Airie

Chapter 8

If I held your hand for a minute—in my special way—it would have brought you more pleasure than any woman or man ever could.

Dusan knew he was asleep, and he tried not to think, least his thoughts would wake him. In his dream, Reijo held something other than Dusan's hand, kneeling in front of him, looking up with those big eyes of his, his lips slowly parting. Then came the feeling of heat, and wetness, a pleasure that Dusan had never experienced, but knew existed, and could imagine all too well. He gave himself in to the sensation, the intensity of it growing with every moment. It didn't matter that they were men—in fact, Reijo wasn't even that. He was an airie. Dusan was fucking an airie's mouth. He slipped his fingers into Reijo's hair, soft and silky, and he wondered if it felt like that in real life, too.

That was a mistake, a conscious thought disrupting the fabric of his dream, and the illusion began to fade. Dusan stubbornly kept his eyes closed, but the image of Reijo kneeling in front of him was gone. His dick still throbbed with desire, but that was all that remained of the dream.

He wasn't alone, though. Remembering that forced his eyes wide open. He was lying on the grass, the dark sky above him mostly concealed by the even darker trees.

He rolled onto his stomach, ignoring his rapidly dwindling erection. Tonight was his turn to watch over the pirates' ships, and he had fallen asleep on his shift.

Through an opening in the bushes and the trees in front of him, he saw the three ships bobbing on the waves, far away from the shore. They looked as dark and lifeless as they had done before he'd dozed off. Far behind them, the edge of the sky was beginning to brighten. The night would be over soon, and Borwin would send new men to replace Dusan and Mirche on their post.

Dusan let out a long breath, his brief bout of panic subsiding. How irresponsible was he, falling asleep on his watch, and having such dreams, too! It must have been Reijo's talking about that 'pleasure touch' that Dusan's mind had transformed into that perverse dream. He didn't even want to think where it could have progressed had he not woken up in time. He could have awakened to a wet stain on his pants, something that hadn't happened in years. That would have been bad. Mirche could have noticed and poked fun at him for months.

He glanced under the thick oak tree a dozen steps away. The bed of leaves and moss Mirche had made for himself was still there, but his friend wasn't. That didn't particularly bother Dusan—Mirche must have just gone into the trees to relieve himself—so he returned his attention to the ships. There had been some activity before the sunset, but eventually, the crew had left the deck, retiring for the night. The ships looked even more sinister like that, an unseen enemy feeling more dangerous.

Dusan shifted on his own bed of moss and leaves. It protected him from some of the cold emanating from the earth, but it was still a far cry from his bed at home. His whole body hurt. It was a wonder he had even managed to fall asleep.

He heard a twig snap behind the trees to his right, and glanced there, waiting for Mirche to appear. The light from the approaching sunset hadn't reached here yet, and all he could see was the uneven rows of black trunks. He waited, but no more sounds came.

"Mirche," he whispered. With the forest silent, the whisper carried far, yet no answer came.

Dusan slowly drew himself into a sitting position. The feeling of being alone, even temporarily, in a dark forest, was unnerving. Reijo had been right, humans felt more secure in groups. Wild animals weren't a likely threat around here, yet Dusan had felt better with his friend within his eyesight.

"Mirche," he whispered again.

At first, there was no reply. Then, came a sound Dusan hadn't expected, making his blood go cold.