Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 20:55:59 -2200
From: Opus J <opusfra@gay.com>
Subject: Steven Revisited Part 1

Unlike my last effort, this story is completely fantasy.  Or is there a
Steven somewhere in my past as well ?  It involves sex between an adult and
a minor, which in case you haven't heard, is not allowed. I do not condone
law-breaking, however I do encourage imagination and romance, so thanks
Nifty.

One

In the quiet moments between waking and rising, when the air is still and
the scent of sleep hangs heavy in my room, I remember him.  How he came
into my life and changed it so completely .  Such a short time, the time of
my awakening.  So full of love.

I am Casper James, 39-years-old and a self-made-man, or so I am told.  I
began selling mobile phones from the back of my Ford Escort in 1989, 30
quid a pop, no questions asked.  After a week I had made enough to go legit
and open a small shop in Croydon's Whitgift Centre. A year later I was
turning two grand a week.  In '96 I realised the iron was as hot as it was
going to get, for me at least, so I struck.  Vodafone bought me out for
twelve-and-a-half mill and suddenly I was unemployed again at 33.  The
difference this time was the mansion in Sussex and the extensive record
collection.

The first six months were heaven.  Spending money like water, drinking like
a fish, acting like a dick.  All I really remember are the first two weeks
and the last night.  The time in between is white noise to me now.  Static
interference; an annoying sound, but no clear picture.  The interference
was delivered by Carmen and her posse of just-about-old-enough whores, who
partied at the house at my expense, drinking my champagne, snorting my coke
and peeing in my fern-surrounded swimming pool.  I never knew their names
but they all had the same cheap South London accents and they all fucked me
when I told them to.  The bored expressions on their greedy faces should
have given them away, but coke tells lies to those who are prepared to
listen.

The last night was in March of 1997.  From about twelve, 'Carmen's girls'
had dwindled to three. One was called Sonia, the other two may as well have
been Abbott and Costello for all I cared. Sonia was straddling me ,
writhing over my groin as she snorted a line from a mirror, sighing
contentedly.  The other two were gone, far gone, fighting over a half-empty
bottle of Louis Roederer, giggling at each other inanely between taking
swigs.  I suddenly realised that Sonia could writhe until the end of the
millenium, but I was not going to get hard for her.  Roughly, I pushed her
off, ignoring her outraged squeals and muffled curses.

"GET OUT" I roared, suddenly tired of the whole deal.  "All of you, OUT".
They looked at me in amazement.  Slowly it dawned on them that I wasn't
joking, that the six-month party had finally ended.  I walked over to the
stereo and cut The Cure off in mid-verse.  Robert Smith had never sounded
better.

"Get out" I repeated, quieter now, almost apologetic.

They left slowly, grumbling about rotten hospitality, cheering up when I
gave them 50 quid each for the taxi home.  As I closed the door behind them
I thought I saw a shape move in the garden, a sudden burst of colour in the
darkness of the bushes.  I was tired now.  I thought for a moment about
calling the fuzz and decided to sleep on it.  I decided it was time for
something a little more mellow, so I poured myself a large whisky and
settled back to the sound of Paul Weller and the Style Council, regretting
that the 'Long Hot Summer' had passed him by.  For me it had been a long
cold winter, but gone was gone.

I should have left it there, but it seemed a shame to leave the last two
lines of coke, and the whisky bottle was only half empty, so I decided to
make a night of it.  Not a good decision.

Two

I awoke the next morning feeling as if a building had collapsed on my head.
The first few minutes were full of pain, giving way to full-blown nausea.
I lay for a while contemplating the steadily revolving ceiling, groaning
loudly as each wave of nausea rocked me.  I managed to raise my head
sufficiently from my pillow to check my immediate surroundings for vomit.
Nothing.  I slumped back again with a sigh of relief.

I needed water, lots of it and cold.  My mouth felt like I had been licking
a cardboard box. After several attempts I was upright and heading for the
kitchen, locomoting only in the absolute certain knowledge that there was a
litre of Evian siting ice-cold in my refrigerator, offering sweet relief
from the paper-dry thirst of my hangover.

The bottle was not there. Despair swept over me. I slammed the door shut
and couldn't hold back a shout of surprise.  There was a boy standing in
front of me, holding the precious bottle of Evian.  Which he dropped when I
shouted. The smash of glass served only to heighten the sudden rage which
had now replaced my fear.

"Who the FUCK are you ? " I yelled, taking a step back at exactly the same
moment he did, a look of fear wiping a half-smile which I had hardly
noticed off his face.

