Date: Thu, 06 May 1999 11:07:40 BST
From: Michael Gouda <stachys@eurobell.co.uk>
Subject: On the Game

ON THE GAME

Easter 1

"Sodom and Gomorrah," roared Chief Inspector Newman from inside his Sanctum
Sanctorum.

In her own, somewhat smaller, less well-appointed office, Inspector Petra
Wilkes raised her eyes despairingly to the ceiling. Newman, she thought,
must have found the Lucas Dexter file - and she'd purposefully placed it as
near to the bottom  of the pile as she conveniently could - without making
it too obvious.

"Sodom and fucking Gomorrah." Again the air reverberated with lusty
expletives.

Obviously Newman must have been in a hurry to get onto the golf-course this
afternoon and had rushed through the files without his usual nit-picking
concentration on minor infringements of the English language. She counted to
twenty. It was usually all it took.

"Wilkes," came the expected bellow, dead on time. They had an intercom
between the two offices but Newman rarely used it. Of course he would have
considered it an appalling breach of protocol if Inspector Newman didn't
pass on her own messages to him via the electronic office communication
system.

She went in. C.I. Newman was sitting in his comfortable chair, his face red
with unsuppressed anger, his over-weight body encased in what always seemed
to be a size-too-small uniform. He didn't allow her to shut the door behind
her before he was waving a file in her direction.

"What's this?" he demanded, his jowls wobbling.

"The Lucas Dexter file, sir?" she hazarded.

"It's been turned down by the DPP!" Accusingly as if it was her fault.

Each case had to be referred to the Director of Public Prosecutions before
being taken to court. Only those that stood a good chance of success were in
fact allowed to proceed.

"Yes, sir," said Wilkes. "I'm afraid they considered the case only had a
slim chance."

"But the guy's been selling his bum all over Feltenham - and he's a minor.
What do they call them? Tenant boys?"

"Rent boys," said Wilkes. "The current thinking is that underage prostitutes
of whatever gender need help rather than punishment. If anything it's the
punters and the pimps who need charging."

"But we've got his pimp," shouted Newman. "This Nick Warren guy, and we
caught the punter, actually taking the kid into his car. Queer as a ten
dollar bill."

Ignoring the fact that a ten dollar bill is quite legal tender in the US of
A, Inspector Wilkes tried to look sympathetic. "Unfortunately, sir, the boy,
Lucas, refuses to give evidence against Warren and as for the punter, well
he denies everything of course. Says he had just stopped to give the kid a
lift into town. And Lucas says that was what happened."

"So what do we have to do. Catch them with their pricks up his arse before
we can get them to court. We used to use a pretty copper to hang out in the
Public lavatories and then, when these cock-sucking shirt-lifters got down
to the job, we'd have 'em."

"I'm afraid those days are long past," said Wilkes, secretly glad. "That
sort of provocation isn't allowed any more."

"Who said?" asked Newman belligerently, his face reddening again.

One of these days he'll have a heart attack, thought Inspector Wilkes
disloyally, and then the world - and Feltenham Police Force - will be a
better place. Her face though showed none of this as she answered his
question. "Well, sir, if you remember, the Chief Constable did only last
week while answering questions on TV. You know there was that case in
America where a pop star got caught with a policeman and said he had been
solicited by him. The C.C. said it wouldn't have happened over here."

"Oh, the Chief Constable," said Newman dismissively. "As if he knows
anything about it." Then, perhaps realising the last remark had not been the
wisest thing to say and that Wilkes might perhaps broadcast it around,
eventually finding its way back to the Chief Constable himself, added, "Of
course he has to say that. Politically correct and all that. Not blaming him
of course."

Petra Wilkes waited.

"So they'll all get away with it?" continued Newman after a pause. "The
town's turning into a breeding ground of filth and degradation! Where's
morality? Where's decency, integrity, virtue? Who's left to uphold the
standards of . . . " he groped around trying to find a word which he hadn't
already used " . . . of er . . . chastity." It sounded vaguely old-fashioned
and inept.

More waiting. She knew Newman would soon run out of steam and remember his
golf appointment. Then she could file away the evidence and, God willing, he
would have forgotten about it by the morning.

"We need someone who can get in there. With those perverts. Find out what
makes them tick." It was unusual but sometimes it happened. C.I. Newman had
an idea. "What's the name of that Sergeant chappie? Bum-stabber himself.
Used to work here until we got rid of the man?"

Inspector Wilkes knew immediately whom he was talking about. She had liked
Keith, had been sorry when he had left.

"Hatch, sir. With the Gay Liaison Force in London?"

"That's the fellow. Get him down here. He'll know where the filth is. He'll
sort it out."

4 Months Earlier

A piece of newspaper, blown by the gritty November wind, wrapped itself
round his legs. Lucas Dexter peeled it off, screwed it into a ball and threw
it into the night. On second thoughts he wondered whether it might have been
more sensible to keep it as some more insulation against the cold. First
night without a roof over his head.

"You're brainless. You're stupid. You're lying. You're no son of mine." His
father had shouted, each accusation punctuated by a blow to his head.

"I'm not stupid. I ain't lying," he had protested, arms futilely trying to
protect himself and the tears had come without him wanting them - a sixteen
year old doesn't cry.

The darkness was his blanket and in the wind came the first spots of rain.
He'd have to find some shelter somewhere. A shop doorway?

"Please, George . . . " a faltering appeal from his mother, glancing from
one to the other.

"I've had enough. He'll not spend another night here."

"But where will he go?"

