A Barber’s Destiny
'The Paradise of Annamakt' – scene #1
As we set out on a new hot gay erotic fiction serial today, ‘The Paradise of Annamakt’, I am going to suggest first reading the scene-setting character-tasting post ‘The Aquamages of Tsantsibon’ (linked below). Not only will it introduce you to the very specific part of Guya in which this story is set, but also to some of the characters that will feature, including the powerful enviromages or Aquamages, known as Metons, that protect the fragile desert lands and its people. That done, get ready for a tale of magic and romance and sacrifice, with plenty of hot MM action too - in other words exactly what you expect here in Guya!
Have fun
Zayq
x
The sand crunches beneath my feet, each step releasing the smell of cooling earth after the scorching day before. Dawn hasn't yet broken over the eastern dunes of Tsantsibon, and stars still prick the indigo sky like tiny holes in the fabric of night. I'm late. The thought drives me forward faster, my bundle of barber's tools clutched tight against my chest, wrapped in oiled cloth that whispers against my tunic. Vervouan the Sad does not tolerate tardiness, even from the man who holds razors to his throat.
In the distance, his tent rises against the brightening horizon – larger than the others, though not ostentatious. A Meton's dwelling. The pale canvas glows faintly from within, telling me he's already awake, already waiting. My heart quickens its pace to match my footfalls. The other tents of the encampment remain dark, silent testament to the hour. Only Metons rise before the sun to prepare their magic for the day's work.
I reach the entrance, pausing to compose myself. Three deep breaths, as my father taught me. In the quiet moment before I announce myself, I adjust the folds of my tunic, smoothing away the wrinkles born of haste. Appearances matter, especially when one harbors ambitions beyond one's station.
"Enter, Tidor," comes his voice from within, before my knuckles can even graze the tent flap. "The stars themselves have nearly completed their journey while I've waited."
I push aside the heavy fabric and step into warmth and dim light. Vervouan sits on a low stool in the center of the tent, back straight despite the early hour, eyes following my movements with the steady patience of a man who has learned to measure time differently than others. His melancholy gaze holds neither anger nor true impatience – merely observation.
"Forgive me, lord," I say, lowering my eyes in deference. "My mother's illness required attention before I could depart."
A convenient lie. My mother's health is robust as a desert bloom after rainfall. The truth – that I spent the pre-dawn hours practicing the hand movements I've observed Vervouan making during his water-workings – would reveal too much, too soon.
"Your devotion to family honors you," he says, the faintest hint of skepticism coloring his words. "Now, shall we proceed? The dunes await my attention, and the farmers their water."
I nod, moving to the small table where a copper basin already waits, steam rising from water that should have cooled in the time I've kept him waiting. Another small miracle of a Meton's power – heat maintained without flame. I unwrap my tools reverently, placing each in precise order on the cloth: scissors, combs, razors of various sizes, each blade honed to perfection by my hand the previous evening.
"Your collection grows more impressive," Vervouan notes, watching my preparations with unexpected interest.
"A barber's tools are his honor," I reply, repeating my father's mantra. "Each one an extension of his hands, his intent."
Much like a Meton's relationship with water, though I keep this observation to myself. I've spent years studying Vervouan while he believed I focused solely on the contours of his face and the texture of his beard. In truth, I've been learning two trades simultaneously.
I mix the shaving soap in a small bowl, working it into a rich lather with practiced movements of my brush. The tent fills with a scent that is my own blend, created especially for him. The familiarity of the routine steadies my hands, which had trembled slightly upon entry. This, at least, I know with certainty: the precise angle of blade against skin, the tension required to slice hair without drawing blood, the patterns of growth unique to each man's face.
"You are unusually quiet today," he observes as I drape a warm cloth over his face to soften his beard.
"I have much on my mind, lord."
"Speak it, then. Your thoughts cannot be heavier than those that earn me my title."
Vervouan the Sad, they call him. Not for any personal tragedy or melancholy temperament, but for the burden he carries – channeling life-giving water through a landscape determined to remain barren, watching his own life force diminish with each working. All Metons – the famed Aquamages of Tsantsibon - bear this weight, this knowledge of their shortened years, sacrificed for the small desert nation’s prosperity.
I remove the cloth and begin applying lather to his face, the brush making soft circular motions across his cheeks. His eyes close in momentary pleasure at the sensation. My opportunity approaches.
"I wish to be tested," I say, the words escaping before I can reconsider. They hang in the air between us, irrevocable.
His eyes snap open, dark and suddenly alert. My hands continue their work, muscle memory guiding them when conscious thought falters. I apply the last of the lather to his neck, where the pulse visibly quickens beneath tan skin.