"I'm sorry...I didn't mean to startle you " he mumbled as he knelt and
started picking up pieces of the broken bottle. Suddenly he hissed in pain
and shock and clutched his hand to his chest, looking up at me in genuine
fear.

"I cut myself." His voice was barely more than a whisper now.

"Look, who are you and what are you doing in my house ? " The shock and
anger I was still feeling must have been apparent in my voice because the
boy began to look around wildly, searching for something.  Lurching to his
feet, his hand still clenched in a fist to his chest, he began to walk
quickly towards the door which opened to the swimming pool.  All the rooms
on the ground floor had a door opening onto the pool.  As he opened the
door he broke into an awkward trot.  He was heading towards the patio
doors, which were wide open.  Wide open. There had been a prowler in my
garden and I had gone to bed leaving the patio doors wide open.  Jesus
Christ.

The boy had almost reached the open doors when I called out to him,

"Wait.  Wait, please."

He stopped at the doors but did not turn around.  I walked slowly towards
him.  With each step, I felt a change come over me.  His shoulders were
shuddering now as he wept, his back to me, head bowed.  I wanted to make
his crying stop, to make it better. I was standing behind him now, close
enough to notice that his hair was reddish brown, he had freckles on his
neck and he was very much in need of a bath.

"Let me see your hand."

"I'll be alright." His head jerked back as he spoke through gritted teeth,
still choking back the last of his tears.  I remembered enough of my youth
in Bermondsey to know that that movement was one of defiance and
pride. Abused children can see abuse in others.  We recognise the symptoms.

"I just want to look.  I didn't mean to shout at you.  You surprised me,
that's all."  As he turned, I held my hands out to him, palms up, the
international sign language for 'I will not hurt you' He looked down at my
hands, then back at my face, my eyes.  God, the abuse was deep in him.  I
felt a sudden ache for this child who had to look into my eyes to know my
real intentions.

Hands are treacherous things. One moment they are holding and caressing,
expressing love.  Seconds later they are hard-knuckled-fists, full of
hatred and anger, slapping and punching. Dont trust hands. Trust eyes. They
always tell the truth.

Whatever he saw in my face persuaded him to open his injured hand to me,
never taking his eyes off mine.  I held his gaze for as long as I could
before I looked down and saw the bloody mess that was his hand.  He had a
deep cut between the two middle fingers.  I turned and beckoned for him to
follow me as I walked back towards the kitchen.

I sat him on a barstool, spreading a clean tea-towel over his lap, turned
his hand palm up, ignoring his hiss of pain.

"I have to check for glass before I clean it. Tell me if it hurts."  Gently
I massaged the palm of his hand.  I spotted a thin sliver of glass and
picked it out between thumb and forefinger.  As I continued to massage his
hand, I noticed his fingernails were filthy.

"I think that's all.  We'd better clean you up before the wound gets
infected.  Looks like you haven't washed for days."

He let me lead him to the ground-floor bathroom.  As I began to wash around
the wound , I looked him up and down.  I guessed he was about fourteen
years old.  His hair was just above his shoulders, parted in the middle. He
was wearing a bomber jacket, white cotton T-shirt and faded Levis.  He wore
two earrings in his left ear and one in his right. He was too thin, too
short for his age.

"Do you want to tell me what you were doing in my kitchen now ?" I smiled
at him to let him know that I wasn't going to get angry with him again.  I
continued to wash his hand gently as he replied.

"Last night, I was outside in the garden.  I watched you throw the bitches
out.  I thought you had seen me so I was getting ready to get out of there.
Then I saw you crying."

I jerked my hand away in surprise and he glared at me in sudden pain,
clutching his hand to his chest.

"That hurt ." He said, staring at me indignantly.

"I'm sorry." I said, meaning it, holding my hand out to him.  He looked at
it nervously, then turned his hand palm up and placed it in mine again.

"I dont remember crying." I said by way of explanation.

"You were pretty far gone by then." He said with a mischievous smile. "You
were playing Elvis Costello."

"Which one ?" I asked, stifling a laugh. " 'King of America' ? "

"Worse - 'Blood and Chocolate' " he grinned.

"A man who knows his Elvis" I said wrily, "unusual for someone your age."

"Yeah well, my Dad`s a big fan." he said, suddenly distant.

"You certainly know how to make a bloke feel old." I joked, trying to keep
him here, in the room, with me.  No talk of Dads, please.

"After a while, I came in.  You were so far gone you didn't really know I
was there.  You kept calling me Steven.  I liked that." He smiled again,
suddenly shy.  I looked up in surprise at the mention of a name I had long
forgotten.