"I don't give a fuck! Glue-sniffing! Thieving! Christ knows what else. Get
out! Get fucking out!"

"He's only sixteen . . . "

Nowhere to go except to the big town. And now here, with just a few
late-night leftovers from the pubs still wandering the streets, what to do?
Where to go? A shop doorway to try to escape from that bitter wind? Lucas
shivered, his pullover, jeans and thin coat offering inadequate protection.

His father's accusations had been non-stop. The boy was aggressive, answered
back, swore at his mother, skived off from school, stayed out all the time,
no one knew where he got to. "Right, if this place isn't good enough for
you, then you can fucking leave."

He'd gone upstairs to the tiny room which was the only part of the house
which he'd really considered his own. It wasn't much and when he really
looked at it, the only things that made it personal were a few posters of
pop stars on the wall. He tore them down and left the screwed up remains on
the floor. He didn't want to leave anything that reminded them of him. He
shoved some clothes into a rucksack. Shit, if he only hadn't spent his last
few quid on cigarettes. He was hungry already.

His stomach felt empty but fright seemed to have stemmed some of the worst
pangs. Tomorrow he would have to think about how to get food. First he had
to get through the night. A distant striking from some church clock had told
him it was midnight. He passed a shop doorway but there was a dark figure
curled up inside. But two shops later he found an empty one and squatted
down. The step was hard under his buttocks and the wall uncomfortable
against his back. He arranged the rucksack so that it filled in the gap
between his body and the stonework. He knew he'd never sleep.

But he was wrong. Even with the cold, the discomfort, the unfamiliar,
frightening surroundings he dozed off and woke only when the morning light
touched him, stiff and aching, every limb seemingly protesting at the
treatment it had received, his head throbbing, his stomach empty.

A new day . . .

Easter 2

"I don't believe it," said Keith Hatch on the Monday evening. "Newman wants
me down at Feltenham again. Not that I'm complaining all that much. It'll
give me a chance to see Alan of course. But I don't want to leave you alone.
Not now you've started this new course at College."

"What's it this time?" asked Phil. "Another case he can't sort out on his
own?"

"Something about rent-boys. The message was confused. Apparently his chaps
arrested one but the trial fell through. I think he wants me to get to know
them."

Phil pretended to look concerned. "I don't want you getting to know
rent-boys," he said, sticking his arse out in a parody of sexual invitation.
"Fancy a nice time, luv?" Then he changed, "I always fancied being one
myself but didn't think I was pretty enough. I bet they're really tempting." 

"Not necessarily - if female prostitutes are anything to go by - just
available. That's their attraction."

"Well," said Phil decisively, "I don't want you down there on your own. I'm
coming with you."

"Oh come on, you can't mean that," said Keith. "College isn't like your old
shelf-filling job that you can give up when you feel like it and get another
when the shekels run short. I thought you'd really got into this studying
thing, once you got over the initial shock." He  sounded disappointed as if
Phil was letting him down.

Phil looked at his lover with a sort of profound sympathy. "Darling," he
said, "I'm at College. It's a bit like school and we have holidays . . .
called vacations. It's Easter. Three weeks off. I was going to get a
temporary job but I'll take a week off, need it after all the work I've done
this term."

Keith's anxious look cleared.

Phil continued, "So I'll come down with you, shag the living daylights out
of you morning noon and night so that you're too knackered to want to touch
even the most seductive hustler in the whole of Britain."

Keith kissed him on the lips

"Or the world," said Phil, effecting an escape for a second from the
insistent lips.

"Or the Universe," he managed, before he was again imprisoned by that warm
demanding mouth and the tongue that probed inside and seemed intent on
performing a tonsillectomy without anaesthetic. 

"I think we've already started the shagging."

3 Months Earlier

Lucas had made it through the month. The first week of course had been the
worst. Hungry most of the time, even reduced to searching through rubbish
bins looking for the discarded remains of take-aways. But he'd seen the
others, how they took a pitch in the High Street, some with dogs which
presumably made the animal-loving passerby more susceptible to generosity, a
receptacle in front, perhaps a scrawled notice broadcasting their plight.
And he'd learned from them, found he could scratch a precarious living from
begging, washing daily in the public lavatories - even hot water there.
Sometimes he even got enough money for a MacDonalds though chips from the
'Fisheria' were cheaper, filling if not the ideal health diet.

He had noticed a spattering of pustules developing on his face and bought
some oranges to supplement his diet. His hair grew long and rather sticky -
the liquid soap provided in the lavatories - didn't seem all that effective
as a conditioner. His face, he noticed in the smudged and distorting metal
mirror, seemed thinner, his eyes larger and anxious. His clothes, purchased
originally more for fashion than durability were degenerating, the material
at knee and buttock growing thin. What he would do when they developed holes
he had no idea.

He signed on at the Social Security, giving a false name and adding a year
to his real age, but without adequate records - obviously there were none
for this 'false' person - money was slow in coming. The small amount he did
get came from his begging.

He developed a certain look, what he thought to himself as a beguiling,
beseeching expression which, he found, worked particularly well on the older
women, but as they only dropped twenty pence pieces (at the most) into his
box, he didn't make too much from them. He had scrawled a deliberately
mis-spelled notice 'COODENT AFORD BREKFUST' and propped this up in front of
him, but it was still a long, boring day and most of the time he spent
gazing into the middle distance, often torturing himself with thoughts of a
slap-up meal, a roast beef, singed on the outside and pink inside, crisp,
golden-brown roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, light as air, sweet green
peas and a thick savoury gravy. Perhaps best of all, he fantasised about a
comfortable bed with clean sheets and a soft, soft mattress.