"Tested," he repeats, the word neither question nor statement. "To become a Meton.”
"Yes, lord."
I select my finest razor, the one with the ebony handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a gift from my father when I surpassed his skill. The blade catches the lamplight as I open it, a sliver of dangerous moon in my hand.
"You understand what you ask?" Vervouan's voice remains steady, but his eyes follow the razor with new wariness. "To be a Meton is to die young, Tidor. It is to feel your body age more quickly with each working, to watch contemporaries grow old while your bones begin to ache before their time."
I make the first stroke along his cheek, removing lather and stubble in a clean line. "I understand."
"Do you? A Meton lives half a normal lifespan, if he's fortunate. If the workings don't take him sooner."
Another stroke, another perfect line of smooth skin revealed. "I understand."
"And if you fail the test – if you have not the gift but only the desire – you become an Aspirant. A Hopeful One, serving those who passed where you could not."
My hand pauses, blade hovering above his upper lip. "I understand this too, lord."
"Then why?" He studies me as I resume my work, his eyes never leaving mine despite the deadly edge grazing his skin. "You have a trade, Tidor. A respected one."
I finish his upper lip before answering, taking time to rinse my blade in the basin. The water turns cloudy with soap and stubble.
"Because I have watched you bring life from barren sand for seven years. Because I have seen what your hands can do." I position his head to access his neck, the most vulnerable expanse. "My hands know precision, lord. They understand the difference between death and life – how the width of a hair separates them."
The razor glides along his throat, exposing naked skin in its wake. Vervouan remains perfectly still, not from fear of the blade but from something else entirely – consideration.
"And you believe your barber's hands could channel the waters beneath the desert?" His voice vibrates against my knuckles.
"I believe they were meant for more than trimming beards, yes." I complete the final stroke and set down my razor, reaching for a clean cloth to wipe away the remaining lather. "I believe I was meant for more."
He sits in silence as I finish, applying a cooling balm to his freshly shaved skin. When he finally rises from the stool, he seems to stand taller, as if my request has somehow lightened his burden rather than added to it.
"Tonight," he says at last. "After my day's workings are complete. I will test you."
"Thank you, lord." I bow my head, hiding the triumph that must surely show in my eyes.
"Don't thank me yet, Tidor the Barber." His hand rests briefly on my shoulder, heavy with meaning. "I may be offering you either ascension or servitude. Or death, should your body reject the connection entirely."
I meet his gaze unflinchingly. "Every man dies, lord. Few are given the chance to choose how their life shortens."
A smile touches his lips, the first I've seen in months of attending him. "Perhaps you've been more than a barber all along." He gestures toward the tent entrance, where light now streams through the gaps. "Come. Today you shall see what it is you aspire to. Before you commit your life to its pursuit."
I gather my tools with careful precision, wrapping them in their oiled cloth. By sundown, I may have no further use for them. By sundown, I may be more – or less – than I am now. The thought sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine as I follow Vervouan into the breaking day.
We walk for an hour across shifting sands, the sun climbing higher with each step. Vervouan moves with purpose, his eyes fixed on some distant point only he can see. His robes billow around him like the wings of some great desert bird, azure and white against the deepening blue of morning sky. I follow three paces behind – close enough to hear if he speaks, far enough to show proper deference. This is not my world, not yet. But I watch his every movement, memorizing the way he places each foot, the angle at which he holds his head, the rhythm of his breathing. A barber's eye misses nothing, and today, I am studying the most important subject of my life.
The landscape changes gradually as we move farther from the encampment – fewer scrub bushes, more exposed rock, the sand itself becoming finer and redder. Heat rises in visible waves, distorting the horizon. Sweat slides down my back, but Vervouan appears untouched by the growing inferno around us, as if he carries his own climate within the shelter of his robes.
"Here," he says finally, stopping at the edge of a vast, empty basin. The depression in the land stretches for perhaps half a mile, barren as a dead man's dreams. Not a single blade of grass, not one desperate thorn bush has found purchase in this hollow. "This was once fertile. It will be again."
He turns to face me, and the intensity in his eyes makes me step back involuntarily. "Watch carefully, Tidor. See what you aspire to become."
Vervouan removes his outer robe, handing it to me with casual authority. Beneath, he wears only a simple linen wrap around his hips, leaving his chest and arms bare. His body tells the story of his calling – muscled but with a certain hollowness, as if something essential has been carved away from beneath his skin. Scars like fine silver threads run across his torso in patterns too deliberate to be random. The marks of testing, of initiation. Of power bought with pain.
