-grey, my face is round and framed by a beard that's
grey mixed with black and that refuses to be shaved. my arms are
thick and covered in hair which tapers out towards the broad expanse
of my hands. i keep thinking that my neck is that of a bull, and
it's hard not to. my chest is covered in a deep layer of silver-
black fur, which also covers my vast gut.
the hair continues down my legs, which i liken to tree-trunks
sometimes...
kissing him, softly one last time before...without thinking my hands
wrap themselves around his waist and my lips open wider, wider,
encircling his mouth, then his beard. i want this to be over soon.
stroking his sides, i make my lips bigger, encircling his nose.
then, increasing the size of my mouth again i cover his eyes,
blotting out the fire and tickling the sides of his ears...stopping
myself from reflexively choking on his head hair. i take in the
crown of his head, then the top half is inside my mouth. i'm pretty
sure he can hear the gentle sucking noises as i caress his ears with
my tongue...trying to keep him occupied, i let my tongue play into
his mouth, searching out his own tongue, curling around it, licking
it...
slipping my mouth down further, i collar his neck. now i start to
swallow his head down into my throat, feeling it widen out as his
head enters. my hands are still caressing his sides when i widen my
mouth still further to get his shoulders into my mouth. being as
gentle, but as stern as i can, i pin his hands to his sides and
swallow again.
his head is nearly, nearly out of my throat now. i imagine my
heart beating somewhere near his left ear and hope to god that it's a
soothing sound. i stop, breathing mentally and counting to ten.
this next part is the most difficult. swallowing, gently, i resume
feeding him into my mouth, watching as his back makes it's way in.
i don't want to think about slowing the process down by sexually
stimulating him, but know that in a sense it'll help to calm him
down, so i rub my rough tongue against his nipples and get them
erect.
then i let my tongue dance down to his belly-button, playing with
it, teasing it. i close my eyes and hate myself.
feeding more of him into me, i get to his genitalia, reaching my
tongue down and stroking the head of his penis with my tongue,
willing it to come to life, but not going so far as to overstimulate
him.
the top half of his shoulders are down my throat now and his little,
lithe stomach is making it's way across my tongue and down...it's
when all of his nether regions are in my mouth that i let him do what
he must, feeling him thrust himself against my tongue. i swallow
hard and try to stop the burning in my eyes, knowing that if the
tears come now i'll never go through with it.
his upper thighs and legs make their way into my mouth, while the
swallowing has forced his head into my cavernous belly...now his arms
are free and it's as if he has sensed my distress, because from
inside of me comes the gentlest of touches. the touches seem to say
'i'm ok...don't worry about me...'
the tears are threatening to be a problem, so i speed up, swallowing
his lower legs like two strings of spaghetti.
it's only at this last bit of him that my mouth returns to its normal
size and closes. i keep swallowing hard, making sure that all of
him makes it's way to my stomach as quickly as possible. when that's
done i sit down, belly full and heavy, yet somehow feeling so empty
inside.
it's at this point that the sun begins to rise outside, painting the
sky red...blood...While feeling the warmth on my face and watching as
the fire burns down to embers i let myself do what i've never done in
six hundred and eleven years. like a baby i rock back and forth and
cry, feeling my final cargo move inside of me.
my dreams, the sun turns white outside my room...as i watch the gold,
red, amber, yellow, green, purple, blue anoint me and a voice that i
never heard when the young man was downstairs in the room of the gate
of souls whispers inside of my head, like a soft rainfall. 'this one
is yours,' the voice says, softly, 'as you have cured him, so i cure
you. go now...you are free, you need not transfer souls anymore...'
with that the white light fades and the colours from the gate recede,
but they never fade...from deep inside me a fire begins to burn, it's
like nothing i've ever felt before...and suddenly he's there, inside
of me, inside my mind, smiling, peaceful.
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part iii:
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wherever he goes i look out of his eyes...and wherever we go the
lights follow us, anointing all of the things we see...
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[everyone seems to have the sickness/so everyone seems to need the
cure/]
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[authors note:
ok. i lied.
*grins* :)
in one evening is *another* story in the vein of 'an invitation to
the table.'
when i was running amok, thinking about actually writing it [putting
the pieces together in my head] all i had was this image of a young
man who had a disease of some kind, lying with his back to an older
man...as he lay there the young one would cough up blood, which led
to the older man's idea of swallowing him to save him from the
sickness.
ah yes. then my hands took over and delivered the thing you see
before you now. my hands do too much thinking for my own good.
the eater is reluctant...what if he actually develops some sort of
interest in the thing he's eating?'
so i began to add images, fleshing out the basic story, building two
characters who were essentially opposites and putting them together.
the old man is compassionate, gentle, loving, but also large and
outgoing. the young man is withdrawn, closed, probably afraid that
he'd volunteered himself, but wanting this more than anything else in
the world.
in this world [and perhaps i didn't explain this very well] the soul
gates take the souls of the living, who are essentially dying and
deliver them to their final destinations. heaven, hell, that cool
place purgatory...etc. [yes, yes, i was catholic.]
start to finish it took about three hours to write and *i* will
admit, right now, that the vore part of it isn't the major part,
though it is the axis around which the whole catharsis ethic is
based. To all intents and purposes, the only thing keeping the
older man on planet earth was the fact that he had a job to do, that
is, to ferry souls.
up until this final ferrying he has managed to keep himself in check
every time he has had to do his job, but this last time, the
fragility of the young man probably catches in his throat, this in
turn causes a chain reaction. knowing that the young man has no
place left to go he wants to give him peace, so he shows him the soul
gate, which in turn allows the young young man to let go of his
sickness and in turn cure the older man.
soapbox.
feel free to mail me, or whatever... :) - the address is at the top
of the page.
bastardization.
and the original, where possible the word 'elder' was replaced
with older, but the nature of the story hasn't changed at all
since version 1.00.]
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afterthought:greywolfe, poking fun at himself.
[crow]:i don't think this is what the spice girls had in mind when
they sang 'two become one.'
[everyone, including the readers, retch.]
[mike]:ok crow, enough of the spice girls jokes already.
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[mystery science theatre is copyright of best brains incorporated.]
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the spice girls are public domain ;)
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