One evening a group of teenagers swore at him and, when he answered in
similar vein, set on him, punched him in the stomach, kicked him as he lay
there and went off with his day's money. That day he didn't eat - in fact
didn't feel like eating - and worried when he found himself bleeding when he
went for a shit. He wondered whether to go to the Casualty Department of the
Hospital but didn't know whether it was allowed without seeing a doctor
first - and of course he didn't have one of those. But in a few days he
healed and determined never to stay on the High Street after dark even
though at this time of year there were many people still out and about in
the evenings. It was approaching Christmas and the streets were decorated
with green and scarlet lights and illuminated representations of the Merry
Old Gentleman with white beards and sacks on their backs. There was a rumour
that on Christmas Day a charitable organisation would distribute a special
Christmas meal to the homeless. One meal a year, thought Lucas cynically.

On the third day of the second month he met Nick Warren.

It had been a particularly cold December. That day there were flurries of
snow-flakes in the air though it hadn't got to the stage of settling. Lucas
was wearing all the clothes he possessed but still felt cold. His trainers
had split down the side just above the sole and he had tied a piece of
string around it - but it didn't make much difference. Soon a new pair would
be essential and he had no idea how he would get them?

He was worrying about this problem when he noticed a young man standing some
yards away but obviously looking in his direction. At first he wondered
whether he was a plain clothes policeman, come to move him on, but the
expression on the man's face seemed to be one of interest rather than police
interference.

The man approached. Lucas noticed his dark eyebrows, his black hair,
springing from his forehead, the smile - or was it a sneer -  the lithe,
confident almost arrogant way he walked. The suit he was wearing looked
expensive, the grey tie, discreet against his white shirt. As he got closer
the man felt inside his jacket for his wallet and produced a 10 Pound note.

"What would you buy," he asked, holding it in front of Lucas, "if I put this
in your box?"

Lucas looked appreciative. It was more than he'd made all day. "Good meal,
mistah," he said, putting on that look he had practised.

"Not spend it on drugs?"

"Don't do drugs, mistah," said Lucas automatically. "It's a mugs' game."

"And I bet you don't normally talk like that," said the man. "Nor have that
stupid expression on your face.

For a moment Lucas was angry but then a tenner was a tenner. He nodded.
"Sorry," he said in his natural voice. "It's what they expect."

The man dropped the note into the box and then opened his wallet again. He
took out and carefully counted five twenty pound notes. "And what," he said,
"would you do for this?"

A hundred quid. He could buy some shoes, another pair of jeans, even perhaps
a thicker coat. But Lucas wasn't a complete fool. He looked wary. "What do
you mean?" he asked. "What would I have to do?"

The man tucked the money back into his wallet. "Come and have something to
eat," he said. "No need to get alarmed. We'll talk about it over a Burger or
something."

They sat opposite each other in the BurgerBar and Lucas wolfed down a Double
Ham'n'Cheese with fries and a milk shake. The man sipped at a coffee,
watching him. It was mid-morning and the place was half empty. Their talk
was private.

"The name's Nick," said the man.

"Lucas."

"OK," said Nick, smiling - which made his face even more attractive. He
narrowed his eyes, looked serious. "So, Lucas, how long have you been on the
streets?"

"Just over a month."

"And how have you been getting on?"

Lucas took another bite and chewed. "So-so," he said warily. "Some days I
make enough."

"Enough for new shoes?" asked the man. He had obviously noticed as, at the
moment, they were tucked out of sight under the table. "Enough for a bed for
the night? Enough for regular meals?" He looked at Lucas munching hungrily
on the bun, attacking the fries, washing it down with the shake.

Lucas shook his head.

"You're not a bad looking kid," said Nick. "You need a wash, your hair needs
cutting, some new clothes." He paused. "You could be earning five hundred
quid a week - easy. Maybe more. Yes five hundred . . ."

He let the words hang in the air. Lucas' mouth opened.

"What would I have to do?" he asked. "I haven't got qualifications."

"You got a cock?" asked Nick, smiling again. "If you've gotta cock and a
mouth and an arsehole - you've got qualifications."

Lucas blushed. Suddenly he realised where this was leading. Not in detail
but certainly the rough direction. He felt frightened, almost panicky and
started to get to his feet.

"Just think of it," said Nick quickly. "Five hundred a week guaranteed. I'll
get you somewhere nice to stay, clothes to wear, smart clothes." Lucas
paused, thinking. "I'd look after you, make sure you didn't get hurt."

Lucas hesitated - and in doing so - was lost. He sat down again. Nick
smiled. He knew he had him.

"I've never done anything like that," said Lucas. "Not, you know, with ..."
He paused, again not sure what was being asked of him. Would it be with
men? What was this about his mouth, and his arse? "I wouldn't know what to
do."

Nick got up. "Come on," he said. "Come back to my place. Have a shower, some
of my clothes for the moment. I'll show you what to do." His smile was warm,
convincing - almost seductive. "You'll enjoy it," he promised.


Lucas followed Nick up the narrow flight of stairs to his flat. It was small
and a little disappointing, consisting of just a living room, a small
kitchen area and, through an open door, the view of a bedroom. The furniture
was not much different from that in Lucas' own parents' home - he'd expected
something rather more luxurious, to match the designer suit. An old sofa
stood against one wall and a tall bookcase with some paperbacks against
another. A window looked out onto the street below and some posters of 
bullfighters suggested Nick might have been on holiday in Spain. There was a
computer system on a table over by the far wall. The carpet looked old and
rather worn.

