Date: Tue, 14 Feb 2006 16:46:06 +0000 (GMT)
From: Nathan Marks <nathan7new@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: James Chapter 11

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This story contains material of a sexual nature and describes sexual acts
between adults and children. If you find this kind of material offensive,
if you are under the legal age to read such material or if it is illegal
in your country, please do not read any further.

My stories may contain some factual or autobiographical elements, but
they are works of fiction and any apparent similarities of my characters
to real people are not intended.

This story is protected by copyright. It may not be downloaded, copied,
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enjoyment and may not be changed in any way without express written
consent of the author, me!

I hope you enjoy this story.


James: Chapter 11


Tom had always enjoyed watching these entertainers and was engrossed in the
show. Not for one moment did he worry about where James was. Not being a
parent, he had never had the worry of a small child wondering off
somewhere, causing panic in all the adults looking for the child. As the
magician finished and crowd began to disperse, Tom began to look for
James. He was somewhere in the centre and as people were moving in to
opposite direction, initially it made it impossible to move towards where
he though James should be, so he just stood and waited for the boy to come
to him. After a few minutes there were enough gaps for James to get
through. Tom peered between the remnants of the crown, but couldn't see
James anywhere. He began to pick his way through, constantly turning his
head both ways in case James was moving away out on another parallel
course. Once he reached the centre of the plaza, he turned 360 degrees, but
could not see James anywhere. He saw a few boys around the same age, and
once though he saw James, but when the boy turned, it was not. Now he was
concerned. Had James wandered off in the wrong direction? Tome walked
slowly round the edge of the plaza, but still couldn't see him. He walked
back along the central walkway to the other plaza, but still no sign of the
boy. He saw a sign for toilets and wondered if, perhaps, James had needed
the toilet. He went down the stone steps, passing a couple of men making
their way out of the public convenience. When he reached the bottom the
smell of urine and bleach hit him. He felt that slight bleach burn in the
back of his throat. He hated public loos. He could never go when he went
into them anyway, so he avoided them. He saw that there was no one standing
at the urinals, so he checked the stalls. They were all empty.

The bleach, the smell and a rising panic brought a foul bile to his
throat. He swallowed hard, covered his nose and ran back up to the
plaza. Where the fuck was he? For the first time, he acknowledged the
though that was now creeping into his mind: James had run away again! Shit!
He had got scared and run. It had to be. What else could have happened? He
wandered around the outside of Covent Garden, past the Opera House and back
down the other side. Nowhere, nothing, nada. Over and over in his mind he
rehearsed their day, his mistakes, how he might have gone too far and
scared the boy, but all had seemed fine this afternoon. They were having
fun. James had liked the music, the entertainers and even lunch at the
café. They had talked, laughed and joked together. Shit. He walked out into
St.Martins Lane and down towards Trafalgar Square. There were a lot of
people in the Square, tourist mainly, but nowhere could he see James. He
wended his way diagonally across the Square and then back along the bottom
towards Charring Cross. Familiar territory. The Station was busy, but no
James. The photo-booth was empty. The underground station also proved
fruitless. He went through a tunnel that brought him up on the opposite
side of the road to the Station itself and walked away from Trafalgar along
the Strand. Still nothing. He was now kicking himself, convinced that his
actions had been responsible for him loosing the boy. He increased his
speed, walking to the end of the Strand. The he turned left up Wellington
Street and headed back towards Covent Garden, hoping that he had just
missed the boy and that James would be there searching for him.

By the time Tom had searched Covent Garden for the third time it was
starting to get dark. He had covered all the ground between The Strand and
Long Acre, Wellington Street and Trafalgar. Short of searching the whole
West end, what else could he do? Go to the Police? Oh Yeah! 'Excuse me
Officer; I'm looking for a runaway child I picked up off the street and
abused for two days. Can you help me?' Certain to get arrested if he asked
for help. There was no way he could explain the last two days to anyone. He
wandered Along Shaftsbury, turned left and zigzagged his way to Oxford
Street, all the time hoping against hope that he would see James. He
didn't, but he did see a Policeman on every corner and was constantly
expecting them to grab him and arrest him. He headed home feeling suicidal.
What had he done? Would the boy go to the Police? What would happen to Tom
if James did go to the police? Shit! How stupid had he been?  How long did
you get for child abuse? That pervert on the news got 18 months just for
looking at pictures of kids, so how long did you get for actually abusing a
kid? Shit! Fuck! Fuckin' kid!  He rubbed his hand across his face. He was
totally stressed. Walking up great Portland Street, he didn't even notice
that he'd reached his own front door till he had passed it. He turned and
swiped his key-card. The lift took ages so, for the first time in weeks, he
walked up the stairs. He opened his door and headed straight for the
kitchen. He poured himself a straight vodka and downed it in one. He poured
another and took it through to the media lounge, where he flopped onto the
sofa, the same sofa he had shared with the child only this
morning. Shit. He rubbed his forehead and temples. He had a blinder of a
headache setting in. Guilt, fear, foreboding; he didn't know which was
worse. This was a nightmare. He finished his drink and fetched the bottle
through to refresh his glass, but didn't even bother with the glass. He
upended the bottle and swallowed as much as he could before he had to come
up for air. Half a bottle left. Would that be enough to get plastered? He
had a bottle of Scotch left over from Christmas if not.

