Raising wayne, p.1
Raising Wayne, page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Legal Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademark Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
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About the Author
Knights in Ink
RAISING WAYNE
M.Z. ARTHUR
Raising Wayne
ISBN # 978-1-80250-645-7
©Copyright M.Z. Arthur 2024
Cover Art by Kelly Martin ©Copyright July 2024
Interior text design by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
Pride Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2024 by Pride Publishing, United Kingdom.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorised copies.
Pride Publishing is an imprint of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”.
Book one in the Knights in Ink series
An Oh, Baby! Story
A little miracle leads to true love.
In need of a quick cash infusion to pay off a loan shark, tattoo artist Doug “Zim” Zimmer gives of himself, literally, with plasma and sperm donations. He’s happy to help whoever needs either or both, and when the bills are paid he thinks nothing more of it.
Two years later, a handsome redhead holding an infant with Zim’s eyes shows up at the studio. Architect Clive Mulcahy, having assumed custody of his nephew after his sister’s death, wants a clearer picture of Wayne’s parentage in order to be a good father. The acquaintance he hopes to strike with Zim for the sake of Wayne’s happiness soon grows into a relationship neither expected, but both are willing to embrace.
Dedication
Thanks to everybody who sent me an encouraging word on AO3, and everybody on the 321 Write Discord.
Trademark Acknowledgements
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
VW Bug: Volkswagen AG
Hells Angels: Hells Angels MC
Winnie the Pooh: A.A. Milne, E. H. Shepard
Docs: Dr. Martens
The Time Machine: H.G. Wells
Cinderella: The Walt Disney Company
Chapter One
August
Doug Zimmer felt the squeeze—not the good kind—but the pressure of an urgent debt in need of satisfying. I can do this, Zim coached himself. He sat on a cold bench in a private stall at a fertility clinic twenty miles from home with his pants and briefs pooled around his ankles. He’d passed all the preliminary hurdles to get to this point of the process. Now, he had to deliver.
Of everything he’d completed in the last week for the sake of quick cash, the task before him should have been the easiest, and the most fun. Between giving plasma—which dizzied him—and selling his beloved childhood space wizard action figures—which devastated him—masturbating into a plastic cup ought to have added a much-needed dollop of cream to disguise the metaphorical shit cake that was currently his life underneath it.
Cream. Heh. He had an hour, at best, to produce some or he wasn’t getting his hundred and fifty bucks.
A few yanks, a few squirts, and he’d make enough money to satisfy his debt and have a bit left over for a celebratory beer at the pub next to his tattoo studio.
Though he was one of the most sought-after tattoo artists in the state, his new business wasn’t yet raking in enough profit for him to borrow against the place. His partner, Christina Kelsey, suffered similar financial tightness owing to their investments. Foot traffic coming into the studio was steady and they’d succeed, but not just yet. Zim couldn’t wait for that train’s arrival.
A sharp rap on the other side of the door startled him. The nurse’s Jersey-accented voice filled Zim’s ears. “Everything all right in there?”
“Could be better,” Zim said. “I was just thinking about my car. It’s an antique convertible Bug. Robin’s egg blue, rides as smooth as the day it rolled off the assembly line. I wasn’t even born yet.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It belonged to my dad. He died at the start of the pandemic, but of something unrelated.” Zim blinked back tears inspired by that loss. The senior Zimmer had stood as Zim’s lone relative supporter in his tattooing career. “I inherited the car and it’s ridden beautifully thanks to Dad’s care, but the carburetor finally kicked it last month.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Replacing it took nearly my whole savings and then some,” Zim said. “Since opening my business, I’m not paying myself a salary, and much of the money’s gone back into the studio. My car breaking down happened at the worst possible time for me, not because I was short on transportation. I mean, there are rideshares and buses, and I have a motorcycle. The Bug, though, it’s my last link to my dad.” He was rambling now and didn’t care. “I just wanted it fixed, so much that I committed the grave error of borrowing money from a…shall we say, disreputable party.”
“Uh-huh,” said the nurse. “Mr. Zimmer, our donors are usually finished by now. Seeing as how you told me this exact story about your car after you walked in, I get the sense you are having issues completing your donation.”
Hammer, meet nail head. The poor woman was probably picturing him telling this story with his limp dick in his hand. Not a lie.
“Trust me, the motivation is strong. Not so much the plumbing.” Zim rested his head back against the plaster wall, catching his heavy-lidded reflection in the full-length mirror opposite him. His dark brown hair, tangled at his shoulders, lacked its usual shine and body since he’d temporarily cut down on expenses. His tattoos, visible on both arms and just under his collarbone, appeared dull as well under the yellowed light above his head. His face expressed his fatigue and he noticed his prominent collarbones. He’d lost a bit of weight worrying about money, and hoped soon to enjoy a nice meal and name-brand conditioner again.