"Make yourself at home," said Nick and waved his hand at the sofa. "Like a
drink?" He opened a cupboard and displayed an impressive array of bottles
and cans.

"I'll have a beer," said Lucas, who didn't really go for spirits. Nick threw
him a can and he pulled the ring opener, drinking the contents without
waiting for a glass. He felt nervous, not sure what was going to happen -
but Nick didn't seem to be about to fling himself on him. Lucas watched him
sit down at the other end of the sofa with a glass of whisky, looking at him
from under those dark eyebrows, summing him up.

At last Lucas grasped the nettle. "OK," he said, "what do I have to do?"

Nick smiled and moved closer to him. Lucas could feel his closeness, feel
the heat of him. When Nick put his hand on his thigh, Lucas tensed but it
felt somehow comforting. It was almost the only human contact he had had for
over a month. The hand was warm and when it stroked upwards, Lucas found his
leg opening, almost automatically so that the hand found his fork, felt the
softness which rapidly became hardness. He gasped as the hand clasped his
prick through the thin material of his jeans.

"That's the start," said Nick. "That's what you've gotta do. Do you think
you can manage that?"

Lucas looked at Nick's groin. There was a bulge there, under the expensive
cloth. He realised he wanted to touch it, find out what was inside, what it
felt like. He grabbed.

"Wait!" said Nick. "Go gently. Make the other person feel important, wanted.
Don't rush at him as if you wanted to tear his bollocks off."

Lucas moved his hand and then replaced it in the inside of Nick's thigh,
moving his fingers so that they scrabbled gently. They found the way upwards
again making for the fork but this time finding his balls first, cupping
them gently, then holding the strong, hard shaft.

Nick sighed. "Now pull down the zip," he said. "Slowly. Go inside. Hold me
through my underpants." As he spoke he was doing the same to Lucas and the
feel of those fingers so close to the actual skin was like nothing he had
ever felt before. Arousing tremors of delight surged in his groin, up his
cock.

"Do you kiss?" asked Nick. "Some do, some don't."

Lucas considered. With that hand around his prick, rubbing it up and down,
he would do anything. "I'd like to kiss you," he said and their lips met, a
tongue probing at his closed mouth and then, entering and wrestling with
his, excitingly. He couldn't help it. Suddenly he came, the semen pulsing
out into his underwear and soaking through into Nick's hand.

"Wow," said Nick. "You wanted that. But now you've gotta take care of the
customer."

Lucas stroked faster. "He'll probably want more than that," said Nick. "Take
mine out. A blow-job at least."

Lucas wasn't quite sure what he meant. But he pulled down the waistband of
Nick's underpants and released the cock so that it stood erect and jutting
from its nest of curly dark hair. He hesitated and Nick put his hand behind
Lucas' head and gently pulled it forward and downward. He understood. He
took the head into his mouth, licking it with his tongue. He wasn't sure
exactly what he expected but it wasn't unpleasant. In fact the thought of
having another man's cock, Nick's cock, inside his mouth was exciting. Even
though he had come so soon before, he felt a little twitch in his own.

"Not the teeth," said Nick. "Try to take as much as you can. Use your
tongue. You can rub with your hand as well, and use the other hand, hold my
balls, go under me. That's it . . . No further . . . Use your finger to
touch me . . .  there . . . Oh yes . . . ."

Later Lucas stood in the shower enjoying the luxury of the hot water on his
body. He didn't hear the door open and Nick enter and the first he knew was
when a pair of arms wrapped around his waist and he felt a naked body
pressed into his from behind, a cock in the cleft between his buttocks.

"Lesson 2," said Nick softly.


Easter 3

The top flat of 2 Cadogan Square, Feltenham felt almost like a second home
to Phil. He sat back at ease on the comfortable worn settee with the
flower-pattern chintz covering whose pattern was so faded as to be almost
invisible. Keith sat beside him and Alan was in the kitchen making some
coffee for them. He looked at Keith and suddenly saw him as others would,
tall and slim, short brown hair, a serious expression on his face, the
jawline strong, straight nose, nostrils a little flared, brown eyes under
arched eyebrows. He knew him so well, knew every expression from this quiet,
contemplative one, through angry and happy to the abandoned openness of
unrestrained passion. He loved them all. He put his hand on Keith's thigh
and felt the warmth of the flesh underneath. Keith looked at him, an
unspoken question.

"I love you," said Phil quietly and Keith smiled, feeling again that surge
of emotion which sometimes he could scarcely contain.

Alan bustled in from the kitchen with three coffee mugs and a large piece of
ginger cake - Keith's favourite.

"So, tell me all the news," demanded Alan, distributing food and then
sitting down himself in the other easy chair.

"I'm being a good student," said Phil. "Sleeping with all the right tutors
to get good grades."

"He studies hard," said Keith. "It's all I can do to drag him off to bed at
night."

"Big holiday now, though," said Phil. "You won't have any trouble dragging
me to bed for the next three weeks. In fact I doubt you'll be able to get me
out of it!" He leered suggestively.

"What about you, Keith?" asked Alan.

"Oh yes, he'll be there too," said Phil.

Keith poked him in the ribs. "The job?" he asked. Alan nodded. "Oh just
another of Inspector Newman's little problems. Sorry, CHIEF Inspector
Newman. He's been made up, and you remember that rather nice Sergeant, Petra
Wilkes? She's an Inspector now."

"Isn't it your turn soon?" asked Alan. "You've been a Sergeant for a while
now."

