Date: Sat, 06 Jun 1998 10:15:06 BST
From: Michael Gouda <stachys@eurobell.co.uk>
Subject: 'Blackmail'

BLACKMAIL

James Harding slammed the receiver of the telephone back into its cradle.
His legs felt so weak he knew he had to sit down. He could still hear the
voice, sibilant and vindictive, in his ears. "I know what you are! You're
a fucking queer. How many kids at school have you sucked off?"

     And his own stuttering reply, inadequate and unprepared. "What do you
mean? Who is that? I don't know what you're talking about."

     The voice, young, scarcely into adolescence if he judged it right,
continuing its accusations, vilely descriptive of acts James had only
dreamed of in the wildest flights of fancy. Perhaps when invigilating an
exam, sitting at the desk in front and gazing down at heads bent over
papers, revealing a slim neck sprinkled with the lightest of down.
"Playing with their cocks, sucking them till they come, and then pushing
your own up their shitty little arseholes."

     "Who is that?" he had repeated. "If you don't stop I'm going to
report you to the police." - his own words sounded like an act of bravado,
or an attack of panic.

     "And what if I tell them you fucked me?" Sneerily insinuating. "Who
do you think they'll believe? A young boy - or a fucking queer?"

     That was when James had slammed back the receiver into the wall
bracket, sank weakly into the chair, his legs shaking and unsteady,
feeling a rime of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He tried to
rationalise. Only a kid, trying it on. Thinking it clever to taunt a
teacher with the only crime - apart from being found with a hand in the
accounts - that could get him the sack. That and incompetence of course
and he was a good teacher, he thought. Certainly he'd never touched a
single pupil at the school where he taught. Not even an affectionate pat
on the shoulder of his most favourite ones. All right he shouldn't have
favourites, but he was only human, and some were damned attractive - not
that he'd ever allowed that to sway his opinion of their work.

     And now this. How did the boy know he was gay? He'd been so careful.
Never picking anyone up in the local area. Cultivating a straight image in
the staff room. Even inventing a girlfriend to put off possible advances
from other members of staff. Yes, well he'd joined the gay club in
Feltenham but that was 17 miles away from the town in which he taught.

     He didn't look gay, he thought, well not camp at any rate. He didn't
wear his hair long or let it flop over his forehead. His chin wasn't weak,
nor his eyelashes long. He didn't stand around with his hand on his hips
or flap in a limp-wristed way. His voice  - he knew because he'd heard it
on an audio tape - wasn't high and fluting. Clean-cut, straight-looking
guy, he thought. So how the fuck did the boy know?

     James forced himself to think calmly. Had he upset anyone recently?
He'd put Brian Harris into detention for hitting Peter Wilson. But Brian,
though he often bore a grudge, wasn't articulate enough to be the caller,
nor would he have had the brains to think up the idea.

     Now Dominic Fox, he was another matter. Devious and intelligent,
untrustworthy, scheming, a bright boy with the mind of a sadist and the
morals of an alley cat. Thinking about the voice, there was something
reminiscent of Dominic's turn of phrase, a familiar tone of voice in the
accusations. But why? He hadn't, as far as he knew, upset Dominic, in fact
had seen through the boy right from the start and always treated him with
a light-hearted deference which, he thought, Dominic appreciated.

     An oblique thought struck him. It was just possible . . . He punched
1471 into the telephone and listened to the dulcet, computerised tone.
"You were called today at 18.43. The caller withheld their number." James
registered automatically the grammatical inconsistency and frowned. But it
did confirm one thing - Brian couldn't be the caller, in a million years
he'd never have thought of dialling in the code which stopped the caller's
number being recorded. Not unless someone with more brain-power had put
him up to it, orchestrated the whole thing.

     The phone suddenly rang again. James jumped, instinctively reached
out for the receiver and then stopped, almost as if his arm was paralysed.
He didn't want to hear that voice again, hear those accusations, knowing
that, although he might be innocent of the acts, he was hardly guiltless
of the desires.

     The ringing went on. He knew he would eventually have to answer,
couldn't spend the rest of his life ignoring the phone. He took a deep
breath, picked up the receiver, trying to sound calm and detached.

     "Hello," he said.

     "Hi, Jim," said a voice which, though sounding familiar, for a moment
failed to identify itself in James' mind, so prepared was he for the
other, hateful one.

     "Who's that?" he demanded.

     "What's the matter, Jim? It's Tony here. Have I caught you at a
difficult time? If you're lying on your back with your legs in the air,
I'll try later. Just say the word." The tone was teasing and friendly. Jim
sighed with relief.

