Date: Mon, 17 Dec 2001 22:52:45 +0000
From: Java Biscuit <javabiscuit@hotmail.com>
Subject: Babying Reuben, chapter one

This story involves teen/adult, male/male graphic sex and is not
intended for reading by minors. If you are underage, or this type
of material is illegal where you live, please stop now, and go read
something else! This is a completely fantasized story meant only
for the purpose of pleasurable reading.

Feedback to javabiscuit@hotmail.com

Babying Reuben ~ chapter one

by Biscuit

It wasn't the money, though God knew, the money helped.
Reuben's head hung down, his arms hugging the too-light
weight of his battered trench coat around him. It hid his
body. His dark hair fell forward in loose, looping curls,
hiding his face. He tried to make himself as inconspicuous
as he could in the back of the shop.

He knew he should have waited until Jean was alone,
finished with business for the day. Reuben stole a glance
at him. He was talking patiently to his customer, an
attractive young woman, wrapped in a thick fur coat. She
was buying a piece of furniture they were calling an
armoire. Jean sounded calm, charming, and the woman
was blatantly flirting with him as they made arrangements
for the piece to be delivered. Not just a customer, Reuben
realized as he heard them speak of mutual friends, of a
drinks party.

Bastard, thought Reuben, feeling the man's easy banter
with her as a slap in his face. His stomach was in knots.
He'd never shown up like this before, without being
called. It wasn't because he needed money, though Reuben
knew he'd ask for some. It wasn't even for the sake of the
hardon he'd had off and on for hours, thinking about
coming here. I'm sicker than he is, Reuben swore at
himself, craving the game itself, the way the man treated
him.

The heavy heat of the shop was seductive. Every time
Reuben thought  he'd go mad from waiting, scream if the
woman lingered one more second, he'd glance through the
window at the wind whipped scene outside, and stifle the
impulse to flee.

"Well then," she said, for what seemed to Reuben like the
thousandth time, "stop by Laurent's later. We'll probably
be there until at least eight or so."

"All right," Jean replied, easily, walking her toward the
door. In your dreams, bitch, thought Reuben. At that
moment he wished that Jean was an ugly man, a man that
only he could love. Love? Want. Fuck! The door was
closing, they were alone. As much as Reuben had wanted
this  moment to come, to be rid of her, his chest and
throat constricted. He jammed his hands deeper into his
pockets and felt his face tighten as he turned, forcing
himself to look at the man he was in love with. Reuben
tried to summon a pose of defiance. He wanted his look
to say that he didn't care whether Jean wanted him or not.

"Reuben," Jean said, the deep timbre of his voice was
instantly soothing. The boy's shoulders relaxed slightly
and he drew a breath. He prayed his eyes didn't betray
the hunger he felt. Jean looked tired, but it suited him.
He was auburn haired, tall and slim; beautifully built,
thought Reuben, who would have loved to draw him.
The strength of his features made what might have
been a too pretty face, strikingly handsome. Reuben
rarely saw him like this, in the neutral territory of the
shop. It startled him to see how at home Jean was in
this world, the normal world of business, women
in furs, casual drinks parties. Jean's clothes were
impeccable; he wore jeans that were deep blue and
seemed tailored, fitting him as if they'd been custom
made for him. Well, they might be, he thought. Jean
certainly seemed to be well-off enough to afford
something like that. His white shirt was crisp.

"I thought it might be okay to come by. I guess I
should have waited and come to the back door,"
Reuben said, trying for indifference, but sounding
apologetic and defensive in his own ears. He bit his
lip, wishing he could take the words back. But then
Jean smiled and Reuben felt warmed from the inside
out.

"You'd have had to knock pretty loud to be heard
from there," he said. "It's okay, Reuben. I'm feeling
rich today, child."

As he spoke, Jean was turning and Reuben watched
him, wondering why in the world such a man paid
for sex. He saw that Jean's hair was getting quite
long, gathered at the back of his neck, it now
reached between his shoulder blades. Reuben loved
when it hung loose and brushed against him. Jean
was dimming lights, making the scene out the windows
more vivid. It was early evening but impenetrably
dark beyond the streetlights. Darkness so early was
still shocking in autumn. By winter, Reuben thought,
I'll be used to it.

