Blues for C Part 2 of 2
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Blue HandChapter 4 free porn video
In the middle of a magnificent dream where a beautiful buxom maiden was bathing his naked body in a tub with a washrag, fetid cat breath jerked him awake. “Damn cat,” Porter muttered as he tried to push the growing cat away. Kanji kept licking whatever exposed part of his body was closest. She was already too big for him to push her away easily.
“I’ll take my own baths, thank you very much,” he said as he sat up on a lumpy mattress that Zeb called the guest bed. Porter tromped out to relieve himself, still naked. Afterward he got sidetracked to the second building, which doubled as a workshop and storage facility. He lifted his bow and was pleased with the curvature at both ends. Today he would begin sealing the wood, making him more impatient. Zeb promised to show him how to make a bowstring for the weapon once the seal was dry.
Porter scooped out a ladle of water from the barrel and bathed himself. He dressed and made his way to the shade tree opposite the buildings, sitting down in a bare spot between the roots. Based on Zeb’s few recollections of Blue Hand, if one could focus the mind, the magic would follow. Porter settled himself down to meditate and focus.
He had become accustomed to the tingling across his body and felt as if something was missing when he could not sense it. Porter learned that he could send waves of sensation up and down his limbs if he concentrated, but beyond that he was at a loss. His therapist had always recommended meditation as a method for relieving anxiety, but he had found it far too “spiritual” and emasculating. Besides, his gut got in the way, slumping onto the floor in a most repellent manner.
Meditation was now mystical; this was about power, mystery and learning to control his impulses. Every day he counted the vertebrae from his neck to his tailbone, taking a breath with each number. Afterwards, he opened his eyes and every day, the cat was lying down a couple of steps away, waiting for him.
The first weeks of his arrival at his new though remote home had been one of great anxiety for Porter. In the Waste, every day was a struggle to get out of that deathtrap, occupying his every moment with surviving. Zeb’s home was a grassy stretch of land with light breezes few distractions. With few diversions, Porter was stuck with his thoughts again. Worse, he did not have his anxiety meds.
The first days were easier. The storeroom/workshop was an inefficient mess, with no coherent organization. At first, Zeb squawked and flapped his arms in protest, but Porter ignored him. Everything came out. Every item was catalogued and placed in groupings. Space was delineated on the floor with a chalky rock and the goods were returned to the shelter in an orderly fashion. He insisted that Zeb install shelves with leftover boards from behind the building. Zeb pitched a fit, but when Porter handed him an itemized list of his goods and the condition of each item, plus a blank space for suggested value, the old man was stunned into silence.
Then there was nothing left to count, and the anxiety attacked him anew. Nowadays he went hunting. He grimaced. Nowadays he went into the woods to learn how to hunt.
First taking a side trip to fetch one of Zeb’s additional bows and quiver, the man and cat trotted off into the surrounding woods seeking breakfast. Whoever killed it, kept it although Kanji was not always a good sport about it. She was learning and so was Porter. Between an ease of familiarity and friendship, they grew together with each hunt.
Neither were expert hunters. Moving targets were a new and difficult level of archery. Porter had begun his daily forays into the forest expecting a one in ten hit ratio. He was pleased he was shooting a two to ten at the moment, a one hundred percent increase in his kill rate.
Last week was their greatest success. They had chanced upon a troupe of short fat animals, complete with tusks. While Kanji danced around the mother, keeping her distracted, Porter managed to kill two of her babies. Overtaken by two predators, the mother squealed for the rest of her litter and ran into the bushes. The hunters split their kill. Neither man nor cat mentioned all the arrows sticking out of the ground that Porter had to collect. As he fished in the bushes for the last stray arrows Porter appreciated even more the fact that cats cannot talk.
If someone had told Porter that one day he would be skulking through a forest with a feral cat hunting meat with a bow and arrow, he would have suggested the person be committed to a mental institution. He had not dared to dream such a adventure in his youth. Even now, “Fat slob becomes a cagey hunter” seemed farfetched except for the cagey part. The novels and adventure vids failed to mention biting insects, heat rashes in embarrassing places, along with cuts and scrapes on top of sunburned skin. Then, there were the bouts of diarrhea that struck him for no apparent reason.
Kanji gave a slight growl that pushed his thoughts back to task. He felt a heightened tingling today that kept pulling his attention to the left. Deciding to give in to the sensation he nocked his bow and silently crept forward. A tall bush next to a thick tree trunk shook as a four-footed animal appeared, with two spiral horns and big ears. The smallish herbivore came up to Porter’s chest he guessed.
