From "The Devious Boy-Ka-Wang of Mars"

Braden considers the game; after sex with Colin, he tries to enlist the pregnant Venusian’s aid…

The game-play itself is simple and brainless: pieces of cartoon fruit fall down the screen and the player needs to smash them and make them vanish either by making them stack into columns of like fruits or by hitting them with a floating dick-shaped hammer. That term in the game’s name—Boy-Ka-Wang—is in fact an old-timey vulgarity for a big fat dirty spunk-drippy erection, particularly one sported by a horny-as-fuck and desperate-to-fuck youth. According to Oxford, it’s first known written occurrence was in A-R Kanayda’s novel Love Always, Your Prince of Jasoom, in this passage:

I’d no intention of fucking Kowan, that dirty fucking rentboy masquerading as a prince, that trashy narcowhirl-snorting gay-for-pay faggot. That he seriously thought he could blackmail me! In fact, I decided I would finally expose him to his father—who would probably either exile him or murder him (I didn’t care which as long as he was gone). But he hit me again, this time in the left eye, with a spatter of his spit and it went right into me, right through me, his fucking contagion! I could not say no, not now, not when he opened the buttons of his fly and drew out that filthy footlong boy-ka-wang. It leaked preek, a long clear streamer of it falling like a ribbon of glass from his wide piss-slit to the bamboo floor between his feet. The smell, had I not been poisoned by his venom-spit, would have made me gag when he pulled my head to the puckered end of his long foreskin, to the cheese-clotted knob cloaked beneath it. I skinned it back cleaned off his mushroom head with my tongue. I sucked in as many inches of shaft as I could, and a couple more when he held my head, thrusted and forced himself past my tonsils. The stench of the lad’s pubes is still in my nose to this day. I can still feel the pulse of his thick jack-snot on my tongue. You need to understand that I never stopped being his slave, and that I still am. So, you see now the trap into which you have walked. A trap set by me not so much by command of a prince but by his cock, by the filthiest boy-ka-wang on all Mars!”

As I played a couple more minutes of the game, I found that I was getting more and more horny, each smash of the cock-hammer on fruit blocks making my dick pulse a little bit. Then Colin showed up and I think I may literally drooled at the sight of him, so hot was I to hide my stiff prick in his tight slippery snatch.

 From Colin’s audio diary, an account of Braden fucking him and then asking for his help:

Usually when Braden has dicked me he has favored my asshole over my vaj as the slot for his cock, but since he and Patrick returned from Venus a few weeks ago, I guess he has kept a taste for maph cunt after—he says—pregging two hundred Venusian boys with Patrick’s help as part of these Venusians’ weird idea that some kind of “spunk beam” from the Tong Tiphon is going to blast their planet any time now, forcing mutant pregnancies on everyone on the planet who’s not already knocked up. I have a hard time believing they could actually have cum inside that many pussies in the short span of time that they were there no matter how much Erec-T and Juic-E they were popping, but that’s what they say happened. Braden tells me directly that he thinks I am hotter now that I am pregnant, his lips shiny with spit and his eyes wet with lust as he says it, and that I get hotter the more that my belly bulges with this pup. “It’s fucking sick-hot to cum inside you,” he says, panting over me, sweating from his face onto mine, “when you got Jaustin’s spawn growing inside there…right there under my dick, baby!” He tells me that after this kid is born that he—Braden—wants to get me pregnant again himself. “I’m gonna fuck another one right into you, baby,“ he gasps, and I know that he is just saying this to make himself even hotter on purpose, cranking up his own climax, turning himself on even harder, by saying this shit. And then, after he says that—that he’s gonna fuck another one into me— he cries out and he gasps and he squeezes my collar bones in both hands, and he screams and he spills out his sperm into me. He spasms and pulses for a minute, spit drooling from his lips to mine, panting into my mouth, and when his dick finally starts to deflate he pulls it out and rolls his body off me and onto his back and see says, “I need you to sing.” 

