Below is an excerpt from short story “Regum” by Ash Orlando from Heckin’ Lewd: Trans and Nonbinary Erotica edited by Mx. Nillin Lore.

I ease my truck into the campground, gently over the cattle grates, so as not to wake Brodie, who is sleeping in the passenger seat beside me. There is a thump-thump-thump as we hit them, but Brodie sleeps on.

It’s early morning. The campground is empty. Later, there might be a few grizzled-looking guys out for fishing trips, sleeping in swags or under awnings that stretch out from their utes. Men craving solitude. I am a traveler like that, and it seems to me the whole point of traveling is to be away from other people, so I respect their space and they respect mine.

It’s a gentle expanse fenced by aging timbers. The orangered dirt is a reminder that we are out West. No picnics in the park here. No sheltered dog-walking areas. No pretty landscaping or carefully manicured lawns or thoughtfully designed cottage gardens.

Beyond the fence of the campground, the wildness of Australian bushland sprawls out. The white gums twist and reach skyward. A lazy crow watches our arrival, silent. It’s so hot that the eucalyptus is scenting the air with a bright hit of purity.

The truck rumbles as I move through the campground, looking for the most remote spot. I’ve got my arm out the window and the sun beats heavily down.

The energy here is stark and strong. We are far from most things, but that suits us fine. It’s an energy that we thrive in, Brodie and I.

In the distance I can hear the heavy thrum of the river, swelled by recent rains. Later, we will walk down, and I will cook Brodie lunch on my small stove. I like to nourish them and see them well fed. It’s worth it, to see them laid out after lunch, content and happy after food that is good. They work in the city, and it takes its toll. Neat suits, polished shoes, fast talking. They are excellent at what they do, and they know it. They are all hustle and laughter and drinks after work. I grin as I imagine it. Brodie is known for bringing in big money. They have more femme lovers than they can probably count. But I am their only butch. Their only Daddy.

I find a spot for the truck near a large spreading gum. Near one of those huge white eucalypts, the massive limbs curving up, bark slipping from the trunk like parchment. I throw the truck into reverse and neatly tuck it nearby, out of the way of the large limbs. Strong heat like this can bring the heavy branches down. That’s why they call those big trees “widowmakers.” I have no wish to wake at midnight under the branch of an old gum.

Brodie fell asleep in the last forty kilometers or so. It usually takes them a day or two to fully rest. Sometimes when I’m driving, I lay my hand on their knee.

“I just need to feel you there,” they murmur, as they drift off.

I only get this time with them on a few occasions a year. Every time they carve out space for me it’s a blessing. A week here, a week there. But each week we get is like a shining bead threaded onto string, a collection of memories. What we have is all the more sweet living hours apart.

Brodie stirs, and stretches, their body lithe and strong. I watch with pleasure as the muscles under their shirt strain a little. They catch my eye and blush, prettily.

“We’re here,” they say, sheepishly. “But where are we?” “A couple hours out from Bathurst,” I say, touching their cheek with my hand.

“A little further than I thought, but this place is an old favorite, so I just rolled through to find it.”

They look around with a sigh of deep contentment. My stomach flips with pride and I know they are happy.

Within half an hour the tent is up and the coffee is brewing. I am adjusting poles and storm ropes while they throw the large mattress inside the tent. It’s a big ticket item, I know, one of those self-inflating double mattresses that only city kids seem to like, and it takes up room in my truck but I can’t help it. When we are together, we are in touching distance every second. I sleep with them curled into me like a bear cub in a story and I couldn’t have it any other way.

We are quiet as we set up camp. When I am with them everything slows. There is a sense of peace in every second. But at the same time, I am aware of their hunger. The way they casually brush up to me when I am unloading the extra ropes. The way they shift their boots on the ground near me, anticipating and almost nervous. Even though they know what’s to come. Their body feels electric.

I take my time. It’s part of us, the way I slow them down. Nothing here needs urgency. Brodie will get what’s coming to them. They know it. But they can’t help it. They want things, and now.

“Brodie,” I finally say. “Have you slept enough?”

“Yes.” Their eyes are bright. Their coffee cup sits empty. I notice they are trembling. I pick up a backpack and gesture to the walking track.

“Let’s go,” I say, and don’t look back to know if they are following.

When we are together a pulse of energy connects us, like a silver chain from my heart to theirs. And back again. They will follow. This is love. To know that I am asking and that they will say yes.

After all, way back when we met, it was their bravery that won me. They came closer and closer to me on a dance floor. Bodies pressed amongst too-loud music. They told me later, they just knew.

“Can I kiss you?” they had asked, shouting over thumping basslines. I had laughed at their boldness and instead kissed them, firmly, tracing my hand along their jaw. Perfect.

Some meters down the track I cut off to the side. The scrub gets denser, the red earth less visible as the bushland thickens. I hear the crunch of their boots behind me, dry leaves and twigs snapping.

Finally, I see a redgum pushing its way into the sky, a wide trunk that takes up space. A big granddaddy tree, this one. I turn to Brodie and gesture. They know what to do.

They spread their arms around the tree, like they are holding it. The trunk is large enough that their hands can’t touch. They are wearing a tight black T-shirt and loose denim jeans. Their boots are scuffed already with red dirt.

I throw the rope around the tree and pull it around. I secure both their hands with a half hitch knot and watch them pull a little, to test it. Simple. I step back and admire my handiwork.

I note with pleasure the simple silver chain they always wear, threaded with leather. A gift from me. A corporate type can’t wear a collar to work every day, but they can wear that. And it means the same to us. I place one hand on the back of their neck, like I am a lion grabbing them by the scruff.

“Baby,” I breathe, “You look so pretty like that.”

I kiss them from behind. They are tied tight, so can’t shift much, but they turn their head to answer my mouth with desire. Their tongue slips in and they strain to bite my lower lip a little. All of this is to make me lose my cool, to go faster. But I won’t. I pull back.

“I need this. Please, Daddy,” they stutter.

I throw my backpack to the ground near their feet and let them hear the sound of what’s inside. Metal, wood, rope. Clamps. Everything rattles together and their breath catches in ragged waves, anticipating.

Still I take my time. We have days here, where I can take what I want. I will spend hours pulling the poison out, the barbs of trauma ripping free, dissolving all the fear their body holds. Then I will give Brodie my full tenderness. Feed them good food. Kiss every bruise. If there is blood, lick it clean. Bathe their body in the river.

Not everyone understands. They need me for this. This is also love.

And yet, they are trembling. I press my whole body into them, from behind, so they can feel the weight of me. I am here, my body is saying. You can trust this. We have been here before. Remember.

heckin lewd trans and nonbinary erotica mx nillin lore

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