"Who's Steven ?" he asked, as if reading my thoughts

"An old friend from school.  A long time ago." I replied.

"You must have done something wicked to him. You kept saying 'I'm sorry
Steven' over and over again." He was looking at me now, asking a question
with his eyes that I knew I would have to answer.

"Yes I did.  I hurt him a lot.  Not like that " I said quickly when I saw
the suspicion in his eyes.

"I said things I didn't mean.  Bad things.  Wicked things."

What was this boy doing to me ?  I hadn't talked about Steven for over 15
years, and here I was discussing him with a complete stranger, a young boy
at that.

"Look there's no point in bandaging your hand until you've showered,
otherwise it will be days before you can wash and you're already ripe
enough.  Let me get you a towel and you can shower in here. I'll dress your
hand afterwards."

When I came back from my bedroom, towel in hand, he had already taken off
his bomber jacket and T-shirt.  I gasped in shock as I saw the evidence of
the beatings he had taken. His painfully thin body sported a veritable
rainbow of bruises.  Dark purples and blues jostled with ochres and yellows
for what small space his back could offer.  Between the bruises his
vertebrae bisected him, a sad mountain range in a miniature desert of pain
and loneliness.

He was fumbling with the top button of his jeans.

"I cant do this with one hand." He looked at me, cocking his head to one
side.

I pressed a flannel into his still-bleeding hand, reached forward and
popped the button for him.  The top of his boxer shorts showed white
against his flat stomach.  For some reason I found myself unable to look
away. He turned his back on me, undid the remaining buttons and slid his
jeans and boxers to the ground in one movement.  His bottom was as thin as
the rest of him, shockingly white against the background of colourful
bruises.  He stepped into the shower and closed the door behind him.  As he
turned and began to wash himself with his good hand I could make out the
smallest triangle of dark hair, which confirmed my estimate of his age. I
left the bathroom, closing the door behind me, my thoughts turning back to
my monumental hangover.

Three

I made coffee, showered quickly in my own bathroom and put on a pair of
chinos and a black V-neck T-shirt.  By the time I was back downstairs the
boy was sitting on the barstool, naked except for a towel wrapped around
his waist .  I began to dress his wound.

"What's your name ?" I asked

"Matthew." He replied. "Matt to my friends."

"What should I call you ?" I asked, smiling.

"Matt would be nice.  Or Steven, perhaps." He looked at me cheekily.

"You rascal" I laughed. "You'd better watch yourself, I'm not done with
your hand yet.  I'm Casper by the way. No jokes please."  My name had
always been a source of teasing in school, but in business had proved, if
anything, to be an advantage.  Still the younger generation found it
amusing, especially since the film had come out a couple of years before.

"I like it. It's different." He said, looking down as I tied off the
bandage.

"How about a late breakfast ? " I asked as I cleared away the first aid
kit.

Suddenly he looked worried again.  He jumped down from the barstool,
clutching the towel at his waist.

"No, I'd best be off.  I dont want to be any more trouble."

"Dont be daft" I replied, "it's no trouble, and If I dont eat I'll never
shake this bloody hangover. Come on, I'll scramble some eggs for us and you
can make toast."  I didn't want him to go just yet.  I wanted him to be
here with me for a few minutes longer.  To convince him I cracked half a
dozen eggs into a bowl and began to beat them.  With a shy smile he put
four pieces of bread into the toaster and slid back onto his barstool.

"You can really cook." He said in awe.

"I have a lot of spare time right now." I offered by way of an explanation.

The toast popped up and he jumped down from his barstool to get the butter
from the fridge. His towel was working itself loose as he carried the
butter over to the breadboard and I couldn't help but laugh as he stood in
the middle of the kitchen, desperately trying to hold it up with his
bandaged hand, not wanting to drop the butter as he did so.

"Aw come on Casper, give us a hand," He said in mock desperation.

Laughing, I took the butter from him, leaving him with both hands free to
adjust himself.

"I meant with the towel." He said, with a look that didn't belong on a face
so young.

I turned back to him in surprise.  He was standing there like a boxer, arms
loosely by his side, the towel barely covering his hips. My mouth was dry
now.  A few wispy pubic hairs were showing above the towel.  I moved
towards him and pulled it up around his waist.  He did not look down. I
pulled it tight around him, tucking it tightly to make sure it would stay
put this time.

"Thanks, Casper." His voice was husky, deeper than before.

"Let's eat." I said.