He aimed and loosed the arrow. With a squeak, the Anshar equivalent to a deer reared backward as the arrow buried itself under its neck, between the front legs. With three bounds, Kanji leapt upon the sagging creature and bit through its windpipe with her powerful jaws. The creature collapsed on the young cat, who squalled in protest for its indignity. Bringing down the prey without bringing it down on top of oneself was a work in progress.
Porter rescued the cat and immediately set about slicing the belly open, removing the organs for a cat’s breakfast. As Kanji ate a fastidious breakfast, followed by a thorough cleaning of her paws and cheeks, Porter rigged a travois for the bound carcass. By midmorning they emerged from the tree line and made their way to the buildings.
Zeb greeted them with a greedy smile; another skin and meat for dinner was a near priceless joy to him. Over the weeks since they had returned, both men had put on muscle and looked a bit healthier. Porter had even begun to relax his fear of returning to his earlier blimp-like proportions. He learned having to hunt and harvest all of one’s food tended to burn up close to what a person consumes. Even so, he felt stronger and genuinely happier despite the circumstances of his life.
How manly Porter felt as they flayed the creature and set about separating the meat from the bone. ‘Real men hunt their meat and cut it up themselves,’ He flattered himself. He was rather puffed up and enjoying the moment until he squeezed hard on a nest of big vessels and blood splayed all over him. Zeb laughed so hard that he fell off his stool. The only one who was excited was Kanji who knocked Porter down, pinned him and proceeded to lick all the viscous liquid of his body and clothes. His dilemma only made the old man roar louder.
His self-esteem tucked tidily back into an itty-bitty little box, Porter stood next to the water barrel again with a ladle trying to wash off the blood mixed with cat spit. His naked chest and flat stomach still pleased him to no end as he stood in just britches and boots. He thought he heard something from the tree line and rubbed the water off his face to look. Five large hamox emerged from the trail and spread out in a “v” with a leader at the point aiming for him. They did not wave or call out, and Porter felt the tingling increase across his body again.
“Zeb!” he called out in a soft voice, “We’ve got company and they don’t look too friendly.”
Zeb did not answer, leaving Porter alone outside to greet the strangers. Even Kanji failed to appear at the doorway.
As they drew near, Porter felt naked and alone. Images of a water cooler in front of white, lifeless walls and homogenized framed posters had an immediate appeal in his imagination. Then he snapped back to the gritty circumstance and wondered if he was up to this encounter. “Think of it as a challenge” his bosses used to tell him when the task seemed overwhelming.
“Challenge, my butt,” he muttered as he squared his shoulders and then called out in a neutral voice, “Welcome!”
“Welcome,” a dry voice answered. “We are looking for the old man who wanders the Waste. Where is he?”
The hamox was halted several meters from Porter and its rider was shrouded in a cowl and wrap. His hawkish nose and thin-lipped mouth were all Porter could see; the eyes were hidden in shadow. In fact, all the riders were similarly attired. Porter felt akin to an insect pinned to a piece of white cardboard except that the tingling was going wild.
“Zeb is in the woods hunting for dinner,” Porter said. The cogs in his head slowly began to turn again as Porter considered his options. “May I be of assistance?”
“A spaceship came down out there in the Waste,” the bass voice said.
“Yes, yes it did,” Porter acknowledged.
“If the old man is here, then he has returned from the Waste. We are here to collect the technology and the crew of the ship.” The man leaned forward in his saddle, “You will get it for us, now.”
“There was nothing to scavenge. The ship was only a lifeboat and the passenger was dead,” Porter said, hoping that mixing truth and lies covered his blatant inability to deceive well, another one of his accursed weaknesses of his previous life.
The man did not reply.
The thought struck Porter as he waited that no matter what he answered, this cloaked stranger and his men were going to kill him. He was another anonymous soul standing alone at a wilderness stead; who was to know what befell the unfortunate fellow?
The other four men were unusually silent. They sat spine straight with a discipline that made Porter’s own spine crawl. Despite the humidity and the dripping sweat that must be drenching their cloaks, these strangers did not twitch a muscle. Their heads never turned to examine the buildings, the woods, or the cleared land. Their demeanor made his blood freeze in his veins and his first reaction was a desire to run away and hide. He eyed the distance to the door of the building; it was too far away, and the water barrel was too small to hide behind.
Bess
- 14.05.2022
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