     "Tony. No, no problem. Just expecting someone else and for a moment I
didn't recognise your voice. How are things?"

     Tony Spence was his oldest, dearest friend. They'd been to school
together, then to University - though studying different subjects -
discovered they were both gay, spent one - hilariously disastrous - night
in bed together - and then settled for a relationship which was almost
closer than marriage.

     "Someone else eh? Well about time. How long is it since your last?"

     How long indeed, thought James. "No it's nothing like that. I just
had this - rather unsettling phone call. Someone, presumably from school,
calling me a fucking queer, accusing me of interfering with kids. You know
- sick."

     "Any idea who it is?" Tony sounded concerned.

     "No," said James wearily. "Could be anyone." He paused for a moment
considering. "Well no. Couldn't be anyone but I don't understand how he
could know. I've been so careful."

     "You haven't . . ." The question was left uncompleted.

     "Course I haven't. I'm not a complete idiot."

     "Don't know how you keep your hands off some of them," said Tony.
"They're so damned attractive. Couldn't cope myself. Not with the
temptation all the time." He paused, sensing James' worry even over the
phone. "Come on, dear, you always take things so seriously. What can he
actually do? You've never touched anyone, hopefully never put yourself in
a position where it could be thought you had. You bottle things up too
much. Let yourself go a little."

     "I do fancy one or two," he said hesitantly.

     "Course you do. Do you think a straight guy doesn't fancy some of the
girls in his classes? As long as he doesn't touch, no problem." Again he
paused. "Sure it's not all a joke?"

     "Might be," said James. "Though it didn't sound like one."

     "Kids can be cruel."

     "Tell me about it," he said bitterly.

      
Year 11 English, first period Tuesday. Could be fifty minutes of
unmitigated hell or a rewarding interchange of thoughts and opinions
entirely depending, it always seemed to James, on the whim or mood of
Dominic Fox. He could always tell from the way the boys crowded through
the doorway into the classroom as the bell went. If all was going well,
they would come in, in a vaguely civilised manner, chatting certainly but
in a cheerful, companionable way. If it was to be a disaster period, the
mood would be one of belligerence, pushing and shoving at each other,
knocking chairs over, throwing books, demanding paper as they had
forgotten their exercise books and looking outraged at the suggestion that
homework be produced.

     Today it was neither.

     James was amazed at the lack of noise, no talking, no laughing, no
scraping of chair legs on the vinyl floor. Even Brian Harris' hulking
body, always seeming too large and uncoordinated for its owner's control,
managed to navigate the space between doorway and place and sit down
quietly.

     The class stared at James and he, almost unnerved by their silence,
stared back. Dominic caught James' attention. He had a slight smile on his
face but not blatant enough to cause offence. His straight blond hair was
slicked back to reveal a high, wide forehead. His intelligent brown eyes
under their slightly hooded lids were anticipatory. The tip of his tongue,
pink and pointed, peeped out between his lips and licked the top one -
very gently.

     The school did not insist on a uniform and Dominic was wearing a
black polo necked sweater which covered his adolescent chest. It was made
of a fluffy, almost feminine wool and emphasised the fairness of his skin.
No other boy could have got away without being teased unmercifully,
bullied probably, called a 'poof' - but not Dominic. No one would have
dared. A pair of jeans covered his long legs stretched out under the desk,
new, unscuffed trainers.

     James shook off a momentary foreboding. Something was up, he knew
that but at the moment he didn't know what and could do little about it.
He forced himself to speak naturally.

     "Good morning," he said and then with an attempt at a little humour.
"It's nice not to have to shout to make myself heard. It's not April 1st
is it?"

     There was no response.

     James opened the drawer in his desk and took out the register.

     "I'll just call the names - to see who's skyving," he said. His glance
caught that of Dominic and he saw an expression, almost of gloating cross
the boy's face, the smile broadening, twisting, becoming virtually a
sneer.

     What was he planning?

     He opened the register and turned it to the Year 11 page. It fell
open naturally and stayed there as there was an envelope inside, thick,
bulky with some printed letters on the front:

     'TO THE BUM-BANDIT' it said in glaring upper case letters.

     James felt the blood draining from his face. He looked up to see
twenty-eight pairs of eyes staring straight at him. They knew. They had
all known what he was going to find.

     He struggled to keep his voice level, his body under control. "Read
your set books," he said his voice sounding harsh and unnatural even to
him. "I don't want to hear a sound from any of you. Anyone disobeying will
be in detention every day after school for the rest of term."

