Clans of Atlantis Sneak Peek

I’ve decided to give all my fans a sneak peek of my Patreon-only series: Clans of Atlantis, due to the coronavirus madness sweeping the globe. I’ve also lowered the tier from $8 to $6, so those who get bonus Two Worlds chapters only need to pay an extra buck to experience the new world I’ve created. I’m enjoying writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it. You can continue to read the rest of the series at the Patreon link above.

Warning: this chapter contains sexually explicit scenes NSFW.

 

Youngling

 

“Fascinating. I’ve been looking at your eyes all night long, because I’ve never seen such dark eyes with so much light in them,” he smiled and watched her body for non-verbal hints of attraction.

Her cheeks flushed red, a smile tugged at her lips, and she reached out to touch his forearm. It didn’t matter it was a line that he’d used countless times before. It didn’t even matter that her eyes weren’t particularly intriguing. They were a plain brown. Nothing he hadn’t seen dozens of times in dozens of girls’ eyes. He was more interested in the perky set of Double-D’s refusing to be constrained in a tight dress which served no other purpose than to highlight them.

“Wow…um…yeah,” she stuttered and unconsciously raked her nails across his bronze skin. “But your eyes are so…”

“Blue,” he finished for her with and easy smile and chuckle.

“Yeah,” she chuckled back and leaned in towards him.

It was true. His eyes were his most defining feature. They were such a pure, sky blue that it invoked memories of looking up at a perfect spring day and sighing contently as a light breeze tickled one’s skin to wipe away the heat of the sun’s gentle kiss. They were his mother’s eyes, and like her, he had no problem using what the Creator gave him.

“What brings you to Los Angeles?” he asked when the woman didn’t pull away. Her breasts were practically resting on his arm.

“I’m going to be an actress.” She smiled like it was obvious, and he had to fight back a grimace.

It was 1984 and it seemed like every pretty girl who found her way to LA was trying to make it in Hollywood. They thought all they needed was a nice rack, pretty face, and they’d be the sexy female lead in the next Van Dam or Schwarzenegger action-thriller. In reality, they were more likely going to end up in some B-movie, and that was only if they’d do a topless shower scene.

He automatically cued up another line, but then stopped himself. Saying he was a producer and flashing his platinum card for bottle service was a sure panty-dropper, but he’d been instructed in no-uncertain terms, to stop doing that. He glanced over the woman’s shoulder where Afu sat two seats down nursing a virgin Sherly Temple. The sight of the two-point-one-meter man – or 6’10”in that Yank’s outdated Imperial standard – who looked like her should be playing for the local football team, drinking the fruity, vibrantly-red drink, was comical. He knew his lifelong bodyguard would never drink on the job. In fact, he’d never seen Afu imbibe any alcohol whatsoever.

Afu looked like he could crush anyone with his bare hands, but he knew his body guard’s greatest strength was his senses. The man could hear a pin drop in a crowded room, and sure enough, the actress comment had the big man’s eyes swiveling in his direction. He might be his body guard, but he worked for his parents.

“That’s exciting…” he struggled to remember her name.

“Betty,” she stated, while withdrawing her hand from his arm.

“Of course it is,” he thought. “Betty Sue from the heartland, here to make it big.” It was the American dream that the Yanks were so famous at marketing. Too bad it hardly ever worker out that way.

“Come on Gus, it’s like you haven’t heard anything I’ve said,” she pouted, but got his name right. He had to give her that.

He debated again about dropping his producer line, or at least his platinum card, but Afu was watching him like a hawk. “I’m sorry, Betty, I’ve just got a lot on my mind. I’m joining the military soon.”

It wasn’t a line, but it had the same effect. “Oh my god,” her arm immediately shot out to grip his again. “I had no idea. You must be so scared.”

He wasn’t, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. Joining the military at this point in history wasn’t exactly the safest career path. The Soviet Union was in the process of bulldozing through Afghanistan, despite covert assistance from the United States of America and the British Commonwealth. It didn’t help that the Chinese People’s Liberation Army of was sending two divisions of troops to assist their communist allies. People were just waiting to see what the German Reich’s policy would be on the conflict, and then all the world’s powers would have weighed in on the conflict. Gus thought it was a little too much attention to put on a small country, in the middle of nowhere, with little strategic importance. With the USA considering sending a humanitarian force of their own into the conflict, it meant US troops might find themselves halfway across the world sooner rather than later.

