Tevun-Krus #69 - Erotic SF

The Stud - A Short Story by @LizzieNewell

For the three years between conjunctions of the two moons, Teakh had prepared for his imminent marriage: scheming, lifting weights, and practicing graceful movement in the hangar between the flying machines. His fellows in the Seaguard had gibed him for dancing in anticipation of the spawning moons when women conceive children.

Now, with opaque goggles blinding him, he stepped off the gangway onto the bobbing dock. Teakh held his aunt's arm tightly. His waterproof boots squeaked on the decking. His newly braided hair pulled tightly on his scalp. The bald part, shaved by his aunt, itched. She'd wanted to show off the scars of his implanted locator beacon, his badge as a member of the Seaguard social class. But she had disabled his communication channels and warned him not to access the Seaguard positioning network. He was not allowed to know his location.

He'd dressed in his very best—a life-vest and seaboots in scarlet-and-black, his clan colors. Gold beads, pearls, sequins, and tiny jasper fish were braided into his hair. One look in the mirror had been enough for him. The jewelry looked a hell of a lot like fish lures and salmon eggs, or maybe herring roe.

Gulls screamed. The dock stank of fish guts. Nearby knives clunked and hoses gurgled as fishermen cleaned their catch.

The clatter of knives stopped. "Well look at that. The girls got them a stud."

"Yeah! Nerka. Your sister's gonna spawn. Get cleaning those fish. You gonna have a nephew to feed."

Teakh repeated the name: Nerka, Nerka. His bride's brother was named Nerka.

He adjusted his blinders. The identity of his bride and her village were not for him to know, but this time he was determined to remember every detail. This time his marriage would last.

Teakh's boot bumped a cobblestone, and he staggered. His aunt steadied him while he kicked at the stone.

She led him uphill, away from the harbor and the screaming gulls. The breeze against his face and scalp smelled of the north, cold and dry. The air stilled between buildings, and his footsteps echoed against hard walls.

His aunt halted and a door creaked.

"Welcome," said a woman's voice.

The darkness of the blinders pushed against Teakh's sight. Was this the voice of his bride? He couldn't determine her age.

"You can wait here," she said.

His aunt led him through the door and directed his hand to a chair. Teakh felt down the curve to a cushion before he sat. A breeze wafted, probably from an open transom window.

Another door opened and clicked shut behind his aunt. Voices discussing him murmured through the wall. Were they negotiating his price? Or discussing his health? He didn't want to know. He'd heard it all before; how he had the genetics of the perfect father: loving, self-sacrificing, and devoted.

Despite his much-touted predisposition for devotion to wife and child, he had married seven times and, if all went as planned, he had fathered seven children who would all be as devoted, loving, and altruistic as he supposedly was. Disgusted at the farce of it, he snorted. His enjoyment of family might happen to benefit others, but he acted only to please himself. No more devoted than any other man, he took pleasure in the consummation of marriage, and he cared about the resulting children—his children. Could genetically determined preference truly be considered altruism? Not in his opinion.

Today he would once again wed a bride he would never see and never speak with. He would leave without ever knowing her, but he longed for each of his brides, to taste the softness of their lips and to smell their spicy sweetness. He wanted to see them full and round with child and then to hold each squirming baby. Most of all he wanted to rescue his eldest son Gadid.