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    Rigby Taylor
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Mortaumal - 30. An evening with Calumnia, Hercules Explains, & Mort Dances

Dinner in Calumnia’s favourite restaurant began more pleasantly than expected. She wore a simple dress, not too much makeup, spoke softly, and only bared her teeth once when Arch said he thought the lights were too dim. To the waiters she was charm itself; to the waitress she was civil.

The meal was tasty but a bit oily for Mort. When both he and Arch refused wine, Calumnia drank the entire bottle on her own, then ordered another.

‘Is your background Italian?’ Mort asked when she spoke to the wine waiter in what he assumed was that language.

‘My grandparents immigrated from Cagliari.’

‘Which is where?’

‘Sardinia.’

‘That’s how you got your beautiful olive skin.’

‘Most people don’t find it beautiful. How did you get yours?’

‘Grandfather from Asia. And I know what you mean. But Arch obviously likes your skin.’

‘Arch adores me, don’t you darling?’

The venom in her voice gave Mort goose bumps. He looked at Arch and was astonished to see a smile, although it lacked conviction.

‘I worship the ground you walk on, my precious.’

And that was the end of conversation for the evening. As soon as they arrived home, Calumnia went to her room, slammed the door and turned on very loud pop music that made the windows rattle. Arch came and sat with Mort while he made up his bed.

‘Living with Calumnia has made me understand why the Greeks allowed women to drink wine, but not to socialise with men, and the Romans allowed them to socialise, but refused to let them drink wine.’

‘Oh, Arch. I wish you could see your face. It isn’t the end of the world.’

‘Perhaps. You haven’t been here long. I hope you’ll not regret coming. Calumnia’s not the easiest person to live with. But Hercules seems to have taken to you, so at least you’ve something to occupy yourself. I do intend to spend time with you, but at the moment I’m engaged in three projects, all of which need me at the building site most days.’

‘Stop worrying. I’m looking forward to helping Hercules. I like being useful and learning things. And in my spare time I want to go jogging, use the gym, explore the forest, use the pool, and with the van I can check out the city and coast. There are tons of things to do until you have more time.’

‘That’s a relief, because I really do want you to stay.’ Arch got up to go.

‘Arch.’

‘Mmm?’

‘I hope you’re my father, but even if you aren’t I want you to know I like you as much as if you were.’

Arch gave a short laugh. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it, that after only these few hours I feel exactly the same—except I hope you’re my son.’

*****

 

The following morning Mort found Hercules in his office filling in the day’s program. He looked up and handed Mort a form.

‘Fill this in please Mort, the Body Corp needs it.’

‘What name will I put?’

‘Mortaumal. As you work for them I think it’s best if everyone calls you by your full name, it gives you gravitas. Keep Mort for close friends... as a reward. It makes your friends feel special.’

Mort grinned. ‘Yeah. That makes sense. I wondered why everyone calls you Hercules. I keep wanting to call you Herc. Does anyone?’

‘Only one. But I’ve been a bit careless with him and somehow he stopped and now calls me Hercules like everyone else and I wish…’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Get that form finished.’

Mort completed name, age etc then frowned over the final question. ‘It says: “Natural man: full time/part time; delete which doesn’t apply.” What does that mean?’

‘Choose whether you want to be like me, never wear a stitch of clothing when in Oasis, or only be natural when assisting me.’

‘That’s easy. Full time. I can’t be bothered being careful about what I’m wearing. ‘But what if I get a hard on?’

‘That’s natural, so never apologise; they’d hate that, it would spoil the illusion of us being totally natural men! They aren’t prudes, they’ve accepted their humanness and learned to be themselves and have fun without ruining their health or anyone else’s happiness. I love them.’

‘That’s a relief. So… I’ll get my gear off then?’

‘Might as well.’

Mort stripped, tossed his shorts and shirt onto the top of a set of shelves and grinned. ‘Won’t be needing them again. Oh Hercules! It feels so good to feel the air on my skin. Now I’m ready for anything. But what am I, patrician or plebeian?’

‘The same as me, a patrician with all rights and privileges who generously offers his services to his fellow patricians. I gather Arch has explained all that?’

‘Sort of, he reckons we live in a theme park in which residents are lords and ladies on their best behaviour. I love it; it’s so beautiful and civilized, like a toy village filled with humanoids. Are they real?’