What the fuck does that even mean? I ask. “Sing to Ethan,” says Braden. “Or with him. While is he drawing. I don’t know how it works with you two, but he has been drawing and painting like some kind of crazy psycho-fuck—Aaron Ansible and I went into town this morning to fetch a fucking jeep-load of paper and paint and crayons and other shit for him. We’re going to have to add a wing onto the house to hold his art! This has been going for days. And yet you have not made a sound.”

“It’s the pregnancy,” I say. And saying it aloud was the first time I actually formed the thought. I have had felt almost none of the deep songs in me since Jaustin pregged me, and no inspiration at all from Ethan. “Weird. Another singer knocks me up and then I don’t feel like singing at all.” 

“Can you at least go look at his stuff?” Braden says. “Ethan’s drawings? Maybe it will start something inside you.”

I realize that I had not even spent any time around Ethan and his art lately. Was I doing this on purpose without realizing it? I agree to try.

MEANWHILE ON MARS...

After a long day of palace formalities, and curious to learn more about the boy—his sperm-son by Carthoris—Trace visits Rajer in his chambers…

From the anteroom, Trace thinks he recognizes the voices inside the bedchamber: Rajer—shrill and angry—and that wingless angel called Kyler that shadows the prince like a slave. I do not like this boy, Trace thinks, listening to Rajer berate Kyler: “So where is it!” he shouts. “I asked you a thousand times to bring it tonight. I fucking told you I needed it tonight!” And Kyler, crying: “Please stop yelling at me, Rajer!” He sobs out that plea in heaves and gasps. “I tried but—“ and he cries out more loudly, and Trace hears cracks of skin on skin, probably Rajer slapping the stump-winged boy several times, and a metallic clatter—probably Kyler falling to the floor, his belt and harness and knee armor scraping on the tiled floor. And his voice, throatier and deeper than Rajer’s, sobbing. “Get the fuck up, you dumb fag!” Rajer says. “That didn’t hurt! Now get out now. Go! Come back in the morning with the shit I asked for or I’ll be fucking sending you to Kadabra-Okar to be seed for the witches and that will be the end of you!”

A moment later, Kyler exits the bedchamber into the anteroom and passes Trace without a word or even a glance. One cheek and the orbit of one eye is livid from where Rajer had hit him and will probably be purple with bruises by morning when he returns. 

Trace steps into the bedchamber and sees Rajer, back toward him, mostly naked. He has shucked to the floor his harness, his heavy kilt, his jock strap, and he wears only his sandals, which he then discards with a couple kicks of his large slender feet. “Sorry if you heard that, Father,” Rajer says, back still to Trace, facing a tall mirror set into the door of his wardrobe. “That boy is so useless.”

“You are very harsh with him.”

“He fucking deserves it.” The casual sneering tone with which Rajer issues that remark makes Trace flush from scalp to toes with anger and something else…embarrassment? That this arrogant prick is what grew from a spurt of my cum?

Trace notices that the naked youth’s red-hued body is dark with dirt everywhere that had not been covered by his clothing: his arms, his legs between the knees and the ankles, his feet striped black between where the straps of his sandals had gripped. The boy turns to face Trace and says, “I’m filthy from practice. Will you bathe me, Father?”

Trace says nothing but Rajer sees his bafflement and adds, “It’s usually Kyler’s task, but I sent him away. And you never had an opportunity to do so when I was a child, and we should probably get to know each other better anyway. So attend me in my bath!” After issuing this demand in the tone of a royal decree, Rajer pads out of the bed chamber and vanishes between two thick amethyst blocks that frame the entryway into his bath. Trace follows him inside after a moment, sees Rajer squatting over a toilet in the floor, releasing his shit and piss in a quick burst. Then he picks up a large lavender sponge from a near a vast osmium-plated sink basin, and he steps under a meter-wide copper shower head that depends from a ten-meter-high ceiling, punctured by skylights, near a bubbling floor-sunken blackstone bathtub. The water begins to fall upon his skin like a hard rain. “Come, Father. Wash me.” 