"I've got an inbuilt disadvantage," said Keith. "I'm gay."

"Now he tells me," said Phil, clutching at his head in mock despair.

"But you're in the Metropolitan Gay Liaison Force," said Alan.

"Which already has its own Inspector. Pleasant, understanding, efficient,
intelligent - and straight!"

"I'm working on him," said Phil, ambiguously. "He'll make it eventually." He
paused. looking at Alan. "But what about you?"

Alan seemed just a bit evasive. "Er . . . Good news," he said eventually. "I
got promotion."

"Great," said Keith. "How? What?"

Phil looked at him thoughtfully, remembering Alan's 'adventure' with his
boss which had taken place the last time Phil had been down in Feltenham.

"They've enlarged the shop. Took on some extra assistants and put me in
charge."

"What about that other chap? Donny was it? Didn't he start before you?"

"Denny! Yes. He's got the Internet cafe, next door. He looks even more
fetching in a waitress pinny."

"So how come they made you boss?"

"Must have seen his potential," said Phil. He seemed to be trying to
restrain a grin. "Made an good impression on your boss, did you? David
Kingsley, isn't it?"

Alan smiled uncomfortably. "That's right," he said.

"Kingsley?" Keith tried it out for size. "The name sounds familiar," he
said. "Do I know him?"

"Don't think so," said Alan.

Keith shook his head. "What about Esteban?" he asked.

"That's the best part," said Alan. "He's got a good job at last. He's a
translator for a South American Shipping firm down in Bristol. He's got a
car so he's here very weekend. Sometimes he even comes up for the night
during the week . . . "

"I bet he does," said Phil, suggestively.

Alan ignored him. " . . . and goes off to work in the morning. It only takes
him just over an hour to commute from here."

"I'm interested in your rise," said Phil teasing. "At work, I mean."

"OK. OK. Kingsley was grateful for what I did for him, sorting out his
computer business. You know."

Phil nodded. "God's in his heaven. All's right with the world," he
commented.

2 Months earlier

The job wasn't always - or indeed often - all that pleasant, but fairly soon
Lucas got to thinking of it as 'just' a job, just an occupation to be got
through as quickly as possible. He got the 'menu', and the tariff, off pat
so that it tripped off his tongue without him even having to think of it -
'Fiver for a wank, mate; Blow job's ten quid and a fuck's fifty.' The
jerk-offs were easiest, mostly in the punter's own car. Money first - 'thank
you, guv' - then a drive round the corner to a darker place where the street
lamps were further apart, the client lay back in the recliner seat, zip
down, hands into the warmth to find it. Rubbing gently, as Nick had taught
him, other hand fondling the ballsack and sometimes under if the punter
raised himself or indicated that was what he liked, and often it was over
within a couple of minutes. 

Occasionally the john would change his mind mid-operation and ask him to
suck it, but, after one incident where, having been satisfied in this way,
the client had pushed him out and driven off without paying the extra, Lucas
would always wait for the other note before obliging. He never swallowed.

The fifty quid fuck of course was back at his room, the one Nick had found
for him. Scarcely larger than a moderate sized cupboard it contained a
single bed, a wash-basin and a small chest of drawers in which Lucas kept
his clothes, condoms and some gay magazines which nervous clients sometimes
needed - though Lucas always thought it a bit of an insult if anyone went
limp on him. Often Lucas himself never came. Occasionally, if the punter was
moderately young, not over-weight and didn't gasp and pant too much, Lucas
would imagine it was Nick who was in him, probing his guts from behind with
that erect piece of plastic-covered flesh, holding his own prick so that he
did ejaculate sad streams of semen - but this was not usual.

Sometimes the john was pathetically grateful and on those occasions Lucas
felt nothing but contempt. They had paid their money. He had given good
value. He didn't want their thanks. He didn't seem to realise that, on the
few occasions when Nick invited him over to his flat, to his bed, Lucas felt
that same overwhelming feeling of gratitude - he never allowed himself to
express it in words though, merely being exceptionally compliant in the
things he knew Nick enjoyed most.

The best jobs were the sporadic ones that Nick himself arranged, sometimes
in the Imperial Hotel itself - all-nighters in luxurious surroundings with a
meal and drinks. Lucas had no idea how much the punter paid for these but
Nick always gave him the full 50 quid, whereas for the street trade, he had
to pay half of each transaction to his boss.

All the same, to get anywhere near the five hundred a week that Nick had
promised he would, Lucas had to work very hard - three fucks or fourteen
sucks or twenty-eight hand-jobs - seven days a week, we never closed! Often
his wrist almost seized up - repetitive strain injury, he'd heard it
described as . . . And frequently his arse was sore.

Like the night he was arrested. He'd been with a few clients already that
evening, three wanks, a suck and a fuck - total so far 37.50 Pounds for
him. He was tired and thought of calling it a day - or at least a night -
but Nick liked him to fulfil his quota. In fact sometimes he got quite
nasty if he didn't present him with his seventy quid a night.

A squally shower of January rain met him as he arrived back on his corner.
He nodded to Gavin on the opposite corner. Tall, blonde and willowy, Gavin
was as camp as a Scout jamboree but he and Lucas got on well together, often
discussing tricks and their particular peculiarities. He was the nearest
Lucas had to a friend - apart from Nick. But Nick was special in Lucas' mind
and if asked, would be hard put to categorise. Lover, protector, rescuer -
he fought shy of the word 'pimp'.