Of course, all of this would apply to Gus if he was joining the US Army, which he wasn’t. Again, Betty didn’t need to know that.

“…you’re so brave,” he missed the first part of her statement, but caught the end.

“I’m just doing my duty.” It was actually a Constitutional requirement for him, but that was something he didn’t want to get in to with her. “And I’m only going to be here in LA for a night. I ship out tomorrow.”

“Oh no,” she pouted as she leaned forward showing off an abundance of cleavage. “We just need to make the most of our time together than.” Her foot worked its way up the inside of his leg.

“Jackpot!” he waved down the bartender to help seal the deal.

Not that he needed help in that department. He wasn’t as tall or broad as Afu, but at one-point-nine meters, or 6’3”, he was on his way to being a large man. While he’d gotten his mother’s memorizing eyes, he’d also received his father’s strong jawline. As was his culture, Gus’ shoulder-length, raven-black hair was tied with a simple leather band. More than one woman had looked with envy across the bar at its sheen and luster. Gus was nothing if not a good-looking man. What Betty didn’t know, and what he had no intention of telling her, was that he was still legally a boy. He didn’t turn eighteen until midnight, which meant he was way too young for the West Hollywood bar they were sitting in. He needed another three year, two hours and eleven minutes.

Fortunately for him, money talked in this town. The crowded bar was a scene of organized chaos. They IDed at the door, but a crisp hundred averted the bouncer’s eyes. The trio of bartenders moved with synchronized grace as they served the endless stream of patrons. Gus and Betty had coveted bar seats, so all he had to do was turn and raise his hand to catch the nearest one’s attention. The only woman of the trio saw the motion and stepped over while slipping a small white baggy to the man two seats down and pocketing a twenty.

“What can I get for you?” her friendly tone went beyond professional. She’d been eyeing Gus up since he sat down, and was letting him know she was available. Betty might miss a lot that was going on around her, but she zeroed in on the bartender’s attention like a heat-seeking missile. She placed a protective hand on Gus’ shoulder.

“Two glasses of Dom,” he put down a hundred, “and keep the change.”

Personally, Gus didn’t get the hype about the stuff. He wasn’t particularly fond of the taste, but it signaled wealth and importance, which was exactly what this situation called for. Betty accepted the glass with a giggle and raised it to toast.

“Be all that you can be,” she smiled before tipping back the glass.

Gus nodded politely at the US Army’s motto, and downed his glass as well. It was just as the fresh champagne hit his lips that something hit him hard from behind. “Fuck,” he growled as the expensive liquid splashed down the front of his expensive suit.

“Watch it, buddy,” the ‘buddy’ was slurred, and said in a very unfriendly manner by the man squaring off behind Gus. Despite Gus being seated, the inebriated man in the oversized, broad-shouldered pinstripe suit clearly thought the contact was Gus’s fault.

Many people would have shrugged off the insult, but Gus was a little hot blooded, which was common in young men regardless of their culture. “I think we deserve an apology.” He got to his feet where he hovered a good couple inches above the other man. The other man was too drunk, or high, to care, and he had two buddies to fuel his bravado.

Gus could already feel Afu rising up behind him, which only emboldened him. “You made me spill on my lovely date. So…apologize,” he repeated.

In truth, very little champagne had splattered on Betty’s dress, and the look on her face said she didn’t want to be involved with the male dick measuring.

“I’m really ok, I…” Betty stammered.

“You don’t need to stick up for this Cholo,” the drunk man looked between Betty’s contrasting blonde curls and pale skin, and Gus’ tan skin and black hair. “He knows he doesn’t belong here.” The way the drunk man’s eyes looked over Gus said he was looking for more ways to insult him.

It was difficult. The man only had skin tone to work with. Gus was wearing a suit, shoes, and watch that cost more than the drunkard made in a year. The bottle of Dom he’d purchased was sitting in a place of prominence on the bar in front of them, and the bodyguard slowly closing on the drunk man’s friends clearly showed that Gus was the better man.

He also wasn’t a Cholo, Latino, Hispanic-American, or whatever the Yanks were calling that subgroup this week. He understood where the insult was coming from. LA was only two hundred kilometers from the border from the Junta, the nickname for the military-run government of Mexico. As one of the USA’s biggest headaches on the continent, the junta was a constant source of blame for the locals.