‘Oh yes, and very well aware of what they’re doing. They’re not mad. It’s a fun game. At home they argue like every other family and the kids can be devious little pricks. Like all humans they’re sex mad. Wife swapping is popular. There’s a bloke in his fifties who runs sensitivity programs for men where they feel each other up in a darkened sauna. But it’s done in the best of all possible taste, like the theatricals.’

‘Real theatre?’

‘Yes. Very good amateur. Better than most professionals. I don’t know anyone who watches TV or videos; these are people who like to do things, not have things done for them, and they’re always reading, writing and putting on plays and concerts.’

‘Could I join? I’m crazy about theatre. I’d love to act and put on shows.’

‘Of course you will join them. What other skills have you any apart from self-defence and a love of theatre?’

‘Cross Country running, Fitness, Balancing tricks, I can swim pretty well, I love reading and wouldn’t mind helping kids who find it hard.’

Hercules was grinning. ‘You’re a treasure. I’m going to lock you up and keep you.’

‘Before the rest of us have met Archibald’s cousin?’

They looked up to see a wiry bronzed man in designer tracksuit and trainers, matching sweat band, heavy gold chains round neck and wrist. The curly light blond hair of his head contrasted spectacularly with the curly black hair escaping his tracksuit top. He thrust out a lean and beautifully manicured hand. ‘I’m Romulus, and you are Mortaumal I believe.’ His smile was disarming and full of perfect teeth.

They shook hands and Mort laughed. ‘You look superb, Romulus! I don’t think I have ever met anyone dressed more elegantly, not a sports club in the universe would refuse you entrance.’

‘Why thank you young man, and may I say that your physical form and skin are quite the most delightful I can recall. As I walked in I think I heard you say you like theatre?’

‘I love it.’

‘Excellent! I have a part made for you. Come to dinner tonight to meet my wife and sons and we’ll discuss it. Meanwhile, Hercules mentioned in passing last night that you are able to teach self defence?’

‘Yeah. Basic though.’

‘That’s what we want. So, shall we go? Two other men are waiting in the gymnasium.’

Mort turned to Hercules. ‘Is that Ok, boss?’

‘Very OK. See you in an hour.

 

Teaching didn’t seem like work, it was too much fun and the hour passed in seconds. When the self-defence students left for their work in the city, Mort returned to Hercules and a fourteen year-old who had never learned to swim. An hour later he could dog paddle across the main pool and had promised to come for daily exercises with Mort to build up his arm and shoulder muscles. After a quick snack, Mort met fifteen retirees on stage where they taught him how to use the sound system, and he got them laughing and exercising to music.

After a lunchtime snack with Hercules in his cottage, he posed for ninety minutes for a group of artists, then on the grass in the Colosseum introduced seven teenagers to the rudiments of self defence.

Hercules had also been busy all day so they were ready for a jog around the perimeter track. Mort had expected a bulldozed swathe beside an unattractive security fence. Instead it was a narrow sandy track winding between giant trees, the fence invisible.

‘If trampers outside the property see a fence,’ Hercules explained, ‘they’ll want to find out what’s inside; if they don’t notice it, they won’t. Simple.’

‘You are so clever, Hercules. But about this dinner invitation; are you sure it’s OK to go naked to dinner with Romulus?’

‘He won’t let you in if you don’t. Make certain you are scrupulously clean, especially your groin, and smell fresh... of yourself or plain soap, not perfume or stale sweat. There’s pleasant natural, and unsavoury natural. You and I must always be pleasant natural. Check your rear end carefully in a mirror just before leaving. I sometimes find little bits that shouldn’t be there. If you are offered a small towel to sit on, thank them graciously and make sure you use it! I often go to dinner with residents because I like them and we get on well. Having a naked guest bolsters their feeling that their lives are special. And I also feel special, as do you I suspect.’

Mort grinned. ‘I feel more special here than I have ever felt in my life. I love it.’

 

*****

 

Romulus’s mansion was based on an ancient Roman house plan. The solid wooden front door was opened by a pleasant, slightly swarthy man in an unadorned, shapeless, sleeveless tunic that reached to mid thigh. Feet bare. He nodded politely. ‘You must be Mortaumal; Romulus is expecting you. Please follow me.’

They passed through an atrium with a square tiled goldfish pool in the centre and a couple of what looked like altars with statues of gods on them on each side wall. Beyond that was a garden surrounded by a peristyle with a fountain in the centre, grass and flowers and several trees. An archway in the opposite wall led into a magnificent dining room.

