Date: Tue, 5 Mar 2013 16:27:46 -0800
From: Zack McNaught <zackmcnaught@hotmail.com>
Subject: Jack and Jay

The usual stuff: this is an erotic story involving a man and a boy, a man
and a woman, and even two boys getting jiggy. If, for reasons legal,
political, ethical or social you should not be reading this story, I cannot
be held responsible for the consequences of you doing so. If you read it
anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

Zack Mack (zackmcnaught@hotmail.com :: www.asstr.org/~zack/ :: @zackmcnaught)


Jack and Jay (M/b (12), b/b(12), MF, mast, oral, anal)


Chapter 1

I slammed down the phone, an old fashioned model I'd kept simply for the
privilege of doing so; there's just something so thoroughly satisfying
about hammering the receiver back onto the base which can't be matched by
pressing a little red button. My anger was rather exaggerated anyway - I
was only mildly vexed that my agent had demanded a meeting later that day,
interrupting my important writing schedule. Would I have written anything
regardless? Probably not.

We met, as we always did, in a little cafe round the corner from St James'
Park. It was a survivor, this cafe, one from the old school of cafe
design. Formica tables were scattered about in a seemingly random fashion,
and the de rigeur source of news was a copy of the Sun, passed round the
room more times than a cheap hooker. Blue collar workmen of all types used
the place, and I absolutely loved it.

Daniel Marbery didn't appreciate Harry's Caff to quite the same extent. It
seemed to offend his upper middle class sensibilities, and for that I loved
it even more. Dan and I had a weird kind of relationship, strained by my
never-ending quest to fail to submit a manuscript on time, every time. I
think I made his life hell, but then he also took a fair cut of my
earnings, so perhaps it evened out in the end. When he liked me he loved
me, and when he didn't I was the author from hell. His assessment of my
character was that I was possibly the worst undiagnosed bipolar case in the
history of psychiatry. He might have been right, at least when it came to
writing.

He turned up that morning in a preposterous three-piece suit, with a
cravat, top hat and cane, looking like something out of a Dickens
story. This in fact turned out to be exactly what he was meant to look
like, having just come from being an extra on the film set of an adaptation
of another client's latest best-seller. He was meant to be back on set
shortly, but had apparently found time to give me a rollicking. He looked
gloriously incongruous among the hi-vis vests and paint-stained trousers,
though in that company even I felt overdressed in jeans and a t-shirt, just
because both were clean.

"I've got good news, Jack," he started, as he sat awkwardly, spilling my
milky tea and his unsullied black coffee in the process.

I raised an eyebrow. 'Good news' didn't necessarily mean I'd like
it. Actually, nine times out of ten it meant more work for me, and right
then that didn't seem an attractive prospect. He noted my less than
enthusiastic reception.

"Well, if you don't want to hear it, I'll fuck off then," he said, making
as if to leave.

"No, no, please stay," I said, funnelling as much sarcasm as I could muster
into my words. "Please tell me the wonderful news."

He sat back down with a grin on his face, and then winced slightly as the
close-fitting costume made clear its objections to being treated this
way. "That's my Jack, always bubbly and bright. You're off to America, you
miserable old git. Not sure how I managed to blag it, but there you go. Bit
of a tour, you and that Madeleine Atkins girl. You know the one, she's with
old Tittyface."

Tittyface was our affectionate nickname for Sarah Tattefasche, an ex-lover
of Daniel's and a mean agent in her own right. I remembered Madeleine
Atkins, too, mostly because she'd appeared on the Richard and Judy book
list, and I'd made the mistake of suggesting to a tiny little rag that
nothing of literary merit ever appeared on the list. The whole thing had
been blown out of proportion, and I'd been forced to apologise to
Madeleine, who, being a sweetheart, took it all in terribly good form,
especially given that my apology included a nice red of decent
vintage. That had been three, maybe four years before. Neither she nor I,
nor practically any other British author, had really broken America
since. It seemed Daniel and Sarah had agreed to try again.

"An old-fashioned tour, then?" I asked.

Daniel nodded. "Absolutely. A string of identikit motels, a soulless
breakfast each morning and then sitting in a bookshop being ignored by a
load of people who've never heard of you and probably wouldn't care if they
had. Are you up for it?"

"Er, do I have any choice?"

Daniel took a bite of the toast which had just been delivered to our table,
swigged it down with a slug of English Breakfast and smiled at me. "Of
course, Jacky boy, of course. You don't have to go if you don't want
to. And I don't have to get you a spot on Radio 4 next week, either."

Great. A bit of unsubtle blackmail. But it had every chance of working,
because I desperately needed that radio slot. Damn. I shook my head,
letting a wry smile touch the corners of my mouth.

"OK, fine. I'll go to America."

Daniel smiled at me through another mouthful of toast. "Good boy, I knew
you'd say yes. Now, I've got to get back to that stupid set before the
director loses it at me again. You'll pick up the tab, won't you? Lovely."

Bastard.

---

I stared up at the T-Rex, remembering with affection what it was like to be
nine years old and standing in this very spot for the first time. Why was I
drawn here, today? What was it about the museum which held such
fascination? It wasn't the first time I'd come here after a meeting with
Daniel. He seemed to bring out some need in me to see something real,
something genuine. The museum was a good place, because everything there
was real. Nothing was potential. It all existed already.

I wandered the hallways, finding little spaces all of my own to hide
away. It wasn't busy, not on a weekday in term time. There would be the
occasional group of kids sharing the place with me, but if I was careful I
could avoid them. Not that I disliked kids, per se, but there's something
very special about getting lost in your own thoughts in a museum. Well,
there is for me at least.

I meandered around the place, lost in thought, and stumbled across one of
the inevitable groups. Deciding to play detective for a few moments, I hung
around nearby, apparently paying a great deal of interest in a piece of
Inca pottery. It didn't take long to work out they were American kids, the
accent ringing out clearly. I've always thought there's something
pleasingly sweet about an American kid's accent, especially the East Coast
ones. This lots sounded like a bundle of mini New Yorkers.

They drifted off, in little dribs and drabs, until there was only one boy
left, standing there with a clipboard, making notes on a sheet of paper I
couldn't see. I realised with a start quite how utterly beautiful he
was. Genuinely, stunningly attractive, almost girlish in features but with
a definite hint of masculinity. I watched him for a moment, spellbound,
until he too wandered off in search of his classmates.

I was stuck with the image of the boy for the rest of the day. I wandered
around the rest of the museum, but didn't see him again. I thought I might
have caught a glimpse of him leaving the building, but I was a long way
away, through two glass walls, and there was no way of catching him and
finding out for sure. What would I have done anyway?

I had come to terms at a fairly young age with the fact that, generally, I
prefer boys to girls. The problem was that as I grew older, the boys I
fancied stayed the same age. I tried to convince myself that it was a phase
I was going through, and when the phase lasted longer and longer, I tried
to convince myself that it was the result of unrequited interest in my
youth. Perhaps it was, but going out and molesting a young lad wasn't going
to fix anything, and I'd settled down to a life of failed relationships
with members of both sexes, and a growing sense of dissatisfaction with the
whole world of adult relationships.

As I left the place a good four hours after entering, and no further along
with the manuscript I had promised to finish by the end of the month. I let
my old friend melancholy creep in; I walked into the first pub I could find
and ordered myself a stiff gin and tonic. And then another seven to wash it
down.

---

Daniel's plan was for me to be in New York in late March, and to meet up
with Madeleine there. We would begin our country-wide trip a couple of days
later, mostly travelling by overnight train, a brilliant plan if you need
to save on accommodation and travelling expenses, a poor idea if you want
your authors to be capable of holding a civilised conversation after
several consecutive nights without decent sleep.

Yet there was something enthralling about the idea, something rather
romantic. Weren't some of the best stories of all time told on the train?
One of my personal favourites, From Russia With Love, certainly
was. Perhaps I would be inspired. My bag was laden down with my preferred
Moleskine notebooks, and enough spare Parker Royal Blue ink to fill the lot
of them, and not two but three spare nibs for my pen, as if I couldn't get
these things in America of all places. I hoped that I might fill half a
dozen books on the journey, but I suspected it would barely be half of one.


Chapter 2

As the wheels thumped into the tarmac at JFK I swore loudly in the confines
of my head, wondering if the pilot had ever flown a plane before. I'm not a
good flier at the best of times, and we'd had a pretty rough crossing in
the mid-Atlantic turbulence. I was more than ready to be out of that damned
metal tube.

This was a tour on a budget, and so with no car to pick me up I wandered
out into the warmth of a New York spring day and found myself an iconic
yellow taxi to take me into town. The scenery which passed by the window
was oh so familiar, and yet this was my first visit to what must be one of
the most recognisable cities in the world. I sat and smiled to myself - it
was going to be at least a month and a half of hard slog, but maybe that
was exactly what I needed to blow away the cobwebs. Perhaps when we were
done I might be able to write again.

The hotel-by-numbers was barely adequate but had the luxury of a pool, and
so for the first two days of the trip I went swimming for the first time in
far too long to remember. I was always alone apart from a pair of near
geriatric German guys, quite clearly a couple, who were very happy to chat
to me in English about this and that, and even claimed to have heard of my
work. When challenged, though, the charade crumbled, and Dieter admitted to
simply being polite. Ralf laughed himself silly at his friend's discomfort,
and then was rewarded with a dunking in the pool. The last time we met they
left promising to read one of my books - I wonder if they ever did.

Madeleine turned up on day two, and gracefully accepted my repeated
apologies for my past boorish behaviour. When I insisted she allow me to
make it up to her somehow, she dragged me off to a quite exquisite little
stationers, crammed in between two faceless office blocks. What a place it
was, full of beautiful books and gorgeous pens, and we spent a merry two
hours between us, somehow emerging largely with credit cards intact, though
weighed down in my case with more notebooks (you can never have enough!)
and in Madeleine's case with my apology to her, a lovely old Cross fountain
pen, a bargain because it was used but not yet a classic.

We meandered around town for a bit, taking in a few sights in a haphazard
way, not really taking advantage of the opportunity but not feeling the
need to either. Madeleine was a New York veteran, so she showed me a few of
the more off-beat places, like the 5 Pointz graffiti space - as a fan of
urban art, it blew me away.

Dinner was taken in a little out-of-the-way Italian place Madeleine knew
well, where we were treated like members of an extended family and came
away feeling thoroughly happy with the world.

If I'd known how short-lived that happiness would be, perhaps I would have
just gone AWOL in New York and never spoken to Daniel again.

---

I couldn't tell you where we were, I honestly had no idea. At one point I
asked one of the locals who came to peer at my stand, and she laughed as if
I'd made a hilarious joke, then walked off without buying a copy of the
book. It wasn't the worst day on the trip so far - that had been reserved
for the day when I spent seven hours in a sweltering shop with no-one
coming in only to discover that the manager had advertised the event for
the following week - but it was certainly up there.

Unseasonal damp drizzle fell in flowing waves outside the window, and the
street was deserted as far as the eye could see. Occasionally a damp,
bedraggled soul would accidentally wander into the shop and then
immediately leave, wondering how they had come to be in a bookshop instead
of the deli.