Maybe that was part of the problem, having to look at himself while he beat his meat. Who put a mirror in a masturbation room? Dark-haired men covered in ink defined him, but they were not necessarily his type. He lacked the narcissism to pull that off.
Heh. Pull it off. He killed with the sperm donation comedy tonight, but his car woes soon cast dark shadows in his mind.
The locked door shifted a bit, presumably from the nurse’s weight as she leaned on the other side. “The offer to utilize any of our visual aids stands, Mr. Zimmer,” she said. “This is a discreet process. If you’d feel more comfortable, I can ask one of the male nurses to—”
“You know what? Hand me a magazine. Surprise me.” Zim disengaged the lock. If this conversation rambled on any longer, Zim feared losing the ability to get hard altogether.
Silence fell on the other side of the door, and seconds later he saw the doorknob turn. Zim crossed his legs to conceal his shame, then snatched up the full-color periodical poking through the crack in the open door. “Thanks,” he said. “Shouldn’t be much longer.”
Only the nurse’s gloved hand was visible to him. She offered a thumbs-up and sealed him back into the ‘rumpus room’. Zim stared at the busty bikini-clad blonde smoldering from the cover of the years-old gentleman’s magazine in his lap. Oh Yummm shouted the title in a red balloon font. It was a clear knock-off of the better-known magazines of this genre, with nude pictorial spreads of hot chicks and such thought-provoking articles as, Sole Man: Confessions of a Foot Fetishist.
Yeah, this won’t cut it, Zim thought, and tossed the dog-eared mag aside. The idea that other men before him had used the same issue to complete their donations made him nauseous. A flash of envy cut through Zim at the thought, too. Those men likely didn’t experience delays with their equipment.
“C’mon, Zim,” he coached himself. “One shot into a cup for a hundred and fifty bucks, for something you do for free at least once a week.” That sum represented the final payment of his debt, and permission to breathe freely once again. The motivation alone should have him hard.
Instead, Zim forced his imagination into high gear. Stroking his cock, he closed his eyes and pictured his ideal fantasy man. Tall, preferably close to his six-foot-three height so he could look the man in the eye. Lean and limber, like a runner, or a yoga enthusiast with a pretzel-twisting ability in bed. Race, religion and age weren’t important, but Zim leaned heavily toward redheads.
The bass player from his favorite band. The actor who played the older brother in the wizard school movies. The barista who smiled sympathetically at Zim that morning when he presented a wrinkled coupon for a free drip coffee. One by one, they pouted and preened in Zim’s head, encouraging in his arousal. Ginger hair, bright eyes, creamy skin made for endless licking. Zim’s cock filled his loose grip and he felt his balls tighten. When he positioned his dream lovers to gather around his groin and take turns worshiping his cock, the tingling sensation signaled—
Zim, now!
He shot open his eyes, landing his gaze on his purpling cock head. “Fuck,” he muttered, and tipped himself over the rim of the donation cup. Holding steady through his orgasm, he shot the entire load down the inside of the cup without spilling a drop. Pay dirt. Rather, a pay day for him and somebody else’s chance at having a family.
After sealing the cup, he grabbed a few moist towelette packets from the box resting on the bench and cleaned himself before dressing. The antiseptic fragrance dizzied him for a few seconds, but he steadied himself before leaving the stall to deliver his little swimmers to the helpful nurse.
“Thank you, Mr. Zimmer. One last thing before we process payment,” she said, tapping the bottom of his application still attached to its clipboard, “is a signature here with the date. Also, we need one of these boxes checked.”
Zim glanced at the tiny print, set within a black-bordered box underneath a short acknowledgment that his sperm would undergo various testing for infectious agents. This after all the blood and urine he gave for testing, too. These people were thorough with a capital T.
Zim signed and checked boxes with confidence. Given his line of work, he exhibited great care with his equipment and took the time to vet every artist who touched his own skin.
As for sexually transmitted diseases, Zim’s last checkup announced him negative and the tests taken here, he hoped, reflected that. Negative. The same word also described his current love life, so no worries there. The sperm money, once it transferred to his money app, would set him free.
“Can I see the cup real quick before I leave?” he asked the nurse as he pulled out his phone to call his ride. The woman gave him an odd look but obliged. Zim bent to eye level with the viscous goo and smiled.
“Y’all be good to your mamas, you hear?”
* * * *
Nearly two years later, May
“Brie, answer me this,” said Clive Mulcahy as he held his seven-month-old nephew to his chest.