     It was an unrealistic threat but the severity in his tone achieved an
effect and even Dominic looked serious as James grabbed the envelope and
went out of the room, up the stairs to the staff room, luckily empty.

     He sat in a chair, realising as he did so, that he had seriously
over-reacted to the finding of the envelope. He should have ignored it,
carried on the lesson as if nothing had happened. Yet he could not undo
what he had done. He ripped open the envelope and pulled out the contents.
There were half a dozen 5" by 3" black and white photographs wrapped in a
single sheet of paper.

     He looked at the photos first. They were out of focus, blurred, too
indistinct to show exact details, to identify the individuals concerned,
but obviously close-ups of entangled naked limbs. Even the sex of the
participants was impossible to be certain about but the inference was
unmistakable. It couldn't be him but it was obviously meant to be.

     He opened the folded paper. The scrawled upper case letters leapt up
at him.

     'HERE'S WHAT YOU DO, YOU FUCKING SHIT STABBER! WHAT WOULD THE POLICE
SAY ABOUT YOU DOING THIS TO ME? WHAT IF I TELL THEM? WHAT THEN, YOU
FUCKING ARSEHOLE? WHAT WOULD YOU GIVE ME TO STOP ME TALKING? I KNOW WHAT
YOU'D LIKE TO GIVE ME.'

     The sheer maliciousness of the wording took him unprepared. He felt a
tightness in his chest as if he could not breathe. Even though he was
sitting down his legs felt weak and shaky. He wondered for a moment if he
was going to faint. Deep breaths, he told himself. Take deep breaths.

     Slowly he regained control and thought what to do next. He would have
to go back, act as if nothing had happened, finish the lesson. He put the
photos and the letter back in the envelope, put it in his pocket and got
to his feet.

     As he did so the door to the staff room opened and Paul Jackson,
History Teacher, came in.  'No Balls Jackson' the kids called him because
of his curiously high-pitched voice. James had nothing against him but for
some reason he seemed to have taken a dislike to James and always adopted
a manner which was both sarcastic and bitchy.

     "Ah James," he said, "I've been looking for you. Tried your classroom
but you weren't there. Must say you've got your kids well trained. Quiet
as mice when I went in. Don't know how you do it."

     James knew that Jackson had serious behavioural problems in his
classes.

     "Had to get a book from the staff room," he lied. "Better get back.
I'm not sure how long 11HA can stay in neutral gear. What did you want to
see me for?"

     "Just to say that there was a rather nasty comment about you on the
wall of the Boys' toilets - " he fluted, " - unpleasantly graphic, I'm
afraid. I've told the caretaker and he'll clean it off. Just thought you
ought to know, that's all."

     Another kick in the groin, thought James, feeling a return of panic.
Now the whole school knows about it. Jesus! What am I going to do?

     "Are you OK?" asked Jackson. The words were considerate, the tone,
though, almost maliciously smug as if a sought-after result had been
achieved.

     James had sufficient composure to wonder why Jackson had been in the
Boys' toilets. Perhaps it was his duty day and he had been looking for
smokers.

     "Sure," he answered. "Thanks for your concern." He wondered whether
he had been able to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

     "No problem," shrilled Jackson and it crossed James' mind as he went
down the stairs that the voice, over the phone, might sound very like that
of a young adolescent.

     

"I'd like to come down and see you but I really can't get away,"  said
Tony that evening, after a day that James felt was the worst in his whole
life. He had phoned again, concerned and anxious to hear whether there had
been any further developments.

     James had just micro-waved a TV dinner but the smell of it as he
removed the Cling-film cover made him feel sick. He'd settle for a cup of
coffee, perhaps later a drink.

     "Can't you ignore it?" Tony said, trying to find some advice which
would cheer James up. "Or if not, why not go to the police? Take the
photos. There's bound to be some finger prints on them."

     "Mine, certainly," said James gloomily. "I can't take this to the
police. Don't trust them not to spread the whole thing around."

     "What about your Head?"

     "Then he'd know about it. He'd think there's no smoke without fire. I
couldn't bear the suspicion. There'd have to be a full scale
investigation."

     "Well I know what I'd do," said Tony. "I'd go out, pick someone up
and have great uncomplicated sex. Always works for me."

     James smiled a brief smile as if Tony could see him.

     "I'll keep in touch," he said.

     A drink sounded a good idea but not at one of the local pubs where he
might meet someone he knew, even parents of the kids he taught or -
knowing the habits of some of his pupils, quite possibly the kids
themselves. He would go into Feltenham, which would mean he couldn't get
rat-arsed, but that might not be a bad thing anyway.