Madeleine called me on her mobile. Situated a few miles away in a
neighbouring town, she was having as bad a day as I was. We made the
tactical decision to call it quits and met in our hotel, somewhere between
the two towns.

"They're not interested, are they?" she asked as we sat nursing drinks in
the bar. I shook my head.

"Not a bit of it, no. And why should they be? You write murder mysteries in
sixteenth century London, and I make up weird tales about holes in our
reality. No offence, but why should they give a fuck about us?"

She laughed and raised her glass for the toast, gulping it down it as soon
as the two vessels touched.

"Another?" she asked, rising. I nodded glumly and wondered what would
happen tonight.

---

She lunged across the lift at me, grabbing my head in her hands, great
handfuls of hair, pressing her lips to mine. Oh God how I tried to get into
it, but whatever the reason there was nothing. I liked her, found her
attractive, but the spark of lust wasn't there. She pulled away, looking
disappointed.

"Anything at all?" she asked. I shook my head and shrugged.

"Sorry."

"Oh it's fine, Jack. To be honest, it didn't exactly light my world up
either." She sighed and then thumped her fist against the wall. "One long
fucking road trip and we can't even have the decency to have a fling and
end the tedium. We're fucking useless, Jack. Useless."

Then the lift stopped, the lights vanished, and half an hour later, just
for the sheer hell of it, we fucked.

Her hand found mine by accident. In the darkness, with sight diminished and
other senses heightened, it sent a shock through me. I jerked away
instinctively, and she apologised. A few silent moments later contact was
made again, this time deliberately. Her touch was stronger; her fingertips
dragged up the inside of my forearm and beyond. She grabbed my bicep with
one hand. The lift, hanging on its cables, swung ever so slightly as she
climbed into my lap. This time when our lips touched the contact was full
of passion, greedy, demanding. Exciting.

Then she was gone, lifted up. Hands landed in my crotch, right on top of
the hardness encased by jeans and boxers. Fingers tugged at my fly, roughly
popping the buttons apart, and I helped to denude myself, gasping sightly
as I sat back down on the cold, hard floor. She was above me again, hands
on my shoulders, lowering herself into my crotch, one hand reaching down to
hold my spear upright. Hot, damp warmth encased the tip of my manhood. I
reached between us to feel her sex, finding it enticingly free of hair,
then settled on her hard clit, mashing it against her pubic bone. The heat
around my shaft became hotter, the tightness tighter and the pleasure
magnified.

It was hot and quick and nasty. She shuddered to a climax with surprising
speed, then finished me with her mouth as I ran my fingers through her
hair.

When the lights came back on, we couldn't look each other in the eye, but
as we left the lift I caught the hint of a smile on her face.

---

Madeleine hit pay-dirt - as they say in the States - a few weeks in. Our
visit to a relatively provincial town coincided with a crime fiction
conference, which for some reason was being held in this rural little
backwater. She blagged a stand in the conference hall, and spent the day
making contacts and selling herself. Lucky bitch.

I consoled myself with walking around the place, having abandoned all hope
of any interest in my work while the place was overrun with crime fiends. I
was meant to be signing in a small independent book store, but the owner
agreed that there was little point even trying. So for a couple of hours we
just sat in a coffee shop around the corner and chatted about books. When
he had to return to take over from his wife for the afternoon I found
myself at a loose end, and as ever when I'm unsure what to do I failed to
do the proper thing and write, instead choosing to see where my feet took
me.

They took me to a great little local pool, an outdoor place only recently
opened with the improving weather. I rushed back to my motel room, grabbed
a few things and twenty minutes later was happily splashing around in the
cool water. I met a mum, Angela, and her brood of little redneck kids and
had a great time playing around with them all afternoon, reminding myself
quite how much I missed my little niece and nephew back in Blighty. Angela
was the model of politeness, too, and tried to look interested in what I
did, but at the end of the day we ended up chatting about the only thing we
had in common: motorsport. She educated me in the ways of NASCAR, and I
extolled the virtues of Formula 1, and we had a thoroughly nice time doing
so.

As I walked away from the pool toward my rendezvous with Madeleine and our
nightly binge I reflected on the afternoon, and came to a rather shocking
conclusion. The only thing which stopped me from going home with Angela and
fucking her brains out that night was the guilt I felt for having spent the
afternoon lusting after her pubescent son.

---

I grabbed my shaft and walked forward between his legs. My tumescent rod
seemed suddenly so large against his tiny, slim little bottom, but I
couldn't be stopped now. His hole, still gaping oh so slightly from the
intrusion of my fingers, glistened with the lubricant I had spread
within. I put the head of my dick to his crack and pushed forward, one hand
gripping my manhood, the other his hip. He groaned as I forced my way into
him, a groan of pain. I was hurting him but the lust was too strong. I
pummelled him, ignorant of his cries to stop, and pulled free, spraying
across his back as he collapsed sobbing onto the bed.

My head swam as I woke. I stumbled to my feet and lurched into the
bathroom, which span wildly around me. I ripped up the lid of the toilet
and retched noisily into the bowl. As I slumped onto the cold tiles with my
back against the porcelain I wondered what I had become. It was still dark
outside. It was darker still in my soul.

---

The sun shone brightly and we were on top of the world. Two days in a row
without having a single book signing or meeting to attend, and we were
taking advantage of it. Madeleine and I had stopped in a delightful little
place somewhere in New England, and frittered away a whole morning in a
local diner drinking gallons of coffee and downing excessively large plates
of pancakes, bacon and syrup. We threw plot lines back and forth and
thoroughly took the piss out of each other's work, and in the end I
admitted my jealousy of her success.

Only then, for the first time since we had begun our trip, did the barriers
come down and the true Maddy come out. Maddy the little girl in the grown
up world, scared and alone, and showing genuine concern for Jack, who was
now a dear friend, a confederate and compatriot. She actually cared about
me, and dared to show it for a delightful few hours. And she really was a
sweet little thing behind the mask. So much so that I fell for her
thoroughly, and I think she for me, but it was too late, too late for any
of that soppy stuff. Damn, if only we realised before we slept together,
how different things might have been. But there was a sense of melancholy
acceptance, and no more.

I tried to figure it out that night, as I sat out on the balcony of my
surprisingly upmarket motel room and listened to the frogs in the creek. I
tried to fathom how I could so happily fall for Maddy, and yet hold such
terrible, inappropriate feelings for young boys. How can a straight male
and a boylover exist in the same head? The only conclusion I could draw was
that at least I could feasibly find happiness without having to abuse a boy
to do so. I could find a nice girl, settle down, have kids and all that
crap, even if it meant part of my sexuality was ignored. And it didn't seem
like a compromise, just a choice.

---

He lowered his head, golden locks tilting forward to tickle my stomach. But
now was no time for laughing. I gasped at the feel of his hot little mouth
closing over the head of my dick. He might not be experienced, but
experience counts for nothing when you have a mouth that hot and soft and
wet. I groaned and felt myself rushing uncontrollably for the peak. I
pulled him from me and felt the soft patter of emission on my groin.

I woke, gasping. I blinked twice, trying to clear the mist from my vision
but unable to do so. Shutting my eyes let the vision of my dream back in,
but nothing could excite me now. I let my hand trail down below the
waistband of my shorts, but found nothing amiss. At least there was that.

I tried to sleep again, but could not. Groggily I emerged into the new
dawn, and walked straight into Maddy, who had slept exceptionally well and
was full of the joys of life.

Damn.

---

Daniel's phone call was strange and broken. How was I enjoying myself, he'd
asked. Was America everything I'd hoped it would be? I'd sounded
enthusiastic because I was. I genuinely was having a good time. I felt
inspired, too, and had written some of the best work I'd managed in
years. Even the fabled unfinished manuscript was submitted, I told him.

Daniel pointed out that yes, he understood the manuscript had been
submitted. After all, it was him I'd submitted it to. Somehow this fact
seemed to have slipped my mind. He, too, seemed to think that the work I'd
done on the last part of the manuscript was better than anything else in
the book, so much so that the rest would have to be re-written. I almost
dropped the phone at that point.

But there was a kicker, a reason to stay on the line. Daniel, so impressed
by the influence America had apparently had on me, had rented me a house in
Florida for two months. I was to go there and revolutionise the
manuscript. I didn't quite know what to say. The independent streak in me
screamed out at such obvious dictatorship, but the other side of me, the
side so in love with the States, knew that it was an offer I couldn't
refuse. I put the phone down and waited for Daniel's email.


Chapter 3

Maddy left on a cold, rainy Tuesday in what should have been the early days
of summer. We'd made it as far as Denver, but had reached the end of the
line. The budget had run out, and there weren't enough guaranteed bookings
on the west coast to make the onward journey worthwhile. I had my house in
Florida to go to, and Maddy had dreary old London. We parted as though we'd
spent a lifetime together, and suddenly I was very alone.

---

The house. How do you describe 'the house'? I'd have called it a shed,
myself. A wooden shed, with a hole in the roof and no heating, not that
you'd need it on the edge of the Everglades. More bugs than you could shake
a stick at, too. Not my idea of an idyllic retreat, not one bit. It stood
in the grounds of a much grander place, which I was told quite firmly was
not for rent. The owners of the estate, who lived most of the time in
upstate New York, used the house as a summer retreat and might appear at
any time.

All this was told to me by the estate manager, a grumpy chap in his late
sixties, burned a deep chestnut by the sun and with a shock of silvery
white hair which was kept immaculately trimmed, and named, rather
inappropriately, Mr Meeke. I was told the limits of my rental agreement,
which were effectively that I was to at no time to approach the main house,
and was to use the rear driveway, which led past my hut. No visitors
without express permission, no loud music, no alcohol to be brought onto
the premises, and absolutely no 'untoward behaviour'. I asked cheekily what
that might constitute and was met with an ice cold stare.

Not so much a retreat as a prison camp, it seemed.

---

Tom's Cabin, for that was its official title, was in truth a perfectly well
appointed little place to spend a couple of months, especially if you need
to get away from the distractions of the outside world. It had running
water, a fridge, a cooker and even electricity, though the closest it came
to modern entertainment was a dusty long wave radio in one corner. No
television, and certainly no internet. For that I was required to walk into
the local town, something which happened on an almost nightly basis at
first, and then exponentially less often as my stay wore on.

I began to lead a very simple life, up at dawn each morning, taking a swim
in a local pond, cooking myself a real breakfast, that sort of thing. And I
got work done, too. Masses of work. Thousands and thousands of words poured
from my fingertips until the letters on the keys of my laptop began to
fade. This was real writing, raw writing, the kind of primeval output one
has when first setting out into the literary world. Lines, paragraphs,
chapters, a whole book flowed out of me in less than three weeks.

I could have been distracted, but wasn't as it happened, by the arrival of
the family who owned the house. Or at least part of the family. The estate
manager, in his most obsequious tones, came down to the cabin one morning
to remind me of the terms of the rental agreement, and highlighted that the
mother and her son would be arriving two days later. I nodded to show I'd
heard and understood, and then shot daggers at his retreating back with my
eyes just for having disturbed my thoughts for such a banal conversation.