Clive’s best friend Brie Huston glanced at the shoulder upon which the baby boy drooled. “The spit cloth is holding nicely. Nothing’s running down the back of your blazer. You’re fine.” She returned to her small plastic plate of hors d’oeuvres.
“Not my question, but thank you.” Clive continued lightly patting young Wayne’s back until a guttural burp broke the gravity of the moment. It hadn’t been his idea to bring the child to his sister’s funeral, but family had come from all over the state to pay their respects. Few intended to stay in town past this reception in the church hall, and those who hadn’t yet met Wayne wanted the opportunity to pinch his cheeks. No blame there. Clive’s sister Maeve had left behind a lovely, well-behaved child, and his sweet powder scent provided a nice boost of serotonin to such a somber affair.
Clive wiped Wayne’s spit-slick mouth with the muslin square and settled him back into the carrier on the adjacent chair. “What is it about funerals,” he said as he secured Wayne’s harness, “that inspires this whole aura of, I don’t know, prurient behavior?”
“What?”
“Look around you,” he said. Clive and Brie were sitting at a small round table in the far back corner of the hall. Maeve’s service had resulted in a good turnout, with about a hundred people present to mourn and share stories over a buffet of hot and cold finger foods. Many of Maeve’s friends and female co-workers dressed somewhat appropriately for the afternoon. Well, they wore black, but to Clive it looked more like some kind of perfume or fashion line launch than a memorial to his younger sister. Was it necessary to take so many selfies?
“Half the women here are wearing low-cut dresses,” he said, his voice low to stymie any possible eavesdroppers. “I’ve never seen so many tits in all my life.”
“Well, you’re gay. I’m guessing you don’t go looking for them.” Brie inspected a crab puff before popping it into her mouth.
Clive huffed, side-glancing her. “Thank you for your modest outfit today.”
“Clive, everything is fine,” Brie told him. She tucked back a stray lock of chestnut brown hair falling down her face. “You’re under a great deal of strain right now, and you’re hyper focusing on funeral attire as a way to cope with what’s coming.”
That was the point. Everything was not fine. Clive’s sister was dead, well before her time, thanks to slick roads and alleged obstructed vision due to heavy rains. At least Wayne hadn’t been in her car at the time—in fact, Maeve had been driving to the daycare when the accident had occurred. This left Clive, as Maeve’s closest surviving relative, in charge of her estate and son.
He checked on Wayne, now reaching for one of the colorful dangling plastic chain links attached to the carrier’s handle. With a crown of feather-soft dark hair and eyes the color of whiskey, the boy nowhere near resembled his ginger-haired mother or uncle. That Maeve had chosen the life of a single mother hadn’t surprised Clive. Maeve liked her independence, same as Clive. He found her decision to go the artificial insemination route with an anonymous donor curious, though. Perhaps Maeve felt the option offered zero worries of custody entanglements, but Clive thought his sister would at least choose a sire similar to their coloring.
Not that Wayne was imperfect. The boy simply exhibited nothing of his birth mother. Every time Clive looked at his nephew, he saw the genes of a stranger where there should have been some evidence that Maeve Ann Mulcahy once existed.
Wayne’s pacifier, attached to a long ribbon, rested by the boy’s stockinged feet. Clive checked the nubbin for lint and eased it into Wayne’s mouth. The comfort took hold almost immediately. Wayne’s eyelids fluttered and he relaxed his chubby hands. “Thank the gods for small favors,” Clive said. “I want to get him out of here soon.”
“He won’t remember any of this,” Brie said.
A blessing. “Still,” Clive said, unzipping Wayne’s diaper bag, “it’s been a long day and it’s nowhere close to over. I have thank you notes to write, probate to observe, an adoption to plan…”
“Need help with anything?”
Clive smiled, squeezing her hand. “So sweet of you to offer, especially in the midst of all this funerary horniness,” he said, in need of the levity. “The acolyte was checking you out during the service, you know.”
“I saw. I don’t think he’s worth five minutes in the confessional.”
Mourners stopped by the table to say their goodbyes and enjoy one last glance at baby Wayne. The church lady volunteers were packing up the leftovers for Clive to take as he and Brie prepared to leave. With Maeve’s urn installed in its niche in the church’s columbarium, and the altar flowers donated to the church, nothing else remained for Clive at this stage of the process.
Then Brie had to open her big mouth in the parking lot. “What about Wayne’s father?”
“Wayne doesn’t have a father,” Clive said, opening the back door of his sedan. He placed the car seat in its cradle. “Wayne has a sperm donor.”
“Still, another human being besides Maeve contributed to the creation of this life.” Brie rounded the trunk toward the front passenger side. “What if he finds out your sister died and he comes looking for Wayne?”