Trace steps toward him, pauses, considers his clothing. “You’ll get wet,” says the boy. Trace removes his clothing and steps under the water, takes the sponge from Rajer and begins to wipe away the boy’s dirt, starting at the back of his neck, working his way over his back and onto his buttocks. “My ass, too, dad,” he says. Silently, Trace swabs between the lad’s asscheeks, reaches into his crotch from behind with the sponge. “Isn’t it amazing,” says Rajer, leaning slightly backward into Trace,  “how much I look like you? You can see it, can’t you? Though I know I am not as tall as you. You’re like a giant statue!”

Trace sighs, stepping around to face the boy to wash his chest and belly and the black-furred pits of his raised arms. He says, “You are probably not quite done growing yet. I actually had another huge spurt when I was already nineteen, when I had assumed I’d been done for a few years already.”

Rajer chuckles. “I can only hope that I do a lot more growing down there!” He looks down at his penis, standing stiff now, pointed upright, its head shrouded in tight foreskin; and then, quite pointedly at Trace’s, his thick fat length hanging a flaccid eight inches in front of his ballsack. “I clearly have a lot of catching up to do, dad!” He takes the sponge from Trace and swabs it over his cock and balls, presses against his vaj. “But you can see, can’t you,” says Rajer, “our resemblance, Father? My face is virtually a mirror of yours.”

Knowing he’d probably offend the boy, Trace says, “I’d much rather you just call me ‘Trace.’ Your real father is Carthoris. I am no more your ‘dad’ in any real sense than any other random man.”

“Well, he is the father who raised me, but I know that the only reason I was born is because you busted your nut inside him.” This smirk he wears! Trace thinks. I can’t stand it! “Your sperm got him pregnant with me. You were forced to do that to him weren’t you?”

“Your grandfather—Jalec—he requested it.”

“But it wasn’t a request, was it? It’s true isn’t it?” Rajer raised his face into the rain from the shower head and rinsed his thick black hair. “You were his slave. Jalec brought you to Mars for the whole purpose of seeding Carthoris and giving him a son. Correct?”

“I was fond of Carthoris. He took me as a friend and lover immediately when he was only about your age now. But I would have avoided getting him pregnant had not Jalec required it, and had he not himself agreed to it.”

“Agreed! What a joke!” Rajer steps out from under the shower and squeezes his fingers through his hair, wringing away a sluice of water. “Carthoris could no more have ‘agreed' to that than you could have. You were both basically raped into it by Jalec. And then you left and never returned until now. Were you never curious about me? About whatever became of your son?”

Trace feels himself redden with anger, but he keeps his tone even, “You need to understand something: I was a breeder slave for years before Jace Dekka freed me. I have many thousands of offspring. I don’t know anything about any of them. You are only the second one that I have ever met.” Trace hopes that Rajer will not inquire about the other one and then force him to explain the bizarre circumstances of Truk, the angel boy that he’d sired upon Jeth, and who had visited him on Earth a few months earlier, and who had left there carrying Ethan’s offspring in his womb. Rajer does not inquire.

Tall Rajer seems to fold himself down to the edge of the pool, swings his legs into the strangely dark water, slides off into it without a splash, sinks his bare body into it, water nearly to his chin and said, “Join me…Trace.”

Trace obeys, lowers himself into the big bath and finds that there is a bench under the water. He sits opposite the youth who says, “Do you find me attractive, Trace?”

“It’s a wholly inappropriate question for you to be asking me!”

“But I look just like you, except maybe more Martian, of course. And I suspect that you find yourself to be very attractive! So why can’t you answer me honestly?”

What is wrong with these people here? Trace thinks. “It’s not appropriate for me to say.”

Rajer laughs. “That’s so bourgeois-Terran of you. Here in a jeddak’s palace, it’s no big deal. We’re all sick fucks, and you know that.” Rajer sinks lower, water nearly to his lips. “Well, I think that you are hot. Hotter than Carthoris, especially nowadays. So I am glad that I got my looks from your sperm rather than his egg.”