---

They did indeed arrive two days later. I knew this because Meeke
interrupted my swim to tell me.

Idiot.

---

He walked toward me along the path, kicking up little clouds of dust to be
set afire by the afternoon sun. He looked bored, and a little surprised to
find me sitting there on the veranda with a laptop on my knees, watching
him come. Strange that we should be in such an ordinary, sane setting, for
this was surely a dream. After all, was that not the boy from the museum in
London all those months ago? Strange that I should choose him for my
fantasy after so long, but I suppose the mind has a mind of its own, as it
were.

"Hey," he said, passing by, with a little wave of the hand.

Damn, I'd better respond. Might be my dream, but there's no reason to be
rude.

"Hi."

Yeah, that'll about cover it. Strange dream, this. Almost as if it's
real. But I know it can't be, not with that boy appearing out of nowhere
after all this time. He wandered off up the path toward the house and was
gone.

---

I languished on the veranda, the heat of the day undiminished by the light
breeze which blew along the path from the river. A freezing gin and tonic
sat on the table at my elbow, untouched, and my laptop lay discarded on the
floor. I watched in a stupor as beads of condensation formed, coalesced and
ran down the side of the glass to join the ever-growing pool which ringed
its base. Flies buzzed around me, occasionally landing to drink the sweat
from my skin. Their presence had long since ceased to affect me.

All of a sudden I was alert. There was the boy again. I wasn't dreaming, I
couldn't be. It really must be him. I sat up and smiled as he approached,
and he smiled back. He was topless, wearing only a baggy pair of board
shorts, shod in flip-flops and carrying a beach towel over one shoulder.

"Going for a swim?" I asked as he drew level with the hut. A stupid
question.

"Yep, figured I would."

"Cool."

He'd stopped, apparently to chat.

"You know about the pond, right?" he asked.

"Yep. Been down there already this morning. Might go again if it stays this
warm."

"Um..." He hesitated. "Want to go with me now? It's kinda boring on your
own..."

He looked so dejected that even had I not felt aroused by his mere presence
I would have agreed to go with him. Poor kid must've been bored out of his
mind. But I needed no persuading.

"Sure, let me just get my trunks on."

I ran inside and squeezed into my still-wet shorts, cursing myself for not
having hung them out to dry, though I couldn't have known I'd need them so
soon. I grabbed a bag and stuffed in a dry towel and some sunblock, though
the latter, judging by his bronzed skin, would only be needed by me. I
caught myself thinking that might be rather a shame, that somehow I might
have helped him on with some. Shaking my head to rid myself of the
rebellious thought, I stepped back out into the sun, pulling the door shut
behind me and not bothering to lock it.

"Jack," I said, holding out my hand. He took it shyly, and I felt for the
first time the soft warmth of him, his hand slender but strong.

"Jay," he replied, with a blinding white smile. In that moment the years
fell away, and I realised of whom he reminded me, and why it was that I was
so drawn to him. Peter. A name I had not thought of for nearly twenty
years. At least, until three days ago, when on impulse I searched through
Facebook for him. No sign of Peter, but the reincarnation of his eleven
year old self stood facing me. Among the thoughts which suddenly crowded my
mind was one which I sought desperately to suppress. Everyone's different,
I told myself. Especially there.

As we walked down to the pond, I reflected on the mad luck which had
brought this boy back into my life, three months after I'd seen him last,
thousands of miles away in grey old London. He was part of the family which
owned the estate, and had come down with his mother for the summer. The
coincidence dumbfounded me, and I walked in silence, half listening to his
excited chatter, happy to be its recipient.

---

"I'm glad you're here," he said as we sat by the pool, watching the
shimmering surface, tired of swimming and splashing about for the
moment. We had climbed out onto the huge rock which projected over the
water's edge. Beneath us, hundreds of tiny fish shimmered not far beneath
the surface, hiding in the shade. I gave him a smile as I got up and
wandered over to my pack, retrieving my sunblock.

"I'm glad, too," I said, sitting back down. "It's a great place to write,
and now I have a buddy to go swimming with."

He smiled at the last, and then quite unabashedly offered to rub some cream
into my back. My head swam as his fingers worked over my muscles, cold from
swimming but still setting my skin aflame. It was such a perfunctory
action, nothing more than one friend helping another, but to me it was
heaven, bliss, an old feeling renewed, revisited, a feeling dredged up by
his mere presence from somewhere in the long distant past. God, he looked
like Peter. He refused my offer to return his favour, and I was forced to
agree that he hardly needed it, despite my feeble protestations about skin
cancer which he waved aside with a laugh.

"My cousin, Bobby -" (does anyone have a cousin Bobby these days?) "- will
be here in a couple of weeks. He loves swimming, too. Last summer we came
down here every day."

It was idle chatter, the empty-headed ramblings of an excited juvenile, but
to my ears it was the sweetest birdsong. We sat there on the unshaded rock
until both of us were warmed through by the sun, and then wandered back up
the track. He dropped me at the shack, making me promise to return with him
to the pool the following day.

Inside, wearied by the extra exercise, I pulled off my swimming shorts and
fell naked onto the bed, and quickly into a satisfyingly deep sleep.

---

Water dripped down his torso, a shocking parody of a thousand adverts for
this or that, the glistening muscles bronzed by the heat of the sun, the
low-hanging shorts barely clinging to his hips. It trickled into the
grooves by his hips, the narrow valleys formed by the strength of his
abdominal muscles, and downward beneath the slightly gaping waistband. I
traced the lines of those drops with my fingertips, bringing forth shivers,
raising goosebumps on his flesh. I looked up at him and he smiled down at
me. My fingers continued, over the smooth, silky material of his board
shorts, until they were tracing the shrivelled lump of his boyhood,
discernible only by touch through the wet material. As I caressed its short
length it regained some of its form, thickening out until it pushed
painfully against the fabric, unable to rise further in its snug, damp
polyester nest. I relieved the pressure for him, ripping apart the velcro
which closed the fly, laughing momentarily as it bounced out to almost
brush my face, then thickened and lengthened yet further to stand, all
three and a bit inches, vertically upward. He sighed as my mouth closed
over it, muttering 'yeahhh!' as if this were a familiar feeling
revisited. The plump, taut head brushed the roof of my mouth as I bobbed,
bringing him quickly to climax, quickly because we risked discovery at any
moment. He gasped and grabbed handfuls of hair as he came, firing blanks
into my mouth, stomach tensing and legs quivering. It had been only
moments.

This time I smiled when I awoke. I was bored of hating myself for something
I could not control.

---

Meeke looked angry, redder than usual. Apparently I had overstepped the
mark. I should not have gone swimming with the boy. I reminded him that the
boy's name was Jay, which only served to infuriate him further. I was told
that I should not interrupt the boy's play. He was told, in polite, icy
tones, that Jay had asked me to go swimming with him. I was told that he,
Meeke, would verify this, and if I had lied, my rental contract would be
terminated without notice.

He returned an hour later to apologise. So did Jay, a little later. He
giggled at my best Mr Meeke impression, and reminded me of my promise to
swim with him the following day.

---

It quickly became routine to swim with Jay, and added a pleasant structure
to the day. I woke early each morning, giving myself ample time to throw
together a few hundred words, before Jay, his body clock already beginning
to push him toward teenager-like late rising, would saunter down at around
ten. That would give us a couple of hours in the pond before he went home
for lunch, and I took a stroll into town to find food of my own. I'd hardly
fed myself once during my stay, preferring to frequent one or other of the
little eateries in the small local town, both of which happily vied for the
award of best ever seafood.

All the time my mind was on the boy. He was, I discovered, twelve and a
half, played 'soccer' and swam on the relevant school teams (which
explained his fish-like tendencies and an ability to leave me stranded in
the water), didn't have a girlfriend at the moment (although there was
maybe someone he liked, he said), liked skating and surfing, too, and
during term time was educated in a rather prestigious New York
establishment. He liked the Knicks and the Yankees, because his dad did. He
wanted a dirt bike, but didn't think he would ever get one. He hated Mr
Meeke nearly as much as I did, and suspected the man of being a bit dodgy;
when I asked him to define dodgy, he said "y'know, likes boys!". The way he
said it made it sound like he was more amused than mortified, but still I
cringed a little inside. I was definitely more than a little 'dodgy', I'd
recently come to realise.

He inspired me, too. I began to spin tales. Not lustful tales, though
plenty of those went through my head, too. No, short stories of adventure,
of innocence, of days lost. I knew little of what I was talking about, my
own childhood lost in a haze of dreadful long term memory, but I imagined
that I remembered it a certain way, and wove that into my words. It was,
without doubt, my finest hour, the zenith of my career. Jay was, it seemed,
my muse.

I forwarded some of the work onto London, receiving an enthusiastic
response from Daniel, who seemed convinced that the stories would herald a
new dawn for me, that finally I would break through into the realm of
'serious authors' as he put it. I wasn't entirely sure that I liked the
implicit snub of my prior works, but the praise was sufficiently sugary
that I made no complaint.

---

Bobby was a lanky, skinny kid, as pale as I was compared to his cousin. He
was almost the same age as Jay, but there the resemblance ended. I suppose
he was cute in his own way, in the way that all boys of a certain age are
cute to men of a certain persuasion, but where Jay shone like the noonday
sun, Bobby's star was somewhat less apparent. His unfashionable glasses and
undeveloped torso immediately gave the impression of a much more bookish,
less sporty youth than his cousin.

Still, despite their differences, the two seemed best of friends. Jay was
genuinely delighted when I responded positively to his request to allow
Bobby to join us, and Bobby, whose nerves seemed to have taken hold of his
tongue, gave me a shy smile which did wonders to improve his looks.

I could see their closeness as they swam, the physical contact between the
boys far greater than that I enjoyed with Jay. Initial guardedness gave way
to youthful exuberance, and before long I was left behind as they horsed
about. It was a shame to be excluded in this way, though doubtless
unintentionally, but as I sat on the warm rock watching them play, I
reflected that perhaps there were benefits after all. As the sun warmed my
skin, it infused into my libido, too, and set my mind to impure thoughts of
the boys.

I could survive my internal tensions for only so long before I was forced
address the issue. Leaving the boys with a shout and a wave I made my
excuses and started back toward my hut. I had almost made it when I
realised with a start that I had left my bag behind. Doubtless Jay, who was
well brought up, would notice and bring it up for me, but I didn't want to
be interrupted, and so instead chose the turn back for it.

The glade in which the pool lay was thickly wooded, and hid it from prying
eyes. As I entered the outermost ring of trees something undefined caused
me to pause. Perhaps the relative silence of the place, the calm when I had
expected to hear joyous, raucous splashing of water. Perhaps they had
tired, and were sitting on the rock, talking, drying off. But maybe not,
maybe they were... well, what was I thinking they might be doing? It was a
tenuous hope which caused me to slow, to deaden the sound of my footfall,
to watch for dry twigs which might reveal my presence with their mutinous
crackling underfoot. I imagined, in the way that a desperate man often
does, my deepest fantasies fulfilled. My mind's eye conjured images of the
boys in flagrante, burning with sexual passion, pawing at each other,
mouths, tongues, delicate morsels of boyish flesh combining to set the
atmosphere ablaze.