A car drew up and stopped somewhere between the two lads and side lights
flashed on and off. Not knowing whom the punter was interested in, both boys
stood still until the car moved slowly forward and stopped at the curb next
to Lucas. The window opened with electronic fluency, a middle-aged face,
grey moustache, looked out. "You free?" he asked.

Lucas was just about to reel off his charges when there was sudden confusion
behind him. From the shadow of the wall, where obviously they had been
hiding, two figures emerged, one grabbing hold of Lucas' arms, the other
opening the car door so that the driver almost fell out. Gavin faded like a
wraith into the night. Words were uttered which Lucas, in his confused
state, didn't grasp even though they ended with the question 'Do you
understand?'

Both men were taken to the Police Station and a night of unpleasantness
followed. Luckily for Lucas, Nick had prepared him for such an eventuality.
He pleaded ignorance of all the suggestions that the police made. "Nah,
guv," he said. "I was just trying to get into the centre of town. Thought
the guy in the car could've given me a lift."

He never heard what excuse the punter used. Presumably something along the
lines that he had just stopped to ask the way. A stranger in Town. Got lost
in the dark side roads and was asking directions when the officious
constables grabbed him, implying all sorts of foul suggestions. Probably
claimed he had every intention of complaining to their superiors if he
wasn't released immediately.

Lucas had given Nick's name as his guarantor, he being a minor. The police
seemed to know Nick Warren and had even suggested that Nick might have been
responsible for Lucas being out that night, soliciting, but of course both
he and Nick had denied it and though Lucas had been charged, he had been
released and Nick said he doubted whether Lucas would hear anything more of
it.

They went back to Nick's flat and spent the night together, Lucas clinging
to Nick's body even after both had accomplished the sex and it was obvious
from his attitude that all Nick wanted was turn over and go to sleep.
Nevertheless even he realised that Lucas needed someone to cling onto and
allowed the boy to hold him.

Easter 4

Keith returned from his interview with C.I. Newman on the afternoon of their
arrival in Feltenham in a mood centred somewhere between gloom and
exasperation. He gave the boys (as he always thought of them), who were
sitting on the floor looking at some gay magazines and shrieking over the
sizes of some of the equipment, a wry look.

Phil sobered up. "I recognise that look," he said. "Didn't go all that well
eh?"

"He thinks I'm a fucking magician," complained Keith. "Anything that's
remotely connected to the gay scene in Feltenham, and he expects me to be
able to solve it immediately."

"What's the problem?" asked Alan.

"Apparently there's this ring of rent boys, organised and controlled by some
guy called Warren. Newman says they're turning Feltenham into the cesspit of
Europe and he wants me to clean it out - probably by Friday." He looked so
depressed that Phil laughed but quickly changed it into a cough.

"Well, I can help you a bit," said Alan. "This Warren guy is none other than
your old friend Nick." He shot a swift glance at Phil as he said this,
recalling vividly that Phil had had an unpleasant confrontation with this
same Nick, the previous time he had been in Feltenham. Phil looked away and
casually picked up the headset of his walkman.

Keith though was astonished. "Nick, the barman at the Olympia? Nick, the one
who outed me to Newman? Nick who followed us up to Edinburgh? They said it
was a Nicholas Warren but I never thought of him."

"I don't think he actually followed us to Scotland," said Alan, not
mentioning that it was the same Nick who had tried to rape Phil. It was
fairly obvious that Phil hadn't told Keith about it either. "But yes that's
the guy. He gets young lads who are on the streets, smartens them up - or in
some cases, makes 'em look rougher than they really are - depends on the
market - and hires them out to punters on an hourly, sometimes nightly
basis."

"Jeez!" said Keith, sounding disgusted.

"It's not that bad," said Alan. "The kids though are usually a lot better
off than they were before. They get somewhere to live, food and clothes."

"But what's it doing to them? Treated like a slab of meat four or five times
a night. Not to mention the danger, to their health - as well as from the
really weird characters."

"And what does living on the streets do for them?" asked Alan. "No proper
food, no roof over their heads. Young boys of that age can't look after
themselves. Soon they'll get turned on to drugs? Drink?" For a moment Keith
looked at Alan with surprise. He sounded almost middle-aged. Keith glanced
over at Phil who in comparison was plugged in to his Walkman and jigging
away to the rhythm of another melody.


Easter 5

The Olympia Club was almost empty when Keith went in to talk to Nick Warren
on the Thursday afternoon. Nick ruled as usual behind the bar but as he
recognised Keith, an expression that looked very like panic crossed his
face. At the time it struck Keith as odd for, although he and Nick had never
really got on, Nick had never appeared scared of him before and his
behaviour - according to the records of the night when Lucas had been
arrested, had been arrogant in the extreme. Could Nick, Keith wondered, have
been up to something nefarious since, something he was frightened Keith was
on to now?

"I want a word with you," he said shortly. If Nick was scared, then there
was no reason to pacify or soothe him with a softly, softly approach.

"What about?" asked Nick. Gone was his usual cockiness, the brash
self-confidence that marked his customary manner. He seemed to be using the
bar almost as a physical protection between himself and Keith.

"Lucas Dexter," said Keith.

The apprehensive look on Nick's face cleared. He visibly relaxed. "My little
protegee," he said. "You'd better come into the back room. You won't want
all the queens of Feltenham listening." This last seemed a little unfair as
the handful of people who had looked up as Keith made his entrance, had now
apparently lost interest and were paying little if any attention to the
conversation.