“Look, he even wears his hair like a girl,” the man pointed at Gus’ bound hair. “What are you, a faggot?” While the man took a threatening step forward, one of his pals grabbed Gus’s hair from behind.

What would usually be a simple assault was actually an assault paired with a grievous cultural insult. Like any almost-eighteen-year-old would, Gus lashed out at as something so offensive. He grabbed the offending man’s arm, wretched it forward, and snapped it like a twig. Even over the din of conversation, the snap was audible. Shortly followed by the man’s screams. People recoiled, Betty screamed as the man fell to the ground between them, and Afu sprang into action. Before the other two men could get over the sight of their friend’s arm hanging at a physiologically improbable angle, Afu had them both in his hubcap-sized hands. He pushed them away from Gus better than a defensive lineman during Monday Night Football.

Meanwhile, Gus seethed at the rage and violation. He felt him body rise to the challenge as fight overcame flight. His whole body began to itch and he could feel his skin grow tight, but he forced himself to calm down. “Not here not now,” he thought as he fought back the anger and concentrated on be breathing.

A thin line of smoke escaped his nostrils as he tried to settle down. Thankfully, Betty was long gone, and people were giving him a wide berth. “I need to get out of here,” he pushed through the few people in the crowd that didn’t jump out of his way and headed for the kitchen.

The chef and his staff yelled as he plowed through their culinary kingdom and crashed out the back door into the humid night air of the back alley. There, he let the last of his frustration out on a billowing puff that made the space smell like someone had pissed on a campfire.

“Rough day,” a voice caught him off guard, and he spun towards its source. “Geez,” the woman took a few quick steps back.

“Sorry,” Gus put his hands up innocently as the adrenaline fled his bloodstream. “Just some asshole in there got me riled up.”

“Don’t worry about it. Plenty of assholes in this town,” she waved dismissively, and smiled.

“Damn,” he might have had his eyes set on Betty ninety seconds earlier, but he was a sucker for a cute smile.

“Gus,” he gave her his own award-winning smile and extended his hand.

“Rosemarie,” she replied in a drawl that he hadn’t noticed before.

“Rosemarie?” he couldn’t help but give her a pitying look.

“Yeah, I know,” the woman grimaced like she’d been through this before. “My dear mother was high on Demerol because she just couldn’t tough it out for a natural birth. As a result, I got named after her grandmother, which means I fit in better with the cast of Gone with the Wind than in West Hollywood.”

Gus choked on the laugh he tried to hold back. “Don’t worry,” he took her outstretched hand, and was surprised by the firm grip, “I’ve got you beat.”

“I doubt it,” she cocked an eyebrow in challenge.

“My full name is Augustus,” he hit her with a onomatological haymaker.

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Augustus? Like Octavian…I’m going to beat out Mark Antony and be emperor of all Rome…that guy?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged triumphantly.

“But that’s just the type of egotistic thing someone in this town would pull. That, and naming your kids after natural phenomenon; like Tree or Rain.” She didn’t concede what he thought was clearly a win on his part.

“I’m not from around here, and neither are you,” it was his turn to issue the challenge. “You’re a Confed right?”

Confed was slang for citizens of the Confederate States of America (CSA). The sovereign nation that occupied the southeast portion of the American Subcontinent since the Charter of Separation signed by Presidents Lincoln and Davis at the end of the American Civil War in 1887. Despite almost a hundred years since the split, and fighting alongside each other in World War Two (1939-1947) and the Korean Conflict (1951-1952), there was still bad blood between the USA and CSA. So, finding a beautiful woman from the CSA all the way out in LA was a bit of an oddity.

“We preferred to be called Rebels,” she clarified, and purposefully, almost pridefully, accented her southern drawl. “But, yes, I’m from Savannah; born and bred.”

While the capitol of the CSA was Atlanta, Savannah was known as a popular destination for the higher class of CSA society.

“So, Rosemarie, what is a Southern Belle like you doing in a place like this?” Gus inquired, although she looked nothing like the proper southern women he’d seen in television shows.