As I drew ever nearer to the pond, the soft sound of a sigh drifting
through the trees set my heart pounding. My ears throbbed to the sound of
my own heartbeat, and it felt as though my tongue was swelling and choking
me, my stomach full of hot lead. This was excitement as I had never felt it
before, a jolt of nerves so strong it felt akin to fear. My hands trembled
with it, and my head swam. Whether the scene my mind had conjured was a
premonition or simply wishful thinking, it showed me clearly the strength
of my inappropriate feelings for the boys.

I saw the water first, glinting a little where the sun reached its surface,
half the unnaturally smooth oval unhindered by shadow. The rock was at the
far end, in full sun, in the direction I was looking, but remained obscured
by the foliage of the trees which lay below me on the bank. I slowed my
descent until I resembled a hunter on the trail of an easily-frightened
prey, creeping between the trees as stealthily as I could manage. I spotted
what might prove to be a good vantage point, the thick trunk of a tree, its
surface covered in lichen, stood twenty paces further on, and not that
again from the water's edge. Making my way there, I found it offered a
perfect view of the rock.

And, it seemed, of the boys. My body convulsed and I doubled over in shock,
as if I had taken a blow to the stomach. Never in all of my darkest
fantasies had I come close to comprehending how strongly the sight of their
naked forms would affect me. I was insensible with excitement, lust
overwhelming my senses until the corners of my vision darkened, the blood
draining from my head, its oxygen-deprived form swelling until I felt my
head would explode. The tightening of my throat and the constriction of my
stomach felt previously was but a pale shadow of the physical change which
came over me. For long, agonising moments I was frozen in place, unable to
do anything other than watch them.

I ought to describe to you the scene, though even as I begin to do so I
realise my meagre skill is utterly insufficient for the task. They lay,
trunks discarded on the hot rock, naked as the day they were born, though I
knew Jay would be wearing the small leather surfer's necklace he always
wore. They were not, however, still. An activity common to boys across the
world was being played out in front of me. Each boy was absorbed in his own
pleasure, immune to the influences of the outside world, or so it seemed. I
lurched again when Jay's eyes wandered down to where Brian's fist wrapped
around his long, thin boyhood, its form matching its owner's body. Brian's
own view shifted so that he, too, was looking across the narrow divide
between their bodies.

At an age where the destination was always more important than the journey
both boys worked toward their goal at full speed, and it was no surprise to
soon see their stomachs tense as their movements reached a well-timed
crescendo. The painfully contorted masks of ultimate pleasure came across
their faces as air was greedily sucked in, held, and expelled with
excessive force. Their juvenile pleasure was intense but short-lived, and
then they collapsed back onto their rock in their own private worlds,
panting with the exertion of their recent activities. Sweat adorned both
boy's bodies, all too apparent on Bobby's brow as he pulled himself up onto
his elbows, inspecting his pale stomach and pointing out something to Jay
in low tones which failed to carry across the water. Jay looked and
giggled, tugging absentmindedly at his deflating spike.

I stole away, suddenly aware of the dampness seeping along my inner thigh.

---

Back at the cabin I closed my eyes to replay the scenes which had so
excited me. Only when calmed by a second self-induced peak could I take
stock of what I had seen, of the minute details which over the coming days
I would burn into my memory. What nature gave to Jay's features with one
hand, it took from his boyhood with the other. The small morsel stood
little more than two inches clear of his groin, undeveloped, his testes
small and clearly unproductive. His cousin, though, had been given a gift
to compensate for his plain looks - an early bloomer, Bobby had something
to be proud of; though clearly yet a small boy's piece, it was almost twice
the length of Jay's, and somewhat thicker, though not proportionally
so. And joy of joys, Jay's appendage appeared to have been unmolested by
the surgeon's knife, a rarity from what little I knew of American boys.

Such details swam through my mind as I lay back, provoking some of the same
emotions as I had earlier felt. I attacked myself until exhausted, until
unable even to lift my head from the pillow, and still I wanted more. I
shocked myself with my visions of what 'more' might be, of my thoughts of
what I might allow myself to do.

That night, alone with my thoughts and unable to think of anything better
to do, I wandered into town, into a bar, and got blitzed on sour mash.


Chapter 4

A morning of regret followed my night of indulgence. I need not describe a
hangover for those of you who have experienced one, but for anyone who
hasn't, let me give you one word of advice: don't. Whatever it is you're
thinking of drinking, don't.

Jay's cheerful greeting grated on my tender mind, and I found myself
grateful that Bobby was as bashful as he had been the previous day,
remaining silent and raising a hand to me by way of greeting.

"What's up, you sick or something?" Jay asked when he saw me hobbling down
the steps of the cabin, sunglasses already shading my delicate eyes.

"Sort of. I went and had a drink or two last night."

His face fell.

"Oh. You drink?"

"Sometimes. I don't make a habit of it, if that's what you're thinking."

"My dad drinks," he said in a quiet voice. It took no special intellect or
insight on my part to determine that this was an issue for him, that his
father's love of alcohol had caused problems in the past. Bobby seemed
nervous, too, suggesting that he, too, had seen the ill effects.

"OK, mate, well I promise not to get drunk again while I'm here, alright?"

That seemed to brighten him up somewhat. I didn't understand at the time
why I felt the need to placate him, though with the benefit of hindsight I
can understand my motives. I needed to appease him because it was important
that he looked up to me, that he wanted to please me in return. I was
making the first forays into the realm of mutual attraction, and was
determined to make myself as likable as possible to him.

I smiled, listening to his chatter as we walked down to the pond. He strode
ahead, seemingly unaware that both Bobby and I had dropped back slightly. I
glanced across at Jay's cousin, and gave him a brief smile, which was shyly
returned. There was a hint of something in Bobby's look which I could quite
interpret. Was it frustration? Was he angry at me for intruding? Perhaps
after what had happened the previous day, he was worried that I would
interrupt an activity he and Jay presumably enjoyed on a daily basis. I
resolved to 'leave' early again, and to double back once more.

---

The tree hid me as well as it had the previous day. I had made all the
signs of leaving, but returned immediately. At first the boys splashed
around in the water as they had done when I left them, but after a couple
of minutes Jay suddenly stopped.

"He's far enough away now, right?" I heard him asking.

Bobby nodded straight away. "Come on then," he said, making his way to the
side, taking the lead in a way I'd not before seen. As they reached the
rock and climbed out they continued to talk, but just as before their
voices failed to carry as far as my hiding place. They stripped without
compunction, throwing aside their shorts. The cold water had brought a
measure of equivalence between the boys, levelling the playing field
somewhat, but as the sun and youthful lust warmed their bodies, the
disparity once again became clear.

A repeat of the previous day, it seemed. Both boys seemed intent only on
their own pleasure, and worked admirably toward that goal with the energy
of youth. Except suddenly there was a pause for conversation, a slowing of
flailing limbs, a conference of urgent whispers. A trade, perhaps, and then
an agreement. A deal was struck. Had I made a guess, it would not have been
what happened.

Bobby shifted forward on the rock, and then with no sign of hesitation
plunged his head into Jay's lap. An involuntary groan escaped me, but was
masked from reaching them by the loud gasp which burst from Jay's lips. His
back arched, hips propelled into the air, toes curling. This, then, was the
ultimate pleasure to him. I wonder now if it was his first time, though
while it happened my mind was focused on recording every detail of the
sordid act. I dared not allow myself even the slightest stimulation,
fearing that were I to reach climax I might no longer feel the need to
remain. That, I sensed, would be a disaster.

I'd read stories in the past, accounts of youthful exploration. In many
ways, they often matched my own experiences, and one overriding theme was
that any boy sucking the dick of another boy would soon grow bored and
stop, demanding his own satisfaction before the recipient of his attentions
achieved their own. Not so here. Bobby, committed to the job and with a
hand free to continue his own pleasure, continued his efforts and in time
brought Jay to a shuddering, gasping, writhing, aching climax, so powerful
that the spasms in his body threatened to throw him from the rock. Bobby
sat up with a rather pleased expression on his face, and looked down as
Jay's dick as the morsel of flesh returned to its sleeping state.

Reciprocation is key to the adolescent sexual experience, and it was clear
before long that Bobby demanded Jay's attentions. His words were muddled
but their meaning was plain. Wearily, his muscles drained from the exertion
of receiving such divine pleasure as had recently been visited upon him,
Jay moved into a kneeling position. He was cautious, much more so than
Bobby had been. Bobby was the experienced one, the leader, that much was
obvious. Jay may have been the cooler kid, but it was Bobby who held all
the cards when it came to sex. The first motions were half-hearted, nothing
more than the dragging of lips across the unveiled glans of Bobby's
boyhood. With coaching, or encouragement, I could not discern which, his
style evolved until his lips closed around the heart of his compatriot's
shaft and did not open again. Even his inexperienced actions were enough
for Bobby, who, either possessing a hair trigger or thoroughly overdue an
orgasm, was within a matter of moments gasping himself, thrusting into
Jay's mouth. The less experienced boy immediately rose and complained of
something, and after a brief exchange could be seen turning around and
leaning out over the water, spitting several times into the depths. Oh,
what a waste of such surely sweet nectar!

I stumbled back to the hut. Jay and Bobby, in that way so innate to the
youthful experimentalist, had returned to their waterborne games as quickly
as they had abandoned them. They would forget what they had done, at least
until their libidos recharged. I, however, was not so lucky. I could not
escape the vision in my mind, nor the feelings it stirred within me. Once
again, exhaustion was the only brake on my relentless self-abuse.

---

When your sexual imperative is not something to which you are enslaved,
there is no pressure to relentlessly search for satisfaction. Young boys at
the cusp of puberty may seek pleasure several times daily, but often only
if there is nothing more pressing to occupy their thoughts.

A saw-like buzzing cut through the normally quiet air of the estate,
disturbing me in contemplation of a particularly sordid fantasy involving
the two boys who were shortly due to turn up for our daily swim. It was
such a sudden intrusion that I jumped off my bed, ready to fight or
fly. Moving to the window, my heart slowly returning to resting pace, I
glanced out over the grounds toward the house. A sort of rolling scrub,
populated by native grasses, the soil more sand than dirt, covered most of
the ground between the edge of the carefully kept walled lawns to the rear
of the house and the edge of the woodlands which eventually evolved into
mangroves closer to the coast. This wild space, several acres in size,
shimmered with heat haze from mid-morning until the sun set.

Suddenly, among the barren, rolling grasslands there appeared a flash of
movement. Someone was among the dunes, moving fast, and whoever it was, was
bringing with them the terrible noise. I watched and waited, listening to
the droning whine of whatever dreadful machine it was that had destroyed
the delicate peace of my haven. Another flash of light reflected from
something metallic, which arced briefly into the air before once again
disappearing out of sight. It looked almost like someone was driving a dune
buggy over the ground, but unless my sense of scale was thoroughly out,
that couldn't have been true.