They went into a room behind the bar which seemed to serve as an office as
well as a stock room. Boxes of cigarettes and spirits were piled around
three of the walls while on the desk in the middle stood the by now almost
obligatory computer terminal. There were office chairs in front of and
behind the desk. Nick lounged himself into one, now apparently very much at
ease. Keith wondered what it was that had made him so alarmed before.

"Look, Nick," said Keith, deciding that a reasonable approach was best as he
had absolutely no ammunition for anything else. "He's only a kid. OK. you
got off last time but he's bound to get caught sometime and it's you that'll
get the punishment if we do get enough evidence for prosecution. It's you
that'll go to prison."

"What Lucas does is his own affair," said Nick. "I've tried to do my best
for him, sort him out a bit . . . but . . ." He let his voice trail away.

"Oh come on, Nick. We both know the score. You're not talking to Newman now.
I know you've got Lucas on the game. Probably everybody in the club knows it
- and that you are taking a share of the money."

"I look after him," admitted Keith guardedly. "He's only sixteen."

"That's another thing - having sex with a minor - another prison charge.
Even if the new law goes through, he'll still be underage."

Nick looked at Keith. "And who were you sleeping with when he was a minor?"
he asked pointedly. Keith felt slightly embarrassed. It was true that he had
had sex with Alan while he was only seventeen though the affair had only
really started after Alan's eighteenth birthday.

"Personally," he said, "I'm not interested in that aspect. It's him on the
game that I don't like. You know Newman won't give up. It's become a sort of
private crusade and, whatever his faults, Chief Inspector Newman doesn't
give up easily."

"I care for the boy," said Nick.

"Oh no you don't," said Keith, angry now. "Sex - that's all it ever is with
you," he shouted. "If you fuck him, it's just sex. If you send him on the
streets that's just fucking sex. Do you really care about him? Do you know
where he is now? Do you know who he's with now? Were you with him the night
he was picked up?"

Nick shrugged.

Easter 6

Keith didn't want to to have anything more to do with the case. He had told
Inspector Wilkes that on the Friday and on Saturday, he had taken a long
walk by himself up on the hills around Feltenham so he didn't even receive
the phone calls that Inspector Wilkes made to the flat in the afternoon.
Urgent phone calls, but which neither Alan nor Phil could do anything about.

When Keith did return, and was walking back through town, tired, hungry,
dispirited it was the headlines on the placards that immediately caught his
attention. 'BOY FOUND DEAD', 'BODY OF YOUNG BOY DISCOVERED IN ALLEY' they
shrieked. He bought a paper and read the worst.

The body of Lucas Dexter had been found in an alley off the lower end of the
High Street just after 12.30 pm. It had been hidden to some extent by some
piles of rubbish and only when a dog - out with its owner - had been rooting
amongst them, had the discovery been made. So far there was no definite
cause of death though the man who found the body said the boy had been badly
beaten up.

Keith went straight to the police station.

The Chief Inspector had left, of course - an Easter break in Marbella,
Inspector Wilkes thought, though he had made his own feelings abundantly
clear before going. "Lucas Dexter's death had 'cleaned up one stain from the
once fair Feltenham facade', were his exact words I think," she told Keith.
"If we can pin his murder either on his pimp, this Nick Warren, or some
other 'brown-hatter', it would make him even happier." She looked apologetic
as she reported the interview she had had with her superior before his
departure.

"So Newman was pleased?"

"You could say that - one less on the streets. Find the punter who did it -
or perhaps the pimp and there'll be even fewer perverts befouling the town.
Arrest Nick, he suggests. Get in the john whom we hauled in before."

"Not likely to be either," Keith objected. "Nick needed Lucas alive, if only
for financial reasons. Punter sounds hardly likely to come back after his
recent scare."

She showed him the photographs. In the close-ups, bruised and battered as
Lucas was, Keith could see how young he looked. He was irresistibly reminded
of those other photographs he had seen, years before, of the boy Alan had
discovered up on the Common, of the face of the dying boy, Stefan Boscovic,
beaten up in a London alley. Young lives destroyed for no other reason than
their sexual orientation. Sad and angry, he swore under his breath.

He peered at another photo showing the boy full length. "His clothes weren't
diisturbed," he said. "No obvious sexual interference." Suddenly he appeared
to notice something. "Is that how they found him?"

Inspector Wilkes looked over his shoulder. "Yes I think so."

"With his arms spread out?" Wilkes nodded.

"And killed last night? Friday?"

Wilkes realised what he was getting at. "That's sick," she said. "Good
Friday. And look his ankles are crossed. He's been layed out as if he was
crucified."

There was a knock at the door and a constable came in with a folder for
Inspector Wilkes. She looked at it. "The autopsy report," she said.

"That's quick."

"Expect the pathologist wanted to get off as soon as possible for the
holiday." She skimmed through the contents, muttering salient comments as
she did so. "Ribs broken, jaw as well. Skull fractured - that's what killed
him. Injuries consistent with kicks. More than one person apparently."

"So it wasn't a punter," said Keith.

Wilkes turned over to the second page. "Evidence of earlier anal
penetration, perhaps more than once. Assume condom used as no traces of
semen found." 

Keith was brought up short by the expression. 'Anal penetration'. It made it
sound clinical - and nasty. Perhaps it was - had been - for Lucas but when
Keith and Phil did it, it was an act of love which both enjoyed.

"So," he said, "he'd been out on the game. Had a couple of tricks. Gone out
again and been set on by a gang of gay-bashers."

"Looks like it," agreed Wilkes.

"So how's Newman going to like it when it's probably straights that have
done it?"

"Disappointed," said Wilkes.