Four

I managed to persuade him to stay long enough for me to wash his clothes.
The reason they stank so much, he confessed, was that he had been sleeping
rough for almost two weeks, the last three days in my garden.  I
desperately began trying to remember what I had got up to with Carmen's
girls that he might have seen.  I quickly realised I was in trouble here.

"Then I take it you saw some of the things that went on, Matt ?" I asked
cautiously.

"Nothing much." He said innocently " I was asleep early most evenings,
before it got going."

"Before what got going ? " I asked pointedly.

Realising he had given himself away, he blushed furiously.

"What's it like Casper ?  With a girl, I mean" He looked down at his feet.

"You`ll find out in good time Matt. Just wait and see." I buttered more
toast as I spoke.  he had already eaten four pieces and was showing no sign
of slowing down.

"Better than with Steven, Casper ? " He asked, looking at me sideways.

"Jesus Christ, Matt, " I exclaimed. "You dont hold back, do you ?"

"Well ? Is it better." He was insistent, almost pleading.

"Different, Matt.  Not better, just different." I stopped buttering the
toast and hung my head. I was ashamed.  After all these years I had finally
confessed that Stevie and I had been more than friends.  But I had lied.
It had been so much better with Stevie.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I couldn't focus anymore.  Suddenly I felt
thin arms slipping around my waist and Matt's head between my shoulder
blades.

"It was real, Casper.  That's the difference.  Everything else is just
pretending."

Somehow I managed to turn around without losing his embrace.  We were
face-to-face now, my head buried in his sweet-smelling hair.  The tears
were pouring down my cheeks as I wept for lost innocence, for betrayed
love, for the love that I had betrayed.  When the tears subsided I saw his
upturned face staring with wonder into mine. Slowly I leaned forward and
kissed his lips, softly at first, then with increasing passion as he
responded, forcing his tongue into my mouth, his hands plucking at my
T-shirt, untucking it, undressing me.

We stumbled upstairs to my bedroom, losing his towel and my T-shirt on the
way. As he flopped into the bed I kicked off my chinos and briefs and knelt
alongside him.  His penis was rigid, flat against his belly, jerking with
excitement.  He was looking deep into my eyes, still asking the question.
I answered without words, begging him to trust me.  He sat up and embraced
me again.  My cock pressed hard into his belly as he squirmed against me
and I thought I would come there and then.  I took his shoulders and pushed
him down onto the bed again, and began to pleasure him.  I covered every
inch of his upper body with my tongue, delving into his armpits taking his
rock-hard nipples into my mouth to tease them with my teeth.  He squealed
with delight and tried to rub himself - I pulled his hand away and murmured

"Not yet, Matt. Not yet".

He obediently placed his hands flat by his sides to allow me to continue my
downwards journey. I traced the V-shape of his belly as far as his pubic
hair, feeling the heat from his throbbing penis on my chin but not touching
it.  Passing his groin I ran my tongue slowly down the inside of each
thigh, causing him to growl with pleasure like a bear cub.  I picked him up
and flipped him over onto his stomach - he was so light it was like lifting
a rag doll.  I traced the backs of his legs with my tongue, covering his
buttocks with small loving bites, anxious not to inflict real pain.  This
boy had had enough pain in his life for ten grown men.  I would not add to
it.

I pulled his buttocks apart and he gasped as my tongue entered his anus.
He shuddered as I continued to lick around the hole, widening it with my
tongue, teasing it with the tip of my finger.

"Stop, Casper, please - I can't take anymore" He gasped into the pillow.

Once again I slid my hand under him and flipped him over, and in one smooth
motion took his penis deep into my mouth.  His few pubic hairs brushed the
tip of my nose as I sucked him into my throat.  Instantly he came, a thin
but plentiful stream of cum, sweet and bitter against the back of my
throat.  He bucked three times, his penis deep inside my mouth, then pushed
my head away with a long sigh.  Rolling over onto his side, his head
propped up on one crooked arm, he stared into my eyes, not looking away for
a second.  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he reached out and
caressed my chin, then my lips.  He reached behind my neck and pulled my
face to his, sucking eagerly at my mouth, his free hand going to my
pulsating cock.  In no time at all I began to feel a powerful orgasm rising
up out of my aching balls.  He sucked my tongue into his mouth and my cum
exploded over his chest and belly. Letting go of my cock he wrapped his
arms around my back and pulled himself up into my stomach, using his body
to milk the last few exhausted spurts from me.

Afterwards we sat, naked and silent, eating more scrambled eggs. I told him
with my eyes that he should stay a while.  He said he would.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Opus likes to get emails at <opusfra@gay.com>

He doesn't like people who dont like him for WHAT he is, without knowing
WHO he is.