Betty was closer to that definition with her blond curls and a sweet, heart-shaped face. Although, the mini-dress she’d worn didn’t fit his mental impression of hoop-skirts and bodices of the Antebellum South. Not that he cared. Rosemarie on the other hand was in a pair of Doc Martins with black stockings underneath a short pair of ripped jeans shorts. She had a leather bomber jacket on, that did little to emphasis her modest breasts, a spiked choker around her neck, and a ring through her left nostril. Flowing down her back to her mid-waist was the most striking red hair he’d ever seen. At least that fit his image of someone standing on a plantation balcony looking out over endless cotton fields, but the heavy black eye-liner didn’t. While there was something erotic about her that stirred his lust, it was her eyes that really caught his attention. They were a truly-beautiful silver. For just a moment, he got lost in their sheen.

“Only my mother calls me Rosemarie,” she cringed, ignoring the slightly dumb expression on Gus’s face as he took her in. “Call me Rose, and what brings me to the pinnace of Yankee materialism is UCLA medical school.”

At nearly eighteen, and eventually bound for college, Gus should have known something about UCLA’s medical program, but her eyes were all he could focus on right now.

“You ok there,” she asked after a few awkward seconds.

“Yeah,” he coughed and tried to cover up his instant infatuation with this mysterious woman. “UCLA medical. That must be nice. What’s your specialty? But you still didn’t answer my question about what you’re doing here in this sketchy alley?” He couldn’t help but flirt a little with a woman he now knew had to be at least in her early to mid-twenties.

“I guess older women are my type,” he fell back into his default easy smile.

“It’s ok,” she shrugged as she came closer, and Gus felt his heartrate speed up. “Mother wanted for me to go to Emory, but I wanted to get out of Georgia and see the world a little. I thought, what the hell, I’ll try California.” She was standing close to him now. So close he could feel her breath on his face. “I’m specializing in the human mind, getting my doctorates in psychology and neurology.”

“Wow…that’s…”

“Ambitious,” she smiled and looked up at him. She was a good fifteen centimeters shorter than he was. “It is, but I love people’s brains, and I want to know everything about them both emotionally and psychologically. Plus, my family is loaded, so I can afford to spend a decade doing whatever I want before inevitably being dragged back home.”

“I can relate,” Gus tried to discretely take a deep breath and remember her scent. It smelled like the ocean breeze, with a hint of pine, and a pinch of alley urine.

“As to what I’m doing specifically in this sketchy alley…I’m buying cocaine.” She said it like she was talking about tomorrow’s weather.

“What!” shock tinged his laughter. “Wait, you’re serious.” Not doing drugs was another thing he’d been instructed explicitly not to do.

“Sure,” she pulled out a tiny, sealed bag from her pocket. “I told you I want to know everything there is to know about the human brain. But to really know, you need to experience things firsthand, not just read about them in a book. For example, I know that cocaine attaches to structures that regulate dopamine, leading to increases in dopamine activity and producing euphoria; it also produces changes in norepinephrine and glutamate systems that cause stimulant effects. As long as cocaine occupies the transporter, dopamine cannot re-enter the neuron. It builds up in the synapse, stimulating receiving-neuron receptors more copiously and producing much greater dopamine impact on the receiving neurons than occurs naturally.”

“Yeah, totally,” Gus was more concerned about the stimulating effect Rose was having on him. She was practically pressed up against him and had drawn closer and closer as she babbled about science.

“Exactly,” there was a fervent look in her eyes now. “We can talk about dopamine levels and stimulation all that we want, but feeling those effects puts that understanding on a whole new level.” She flicked the bag in her hand. “So, this is what I’m proposing. We’re going to conduct an experiment.” She looked him and up and down and nodded as if she’d made some sort of decision. She placed a hand on his chest, and he shivered with delight.

“We’re going to study the effects of cocaine on the sexual experience. I’m assuming you’re clean. You look clean. No STDs? AIDS…?”

“No,” Gus stammered, suddenly out of his element with her sudden forwardness and peer pressure.

“Good. My hypothesis is that it is going to lead to mind-blowing sex. The process will be as follows. You’re going to take off the suit. Hopefully, underneath is what I expect to be a prime example of the male species,” she punctuated that statement by grabbing Gus’s crotch. Her eyes widened slightly, and her smile grew broader. “Excellent, a larger phallus always enhances my chance of orgasm. Now, take off your shirt so I can do a line off your abs. You have abs, right?”

Gus had his jacket and undershirt off before she finished. He did indeed have abs. She tipped the bag onto his bare chest. A decent chunk of the cocaine fell to the ground, but there was enough left so she could close one nostril with her finger and powerfully snort the rest.