"What does Nick Warren have to say about it?"

"We tried to pick him up but he seems to have disappeared. Do you think
that's sinister?"

"Sounds just like Nick," said Keith. "To vanish when things get hot. But all
the same, as much as I dislike the bastard, I don't think he did it." He
suddenly realised how tired and hungry he was. He hadn't eaten all day. "I
must get home," he said.

He went out of the Station into the late afternoon Spring sunshine. Leaves
were starting to appear on the plane trees and the Council had planted
bright garlands of primulas around their bases. He felt depressed. He wanted
to get home to Phil.

As he crossed the road he noticed a tall youth with unnaturally blond hair
staring at him. He was standing in a rather posed attitude, right hand on
his hip, right leg bent. Oh no, Keith thought, surely he wasn't going to be
accosted. But it seemed that was exactly what was going to happen for as
Keith passed him, the young man peered into his face and then spoke. "I saw
you in the Olympia the other day" - his voice was high-pitched and fluting -
"talking to Nick Warren."

Keith nodded.

"I'm looking for him,"

"Outside a police station?" asked Keith.

The young man looked bewildered. "I wanted to know whether I should tell . .
. I wanted to ask Nick . . . I couldn't find him."

It sounded confused but Keith thought he understood. "You have something to
tell the police but you're not sure whether you should."

The boy looked close to tears.

"Look," said Keith."I'll be honest with you. I am a police officer but I am
gay. If you're in trouble, something I can help you with, I'll let the
second part outweigh the first, though if you've done something criminal,
I'll have to take it further."

"No," said the boy. "Nothing criminal. I'm just such a fucking coward." The
tears brimmed out of his eyes.

"OK. OK," said Keith, touching him on the shoulder, as if that would make
any difference. "Just tell me about it. By the way, I'm Keith. What's your
name?"

"Gavin."

They walked together down the road, stopped outside the BurgerBar, went in -
Keith felt almost faint from lack of food - and, over burgers and coffee,
haltingly Gavin told his story.

Gavin was one of Nick's 'boys'.  He was a friend of Lucas. He had been there
that night when Lucas had been arrested but had slipped off into the night
when he saw the two policeman grab hold of Lucas and the punter.

"And last night," he said - and paused.

"Last night," said Keith encouragingly.

"He chatted to me about the couple of punters he'd had. Took 'em back to his
place. You know . . ." He seemed to wonder whether he should go into more
detail but Keith nodded. "Then I got one and when I got back to the street,
Lucas was standing there. I gave him a wave but as I did so there was this
gang of guys, five or six of them, pissed, they were, singing and shouting."

Again he stopped. When he started again his voice was little more than a
whisper, his head bent as if he couldn't look Keith in the face. Keith had
to strain to hear.

"I ran away," he said. "I left him alone. I was shit-scared. You see I'd
been beaten up before. Lucas had too. I thought he'd run off as well but I
didn't go out again that night. And then today I saw the papers. I wanted to
find Nick, ask him what to do, but he wasn't at home, nor at the Club." He
looked up, his confession complete, looking for comfort, advice. Keith
noticed he was wearing mascara and it was running down, clown-make-up badly
put on.

"We'll get them," he said, sounding more optimistic than he felt. "Tell me
what you can about them."


Easter 7

The track that led to the Common was still wet from a recent shower of rain
- but the sun was out - warm and bright - and the surface would soon dry.
Amid the grassy sides, white star-flowers of greater stitchwort struggled
with white archangel and blue ground ivy. All Spring was in competition to
grow the highest, flower the first, produce the next generation.

Keith and Phil walked side by side, occasionally their arms brushing
companionably. They reached the top of the hill where the wind breathed,
blowing aside for a moment the burden of everyday pressure and
responsibility. Fluffy white cumulus clouds drifted across the rain-washed
blue sky. It was like being on top of the world. Keith sat with his back
against a standing stone which had odd chiselled markings on it. He
wondered how many thousands of years it had stood there and who had
originally put it up. He picked a blade of grass and chewed the end. The
valley dipped and stretched out in front of them to where the Welsh hills
marked the end of the world. Phil lay on his back next to him and gazed at
the sky.

They didn't speak and each kept his own thoughts to himself but as the sun
warmed him through his jeans, Keith felt the warmth lapping his body,
sensuously penetrating his clothes, playing intimately with his skin. He
spat out the grass stalk and cupped his hands behind his head, spreading his
legs so that he lay, open and vulnerable, a sacrifice to the sun. Feeling
himself constricted he moved his legs and covered his loins, bulging now,
with his hands, one on top of each other, protecting, hiding, the under hand
gently squeezing, easing himself so that his prick extended unimpeded along
his leg.

He stole a look at his friend lying quietly beside him but Phil's eyes were
closed, perhaps he was even asleep. His shirt was rucked up showing his flat
stomach and his legs were spread. He looked sprawled and defenceless and
Keith knew a moment of complete happiness. He gave a quiet sigh, apparently
not quiet enough because Phil opened his eyes, looked at him.

And from there he could see the outline of Keith's erection. He smiled.
"Quiero sentirte dentro de mi," he said.

Keith looked at him, his eyebrows raised questioning. "Esteban teaches Alan
Spanish," he said, "and I learn the interesting bits. It means 'I want to
feel you inside me'."

"That's easy enough," said Keith. "Here?"

"I'll wait until we get home."

They got up together and began to walk back, holding hands.



5th April 1999  1:17:30 pm  8,903 words

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Please note that from 14th May I shall not be using this email address. All
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