Except, it was. Sort of. A few minutes later I became quite aware of what
was causing the racket, as it grew closer and painfully louder, followed by
the giggling forms of Jay and Bobby. Actually, it wasn't one dune buggy but
two, with the crucial extra detail that neither was more than two feet
long. Mini versions of adult toys, just like those the boys hid in their
shorts, I couldn't help but think.

They were inordinately pleased with their new toys.

"Dad sent them," Jay said, out of breath having chased his car across the
dunes. "He can't make it down until next week now, so he sent these to give
us something to do!"

I kept my thoughts about the dollar value of affection to myself. I could
see what the boy's dad was doing, but all Jay and his cousin could think of
was the joy of the new toys. And they were pretty special bits of kit, too,
if I was any judge. Much better than the battery-powered pieces of plastic
I had as a kid, always running down and needing recharging, which always
took far longer than the batteries lasted. No, these were something
altogether more mechanically capable - aluminium chassis, fully independent
suspension, motors which ran on methylated spirits. Jesus, they were better
engineered than my car!

I smiled at the enthusiastic way Jay described the all-but-identical cars
to me, his red and Bobby's green. Bobby demurred, standing back and letting
Jay take the limelight, though my eyes kept being drawn to the boy. He
spotted me staring at him with my brows wrinkled, and silently laughed as
Jay continued his diatribe unabated. He mimed glasses with fingers and
thumbs making circles in front of his face, and suddenly I realised what
was different about him - the glasses were gone, and I have to say, despite
wearing glasses myself, he really was far better looking without
them. 'Contacts' he mouthed at me, and immediately I understood. There was
no explanation as to why he hadn't worn his lenses so far, but it hardly
mattered. Along with what appeared to be a slightly different hairstyle,
Bobby suddenly took on a cuteness I'd not really noticed before. Damn, that
confused issues somewhat.

Jay was still yammering away when I returned my attention to him. He had
the rear wheels of his car lifted off the floor and was revving the engine,
showing me with delight the way the little engine blew out jets of almost
invisible blue flame on the over-run. I wondered if it was really legal for
boys that age to have such potentially explosive devices, then I reminded
myself not to be such a boring old fart and just enjoy it for what it was -
pure fun.

"So, you want to have a go then?" Jay asked.

----

The morning passed in a blur of hot sun, engine fumes and laughter. Out in
the dunes, with the help of a shovel filched from Mr Meeke's shed, we built
a track, all banked turns and little jumps, and some really rather big
ones. It took us hours, and all the while the cars sat untouched in the
sun, because digging things up is always much more fun when you get down to
it. I was one of the boys again.

In fact, we were so involved in our play that we hardly noticed the time
passing, and certainly didn't realise it was lunchtime. It was only when
there came a polite, gentle cough from behind us that we stopped at
all. We'd been in the middle of sculpting a particularly steep ramp, and it
was taking all of our concentration. All three of us turned in unison,
sensing that something was up.

A tall, red-haired woman stood with her arms folded, an ironic smile
curling the corners of her mouth.

"Lunch has been on the table for fifteen minutes, boys. And you haven't."

I didn't feel it would be appropriate for me to suggest that the boys
wouldn't have been on the table even if they had made it to lunch on time.

"Hi," I said, walking over and extending my hand. "I don't believe we've
been introduced. Jack Ellison."

She took my hand rather uncertainly. Something in her eyes spoke of panic,
but so well suppressed that it was hardly visible.

"Martha Jones, Jay's mother. I... are you the tenant in the cabin?" she
asked.

"Yes, yes I am," I replied, somewhat surprised that she had no idea who I
was.

"This is terribly silly, I know," she said, "and I hope you aren't too
offended, but what is a grown man doing building a model racetrack with two
twelve year old boys?"

I didn't really have a good answer for that other, than it was fun, and if
I was to be thoroughly honest I really wanted to get into her son's
pants. The second part of that answer really had to be kept to myself.

"I was bored with my writing, and the boys seemed to be having so much
fun. I hope you don't mind."

She looked at me for a long, drawn out moment, head titled slightly to the
side. When she spoke, her voice had regained all of its strength.

"Tell me, Jack, are you hungry?"


Chapter 5

Lunch in the house was a serious affair. I was glad I'd taken a few moments
to run back to the cabin and change my sweat-stained t-shirt for a clean,
fresh polo. We were joined by Jane, Martha's PA or secretary, I couldn't
quite tell which. Apparently she travelled with the household at all times,
and managed all aspects of Martha's life, which was a great deal busier and
more complex than I could possibly have imagined.

"And what do you do?" Jane asked when she had bored of explaining her role
to me.

"I write books. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Well, my agent sent me here to get a manuscript finished. I did it, but
now I've ended up writing a whole load of other stuff which seems to have
gone down better, so he wants me to stay and write some more. But it's not
really novel stuff, just handfuls of short stories."

"They can make a book out of that though, can't they?"

"Oh, yes. Just a strange book."

"Who's your agent?" Jane asked, laughing.

"Daniel Marbery."

Jane looked uncertain, and glanced over at her boss.

"London," Martha said. "You know, the camp idiot."

I just about managed to stop myself spraying my drink out of my nose with
laughter.

"Yeah, that's about right," I said, as Jane nodded her understanding.

"Would you excuse me a moment," Martha said, rising and leaving the room,
returning a moment later with a hardback book. I thought for a moment that
I recognised the cover, but dismissed it as an impossibility.

"Jack, you don't write under the name Ellison, do you?" she asked.

"Oh, no. Jack Brenner."

Martha gave a triumphant little smile, and held up the book. I almost fell
off my chair - it was a first edition copy of my first ever book.

"Where on earth did you get that?" I asked, my voice weak.

"Picked it up on a visit to London a few years back," she said with a
smile. "I thought I'd seen your face somewhere before. I don't often forget
a face," she continued, opening the cover to show the bio, with an
embarrassing mugshot of me looking very much out of date. I groaned at the
sight of it, and she laughed.

----

That was the turning point with Martha and I. By the end of lunch she was
insistent that I become another member of the household. Mr Meeke, grumpy
old Mr Meeke, was informed that I was moving into one of the guest rooms in
the house, and that I was to be given my choice of the west wing study or
the orangery for my workplace during my stay. His face was pure thunder,
and behind Martha's back he shot daggers at me with his eyes. I simply
responded with a beatific smile.

I don't know exactly what it was that prompted Martha to be so generous,
even if - as the well-thumbed copy of my novel was anything to go by - she
had for some reason found herself to be a fan of my works. She was in some
way connected to the literary world, though in what fashion I couldn't
fathom, and I didn't have the guts to enquire. As I sat the in the orangery
- "you have to choose it!" Jay had said with enthusiasm, and I could see he
was right - I reflected on how my luck had turned around, and how much of a
fool I had been to be jealous of Madeleine's success earlier the same
year. Success comes and goes, just like luck.

My bedroom was somewhat more austere than the look of the house might have
suggested. It contained a bed and a washstand, no longer in use, and a
chair to sit by the open window. It looked out over the gardens, which was
a pleasant enough view, but the reality was that I would be spending little
time there, with such a place as the orangery to work in.

I can't quite fathom why an orangery would exist in such a place as
Florida. As the name suggests, it is a type of building specifically
designed to protect delicate, home-grown fruits against cold
temperatures. In England it would be entirely appropriate, but out here?
Completely pointless. For one, the high windows in the box-shaped roof
extension had to be permanently open in order to catch the slightest
breeze. Even then it was stiflingly hot without the intervention of a
series of fans. With the fans, it was merely very warm.

But what a place to work. So light, and airy, and with the delicate scent
of flowers drifting in from all around. It lifted your spirits simply to be
there, and when your work was done for the day it was - I noticed - but a
moment's walk from the pool.

The pool. The massive, very close to the house, not-at-all-a-murky-pond
pool. The clean, temperature-controlled, thoroughly modern and convenient
pool. As soon as I had a moment, I quizzed Jay; he blushed strongly.

"Yeah, well, it's more fun going down to the pond," he said evasively, eyes
looking anywhere but at me.

"More fun?"

"Yeah."

"To walk half a mile in the blazing sun down to a muddy hole that's
probably full of things which want to eat you, and swim there."

"Uh... yep."

"I suppose it would be fun if you and Bobby -"

I cut myself short. I'd nearly forgotten myself, nearly said something I
shouldn't, nearly revealed that I could think of a very good reason why he
would want to go down to the pond - to play his little sex games with
cousin Bobby. I supposed that he went every day, even before Bobby's
arrival, just to get his mother used to the idea, so she didn't become
suspicious when Bobby turned up and they suddenly started taking their dip
in a freezing, remote, bug infested hole in the ground.

" - keep out of your mother's way," I ended, lamely.

I couldn't help but notice the slight look of panic which flickered in
Jay's eyes when I nearly spilled the beans. Now he knew that I knew, or at
least suspected. Perhaps he clung onto the slight hope that I didn't know,
and that the end of my sentence wasn't originally meant to be "go there to
suck each other off every day".

----

Mind you, not every day in Florida was blazing sun, because with heat and
humidity inevitably comes nature's party piece, the thunderstorm. Boy could
Florida have a storm to be proud of - lightning searing the earth in
fizzing bolts of fury, thunder ripping through the heavens and shaking the
earth, alternatively crackling like snapped twigs and rumbling like the
passing of a megalithic tube train.

I sat at my desk watching the skies tearing themselves to pieces with the
force of another storm, the third this week but comfortably the
strongest. All week it had felt as though each storm had failed to properly
clear the air, that something stronger was needed to do the job. This storm
was the 'something stronger'. Something much, much stronger.

I was all but alone in the house for once. Martha had announced at
breakfast that she was flying to a nearby city for the day - I don't
remember which - to do some business, the nature of which I did not
enquire; of course, Jane had gone with her. I hoped fervently they'd
managed to avoid the effects of the storm. Meeke had already informed us he
would be absent for the week, as if anyone really cared, and Jay's dad,
David, had still failed to turn up for his promised fortnight, which seemed
to be getting pushed back further and further. Which left just me, the
housekeeper, Rose, and the boys, who apparently could be trusted to take
care of themselves in their mother's absence. With Rose bumbling around
doing something in the far end of the house in her unhurried way, and the
boys nowhere to be found, I was left in utter solitude in my orangery,
allowed to watch the storm unbothered.

I got bored and restless, though. The writing would come later. The storm
was great, but it had been going on for a while, and frankly I was after a
new distraction. I decided that I hadn't seen enough of the house, and that
a quick wander around was in order. Rising from my chair, my heart started
to beat a little faster - this was slightly illicit, slightly outside the
bounds of the unwritten host/guest contract. If I hadn't been invited into
part of the house, perhaps I shouldn't have been there.