"I need to buy paints," he heard himself say. True.
Paints were expensive but his parents sent money
to his uncle for him to buy them with, at least
the basics.

"You do, indeed," Jean said. The shop was dark now
except for the spot lit windows and Jean was moving
toward him, past the dining table display with its
expensive china, past the much discussed armoire
destined for delivery in the morning. Reuben's heart
was beating fast, his cock swelling outrageously
harder in the trap of his jeans. When Jean touched him
he felt his nerves tingle from the backs of his knees,
up his spine, to the nape of his neck. One of Jean's
hands curved behind his neck, the other slid into his
coat..

"My baby needs paints," Jean murmured close to
Reuben's mouth, and kissed him softly, hand
straying downward over his stomach, finding his
erection, stroking down to his balls which he
cupped and fondled in the palm of his hand. It was
the words, the tone of Jean's voice, the endearments
Reuben craved as much as his touch. Jean's
tenderness made his knees weak and his cock,
rock hard.

Jean guided him toward the back of the shop, to
the room Reuben knew intimately. They went
through a cluttered storeroom to the studio where
Reuben had thought Jean lived. It had surprised him
to find out that Jean lived upstairs; the two floors
above the shop. Reuben had never been up there.

It was chilly and dark in the studio. Shocking to
Reuben, who always imagined this place warm,
full of rich light from its strange collection of
lamps. Strays from the shop, Jean said, when
Reuben had wondered aloud where such odd
things came from. His favorite was the bedside
lamp. The base was a painted wooden horse and
the pink shade cast a very rosy glow.

"It'll warm up soon," Jean said, turning on lights,
mirroring in reverse the closing of the shop. The
familiar scene came to life, the vast four-postered
bed, the low armchair and ottoman that spoke of
comfort to Reuben in a way that ran deeper than
sleep. Reuben moved toward the bed, perching on
the edge of it, nervously. He'd never come here
uninvited before, never seen the room this way.

He felt better when Jean turned on the light in the
corner where the kitchen was, revealing the
gleaming counter stacked with colorful bowls and
tins. Jean was taking a beer for himself from the
chest-high, round-cornered fridge.

No beer for me, thought Reuben, and an anxious
laugh almost escaped him. Babies don't drink beer!
What they drank was much better. But maybe, he
thought, there was nothing for him since Jean hadn't
known he was coming. It was painful to realize that
the small world he'd come to adore didn't always
exist. I shouldn't have done this, he thought, sitting
so close to the edge of the bed that his legs were
tensed to support him. I should have waited until he
called me.

"Let's see," Jean said, "what I have for my boy."
He sounded so unperturbed, bent forward to move
things around in the open refrigerator, that it steadied
Reuben. He relaxed fractionally against the mattress.

The dull ping of pipes expanding and the sound of
rushing water signaled that the heat was coming
up but Reuben didn't feel it yet. He wished the wood
stove was burning, and shivered. He loved the toasty
heat and smell the stove gave off and how Jean
would warm things on top of it in winter. Winter,
almost a whole year since he'd first come to this
place. I'll be sixteen, soon, he thought, wishing he
could propel himself to eighteen and be free of his
uncle's house. He'd be grown up. Jean's equal.

Jean produced a box of milk and set it on the counter.
He turned and looked at Reuben, brows drawn in a
frown. Reuben swallowed hard, wondering yet again
how bad a mistake he'd made by just showing up.

"You're cold," Jean said, starting toward him.

"I'm okay," he mumbled. He was, in fact, very
cold, his hands and feet like ice, his thudding heart
and hard cock competing for blood.

"I don't think so," Jean said, unfolding the fat satin
comforter rolled up at the foot of the bed. "Down you
go." Reuben's tense muscles tensed even  more when
he touched the cool surface of the unwarmed bed and
pillow. He curled stiffly on his side. The moment Jean
spread the puffed cover over him, he felt the
beginnings of warmth.

"Poor baby," Jean said, reaching under the cover
to pull off Reuben's loosely tied sneakers, tucking
the soft comforter over them.