“You’re also a bit too young anyway,” Trace adds.

“Ridiculous. I am a fully mature and very sexually active young adult man. And you just told me a minute ago that you fucked and knocked up Carthoris when he was only about as old as I am now.”

“Well, I was a lot younger then, too.”

Trace notices the expression on Rajer’s face change, his lips part slightly, his eyes squint slightly, his breath increasing its pace. Through the blur of the nearly black water, he sees Rajer’s arm jerk beneath the surface. “It’s not like you haven’t seen a guy beat off before,” he says. “When Kyler gives me my bath, he also gives me sex.” Voice a bit tighter and higher now, Rajer continues: “I neutered him so that he doesn’t knock me up if he cums in my vaj. Wouldn’t do for me to have an angel’s baby. But I sent him away tonight.” Rajer gasps a bit and splashes breaks the water’s surface with his fist. “I won’t ask you to fill all his duties, but I need to do something about these fucking blue-balls. I haven’t emptied these fuckers since this morning.” He drops his other hand under the water, into his crotch. Trace want to ignore it, but he guesses that the boy is now rubbing his clit as well as stroking his cock. After another minute, Rajer tips his head back, gasps and a few seconds later Trace sees streamers of the lad’s semen rise to the surface of the water, swirl around him and dissipate in the languidly churning water. 

Rajer: “You sure you don’t want me to get you off?”

“Absolutely not!” Trace feels himself blush deeply. He tries to will away the erection that he notices he now has, his cock’s involuntary reaction to the attractive meat-beating boy just a couple meters away from him. He sees what must be a pearly globe of Rajer’s cum float past him. It briefly adheres to the fine fuzz on his chest and then vanishes. 

“Suit yourself!” The boy climbs from the bath, gathers himself on hands and knees on the tile poolside, then rises to his feet. He pads over to a rack hung with a half-dozen towels and wraps his body in a thick white one, sopping away most of the wetness, and then, with more attention, drying the crack of his ass, his still-half-stiff prick, the inside of his ears, the gaps between his toes. “But I know you’re now horny as fuck after seeing me spunk out in the bath with you. So there are a gang of pleasure boys on the grotto level—dozens of them—just so you know. Help yourself to them. Even some angels, if those are your jam.”

Rajer exits the bath chamber leaving Trace a moment of privacy with his hard-on, enough time to dry off and get dressed without displaying it for the boy.  He quickly masturbates, catching his semen in the towel. He dresses, feeling somewhat back in control of his body’s rebellious lust-behavior. 

In the bedroom, Rajer has already dressed himself in white linen calf-length shorts and he reclines on a chaise, his spectacles on his face, a glass of white wine in hand. He motions for Trace to help himself to a drink and to sit on a nearby chair. He lights a cigarette, inhales a long drag and says, “Thanks for the bath, daddy. I feel much so better.”

Trace pours a glass of wine, lights a cigarette and sits in the chair facing his son’s chaise. “What were you demanding from Kyler anyway? When I arrived here? I overheard you threaten to send him to Kadabra-Okar.”

“Narcowhirl glitter,” Rajer says. “Some really strong stuff from Helium. He was supposed to have brought me a new supply tonight.” He laughs. “I won’t really send him to Kadabra. I am not as cruel as that little scene probably made me look, and I do love him even though he is kind of an idiot and a fuckwit sometimes. Were it not for the politics of the palace and the racism of the Core Kasei, I might actually let him give me a baby.”

Trace: “I don’t know that place. Kadabra. I’ve heard the name, but that’s all. What’s even there anyway?”

Rajer sat up, smiled. He said, “It’s at the north pole. It’s the nightmarish underground city of the Cult Kadabra! You’ve not heard of them?”

“No.”