I was passing through the central entrance hall, with its grand sweeping
staircase, when one of my worst case scenarios reared its head - Rose. With
hindsight, how could she possibly have suspected me of anything untoward?
She was the housekeeper, a member of staff, and I was a guest, and there
were all sorts of reasons I would be passing through that hall at that
moment in time. I really had nothing whatsoever to hide from her, and yet
my heart jumped into my throat.

Rose, however, couldn't have cared less.

"I'm off to town, Mr Ellison," she said, grabbing her coat from a cupboard
and a set of car keys from a hidden nook beneath the stairs.

"What, in this weather?" I asked, slightly in shock. It was blowing a gale
outside, and rain was coming in sideways. Rose laughed at my incredulity.

"Yes, Mr Ellison. You know, this really isn't that bad, and by the time I
get there it'll be all but gone, you mark my words."

"Well, good luck," I said, giving her a mock salute, setting her
giggling. She shook her head and wandered off toward the garage.

That, I thought to myself, went about as well as it could have done. And,
rather more importantly, it left just me and the boys in the house. Which
gave me butterflies, for some reason. Actually, I knew exactly what
reason. Part of me, a depraved part which held hope in higher esteem than
dull probability, part of me wondered if there was any chance I might find
myself in a compromising situation with the boys. Ridiculous to even
imagine it, I know, but that's what unmet desire will do for you - it
breaks down all common sense.

On soft feet - now a spy on a mission - I sought out the boys.

----

Where in the hell were they? I'd been end to end in the house, searched all
the rooms and drawn a blank. Perhaps they'd left completely, had escaped
the house, knowing that they wouldn't be bothered by anyone. I couldn't
help but wonder at Martha's parenting skills, leaving two twelve year old
boys on their own in the house, but then I reflected on my own youth,
shoved out the door in the morning and expected to keep myself busy all
day, and I realised that I was being unfairly judgemental. They were twelve
- they could probably get up to some mischief, but that didn't make them
inherently unsafe.

It didn't feel like I was alone, though. I don't know what it was which
made me feel that way, but I knew there was someone else in the house with
me. The place wasn't old enough to have ghosts, so the only option was that
Jay and Bobby were somewhere in the building; but where? Now my mission had
evolved from merely satisfying curiosity and sating boredom, to unravelling
the mystery of the missing boys.

I went back over everything, wondering if perhaps I'd dismissed something I
shouldn't have. Then it occurred to me - I had dismissed
something. Something which at the time had seemed rather irrelevant. I'd
poked my head around the corner of Jay's room and found him entirely
absent. Not wanting to miss the chance, I took a quick look at his world
and found it no different, or more tidy, than one would expect of a lad his
age. Jay loved baseball, and that was apparent in the theme of the posters
and ornaments around the place, including in a frame on its own on one
wall, a signed shirt from the New York Yankees, about the only baseball
team I would be able to name at gunpoint. He also had a fair amount of the
expected clothing scatter - there, for instance, were his board shorts hung
by the window to dry - and the floor was mostly covered in discarded
clothes, toys and magazines, which he seemed to devour.

What I didn't really pay attention to the first time, and what jumped into
the forefront of my mind now, was the strange way part of the floor had
been cleared. In front of his bookcase, in the corner of the room
diagonally opposite the door, the detritus had been swept aside in an
arc. I hadn't paid heed to it before, but now, as I stood directly in front
of it, I realised immediately what had happened - the bookcase had swung
out. I knew then, with absolute certainty, that Jay and Bobby would be
found wherever this hidden feature led.

There was no artifice to the design, as it happened, no book to pull free
or hidden latch to trigger. The shelves simply swung out, albeit slowly and
with a feeling of great weight. I moved them only a fraction before the
sound coming from beyond could be heard. Peering around the corner of the
secret doorway revealed a short, dark corridor, with a much lighter room
beyond. I couldn't see the boys, but they were definitely in that
room. Plucking up my courage, determined not to let this chance past, and
prepared to bluff my way out of it if I was seen, I opened the door wide
and slipped into the corridor.

Thankfully the floorboards didn't creak beneath my feet. I crept forward,
seeing more and more of the room as I advanced, but still unable to see the
boys. I could hear them though; muffled sounds, giggling and the occasional
gasp told me that something naughty was going on. The room looked like a
private sanctuary for whoever occupied the bedroom. Light seemed to come
solely from a single window high on the wall. It was sparsely decorated,
but from my vantage point I could see a television, and what looked like
the edge of a sofa. Luckily, there was another chair just around the corner
into the room, something for me to hide behind as I tried to spy the
boys. On hands and knees now I made my way forward until I could take the
briefest glance into the room.

Jesus. Well, fuck me. Actually, fuck Jay, because that's exactly what was
happening. He lay on the sofa with his knees drawn up, and Bobby in between
his legs, hips gyrating as he pushed his little dick into Jay, buttocks
tensing on each rapid-fire forward thrust. Jay's eyes were squeezed tight
shut, but he was definitely enjoying it, if his hard little spike was
anything to go by.

I ducked back out of the way and tried desperately not to collapse from
light-headedness. My heart was hammering in my chest, and there was the
tinny flavour of adrenaline in my mouth. Quite simply I'd never been so
thoroughly aroused in all my life. I looked down and my hands were shaking,
my skin pale. Desperately trying to remain undetected, I reversed out of
the corridor, pushed the bookcase shut and made good my escape.

----

They arrived in the orangery half an hour later, instantly causing me some
discomfort as mental images were dragged from my memory to the forefront of
my consciousness by their arrival. They were both pink-cheeked, and though
Jay was his usual self, Bobby seemed more withdrawn than ever, not wanting
to meet my eye. He left a few minutes later, muttering something about
going and reading in his room.

Jay, though, draped himself over one of the wicker armchairs in the corner
of the room and simply sat there watching me work. If anyone can
concentrate while the boy they have a crush on - the recently-fucked boy,
mind you - is sitting behind them watching, then they are a better man than
I.

"So," I said, turning away from my computer with an affected air of
resignation, "what have you and Bobby been up to this morning, then?"

Even with his cheeks already flushed, they somehow managed to become even
redder.


"Uh, nothing much. Bored with the storm and everything, couldn't find much
to do."

"Oh, right. Bet you found something to do, though, right?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. Suddenly he was on the defensive. I really
shouldn't have pushed it any further, but for some stupid reason I felt the
need to say,

"Well, at least it's not like you were up there fucking, eh?"

He looked at me with hatred in his eyes. He knew I knew. The secret was
out. There was no way I would have just pulled that out of the air.

"Fuck off, dick!" he said, in barely more than a whisper. He didn't even
storm out of the room. He just got up and walked out, shoulders slumped.

I turned back to my computer and wondered how quickly I could find
somewhere else to stay.


Chapter 6

I felt like utter shit. I had embarrassed him, and for what? To make myself
feel clever? For some vain hope that me hight turn round and say 'yes, we
were fucking, do you want to do me now?'. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

I wandered around the house, looking for him, but there was no sign, even
in the secret room. I wasn't quite sure what I was going to say when I
found him, but it would certainly have to involve the word 'sorry'
somewhere along the line. I found Bobby, who hadn't seen Jay, and didn't
seem too keen to talk to me, either. There was definitely something going
on there, though I couldn't work out what it was. Bobby didn't like me, for
some reason. I wasn't sure what it could be, but right at that moment I
didn't really care - I was far more worried about where Jay was and what he
was feeling.

He wasn't in the house, I decided. That left the gardens and the grounds to
search, and suddenly I knew exactly where he was. Even though it was still
raining heavily, I walked straight out of the back of the house and down
the garden, past the wall and onto the track. I passed Tom's Cabin,
standing empty and silent, and in five minutes was making my way down the
slippery, muddy bank toward the pond.

As I thought, there was a lone figure, soaked to the skin, sitting on the
rock above the pond.

----

Jay didn't even look at me when I sat down, let alone say hello. He just
stared at the water, hugging his knees to his chest. Even with the rain
running down his face I could see that he had been crying. He must have
been soaked to the skin, too, because I certainly was. Fat droplets of warm
rain continued to hammer down onto our heads.

"I'm sorry, Jay," I said, simply. It seemed like the right place to
start. "That wasn't fair of me. And I shouldn't have spied on you, either."

He didn't answer. We sat there in the pouring rain, soothed by the sound of
it hitting the water of the pond. Slowly Jay unwound, the tension beginning
to leave his body, the frown smoothed from his brow.

"It's not what you think it is, you know," he said, after what seemed like
an hour sat beneath the downpour.

"I know, mate. Most lads try things out when they're your age. Doesn't mean
anything."

He didn't answer straight away, instead returning his gaze to the
water. When he spoke again, I could hardly hear him above the weather.

"You can't tell mom or dad, OK?"

"Of course not, mate. Of course I won't."

"Dad would go nuts. He's all alpha male, you know? Like king of the jungle
sort of thing."

"And you're not?"

He looked across at me and laughed.

"It turns out I kinda like taking up the butt, so no, not really."

I couldn't help but laugh at his candour.

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean you can't be a rough, tough man,
though. You're still into baseball, right?"

"Yeah, I guess. It's just now sometimes when I'm watching the Major Leagues
I'm kinda looking at how hot the guys are in their uniforms. Pretty gross,
huh?"

I looked at him. He was grinning, but there was so much self-doubt just
beneath the façade. It was a hell of a risk, but I had to reassure Jay
that actually, it wasn't so abnormal.

"It's not that gross, Jay. I mean, I couldn't help but notice how hot you
look in your board shorts. Bet you're smoking in a baseball uniform."

He turned and stared at me, his mouth slightly open. He seemed to have been
struck speechless, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes, or maybe
joy, it was hard to tell.

"Tell you what, mate," I continued, before he could find the right words to
say, "I'm soaked through already and I've not had a swim yet today. I'm
going in."

And without waiting for him to respond, I stood and stripped out of all of
my clothes, and dived into the water. I didn't look back, but a splash only
a few moments later told me that I was no longer alone in the water, and
when I turned round there he was swimming toward me. A quick scan of the
rock told me all I needed to know - he was as nude as I was, his clothes in
a ragged bundle with his drenched boxers clearly visible on top.

"It's better like this, isn't it?" I asked, already suspecting that both
Jay and Bobby swam nude when no-one else was around. He immediately
confirmed my suspicion.

"Well, Bobby and I kinda do it like this when it's only us. I reckon Meeke
must spy on us sometimes, 'cause we reckon we've heard someone in the trees
a few times."

I didn't dare admit that it was almost certainly me they'd heard. Instead I
said,

"I'd like to see that!"

Jay's face clouded a little.

"You really wanna see Bobby. He's the one with the big dick. I wouldn't
bother, he's not into guys."

Jesus, was that jealousy in his voice? I sought to reassure him.

"Only have eyes for you, mate. I like your little dick."

"Oh yeah?" he said challengingly, coming close to me. "Come on then, feel
it."

And with that he grabbed my hand and dragged it down to his crotch. His
little dick had shrivelled to a tiny flap of skin in the cold water, but as
I did as he commanded, it began to grow. He, too, was nimble of finger,
quick of hand, and in seconds I was somehow erect, despite the conditions.