He kneels at the edge of the basin, pressing both palms flat against the sand. His eyes close, and for several long moments, nothing happens. I shift my weight, uncertain if I should speak or maintain silence. Then I notice the change – subtle at first, then unmistakable. The air around him begins to shimmer, not with heat but with something else entirely, something that makes the hair on my arms rise.
His breathing deepens, becomes rhythmic, each exhalation releasing a sound too low to hear, but possible to feel, a vibration that travels through the ground beneath my feet. His skin begins to change, a luminescence building beneath the surface like water seen through clouded glass. Droplets of moisture appear on his forehead, his shoulders, his chest – not sweat, but something purer, clearer, as if his body is transforming into the element he commands.
The eyes that open are not entirely Vervouan's. The dark brown has been replaced by a swirling blue-green, the color of deep water caught in sunlight. He no longer sees me, no longer sees the desert. His gaze turns inward and downward, searching for something far beneath the surface.
"There," he whispers, the word barely audible yet somehow filling the space around us. "There you are."
His fingers curl into the sand, grasping at something invisible. Muscles cord in his arms, his back, his neck – not with effort but with connection, as if he has seized a great weight and now must guide it upward. The sand around his hands darkens, and then comes the miracle.
Water rises in a perfect column, no wider than a man's wrist, spiraling upward from where his palms meet earth. It defies nature, climbing against gravity in a twisting dance. The liquid catches sunlight and scatters it in prismatic bursts that paint Vervouan's face with fractured rainbows. The column grows taller, begins to widen, then suddenly collapses – not downward but outward, spreading in a perfect circle that pushes the sand aside, revealing dark, wet earth beneath.
More columns rise, a dozen, then two dozen, converging at the center of the basin where they form a pool that grows with impossible speed. From the pool, channels begin to etch themselves across the basin floor, precise as an architect's drawing, dividing the space into sections, creating a framework for life in this empty place.
All the while, Vervouan kneels, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest. But changes manifest on his body with each passing minute – small at first, then increasingly evident. The muscles under his skin seem to contract slightly. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepen. A strand of hair at his temple that was black when we set out now glints silver in the sunlight.
"The water sleeps deep here," he says, his voice strained. "It resists the call. It must be persuaded."
More channels form, intricate as veins in a living body. Water flows, clear and sweet, carrying the promise of life. At the edges of the basin, farmers begin to appear, drawn by some unspoken signal or perhaps by magic itself. They stand at a respectful distance, hands clasped before them, eyes wide with gratitude and awe. One older man drops to his knees, pressing his forehead to the sand in supplication.
"Do they always come?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"They feel it," Vervouan answers without turning his head. "The moment water touches their land, they know. Some say the desert speaks to them." A smile touches his lips, then fades as another surge of power flows through him, leaving him visibly diminished.
By midday, the transformation is complete. What was barren now holds the promise of cultivation – sectioned fields fed by channels that will not dry out, protected by Meton magic from evaporation. The farmers have moved closer, their initial reverence transformed into purposeful activity as they begin marking plots with stakes and string.
Vervouan rises at last, and I hurry forward to steady him. His body trembles against mine, hot as forge-worked metal. The vibrant man who strode confidently across the sands this morning has been replaced by someone who appears a decade older. The lines in his face have deepened. His hands shake like autumn leaves in wind.
"This is what it costs," he says, leaning heavily against me. "This is what you wish to become."
It should terrify me, this visible evidence of life force spent in a single working. Instead, I feel a surge of determination so powerful it nearly steals my breath. "Yes," I tell him, supporting his weight as we begin the long walk toward the next site. "Show me more."
We continue this pattern across the burning day – walking, working, witnessing the transformation of death into life. At each location, Vervouan draws water from impossible depths, creating elaborate irrigation systems that will sustain crops for months without additional workings, and with the clever work of the people, with their irrigation methods and underground tanks and careful stewardship of every last drop, now that the waters have risen to the surface there is a chance they will stay for many lifetimes.
But at each location, he ages before my eyes.
By mid-afternoon, he stumbles twice before I catch him. By late afternoon, his hair has threaded with gray, and fine lines map his face like a chart of some unknown territory. I no longer follow behind him but walk at his side, my arm around his waist, feeling the disturbing lightness of him, as if parts of his substance have been transmuted into the water now flowing across miles of desert.
The sun hangs low on the horizon when we finally turn back toward the encampment. Vervouan's breathing has grown labored, and sweat – normal, human sweat, not the luminescent moisture of his working – soaks his skin.