     He climbed into his old Fiesta and with a roar from the exhaust which
he always reminded himself, he must get renewed shortly, drove off into
the night.

     Tuesday nights were easy to park in town and he decided on The Crown
which was occasionally 'gayish' but not outrageously so.

     He sipped a glass of lager and looked around. Two young lads were
playing darts, one tall and slim, his friend more tubby and dark. Both in
their way attractive. An elderly man in a cloth cap and a woman who was
presumably his wife - as he paid her no attention at all - sat at a table
and looked as if they were not enjoying themselves.

     The barman, dark-haired, mid-thirties, looked bored and seemed
disposed to chat.

     "I've seen you before," he said pleasantly. Come to think of it he
did look familiar, nice smile.

     James smiled back. "Yes, where?"

     "I'm sometimes do barwork at the Olympia." James was momentarily
taken aback. The Olympia was Feltenham's Gay Club.

     "Could be," he said, not wishing to commit himself. "Slow night," he
gesticulated at the almost empty pub.

     "Oh I'm not bothered. I'm only filling in until the regular man
arrives at seven."

     James glanced at the clock. Five minutes to go. He wasn't sure if the
barman was interested but he'd see what happened.

     "I'm James," he said, "Jim."

     "Nick," said the barman. "You local?"

     "Yarnton," said James. "You?"

     "Gotta flat just round the corner." Well if that wasn't a hint he
didn't know what was. He wondered for a moment whether he actually fancied
the man. He was pleasant enough, about his own age, but he preferred
younger.

     At that moment the duty barman arrived.

     "You want to stay on here?" asked Nick. "Care for a drink at my
place?"

      Nick's flat was indeed just round the corner, convenient for
'dragging back' from The Crown.

     From the street a flight of narrow stairs led up to what was in fact
two rooms, a living roon, a corner of which was divided off into a small
kitchen area and, through an open door, the view of a bedroom. The
furnishings in the flat looked cheap and had probably been provided by
some miserly landlord, or landlady. Nick's only visual contribution seemed
to be three posters of Spanish bullfighting on the wall.

     "Do you want a drink?" he asked. He opened a cupboard and revealed a
well-stocked supply presumably obtained cheaply, or even free from his
various bar jobs.

     "I'll just have a beer," said James. "I've got to drive home."

     "Well you don't have to - not if you don't want to," said Nick. He
got him a can of Budweiser from the fridge and brought it over.

     "I'll have to get back," said James, "later."

     "OK," said Nick. He leaned towards him and kissed him on the lips.

     James knew at that moment that he had made a mistake. He should never
have accepted Nick's invitation. He was a nice person but didn't turn him
on. It would be a Tony all over again, and this time probably without the
hilarity.

     Nick pressed up against him and James could feel the hard thrust of
his erection against his thigh. His own cock stayed resolutely limp. What
was the matter with him? Surely he could at least get a hard-on. It had
been long enough since he had had sex, even masturbated. The resources
ought to be there. Think of someone else, someone he fancied. For a moment
the image of Dominic Fox flashed into his mind, sitting at his desk that
afternoon, the sly smile on his face, the extended tip of his tongue, his
long legs stretched out towards him. His cock twitched.

     James kissed him back and felt his own cock respond. It was going to
be alright. He grabbed hold of Nick, putting his arms round him and
feeling the firmness of his body through the thin cotton of his shirt. He
hadn't let himself go flabby.

     "Let's go into the bedroom," said Nick.

     They went and and undressed like any married couple getting ready for
bed. James noticed that Nick folded his trousers neatly before putting
them on a chair. Naked, the two of them lay on the bed, a single one with
an old mattress so that they were forced together into the dip in the
middle.

     They lay together, flesh cleaved to flesh, James underneath, Nick on
top.

     "What do you want to do?" asked Nick, his question gently into James'
right ear.

     "I'm sorry. I don't do penetrative sex," said James. "Not even with a
condom."

     "That's OK," said Nick. He began to hump, his cock running along the
groove in James' groin. The friction of pubic hair against his cock was
arousing. A spring of liquid excitement lubricated and eased the frotting
so that the groove became a slick-lined channel. James lay there, half
hard, feeling a disillusion. wanting to co-operate yet driven by no sexual
imperative. He compromised by reaching round and grasping Nick's buttocks,
pulling him in time with his strokes. The man's breathing grew faster,
became gasps and James knew that Nick would come soon. He faked excitement
himself and as Nick's body arched in a rictus of orgasm and pulsed again
and again, he pressed himself against the other, counterfeiting a moan of
pleasure. There would be enough come to pass for two. Nick need never
know.