He wants me here, Reuben told himself, eyes
closing. Jean was gently freeing him from his coat,
carefully keeping him covered as he slid it down his
shoulders and patiently eased it off of him. Always,
Jean's large, graceful hands caressed, no matter
what task they performed.

If he were a cat he'd have purred as Jean's hands
moved over him, unbuttoning, undressing. By the
time Jean kissed his cheek and left him to attend to
his preparations in the kitchen, Reuben was warm in
his nest; stripped naked. Through his lashes he watched
Jean. At peace now, enjoying the pulse of anticipation
in his unconfined genitals, he watched the man as he
took two glass bottles from the cupboard and set
them on the counter. Reuben's mouth watered, and he
realized he would see, for the first time, what it was
that Jean actually put in them.

Cognac and milk, and sugar, warmed on the stove.
So, the mystery is solved, he thought. In the
beginning he'd suspected that Jean was drugging him.
It was his excuse to himself for how good it all felt.
Drugs. He was being drugged, he decided. Marcel,
the boy who introduced him to Jean, had laughed at
him when he said so.

Reuben never told Marcel what he did with Jean,
but he'd hinted that he didn't think he could do it if it
weren't for the drugs. Marcel now hardly spoke to
him, piqued that Jean no longer called him, and that
Reuben wouldn't consider seeing any of the other
men that Marcel tried to hook him up with. Jean was
the first and he'd be the last, thought Reuben.

Marcel's men; they were fattening the boy's savings
for college. Reuben didn't care that Marcel had
stopped talking to him. Marcel, who'd fascinated him
at first, so different from anyone Reuben had ever
known; handsome, openly gay and so sure of himself.
Marcel now seemed safer at a distance; so flagrant
with his male companions that it made Reuben
nervous. In the one painting class they had together,
there was a nodding acknowledgment between them,
no more.

Reuben saw that Jean was hard, the crotch of his
jeans distended in an angle across his lower belly
toward his hip. How could he still look so unruffled,
so unconcerned? Reuben was ever amazed by Jean's
unhurried lust, his seeming indifference to his own
erections. He was moving around the room now,
gathering the things he wanted.

Usually it was all lined up on the bedside table or on
a little wheeled cart: jars of cream, the bottle of oil
and the canister of powder. There would be a stack
of snowy white cloths of various sizes, a pitcher of
warm water, a basin, and towels. Reuben saw him
fix a fresh blade in the razor and a surge of
arousal shuddered through him.

He closed his eyes, trying to think himself under
control. He pictured himself at home, alone in his
cramped room in his uncle's attic, with a blank
canvas in front of him; using the image to calm
himself. He felt the bed dip under Jean's weight
and opened his eyes.

The man's eyes were a blend of colors that had
begun to show up in Reuben's paintings, dark to
medium shades of blue with impossible gold and
green flecks. He felt a sigh rise in his chest as
he gazed up into them. Jean's eyes lingered on his
for a very long moment before he went through his
ritual of testing the heat of the bottled milk. His
sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms -- a
sight that Reuben adored. He tipped the bottle and
a drop of milk splashed his skin.

"Perfect," he said, smiling, a slight curve at the
corners of his beautiful mouth. Reuben was so
hungry for the nipple that his tongue pressed to
the roof of his mouth.

He'd found himself in a drug store the day before,
eyes roaming over a display of infant supplies,
with a hardon. He'd contemplated buying a bottle,
wondering if he could use it to relieve his need
for Jean. Catching himself on the verge of buying
one, he was horrified and had fled from the store
in a panic.

Here, there was no panic, only the softness of the
nipple between his lips and the sweetness flowing
through the rubbery tip into his mouth. His eyes
were locked on Jean's as he sucked, drinking him in
along with the liquored milk. Reuben was on his
back, his knees spread and bent, his ankles crossed,
his hands closed in loose fists at his sides. His cock
was leaking a steady thin stream of precum, soaking
the satin cover that teased its head.

I could come from this, he thought as he sucked,
his ass muscles clenching to barely press himself
into the pressure of the fabric. He felt his nipples
harden, sensitive to the slightest movement of the
satin. Jean was subtly moving the bottle, tugging
gently against Reuben's sucking, then sliding the
nipple slightly deeper.