"I cannot test you tonight," he says, each word emerging with effort. His eyes have returned to their normal brown, but they seem faded somehow, as if the color itself has been diluted. "I have no strength left."
"I understand," I reply, tightening my grip around his waist as he sways. "But I may stay?"
He looks at me, and despite his exhaustion, something kindles in his gaze. "Yes," he says after a moment. "You may stay."
We make our slow way back as darkness falls, the first stars appearing overhead like distant reflections of the water Vervouan has brought forth from the depths. Behind us, newly created channels gleam in the twilight, silver threads binding the desert to its hidden heart.
The tent flap falls closed behind us, shutting out the night's chill and the judging eyes of stars. In the soft glow of a single oil lamp, Vervouan seems smaller somehow, diminished by the day's workings in a way that squeezes something painful in my chest. I guide him to his sleeping platform, my hands steady as they've always been, even when my heart beats with uncertainty. This is familiar territory made strange – I have attended to men's bodies all my life, but never like this, never with this tender ache beneath my ribs. Never with the knowledge that the body beneath my hands has been hollowed by magic I covet for myself.
"Sit," I tell him, surprised by the authority in my voice. More surprised when he obeys without question, sinking onto the edge of his sleeping platform with a sigh that seems to rise from the soles of his feet.
I kneel before him, assuming the position I've taken countless times as a barber, but with different purpose. His boots are caked with red desert sand, the leather cracked and stained with minerals from waters drawn from impossible depths. I work the laces loose with careful fingers, easing each boot from feet that must ache beyond telling.
"You needn't - " he begins.
"Be still," I interrupt, a liberty I would never have taken this morning. Something has shifted between us, something beyond my request for testing or his revelation of power. I peel away his socks, revealing feet marked with blisters and calluses – not the feet of a nobleman, but of a worker, a servant to his people.
I retrieve a basin of water from the corner where he keeps his supplies and bring it to him, adding a handful of salt from a small pouch. The water clouds, then clears again – another small magic, or merely the properties of the salt itself? I cannot yet tell where the man ends and the magic begins.
"The channels created today will serve three villages," he says as I lower his feet into the basin. His eyes close briefly at the relief. "Perhaps two hundred families."
"Two hundred families who will remember your name in their evening prayers," I reply, working my thumbs into the arch of his right foot, feeling the tension there begin to release. "Who will offer thanks to Vervouan the Sad as they eat the bread made possible by your sacrifice."
He makes a small sound, something between pleasure and dismissal. "They thank the water, not the channel it passes through."
"And yet without the channel, they would have only sand."
My hands move upward from his feet, working the knotted muscles of his calves through the thin fabric of his robe. His flesh feels fever-hot beneath my palms, as if the sun he stood beneath all day has seeped into his very bones. I reach for a waterskin and offer it to him. He drinks deeply, water spilling from the corners of his mouth to track gleaming paths down his neck, into the hollow of his throat.
I watch the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows, and something heats in my own blood that has nothing to do with the desert day. When he lowers the waterskin, his eyes meet mine with new awareness, as if he's truly seeing me for the first time – not as his barber, but as a man.
"You've taken good care of me, Tidor," he says, his voice rough with thirst despite the water. "For years now."
"It's my duty."
"Is this also duty?" His hand moves suddenly, catching my wrist as I reach to take the waterskin from him. His grip is surprisingly strong for a man so depleted. "This tenderness?"
The question hangs between us, honest in a way that makes deception impossible. I could call it duty, could hide behind the role I've played for years. Instead, I answer with equal honesty.
"No."
His fingers slide from my wrist to my palm, interlacing with mine. The calluses from his water-workings rasp against the smoother calluses from my razor work. Different tools, different magics.
"Then what would you call it?" he asks, his eyes dark in the lamp's glow.
I have no words to offer, only action. I lean forward, closing the distance between us until our breaths mingle, carrying the scent of desert and desire. His lips are chapped from the day's heat, rough against mine when I finally press my mouth to his. He tastes of salt and something deeper, something ancient – like water that has traveled through stone for centuries before finding its way to light.
He remains still for a heartbeat, two, and I fear I've misunderstood everything. Then his hand rises to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and he pulls me closer with surprising strength. The kiss transforms, becomes hungry, desperate. A man dying of thirst who's found an unexpected oasis.
"I've thought of this," he murmurs against my lips. "Watching your hands work, so precise, so careful. I've imagined them on me. And I’ve teased you, with every morning gift. Let me generous now, as you have been generous to me.”
I answer by sliding my palms up his arms to his shoulders, feeling the interplay of muscle and tendon beneath skin that bears the subtle marks of too much sun, too many years of giving without replenishment.