James had sat for what seemed like hours. He was hiding and there was no
sense in running around London, just hoping he wouldn't bump into Tom. He
figured it was better to sit still and let tom do the running around. Would
he? Would he even bother? James' eyes welled up. He wiped a dirty hand
across his face, unwittingly smearing some dirt across his cheek. The
abandon he had felt over loosing his mother was now compounded by loosing
another home. It wasn't that he hated Tom; just that he didn't trust
him. The more he thought about it, the more angry he got; angry at himself
for his own weakness and vulnerability and angry at Tom for taking
advantage of him. And yes, dammed angry that he still liked Tom and had
actually enjoyed some of the stuff he had done with him. It was confusing
and James was now tired too. He sat and cried. Eventually he managed to
drift off to sleep, but cramped and cold, he soon woke again. After a few
hours he decided he needed to move to get warm, so he stood, stretched out
his limbs and peered round the corner into the street. Across the road was
a theatre and on the opposite side of the road was another. In fact, as he
looked down the road, there seemed to be loads of them: a road of
theatres. He looked up and saw a street nameplate: Shaftsbury avenue. It
was getting dark now and as he slowly wandered down the road he paused to
read the show posters. Some of the names of the stars he recognised from
films or TV, but this was more real, this was here, now. He was amazed at
how many shows there were right here in London. He walked the complete
length of Shaftsbury, ending up outside a MacDonald's Restaurant, just a
few yards from Piccadilly Circus. He stood looking through the window and
realised how hungry he was. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the
few coins he had purloined that afternoon. That wasn't going to get him
far, but it would get him something now.

He walked up to the counter and bought himself a cheeseburger. He took it,
wrapped in paper from the teenage girl behind the counter and gave her a
pound coin. She smiled sweetly at him and gave him his change. Why do girls
smile at me like that, he wondered? The restaurant was busy so went down
stairs and looked around there. He found a seat at an empty table and
opened the paper, as he did he saw that his hands were filthy. He had put
them down when he sat on the ground in Covent Garden and in the alley.
Well, tough. He was too hungry to care. He took a huge bite out of it and
the taste of the cheese immediately hit his taste buds. That familiar taste
he loved. He chewed and swallowed and took another bite. Five bites and it
was gone. It had tasted good, but he still felt hungry. He sat for a few
minutes, wondering what he would do for food?  Where would he sleep? Was
anyone still looking for him? His face changed from relief at the food to
despair at the reality of his situation. He took the remaining coins from
his pocket and placed them on the table in front of him. If he had nothing
else to day, (after all he had had breakfast, lunch and now a burger), and
just ate a couple of things each day he would have enough for two and a
half days. No, that didn't leave anything for a drink, so that was just one
and a half days. Bloody hell! What a shit situation. Where could he get
food or money? A deep frown settled across his brow. He sat contemplating
how he could possibly survive by himself. You hear about street people and
kids surviving by themselves, so it must be possible, but how? He was
unaware of the attention he was attracting.

Also in the lower seating area were a couple of mature gentlemen. One,
sitting just behind James, was dressed in a smart business suit with grey
hair and an expensive leather briefcase. The other sat over the isle, near
the door to the toilets. He wore a green parker and jeans. What they both
had in common was their lusts for young boys. This MacDonalds' was
notorious amongst the local rentboys as a place where men brought their
boys, to meet in the semi-privacy of the gent's toilets. They both sat,
salivating over the gorgeous you blond that had wandered into their
territory. They knew each other by sight. They had never spoken to each
other, but had seen each other go into the toilets with their young friends
and rentboys. Their eyes flicked from watching the boy to watching each
other. They were trying to assess whether this young lad was available,
whilst assessing whether the other was going to make a move. It was a game
they played on the rare occasions they both happened in at the same time.

James finished his burger and stood up. There was no sense in just sitting
here, so he walked back up the stairs and out onto Shaftsbury Avenue and
turned right, towards Piccadilly Circus. About fifty yards further down the
road, he passed three young teenage boys leaning against the bus shelter.
They were laughing and joking with each other. James thought that they
wouldn't be so happy if they had had the last few days he had gone through.
They probably had homes to go to and no one was abusing them. Then he
thought about what he had done with Tom; about how, though some of it was
sick and scary, when Tom had wanked or sucked his dick, it had made him
feel brilliant. It was still confusing. Then his mum came into his head and
he felt guilty for liking the things he had done. He decided he's never
wank again, but, deep inside, knew it was a vow he would break.