“Oh sweet lord almighty!” her accent got impossibly thick as she took a few steps back. “Over here,” she grabbed Gus and pulled him deeper into the alley where the only thing was a dumpster. She immediately started undoing her belt and pulling down her shorts. It was hard to tell with the jacket, but she had a great ass.

“Here, do a line off my ass. The visual stimulation will do wonders for your blood flow.”

He was having no problems with his blood flow, but she didn’t have to ask twice. His attempt at making a line on her pale flesh was just as poor as hers. He ended up using the rest of the bag. With a deep breath he snorted everything that was left.

The drug hit him like a cannon as the world seemed to brighten up all around them. Even the urine smell permeating the whole area seemed sweeter. He knew it wouldn’t last long, and he had an experiment to conduct.

“Get those pants off and fuck me,” she ordered as she gripped the edge of the dumpster tightly.

“Sure thing, Doc,” he did exactly as she ordered.

He followed her every instruction as she ground against his eager thrusting. Eventually, he turned her around, picked her up, and pushed her back up against the brick wall. She bit his ear, scratched his bare back, and screamed with a pleasure that spoke to how well the experiment was progressing.

He wished it could go on and on, and judging by her commentary so did she, but he was only a man, and this whole experience was straight out of a fantasy. “FUCK!” He climaxed as she threw her head back in spasms of ecstasy.

He stayed frozen there, panting from the exertion as the cocaine worked its way out of his system. He might be relatively sober now, but Rose would still be feeling the effects of that dopamine for a while. Slowly, he lowered her to the ground.

“Mmmm,” was all she mumbled as she wobbled on unsteady legs and accepted her discarded shorts. “Those results were unexpected.”

“I’ll take that as a good thing.” The cocaine might be out of his system, but his body’s natural euphoric high was still going strong.

“Hell yeah,” she steadied herself on his shoulder while working the tight-fitting shorts up over her hips. “We might have to test this hypothesis again.”

That wasn’t going to be possible, but he didn’t let that damper the wave of content that was coursing through him. He picked his jacket and shirt up off the ground, and grimaced as the smell. He wasn’t putting those on. Rose never even made it out of her bomber jacket.

“Should we exchange numbers?” he asked. He wouldn’t be around for a while, but he’d be back in LA eventually. “I mean…” he left it hanging.

Rose was grinning and opened her mouth to reply when a flashlight filled the alley. “Hey, you two, freeze!” A cop stood in the entry near the West Hollywood bar.

Rose didn’t even hesitate as she bolted for the other end. She vanished around the corner before the cop even made it to Gus. Gus didn’t even bother to move. He just stood there, his piss-stained jacket and shirt in hand.

“Is this him?” the cop yelled over his shoulder as his partner rounding the corner.

“He fits the description,” the other officer yelled, and advanced toward Gus. Behind them both, Afu appeared and followed at a respectful distance. The loyal bodyguard definitely witnessed the hasty coupling with Rose, but as long as she wasn’t a threat, he wouldn’t interfere.

“I’m going to need to see some ID,” the first cop demanded.

“Whatever you think this is, don’t bother,” Gus looked over his shoulder to where Rose had disappeared as he handed over his wallet.

“I didn’t even get her full name.”

“Don’t bother,” the cop sneered at him. “Assault is definitely something we bother with.”

“Bullshit,” Gus laughed, which wasn’t the smartest move.

“And look at this,” the cop ignored him, “you’re also a minor, so we can add underage drinking to the list.”

“Might want to look above that,” Gus gestured to the passport, finally giving the cops his full attention.

“HRH CP Augustus Drake,” the unimpressed cop read his name, but his partner’s groan showed he understood.

“His Royal Highness Crown Prince Augustus Drake, Kingdom of Atlantis,” the second cop elaborated. “He’s got diplomatic immunity.”

The first cop finally got it, and his face fell before suddenly perking back up. “Well, we’ll handle all of that down at the station.” He turned Gus around and slapped handcuffs on him.

Gus didn’t care. In this direction, he could still smell the last vestiges of Rose.

“Crazy, smart, and unbelievably sexy Rose.” He signed has the two cops grabbed him by the elbows and walked him back toward their cruiser.

Afu was already out of sight, most likely grabbing their own car and heading to the station to avoid the impending international incident.