Romulus’s tunic hung from a gilded clasp on his left shoulder, leaving his right arm and shoulder exposed, and was short enough to display magnificent dancer’s thighs and calves. It was made of the finest linen, bordered with gold thread in a complicated egg and dart pattern. Soft leather thongs protected the soles of his feet. He extended his hand, which Mort shook firmly.

‘Mortaumal, thank you for gracing our house with your presence. Allow me to introduce my wife, Romola, and my twin boys, Castor and Pollux.’

Romola’s garment resembled a pale blue silken sheet pinned over her right shoulder with a jewelled clasp. Her left breast was exposed, the nipple gilded. She was of average height, lean, but definitely not fragile. She shook hands like a man. The two identical boys who looked to be about ten years old, had close-cropped curly blond hair, creamy skin, bright blue eyes and were wearing tunics identical to their father’s. They shook hands seriously and offered to take Mort on a tour of the house.

‘Thanks, I’d like that.’

One of the boys ran to his room and reappeared offering a ticket. ‘This is your entry ticket, Mortaumal. Pollux and I will be your guides for today.’

Romulus and Romola smiled proudly as Mort was led away.

A wide archway in the wall of the dining room opposite the entry led into smaller walled garden onto which all the other rooms of the house opened. In the modern kitchen, the man who had opened the door to Mort was preparing dinner. He was introduced as Jack, smiled, but didn’t shake hands as they were sticky with food. After a tour of the house that elicited as much praise from their guest as it deserved, they returned to the dining room and reclined on couches around a low carved dining table. The food, served with silent good humour by the cook cum butler, was superb and the company more fun than expected.

‘What do you like about the theatre?’ Romulus asked?’

‘So far all I've really done is perform. When I was eleven I put on a short skit I designed and directed… but that’s all, and I go to the theatre whenever possible.’

‘Performing. That’s good because there’s a concert in two days. Romola is a professional dancer and needs a partner for a short ballet I choreographed and will direct. It’s not complicated, I'm sure you’ll easily be able to do it after watching you during our excellent introduction to self-defence this morning. We can run through it after dinner and, if you like it, we will rehearse properly tomorrow.’

‘That sounds sensible. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.’

While the servant cleared the table, did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen before taking the service train back to the gate, they moved to the lounge where the twins sprawled over chairs.

Romulus outlined the plot. ‘There are only two themes that underscore all successful human storytelling; conflict and sex. In this ballet I attempt to correct the notion that men instigate sexual activity, and women are passive receptacles. In reality it’s more complicated; males are active concerning protecting and providing, while females are active about getting pregnant.’

‘Yeah, that makes sense,’ Mort nodded thoughtfully. ‘After all, they’re the ones who’ll be carrying the baby.’

‘Quite. After a short, musical introduction a drunken youth totters onto the stage, does a comic dance fighting phantom enemies, then falls asleep. A woman drifts on and performs an equally comic dance about her sexual frustration. She sees the sleeping youth, wakes him then dances seductively to arouse him. He leaps up and grabs at her. She pretends to have changed her mind and they skirmish in a comic pas de deux with lifts and acrobatics. After several complex manoeuvres she appears to lose the battle, landing on hands and knees. But her face breaks into a wide grin when the youth, who imagines he had been the instigator of sexual congress and therefore the victor, rams his erection into her.’

‘On stage? You want me to have sex with Romola on stage?’

‘Ideally. Simulated if you can’t manage an erection.’

Mort turned to Romola. ‘Wouldn’t you mind?’

‘Why would I?’

‘You are actors, Mortaumal. No one will imagine you are having an affair with my wife. The audience all know what happens on stage is fiction.’

‘Do you have a problem with me?’ Romola asked, eyebrows raised in patrician disbelief.

‘Not with you; with the fact that I’m still a virgin and have no idea what to do.’

‘A virgin! That’s even better!’ Romulus rubbed his hands enthusiastically. ‘I’ll modify the dances so the young man’s a nervous virgin fighting off the female, instead of the other way round, and that’ll give the woman an excuse to aggressively arouse him and show him what to do. That’s much better than my hackneyed idea. Female as predator... brilliant. Thanks, Mortaumal. Let’s do a quick run though now so you have something to think about tonight, and tomorrow we’ll refine it.’

‘But there’ll be kids in the audience as young as six, and Castor and Pollox are watching.’ Mort looked at his hosts’ blank faces and laughed. ‘You guys are amazing.’

‘No, just rational,’ Romulus said thoughtfully. ‘Our boys have seen us having intercourse many times. We don’t see it as different from any other activity.’

‘Neither do I. My grandparents were always screwing like rabbits.’