"Mate, I really, really want to suck you off," I said, the desperation in
my voice making Jay laugh. "Can we get out so I can do it?"

He nodded vigorously, and I followed his gorgeous, naked arse through the
water as we both swam for shore.

By now the storm had at last abated and, as is often the way in that part
of the world, strong sunshine immediately followed. Jay draped himself
across the rock, and in a moment of sheer poetry a shaft of sunlight
pierced the trees above our heads and fell directly upon him. He glowed in
the sun, his skin paler at the waist where it was more frequently
covered. And there, in the middle of the whitest patch of all stood my
prize, proudly erect, long sought and hard won.

----

He lazed in the sun next to me, our bodies warmed through and now
dried. His arms supported his head, his eyes were closed and there was a
contented smile on his face. Frantic passion had overtaken us and he had
gasped in orgasmic bliss only a handful of moments after leaving the
water. His soft lips, so often host to a wicked smile and today grinning
like the devil's apprentice, had coaxed a similar peak from my body. The
result now adorned the face of the rock, drying to a crisp white streak in
the hot sunshine.

God how I needed that. Years of pent up tension, years of failing to find
satisfaction, all blown away in five short, hot minutes. I realised now
what I hadn't before: loving a boy was different to loving a woman, and I
needed both to feel whole. Well, at least for now I had one half of my
satisfaction.

---

I had neglected to write properly for too long. A less than subtle hint to
that effect had arrived from Daniel by email. I resolved to remedy the
situation, and inspired by the love and lust I felt for Jay, I set to work
on wearing the letters off my keyboard. The stories which flowed out of me
over the coming days and weeks were eventually woven together into the book
which made my name. Looking back on it, they're inspired by a feeling of
lightness, and to a certain extent unreality.

Sometimes, when he and Bobby were bored of each other, or perhaps just
because he wanted to, Jay would come and sit with me as I worked. More
often than not he would lounge on a chair, book or magazine in hand, and do
nothing to disturb my concentration, beyond merely existing. Occasionally
even that was enough to stop me working altogether, and with the uttering
of our codeword in a sentence ('pond') he would slip away to some
pre-arranged location - it changed every day - and wait for me to come to
him. There, hidden away from prying eyes, we would make love. I preferred
to worship his boyhood on my knees, and he liked to allow me my release in
the deep crease of his behind, though never within, not there, not yet;
Bobby was small and thin, I was fat and long by comparison, too large for
comfort or enjoyment. He would grin and run his fingers through the sticky,
slimy mess with which I adorned him, and push his slender finger into his
behind just to tease me, or smear it around his rejuvenated spike and
shiver at the sensations. So it went on, day by day, exciting, unencumbered
by emotional baggage, sex for the sake of lust and a little love mixed in.

----

Jay buried his tear-streaked face in my shoulder and sobbed. I'd heard the
shouting match he'd had with his cousin, and moments later had found myself
with my arms full of a crying boy. For now there was little point enquiring
as to what had happened. Instead, I just rubbed his back, worried for him
but at the same time pleased that he felt close enough to me to rush into
my arms for comfort.

When he'd cried himself out he looked up at me with a pathetic expression.

"I'm sorry," he said, making to get down from my lap. I held him there,
though, both from enjoyment of the closeness and concern for his
well-being.

"What happened? Why were you and Bobby yelling at each other?"

"Because he's a dick."

"Why? I thought you guys got on really well."

"Yeah, well, so did I. But he's being a dick today."

"That's it, is it? He's just being a dick. Any specific dick-ish
behaviour?"

Jay paused for a moment, sighing heavily before he continued.

"I told him I didn't want to do stuff with him any more," he said.

"What, like playing with your cars and stuff?" I asked, just in case that's
what he meant. It wasn't, though.

"No, sex stuff, idiot," he replied with a cutting look.

"Why aren't you going to do it with him any more?"

"'Cause I'm doing with you instead!" he said, reaching down between his
legs to place a hand on my crotch. My heart jumped into my throat.

"You didn't tell him that, did you?"

"No, of course not. I just said I didn't want to do it with him."

"And he got angry with you?"

"Yep. He got real mad. Called me a stupid faggot. So I shouted at him that
if I'm gay then he is, too."

"Then what?"

"Well, that's kinda all I remember, until I was sitting here with you."

"Where is he now? Don't you think we should find him and make sure he's
OK?"

"Why? He's the one who was being a dick."

"Yes, mate, but he's still your friend. You ought to be worried that he's
alright."

"I guess."

----

He was in the garden, on a swing chair beneath the canopy of a big old
tree.

"What are we going to say to him?" Jay asked as we approached across the
lawn.

"I'm saying nothing," I said, stopping where I was. "It's up to you."

"But I have no idea what to say!"

"Just check he's OK, alright?" I said, turning to walk away. I found a spot
on a wall near the house and watched from a distance.

Bobby looked up when Jay was a few feet away, and there was an exchange of
words, culminating in Bobby moving up and making space for Jay to sit
down. They spoke for several minutes, sometimes in an animated fashion, and
at one point I noticed them both looking my way. By the end they were
laughing, and Jay gave Bobby a high five before walking back across the
lawn to where I was sitting. There was a big grin on his face.

"Well?" I asked.

"We're good," he replied, nonchalantly.

"What did you say to him?"

"Oh, this and that, you know."

"You're not going to tell me anything, are you?" I asked.

"Hey, Jack," he said, avoiding the question. "Wanna find somewhere so you
can suck my dick?"


Chapter 7

We were in an attic, another lost remnant of this vast house, full of
slightly mouldy packing boxes. Jay had chosen it as today's meeting
place. Thankfully there was an old mattress up there, which made our
coupling more comfortable, though the heat and humidity served to bathe us
both in sweat as we worked toward our pleasures.

I lay on my stomach between his outspread legs, gently suckling on his
steel-hard boyhood. I marvelled at the quality of erection he could achieve
and maintain, a spike as rigid as marble with a velvet skin able to glide
up and down its length. It fitted my mouth as if made to measure, the
little cherry on the end nudging the roof of my mouth each time his hips
gave a gentle upward thrust. It was a no-hurry day all round, and our
sometimes frantic lovemaking was shelved in favour of gentle
exploration. As was becoming a more frequent theme, Jay's mother was out of
town, which left us with the time and space to explore, with only Bobby to
be kept at bay.

I lifted my head out of his crotch, causing Jay to raise his head and open
his groggy eyes.

"Hey. Why'd you stop?" he asked.

"What does Bobby think you're doing when we're together like this?"

Jay shrugged. "Not sure."

"Do you think he suspects we're doing stuff? If he finds out, we could be
in serious trouble."

"Don't worry, he won't tell," Jay replied.

"And how do you know that?"

"Well, he kinda worked it out already. When I went to speak to him in the
garden - you remember that? - he told me he knew we were doing stuff, and
he was so mad he was going to tell mom."

My heart rate shot through the roof at that thought, but Jay seemed quite
calm.

"But then I told him I'd tell Talisa what me and him did before, and he
nearly shit himself."

It was beginning to become a little clearer. Talisa was Rose the
housekeeper's daughter, who sometimes appeared at the house. She was a year
younger than the boys, but already on her way to womanhood. I'd noted the
gentle curve of her backside on more than one occasion, but didn't harbour
any serious interest in her, especially with such a pliant boy as Jay to
keep me occupied. It was clear from what Jay said that Bobby was keen not
to put the girl off.

"He wants to get into her pants?" I asked.

"Yep!" Jay said with a grin. "I told him I would tell her about him
screwing my butt if he told about us, and he promised he never would."

"Just like that, huh?"

"Yeah. Well, kinda. I promised to help him try to get her, too."

"You better keep that promise, Jess. I don't want to be doing any jail time
just because of this little thing," I said, grasping his tool and flicking
my tongue over the exposed head of his boyhood. He gasped in pleasure and
dropped his head back onto the mattress, eyes closed and mouth agape. I
claimed it with my mouth once more, and urged him on to his peak with a
sharp, rhythmic bobbing of my head.

I loved the feel of his shaft kicking uselessly in my mouth as he got
there, the way his back arched, the shuddering from his muscles as they
tensed to their fullest, especially across his slender stomach where a
narrow ridge of muscles tapered toward his groin. But none of these things
was as wonderful as the expression of unbridled desire on his youthful
face, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream, eyes clamped shut as his
heels thundered on my back. Then, when the very zenith of pleasure had
passed, the slightest hint of a salty tang which passed for his fluids
sprayed into my mouth on the very last kick, same as always.

Then my release, as the now-sleepy, sweat-slicked boy rolled willingly onto
his stomach, allowing me to nestle gently in between the twin globes of his
narrow backside, to slide back and forth and eventually dress his lower
back with my adult offering. Each day I became more daring, pushed his
trust a little further. Each day I lingered when the tip of my shaft passed
over his pucker, sometimes pressing forward, other times simply teasing.

It was on this hot, humid day, with our bodies both already tacky with
drying sweat, that Jay finally relented. Or rather, I knocked at the door
and found it open, the interior mine to plunder should I desire. His hips
lifted as I pressed into him, and suddenly, with little drama and no
ceremony our bodies merged into one.

I did not surge into him with all of my strength. I did not become sheathed
to the hilt within his soft treasures. I managed all of two fingers' width
before he weakly protested, yet he allowed me to keep the territory I had
gained, and to use it for my pleasure. I took his compliance and used it to
best effect, making short work of meeting my own desire in the depths of
his behind, flooding it with happiness. He sighed as I slipped free, and
appeared to drop into an exhausted sleep. I tumbled down beside him, draped
an arm across his shoulders and drifted gently on a cloud of dreams, dreams
of boys and their energetic, selfless love.

----

David, for the third time in about an hour, laughed uproariously and
slapped me on the shoulder, in what I assumed was a friendly gesture. This,
then, was Jay's dad, quite the alpha male as his son had suggested. I was
never quite sure how David saw me, but as a threat to his dominion wasn't
even a possibility. He arrived one evening quite out of the blue, a month
late and unapologetic about it.

Jay's demeanour changed instantly, and our sex play stopped altogether
while his father was around. It was as if the sheer force of David's
masculinity turned him straight. Of course the reality was that Jay was
scared, and though sometimes it's important to stick up for yourself and be
who you are regardless of anything, at the age of 12 there are some fights
which are better delayed until you are old enough to cope with the
emotional battle scars.

I retreated into my work, the stories taking a darker twist now, fuelled by
my darker mood. The remainder of the household seemed to lift when David
arrived, but I took issue with his boorish stance and found myself
intensely disliking him. Jay, aside from the suppression of his burgeoning,
non-conforming sexuality, worshipped his father, and the two of them spent
many happy hours doing the sort of father-son things which wouldn't seem
out of place in a tourist brochure - going to baseball games, fishing for
enormous fish out at sea, and other wholesome pursuits. Bobby, of course,
was always close at hand, his idolisation of his uncle quite clear.

It was with some sense of relief that the two long, dragging weeks of
David's holiday finally passed.