I help him remove his sand-crusted garments, then stand to shed my own, feeling his eyes track every movement, every revealed inch of skin. In the lamplight, our bodies tell different stories – his marked by years of service, muscles lean and defined but with the beginning softness of age at his middle, skin bearing the evidence of a life lived outdoors; mine still holding the firmness of youth, the unmarked canvas of potential.
When I lower myself beside him onto his sleeping platform, the contact of skin against skin sends a current through me that feels like the edge of something vast and powerful. His hands explore me with reverence, tracing the contours of my chest, my hips, my thighs. I mirror his actions, learning the map of his body – the raised scar along his ribs from some long-ago working, the softness at the nape of his neck, the surprising strength in his thighs as they press against mine.
"I should be too tired for this," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear as he pulls me atop him. "You've reawakened something I thought drained away with the day's water."
I kiss the hollow of his throat, tasting salt and man. "Perhaps I'm merely returning what you've given."
Our bodies find a rhythm as old as the desert winds, rocking together on the cushioned platform. His cock presses against mine, and I take us both in hand, feeling the exquisite friction as we slide together in my grip. His back arches beneath me, a sound escaping him that's half pleasure, half surrender.
Lost in the sensation, I don't immediately notice the change. It's Vervouan who freezes first, his eyes widening as they fix on something beyond my shoulder. I follow his gaze and gasp.
Droplets of water hover in the air around my free hand, suspended as if time itself has stopped. They catch the lamplight, transforming into perfect, miniature stars that orbit my fingers like planets around a sun. I've seen such things only when Vervouan works his deepest magics.
"Don't stop," he urges when I stare in shock. "Don't think. Feel."
I return my attention to our bodies, to the building pleasure between us. As my passion grows, so too does the manifestation – more droplets forming, dancing in expanding circles around not just my hands now but my arms, my shoulders, creating a canopy of liquid light above us both.
"It's not possible," I breathe, even as the evidence surrounds us. "I haven't been tested - "
"Your body knows what it is," Vervouan says, his hands gripping my hips, guiding our movements with increased urgency. "Your magic knows. But never - " His words dissolve into a groan as I tighten my grip, increasing our pace.
The water drops multiply with every heartbeat, every surge of pleasure. They begin to spin faster, creating tiny whirlpools in the air. As our bodies climb toward a peak of desire, the suspended water responds, gathering density, merging into larger drops, a miniature storm brewing within the confines of the tent.
When climax claims us both – Vervouan first, his body arching beneath mine, then me following moments after – the suspended water releases all at once. It falls like blessed rain, soaking us, the bedding, creating dark patches on the tent canvas above. Not the meager drops of a desert shower but the drenching downpour of fertile lands, manifested from nothing but desire and untrained power.
We lie tangled together in soaked bedding, breathless, water dripping from our skin, puddling around us. Vervouan's expression holds wonder I've never before seen on his melancholy features.
"All this time," he says, cradling my face between his palms. His eyes search mine with new understanding. "All these years, you've sat before me with this gift burning inside you, and neither of us knew."
"Is this why you agreed to test me?" I ask, uncertain now of everything except the lingering pleasure in my limbs and the strange new awareness in my fingertips, as if I can feel every drop of moisture in the air around us.
"I agreed because I saw your determination." His thumbs stroke my cheekbones with reverence. "Now I understand its source." He pulls me down for another kiss, gentle this time, almost chaste despite our naked, wet bodies pressed together. When he releases me, his eyes hold a fierce joy that transforms his features. "You have the gift, Tidor. You truly have the gift."
The water continues to drip around us, each droplet a confirmation, a promise. I have crossed a threshold tonight, one far more significant than merely entering a Meton's tent. I have entered a new life, one where water speaks to me and my hands might bring forth miracles from barren earth.
"Tomorrow," Vervouan whispers against my temple, "we begin your true testing. And your training. Your life has changed tonight. Changed forever."
I close my eyes, feeling the water that surrounds us, that exists within us. Already it seems to pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat, eager to answer a call I'm only beginning to understand how to make.
Thankyou as always for your support. I received the loveliest comment recently from a new paid subscriber who wrote: "I support your work because the stories are immersive. You have rolled-out the stories so well. It's not just smut, it's creative story telling. I can't wait to see where these guyz all go!" That gives me such an uplift and it is exactly in this spirit that I have started to share this new story ‘The Paradise of Annamakt” - smut? yes! story? yes! I hope you’ll enjoy spending time in Tsantsibon with me and my hot hot characters.
With love
Zayq
x
Back at you.
Once again, your story takes on a sweet and sensual life.