‘You understand, then. We do realistic theatre in Oasis, like the Romans, because the audience expects to see reality. We don’t go as far as them, fortunately. There are records of Roman plays in which when a man has his hand cut off, they took beggars from the street and actually cut their hands off. In one instance, a very famous actor playing the part of a fellow who, according to legend castrated himself, was forced by the emperor to actually do it on stage.’

‘What happened?’

‘He died.’

‘Fuck! That’s horrible.’

‘Indeed. But don’t worry, we don’t go that far. But at least we’re more honest than traditional performances of works such as The Rites of Spring, for example, where they’re supposed to end up in an orgy. But traditional productions choreograph it so “artistically” the audience thinks they’re just doing another dance.’

Mort couldn’t stop himself laughing. His hosts smiled their delight at having unearthed such a treasure.

‘Outside Oasis it’s considered normal for people to watch erotica and porn on the Internet, with actors who are unrealistically potent and artificially physically enhanced. This creates a sense of inferiority in viewers and unrealistic expectations in children of all ages who watch it regularly, despite parental restrictions. In Oasis we think that is very unhealthy. Whereas to see on stage people they know and like, having erotic fun and taking pleasure in kissing, touching and fucking each other, as long as it is part of the story, not just gratuitous, can only be good for children, and a relief for adults.’

‘That was my argument when I was a stripper. And you’re right about the kids too. They can see that sex is not a shameful act.’

‘So you’re OK with it?’

‘Can’t wait... but shouldn’t I wear a condom?’

‘I’m wearing a pessary and have no sexually transmitted diseases, and as you're a virgin, I imagine you don’t either. So if you’re happy to lose your virginity tonight, let’s get on with it.’

Romulus put on Chopin’s Les Sylphides and, following his direction, Mort danced around fighting invisible foes, causing several chuckles, then yawned and curled up to sleep.

‘You’re a natural, Mortaumal,’ Romulus said with relief. ‘You’re so graceful and your timing’s perfect. You’ve danced before?’

‘Only as a stripper. Self-defence gives me balance and some good moves, and I’ve worked with an acrobat.‘

‘Romulus is right, Mortaumal, you are good,’ Romola said warmly.

She was thoroughly professional, explicitly autoerotic, and her frustrated antics so amusing Mort laughed aloud. He hoped he wouldn’t look too amateurish beside her.

Romulus then walked them through a sequence of moves that would ensure the humour of the third scene in which Mort acted nervous ignorance while Romola discarded her dress, impatiently prevented him from escaping, pushed him around and manually aroused him. Then they repeated it with music.

Romulus was a hands-on director who didn’t hesitate to physically move his dancers into positions, so by the time Romola was on hands and knees, bum waggling in the wind, and Mort had been none too gently guided into the correct position behind her, his erection was rock solid. When commanded to thrust, he thrusted and kept on thrusting as the waltz played on until Romola screamed, he groaned, and a full load gushed into her. After withdrawing he gazed down in comic astonishment and dismay at his rapidly wilting appendage, taking hold and waggling it around as if trying to restore it to life. The parents as well as Castor and Pollux clapped and cracked up with laughter.

‘That’s hilarious, Mortaumal, that’s exactly the ending we need to prevent it becoming serious! Do it like that and you’ll win best actor award,’ Romulus laughed.

‘Yes, we have to keep that, it’s so funny’ Romola agreed. ‘Then Mortaumal will shrug and go back to sleep while I pick up my dress and skip off, face wreathed in a satisfied smile.’

‘You’re all right then?’ Mort asked.

‘Never better,’ she grinned. ‘What about you? No longer a virgin. How does it feel?’

‘No different from before. But it was interesting. At the beginning your vagina felt as if it was sucking my cock in. I hadn’t expected that.’

‘I’ve powerful pelvic floor muscles. They keep Romulus from straying too far. So you’ve no problems doing it for the performance?’

‘Of course not. As Romulus says, it’s natural and I’m a natural man so it’d be strange if I had problems with it.’ Mort began to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, but this whole evening has been so funny, I can’t stop laughing.’

And he didn’t until they brought him a glass of lemon tea.

Romulus arranged a practice session with Mort for the following day to memorise the moves and smooth the untrained edges of his dancing.

 

The following morning at breakfast Arch was relieved to hear about Mort’s first day on the job, and promised to be there for the concert. Calumnia, who had ostentatiously placed a towel on his seat, merely sniffed and said she wasn’t into theatrical nonsense. She preferred real life. Mort kept his fingers crossed and didn’t attempt to change her opinion. She took her coffee and croissant out to the garden.