Traffic was flowing fast through Piccadilly Circus. He crossed at the
lights and wandered over to the statue of Eros. He couldn't remember coming
here with his mum. He wondered how far he'd wandered. Sitting on the steps
around the base of the statue were about a dozen or so boys from twelve to
their early twenties. Many seemed to be together, or at least, to know each
other.  He sat down between two older boys and leaned back, closing his
eyes to the evening, to the world. He could still hear the noise of the
traffic and the idle chatter of the boys around him. One boy was describing
how he had given some 'old bastard' a blowjob and got money for it, but not
as much as he would have liked. He listened to their descriptions of their
sexual encounters for money. This was an education. So the things he had
done with Tom, the things Tom had wanted to do, these boys had done and
more, if their bragging were to be believed. He opened his eyes and stared
at one of the teens who was describing his own sexual encounter in detail.
It was gross! He sat for a while longer and listened to their
conversations. They ignored him. No one knew him, he was quiet and didn't
bother him, so they didn't bother him. He saw some of them go off with men
and even a couple of them went off with women. He guessed, from their
conversations, what they were going to do. He didn't know if he was
repulsed or excited by this knew knowledge.

He stood and wandered over to a tourist information board. It showed a map
of central London. Each of the main tourist sights circles and labelled.
After examining it for a few minutes he decided to move on again. He walked
back across the road and up a side street, turning right at the top. He
wandered aimlessly, thinking about what he had just heard. Did all boys and
men eventually engage in sexual activity together?  Wank, suck, fuck each
other? Was it just little of boys who thought it was gay and all men did it
anyway? How would he know, he didn't have a dad. What if it was dads that
taught their sons the truth? No, that was gross! As he wandered up Brewer
Street, he began to see shops with 'XXX' signs in their windows. 'Adult
Videos' was another sign. There were a lot with blanked out windows and
some that had displays of leather and women's fancy underwear. He didn't
realise where he was, but he had now wandered into Soho, London's bohemian
red light district; full of sex shops, strip clubs, jazz venues and trendy
cafés.  When He reached Rupert Street, he saw a number of women and some
who looked like man dressed as women, asking passing men if they wanted any
'business'. He hadn't got a clue what business the men would have with
these women. Some of them were pretty, but most looked tired or even
ill. One saw him looking at her and reached out a hand as he passed,
stroking his chin.

"Just a bit too young, sweetie. Come back in a couple of years and I'll
give you a freebie." She and a couple of other women near her laughed.

"Hmm, honey. What a heartbreaker you're going to be." A second woman said,
and then she blew him a kiss. "You come back and be my knight in shining
armour, you hear." She was very dark skinned woman, with shiny scarlet
lipstick and deep purple eye makeup. They were friendly and funny. Again,
these women seemed to like him, just like the waitress and the girl in
MacDonalds'.

He wandered away again and along Old Compton Street. It was now dark and
the tables on the pavements (sidewalks) were heated by canopied gas
heaters. People were sitting drinking or discussing their lives with each
other. Some were in suits and fancy dresses, having been to the theatres.
All had some one to talk to and somewhere to go home to. He wandered up and
down the side streets, watching people going in and out of the clubs.
Occasionally some stared back at him, wondering what a young child was
doing out this late, but most had seen street children before and avoided
even acknowledging his existence in case he asked for money. Begging was a
nuisance that seemed to have increased along with the number of asylum
seekers.

He started thinking about where he might sleep, but had no idea. He checked
doorways and alleys, but they all seemed damp and cold. He was starting to
get scared. Today had been an adventure, but so far, he had not really
spent a night on the streets. Tonight would be his first. What if he was
murdered or raped? You heard about things like that on TV. He needed to
find somewhere warm, but where. He yawned and stretched. He hadn't realised
how tired he was, but now he was thinking about it, the tiredness came over
him in waves. He turned into Greek Street and saw that there were less
shops and clubs here. Many of the buildings could have been offices or even
homes. He walked all the way up and into Soho Square. He walked around the
Square and back into Greek Street. This area was quieter and seemed posher
than some he had walked through. Near the top, a few of them had steps
leading down to basements, some of which had their own doors and even had
lights on. He tried a few that weren't lit up. The third one had no
door. There was a passage under the building and near the rear were three
doors. The first two were locked, but the third opened inwards into the
dark. He stood for a moment, listening, waiting for his eyes to adjust. It
seemed to be some kind of store. Thee were a few empty cardboard boxes
scattered around and some old hessian sacks. He broke down a few boxes and
laid them flat on top of each other, making a rough mattress. He sorted
through the sacks. Some of them were really smelly, but some of them were
ok. He pulled the better ones over the cardboard and lay down in between
them.  It wasn't brilliant, but it was better than a night literally on a
street somewhere. His mind kept searching through everything that had
happened, desperately trying to find a solution, some answers, a plan. He
was shattered and although he was still scared, worried and had no idea
what he would do tomorrow, tiredness eventually won and the child drifted
of into a fitful, but much needed, sleep.

More to come...