“Oh! Then I must tell you!” He hops off the chaise, refills his wine, lights another cigarette and retakes his seat. “They are psychic lesbian communists!” Rajer pronounces all these words slowly, with relish, as if savoring their sound from his mouth. “All esper women. They are also radical gender separatists. Hardcore they are in that! They allow no trans women or maphs or males of any kind. They are said to worship a blackhole entity in the A-Star at the core of the galaxy, and that’s what gives them their psychic powers.” Rajer leans forward, sucks on his cigarette, lets ash fall on his knees. “They are sperm-slavers also. It’s how they reproduce. Every fifth year, they buy scores of young boys to harvest their seed. Then, after they’ve taken these boys’ sperm, they drown them in a ceremonial pool in a gruesome cultish ritual, and then they butcher their bodies for food! Their meat is consumed in a weeks-long holiday celebration.”

“I don’t believe a fucking word of that shit. Really, Rajer! That sounds like a total myth.”

Rajer laughs and wipes his eyes and sucks some more on his cig. Grinning, he says, “It’s totally true, Trace! Mars is a weirder planet than is dreamt of in your Earth philosophy. There are many poor benighted villages in the polar region, overpopulated with sons, boys who are entirely worthless until their nuts mature. But then, after they start making seed, they can fetch a nice price from the witches of Kadabra. The parents know that their sons will be killed, but they believe that they will ascend to heaven after they have served their holy purpose.” Rajer smirks. “These are some really stupid people, Trace.”

“You’re making this shit up.”

“I am not!” And Rajer laughs, smoke billowing from his mouth.

“So then what happens if a boy is born there, after they harvest all this sperm and get themselves pregnant?”

“Then he is killed, too, I’m afraid. But that rarely happens anyway. These women have the ability to control the sex of their offspring through A-Star witchy magic of some kind, and it rarely fails them.”

Trace is certain that Rajer is either repeating a myth or that he is making up this lurid story on the fly to amuse himself.  He drops the subject and asks, “So where did Kyler go anyway? To look for drugs for you still?”

“Not anymore tonight. If he comes back tonight, I’ll apologize to him and probably let him sleep with me. He’s a sweet fuck, by the way, with that big knobby angel-prick. Totally makes my pussy gush! But he may end up spending the night in the grotto.”

“Grotto?”

“I told you before, daddy: it’s where you can go to get your rocks off tonight if you want. You can probably even hook up with Kyler there if you run into him. He’d probably dig that shit: boning a big hot DILFy version of me!” Rajer leans forward and squints at Trace. “Hey, you ever been to the Cruise? In the catacombs underneath the necropolis below the Red Palace?”

Trace had indeed been there, with Carthoris all those years ago. “It’s…kind of an abomination.”

“Quite so! But you had a good time, didn’t you?”

Trace flashes back briefly on that memory, his first in-person encounter with the Martian angels, with their sweet scent and their lust.

“Well, the pleasure grotto here is sort of like a low-rent version of that,” Rajer continues.  “Not nearly as big, not nearly so many men, and not quite as many spectacularly strange men either. But it’s got its share.” Rajer slides forward to the end of the chaise. “You like other kinds of bodies, don’t you? I bet you do! Dudes with wings. I know you like those! Or four arms? Maybe two big dirty penises and four fucking grapefruit-nuts?” Rajer grins, catching Trace’s blush. “You and me, dude—we are totally fine specimens of hot male faggotry—but we have very basic bodies. Mine is even more basic than yours, even though I have a vaj. But I don’t have that foot-long hog in my crotch like you do. But I bet you like getting with some freaky-deaky boys now and then.”

Trace laughs, finally overcome with the absurdity of this conversation with his sperm-son. “You know, that’s not really any of your business, you little fucker!”

Rajer smirks and blows Trace a kiss and says, “But are you going to the grotto?”

Trace shakes his head. “I don’t know yet. But if I happen to run into Kyler anywhere, I’ll send him back to you so that you can apologize to him!” He stands, looms seven feet over Rajer and adds, “And if you ever slap or punch him again, then I will hit you! Got it?”

Rajer shrinks, scuttles back down the length of the chaise, hugs his knees, looks up with alarm (that fades into his smirk). He says, “I promise, daddy! I mean: Trace!”