‘It’s good you like Romulus; he’s a bit of a genius with choreography, and his wife’s an excellent dancer. What did you mean by saying the dance is sexy reality?’

‘I play a virgin, Romola seduces me and I fuck her. We had a rehearsal last night so I’m no longer a virgin when it comes to females.’

‘Are you OK about that?’ Arch asked. ‘I mean, your first fuck is supposed to be special.’

Mort laughed. ‘This was a wank. My first fuck will be with my boyfriend. Actually, fucking Romola was less exciting than wanking. It didn’t seem unnatural or anything like that... only boring. There’s a sucking feeling at first, which was interesting, but then it’s like pushing into a slimy hot hole. If I hadn’t had an audience I’d have pulled out and finished off by hand. She seemed to enjoy it though, thank goodness. But it meant nothing to me. Now all I have to do is find a boyfriend.’

 

By the end of the day, Mort’s week was almost fully booked. Word had got out and his talents were in demand. He decided teaching was his destiny. He loved explaining, demonstrating, applauding, repeating instructions in different words, watching his pupils progress.

During the rehearsal, Romulus explained that once the moves were perfected and memorised, the way to create a fluid whole was to think of all his moves and positions from beginning to end as a single movement, not a sequence, so everything would flow seamlessly from one position to the next. Having grasped that, Mort’s delight in dancing increased and his confidence soared.

For obvious reasons, Romulus explained, only Oasis residents were permitted to watch plays and concerts. They understood reality, but visitors, no matter how well meaning, would be unable to resist telling friends outside Oasis and before long newspapers would be running exposés, the police would be investigating and they’d all be rounded up for running porno rings and child abuse. That made perfect sense to Mort who was also relieved that Calumnia would be spending the night with a girlfriend in town. He knew in his heart she could never understand the joy of natural behaviour.

The theatre looked splendid in the evening, lit by fake candles, the terraces filled with exquisitely dressed men, women and children, all chattering excitedly. The “Oasis String Trio”, a semi-professional ensemble, played at the beginning and between the acts. A comedy duo, a children’s orchestra and a tragic one-act play were followed by a magician, a teenage pop group and a witty monologue. Performers sat in the front row so they missed nothing, moving onto the stage when it was their turn, and returning after their applause. Mort and Romola were on last. The Trio played Chopin’s Les Sylphides better than the CD, the lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and Mort remembered nothing until he was holding Romola’s hand at the end, bowing to tumultuous applause.

Copyright © 2018 Rigby Taylor; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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Chapter Comments

I want to move to Oasis!  Love the freedom to be, do, say, feel what is real and natural!  The name is perfect for such a place.  

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11 minutes ago, Wesley8890 said:

I love how every time mort is like I'm a virgin! 

Well he is - anally - never been buggered.:P

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1 hour ago, skyacer said:

Oh, my virgin eyes, ears, nose and throat...and bum.  Well, sort of...

A saline gargle and enema usually helps. :P

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Mort is a very qualified "virgin", but while he meets a very technical, highly specific definition, to my mind he is about as much a vergin as I am... and frankly as a sexual partner, virgins are the pits. Someone like Mort who has an idea about the body, what he and his partner likes, is far more fun than  some innocent who fantasises about losing their "cherry"!

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3 minutes ago, Canuk said:

Mort is a very qualified "virgin", but while he meets a very technical, highly specific definition, to my mind he is about as much a vergin as I am... and frankly as a sexual partner, virgins are the pits. Someone like Mort who has an idea about the body, what he and his partner likes, is far more fun than  some innocent who fantasises about losing their "cherry"!

It was Arch, who brought virginity up as a possible problem, Mort was just being 'cute' and referring to his status regarding females. Apart from that quibble - no comment? Please tell me you're shocked. :huh:

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9 hours ago, Rigby Taylor said:

It was Arch, who brought virginity up as a possible problem, Mort was just being 'cute' and referring to his status regarding females. Apart from that quibble - no comment? Please tell me you're shocked. :huh:

 

Shocked? Mr Rigby Taylor, we are 30 chapters in, people have been seduced, murdered, dismembered, drowned, they have had sex in every position known to man, so amazed, delighted, thrilled, startled, bemused, at times even aroused, but shocked? No, not since about line two chapter 1!  Somehow its not "shocking" if you expect the unexpected. And with your writing, it is always unexpected, its what makes it so much fun!

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