----

He lay face-down beneath me, submissive, back arched, bottom in the
air. His blue eyes were squeezed tight shut, his mouth hanging open, little
'ah's emitted on each gentle undulation of my hips. He'd needed me as much
as I'd needed him, but been scared to seek me out, scared in case his
father found out. I didn't bother trying to explain that the situation for
me would be a great deal worse. Instead I accepted his submission, tenderly
making love to him now that I could, holding him close as I kissed the back
of his neck, gliding my fingertips over the smooth skin of his chest and
stomach, raising goosebumps as I went, until his hard little spike was
beneath my fingers, begging to be pulled away from its position tight up
against his stomach and toyed with to add to his pleasure. Fully half of my
length was accepted into him now, passion and practise combining to make
him more pliable than ever, more receptive to my manhood.

We moved in unison, flowing, feeling each other, floating along on a wave
of pleasure. There was no goal, no hunting for release, there was merely
the pleasure of the moment and the joy of the union between us. Some time
passed, but how much was impossible to say. My peak arrived, but so gently
that it was merely another moment in the union, my essence flowing into him
in one long stream. Unable to continue I fell to one side, dragging him to
me, hand snaking around and grabbing his spike, abusing it until he reached
a gasping, writhing peak, head pushed back against my shoulder as his back
arched in pained pleasure. I held him tightly to my front, inhaling the
scent of his hair, feeling his heart hammering in his chest, listening to
his panting breath, tasting the sweat in the crook of his neck and watching
his boyhood slowly return to its sleeping state.

When finally enough breath returned to his lungs, he spoke.

"It doesn't hurt any more. Thank you."


Chapter 8

Time. I've never really understood its passage, nor been able to track
it. A common affliction for the artistically inclined, so they say. Summer
days blended into each other; one long, hot, humid blur of writing
furiously and making love gently. And sometimes furiously, too. But time
had been working in the background, heedless of any lack of interest on my
part, and time had passed until there was no time left. No time for more
writing, no time for more sun, no time for more swimming in the freezing
pond, but most devastatingly of all, no time for making love to Jay.

With a suddenness which dropped a ball of molten lead into my stomach I
realised there were but a handful of days left before my return flight to
the UK. I tried to work out any way of extending my stay, and Martha
insisted that I do so if at all possible, unaware of my real drive for
doing so. She liked what I had written during my stay, wanted me to stay
longer and write more, said she might be able to put me in touch with a
friend who would be similarly interested, a friend in New York who could
pull a few strings. But there was nothing to be done. Daniel insisted that
I return to take meetings he had arranged for me in London, meetings which
apparently could not be conducted remotely, and so I complied, because I
could sense that my career hung on it.

It upset Jay in the way that a good friend leaving always upsets a young
boy. He became angry, not understanding why I could not stay. He shunned
me, forcing me out of his life before the last days were done. It pained me
that he did so, but I couldn't be angry with him, not with Jay. I cared for
him a little too much. Not loved, perhaps, not yet, but cared for a great
deal.

Only on the last night, as I sat alone in my room on my bed, surrounded by
the unpacked detritus of my months abroad, did he come to me, contrite,
apologetic, upset, demanding of love, physical love. We fucked on my bed,
he on top, face in the crook of my neck, biting down on me as he forced me
further inside than ever before, until there was no more forcing to do. He
sat up then, triumphant but unsmiling, his boyhood a shrivelled flap of
skin, unresponsive to my touch. He stared into my eyes as he began to
gently oscillate above me, until the sensations at his waist grew too
great, and those ice blue eyes fluttered closed. He made love to me, even
though it was my shaft buried in his behind. He controlled the pace, the
tempo, my pleasure. He owned me, deciding when I would be allowed to reach
my peak, and how intense it would be.

As he climbed free of me, having received my sacrifice, he shunned my
attempts to pleasure him and lay down with him back to me, pulling my arms
tight around his body. That night, for the first and last time we slept
together.

----

Delivery Failure Notification: message returned to sender. Reason: the
address could not be found.

I stared at the screen, unable, or perhaps unwilling to comprehend. It was,
judging by the undelivered emails in my inbox, the nineteenth time I had
tried to send an email to Jay. I wanted to scream, or cry, or thump the
damned machine. Anything but sit here futilely staring at that same
message. I'd gone through the obvious, checked and rechecked the address
scrawled on a scrap of newspaper, hastily shoved into my hand as I was
leaving their house. I'd substituted the oh's for zeroes; no luck. Tried
the same user name at a different domain, but that hadn't worked either.

If only I'd thought about it ahead of time I could have tested the address,
made sure I could get through to him. But no, instead I overslept, had to
rush to gather my things, and ran out to where the taxi waited to whisk me
off to the airport. Perhaps it was better that way - no long, drawn out
goodbyes, no chance of Martha seeing quite how upset I was to be leaving
her son, or her son's reaction. It was just a simple departure, my parting
gift for Martha hastily handed over, not even wrapped, and a quick, chaste
hug for Jay, who somehow kept from crying though I could see that he
desperately wanted to do so.

Now we were separated by thousands of miles and an email address which
didn't work. I spent frantic hours trying to find some sign of him on the
internet, but to no avail. He could not be traced. I even tried to get
Martha's details from Daniel, thinking there might be a way to get her to
pass a message on without being obvious, but he claimed never to have met
her, and I believed him.

I thumped my hand down on the table. When the pain had subsided, I gently
stroked and apologised to the antique oak surface.

----

A grey morning to be out and about in London. I met Daniel for breakfast,
his enthusiasm for my latest work still undimmed, his admonition that it
really needed to be tidied up and published ringing in my ears. I hardly
listened to him, agreed a date to deliver, and promptly forgot it as soon
as he had left the cafe.

I took a wander around to the museum. The place where I had first spied Jay
all that time ago, before remarkable coincidence brought him into my life
one more, all those months later. It reminded me of him, and highlighted
how empty my world was without him. Kids ran around the various halls,
making a thunderous commotion, happy to be in here rather than out in the
dank, cold city beyond the walls.

I paid little heed to them, not even to the rather feminine boy who shyly
returned my smile. Cute enough, I suppose. Just not... well, Jay.


Epilogue

As the first flakes drifted down out of a leaden sky, I smiled to myself,
probably the first lightening of my features in months. I was still here,
stuck in this grey metropolis, feeling it like a cage around myself. Yet,
for the first time in years I had reason to be thankful, at least where my
career was concerned. My summer's work was, it seemed, in some considerable
demand. The series of short stories I had written whilst love was foremost
in my mind had really taken the fancy of a publisher in New York, and so
here I was. I'd given up the lease on my flat in London, and had all my
possessions moved into storage. I was here indefinitely, starting with
Christmas and seeing where I went after that.

And now it was Christmas. Or at least, the Christmas season. The Holiday
Season, it was called. I tried but failed to protest against the name. New
York was freezing, and now, on the 18th day of December, seven days before
what was usually my favourite day of the year, I was going to a party and
it was snowing. Somehow this felt right, as if I'd slipped into a movie and
was simply following the lines of the plot.

I stepped out into the swirling maelstrom, surprised by the totality with
which the storm had engulfed the city in a few short hours. Darkness had
descended like a huge hand over the tower blocks, snuffing out light and
spawning shadows at each turn. Lights flickered unexpectedly to life only a
few hours after they had ceased burning. I felt strangely lifted by the
darkness, given a purpose and an ill intent, a stalker in the night, a
secret agent on my way to a clandestine rendezvous.

My moment was ruined as the first cold trickles of melted snow invaded the
warm cocoon of my utterly inadequate shoes. Cursing loudly enough to
justify the cold stare I was given by a passer-by, I shook the snow from my
hair and looked desperately around for a taxi. My saviour came in blessedly
short time, and through a hole wiped clean on the misted window I watched
the city glide by, blurry, distorted.

The party was part business, part social. I liked Matt Piezovski, the
publisher, and so I was pleased to be invited to his 'little do'. I knew,
though, that there would be plenty of opportunities to speak to people I
really rather needed to speak to. I'd never been particularly astute when
it came to business, but one thing I did understand was the traditional
maxim 'it's not what you know, it's who you know'. But mostly I was going
there for the enjoyment of the occasion. Madeleine Atkins, that beautiful
author with whom I'd shared the tour which kick-started this whole phase of
my life would also be attending, and I looked forward to catching up with
her and renewing our friendly rivalry.

I was impressed the second I passed through the door and into his
apartment. My coat was taken by a charming young man, and in its place
appeared a glass of champagne. Not at all what I expected from a Christmas
party, and another reason to love this city.

Matt was on dazzling form, breaking off from a conversation to immediately
dance his way through the already crowded room and greet me with a
bear-hug, his favourite way to say 'hello' since we'd started doing
business. I was immediately dragged through the crowd to talk to someone -
I don't remember who - and then the whirlwind evening began.

I had fun, actually. In fact I enjoyed myself immensely, and somehow skated
that fine line between sobriety and inebriation. The people there were
fantastic, and I made several contacts I maintain to this day. As two in
the morning rolled round, I found myself wondering where the time had
possibly gone.

I slumped heavily into a beautifully designed but thoroughly uncomfortable
chair and stared at a wall of photos. I was, if truth be told, a little
drunker than I wanted to be just at that very moment, and needed a pause to
compose myself. I was getting loud, and it wouldn't do to be louder than
Matt. And besides, someone had asked about the inspiration for my short
stories, and I was a hair's breadth from telling them the truth before my
survival instincts kicked in and diverted my mouth elsewhere. But it was
too close a call. Memories of the time had flooded my head, clouding my
emotions. It hurt to think of what I had surrendered at the end of summer,
the recall what I had walked away from.

Suddenly I was jolted to attention, the feelings of insobriety washed from
me in an instant. There he was. There was Jay. My god, he was everywhere!
Not in all of the photos, but enough of them to thoroughly freak me
out. What on Earth was he doing in all those photos on Matt's wall? And
there, I realised, was Martha, too. Martha and Jay, smiling and
laughing. And David, and Bobby.  I sat dumbfounded, and barely noticed
Matt's arrival on the other chair.

"Great party, huh?" he asked, thumping me on the shoulder.

"Sorry?" I asked, turning to him.

"You OK, buddy?"

"Yeah, sorry Matt, just zoned out there for a moment."

"Zoned out, huh?"

His gaze travelled to the wall of pictures, and I felt my stomach lurch
with guilty fear.

"Oh, I see..." he said, voice full - I thought - of accusation. Oh God,
what have I done?

"Must be hard for you," he went on, "being stuck out here without any
family at this time of year."

I nodded, thankful that he seemed to have misinterpreted my interest in the
pictures.

"Look, Jack, I like you, buddy. I think you're one of the good guys. Why
don't you come spend the holidays with me and my family, yeah? That," he
said, pointing to a portrait of Martha, "is my big sister, Martha, and
that's her husband David, and their boy Jay. She has a great little place
down in Florida where we go this time every year. Why don't you come with
us and see them, huh? Get a bit of family time?"

I nodded dumbly, and fell off the chair.



Zack Mack (zackmcnaught@hotmail.com :: www.asstr.org/~zack/ :: @zackmcnaught)