     They lay for a while, James patiently waiting for Nick to recover.
Eventually he rolled off and sat up.

     "Did you . . .?" he asked.

     "Yeah."

     "I'll get a towel." He padded on bare feet across the grey-green
vinyl flooring into one of those little enclosures that the developers of
the flat seemed to have been so fond of. James heard him peeing - so there
was a toilet there, probably a shower - and returned with a small hand
towel. James dried himself and started to put his clothes back on.

     He felt ashamed at his deception. at his lack of involvement.

     "Are you sure you don't want to stay?" asked Nick.

     "Gotta get back, I'm afraid."

      Driving his car back over the steep hilltop that bulged between
Feltenham and Yarnton, James felt the return of all his fears. Tony's
advice had not been successful, his mind was tormented by thoughts of
tomorrow and what it might bring, more phone calls, another letter,
graffiti scrawled on the walls, rumours, whispers behind his back.

     
A car coming the other way, driving almost in the middle of the road,
headlights full on, blinded him and forced him to swerve. A pale face
peered out from the rear side window. It looked for a moment like Dominic
Fox. Christ! Was that boy everywhere? Where could he be going at this time
of night?

     It was almost half past one when he climbed into bed. He feared he
would not be able to sleep but in fact found he was almost exhausted and
drifted off almost immediately.

     It felt he had been asleep for only minutes when the doorbell rang.
The sound echoed oddly into his brain and for a moment he could not think
what it was. His head felt strangely light and his feet could scarcely
feel the floor as he went downstairs and opened the front door.

     Dominic Fox stood there, a smile on his face, the same one he had
worn in class. James stared at him.

     "Can I come in?" asked Dominic.

     As if in a dream, James stood back and the boy pushed past him into
the living room. James shut the door and turned, about to protest, but
Dominic had gone into the room and was no longer visible. For some strange
reason, his legs felt as if they were dragging themselves through mud, as
James followed him in. He was faced with a nightmare scene. Dominic stood
in the middle of the room. He was still wearing the fluffy black pullover
he had worn the previous afternoon. It came down to his waist. Below that
his jeans were round his ankles and from his groin his cock stood out,
erect and provocative.

     Dominic's tongue came out in its familiar little foray around his
upper lip. It looked like an invitation.

     "What do you think you're doing?" The words were forced out of him,
sounding insubstantial and unnatural.

     Dominic jerked his pelvis in crude invitation. "Come on, James," he
whispered. "You know you want to." He opened his arms as if to embrace and
James felt himself drawn towards him inexorably. 

     He had no idea how he got there but suddenly the boy's arms were
around him. He could feel the warmth of his body pressed close to his, the
hard rod of his penis, pushed into his groin. James tried to break away
and they were wrestling together, the boy endowed with more strength than
James imagined he could possibly have.

     Then, another transition which James couldn't quite understand and
they were lying on the floor on the thick carpet which felt softer than
normal. The boy was underneath and his wriggling caused such an erection
as James had never felt before. He could feel the boy's breath against his
neck, his repeated words.

     "You know you want to! You know you want to!"

     Somehow, Jame did not know how, his own clothes had disappeared and
he was naked. Dominic suddenly lifted his legs so that they were over
James' back. His sphincter was exposed and James knew he was going to
plunge his cock into that waiting opening.

     "Do it!" ordered Dominic.

     "No," shouted James but the word was insubstantial. It seemed to
float over the scene like a wraith and had no meaning.

     But then he was in and the warm flesh closed over his and he could
not rescind.

     Pleasure whirled his senses. Everything concentrated on that part of
him that was in the other. He plunged in, gasping.

     The face looked up at him, strangely distorted, the smile a
victorious sneer.

     "What will you give me now? How much is it worth?"

     "You, bastard!" screamed James. His hands reached for the slim
throat, clenched around it and squeezed. Animal sounds emerged though
whether they were from him or the thing beneath he could not tell. Then
resistance vanished and the flesh dissolved under his hands.

     He woke up gasping. The dream had been so real, the pleasure so
intense. He felt disgusted with himself at what he had done, what he had
obviously wanted to do.

      
Brian Harris struggled laboriously to spray-paint the huge,
foot-high, sprawling capitals on the outside wall of the school 'JAMES
HARDING IS A FUCKING COCK SUCKER' while the other, in his high-pitched,
almost but not quite adolescent voice, dictated.

     "This'll really destroy the bugger. You hate him too, don't you,
Brian?"

     "Yes, Mr Jackson," said Brian.

-- 
Michael Gouda